Sex and Murder Magazine

DVD Gang’s warehouse is not the first time I’ve ever laid eyes a porn studio. Hell, I’ve lived two doors down from VELVET Video’s camouflaged as a quaint arts-and-crafts supply company headquarters. It was tucked deep in a residential neighborhood of single-family homes and I was never the wiser.

If you’ve ever drive through LA’s Porn Valley passing all the buildings, you can play the game: Porn Studio, Not a Porn Studio. They range from the garish edifice wrapped in neon, taunting tourists from its perch right next to a family theme park; to the innocuous warehouses hidden away in business parks.

DVD Gang’s office building falls into the latter category. They are the studio in the high-end ethnic porn niche. Their quality rivals VELVET and as far as porn studios go they’re elite. One successful scene with them can ignite the rockets of my career.

I zig-zag across the parking lot, side-squeezing my way between the diagonally parked cars-soiling my khaki’s in the process as I rub past a near-dead Geo Metro and close the distance to the warehouse’s front door. I wipe the schmutz with a sweat-slicked palm only to accomplish streaking a faint, W-on-a-stick shaped smear of chewy smog right-to-left across my crotch. Teetering on the knife’s edge of restraint, I fight the urge to kick the shit out of that econo-box’s headlight. My body tenses but I calm myself, before I splinter-and-crush the videotape’s plastic casing in my hands, bursting it like crackling bubble wrap, strewing spools of magnetic ribbon to the wind, ribbons bouncing under cars and unraveling as I unravel. I cradle that fucking cassette like Prometheus with a Faberge fennel. With the inside of my t-shirt, I manage to blend the Rorschach stain to being noticeable only if someone is staring right at my cock, but considering the nature of the business I’m about to enter this is of little solace.

*****

“I’m sorry,” she says, “but Kendra doesn’t receive visits from male talent. Especially unannounced.”

By the way the receptionist is crossing her arms across her breasts throwing glances at the door to the inner office, I’m concerned that she pushed a silent alarm and goons will bust in any moment. A boy band is singing a tune of teen love on the radio behind her command station.

I say, “Calling on the phone to set up an appointment wasn’t very effective so here I am. Can you at least tell her I’m here?”

“I’m quite sure she won’t care.”

“Look, this is ridiculous. I didn’t walk past a burning bush that commanded me to come to DVD Gang. A good friend of Kendra’s referred me. Isn’t there someone here I can see.”

I watch her look at the tape in my hand, then I feel her eyes probing my crotch. She snickers.

“Sure,” she says, “why not?” She picks up the phone and presses a button. “Stan, come to the reception area please.” She replaces the phone back on its receiver.

“Stan is our contract director. He’s absolutely brilliant. A genius, really.”

I sit on the edge of a replica Barcelona chair. “Thank you.”

“Nothing personal, I’m doing my job,” she says.

“I understand.”

After a while the door bursts open. A white kid with a visor backwards and upside down on his head, t-shirt down to his knees, pants hanging off his ass, and bright blue sneakers on his feet limps out like he’s done number two in his pants.

He says, “What’s crack-a-lack-in, my nigga?” He bends his arm like a chicken wing and extends his elbow.

I walk over to him. “Uh, hi?”

His elbow is still pointed at me and I figure it out. I bump elbows with him.

I say, “I’m Tyler. I’m looking to get on your roster of male talent.

“Yeah, that’s cool and all but most guys can’t fuck on camera under pressure.”

“I knew you’d say that. That’s why I brought this.” I hold up the tape.

“What’s this?”

“A recording.”

“Of?”

“Me, fucking?”

He says, “Who’s the girl in the scene?”

Who cares?

“I forget.”

Stan snatches the tape from my hand. “This is a professional scene? Not some bullshit with you setting a camera on a tripod and fucking a chickenhead ho from around the way?”

“Of course.”

“Aight. Let me check this out. I’ma be right back.” He goes back through the door he came from.

I pace, sit, and pace some more. Stan comes back, waving the tape.

He says, “That was some bullshit with you setting a camera on a tripod and fucking a chickenhead ho from around the way.”

“Yeah, how ‘bout that?”

He laughs.

“Look,” I say. “Just give me a shot, man. I can fuck a goddamn cobra.”

“Get a talent info sheet from the receptionist and fill it out.” He turns for the door, opens it, and I get a glimpse of a cubicle bullpen filled buzzing with workers.

“So I’ll call you to see if you have anything going on?”

“Nah, man,” Stan says, “I’ll holler if I need you.”

The door closes behind him cutting off the noise of worker activity. I stand there a moment, looking at the door. When I turn around to the receptionist’s podium, there is a clipboard and pen. I fill the form out and leave the building.

I fucking blew it.

*****

When I get back to the gym the management tells me I’m no longer welcome so I take a final shower, grab the bag and leave.

Sitting on the Hollywood Library steps, I call porn studios that advertise in the trade magazines. After three phone calls of grief and loathing hurled at me I stop calling.

It’s hard to understand why people in porn have such disdain for male talent when the male pornstar profession is essential to the product porn people’s livelihoods depend on.

Tonight I’ll sleep on the train. The Blue Line is cool if it’s raining or if there’s nowhere else to go. The chairs are metal sheets folded at 90°, covered with low-pile fabric designed to resist wear and stains rather than provide comfort, and they’re absolutely not designed to be used longer than the 40 minute ride from Downtown Los Angeles to Long Beach. Because I have a monthly pass, I have unlimited rides. The plan is to stay on it all night as it makes its loop back and forth.

I don’t really sleep on the train in the truest sense because it goes right through the kill zone of South LA. What I do resembles torpor. With several stops in the belly of the beast, the train cars are patrolled by recently-weaned wolves on perpetual hunt for the weak, the alone and the unaware, and the stupid. God help you if you are caught unable to defend yourself, because nobody else will.

I’m alone in this car. Today bleeds into tomorrow as the train rumbles onto a towering overpass. Outside my window, South Central sprawls below. The day’s events replay in my mind until it relaxes; my eyes shift focus from my profile reflected in the glass to the rows of sickly ecru street lights beyond. The ghetto is peaceful from this high up. Occasional greens and reds regulate the non existent traffic.

The horizon is aglow with pockets of orange stretching to infinity; fluffy black columns of death put a smoky lid on the boiling pot and choke out the stars. The homes and the businesses blaze once again with hope as kindling. I can’t hear the wailing humans or sirens this high up and from behind the train’s glass, but I don’t need to. Pain is universal.

The minstrel show is playing itself out for me in my rolling balcony seat; the blacks and the Latinos, and the Koreans with the rifles on rooftops play their parts to the critical acclaim of a Media that gets close but not too close. Cops as ushers keep everything contained and in play.

Emotions within that have been suppressed growing up in suburbia are stoked to a smolder. What I have inside is being articulated by others. I understand it yet I’m equally repulsed. Having lived in both worlds yet not really accepted by either, I struggle to understand. I want to get off at the next stop and go down there but if I did, what would I do? Would my hands choose to rend or mend?

When the city is razed and there is nothing left to burn, nothing will be changed except another layer of soot on top of singed dreams.

The train doors snap open and a fucked-up phoenix from the ashes pokes his head through. The youngster evaluates his odds and stalks off to the next car.

The cellie rings.

“Yeah.”

“Yo, nigga, this is Stan at DVD Gang. Somebody just canceled on me. You wanna work tomorrow?”

*****

The warming sun evaporates the dew on the car windows, works on the fog, but does fuck-all to the frost in my mind. Bag slung over my shoulder, I trudge up the steep residential neighborhood hillside toward the set.

I hear the Volvo before I see it. The Station wagon materializes one pixel at a time through the grey fog behind me, labors up the hill, and disintegrates as the mist reclaims it.

There’s the sound of a car door shutting ahead of me, and when I see the car again its driver is walking up the front stairs to the house. She’s easily as tall as I am, wearing cargo shorts and a wide brimmed gardening hat. She enters the home and shuts the door behind her. When I get close to the Volvo, I see the “Kiss Me I’m Canadian” bumper sticker. I follow the girl up the stairs and to the shut front door of the hillside Mc Mansion. There’s a low thwump-boom-thwump, as though I’m standing outside a concert.

I open the door, and “In da Club” throttles my face; apparently, it’s vital that the entire goddamn neighborhood is enriched with the knowledge of 50’s preference for random fornication as opposed to meaningful intercourse.

Stan is inside the foyer, affecting a stooped-over pose and clutching his crotch through his baggy jeans like he’s about to pass a kidney stone. He shuffles toward me, one hand holding his pants up by his cock, the other arm bent with the elbow aimed at me. I bump elbows.

He looks at me, moves his lips, flaps his arms and moves in circles like a wounded quail on barbiturates. My fist wants to smash into his eye-ball but I catch myself. His lips stop moving and he looks at me. Waiting.

Well below the level of the music, I say, “Turn the fucking music down, you goddamn monkey.”

He blinks twice, smiles a smile that says, “I’m pretending to understand you,” pulls a remote from his pocket, and holds it across his body and over his shoulder the way a teen would turn off a car alarm.

This time, lips have audio. “How you livin, negro?” he asks. “You know what you here to do today?”

My hypothalamus is on stand-by mode because when I glance at his, “Fuck You, I’m Batman” t-shirt, the Life-Saver colored letters shift themselves into, “Fuck You, Black Man”.

I catch a few letters out of the air as they float up in front of my nose and arrange them into, “OK,” and, “I’ma cum.”

“Yeah, playa,” he says, “that’s how we do!”

Stan turns and wallows into the home. His pant cuffs drag on the marble floor. I follow, still on the wrong side of wakefulness.

“Thanks for the call last night, Stan.”

“No sweat, my man. Did I wake you?”

“Nope, I was in bed playing Xbox,” I lie. “It’s all good.”

“Coo, coo. The girl’s in the bathroom cleanin out her booty. Judas St. Lox is in the kitchen where the paperwork is at.”

I’ve only owned one TV for less than a month out of my entire adult life. Never watched much porn but even I know who Judas is. The man is a legend.

Stan continues, “It’ll be you an him with Lana Pierce. I’ma take the pretty-girl stills for the box-cover when she done cleaning up and changing before her makeup gets all fucked-up from fuckin, and we can get crak-a-lakin.”

“Sounds good.”

There is a distinct rumbling bass of two black men talking, punctuated by the staccato laugh of a young woman, coming from deep in the house.

Stan says, “You done anal before, right?”

Never, you freaky bastard. That shit’s nasty, but I need the cash.

“Yep.”

“Aight, coo. Lemme handle some bidness an I’ll come get you in a hot-minute.”

Stan says, “This is Ray Golden’s house, he owns Red Assholes Films but we gotta wrap this shit up before his kids get home from the school.”

He peels off to another part of the house and I continue straight. An overstuffed chaise lounge in the living room is calling me. I walk up to it, not sure of what I’m going to do until I’m in front of it. Its cushions are deep and I know if I sit my ass on it, the lounge won’t give it back without a fight so I stash the bag behind it, and follow the voices into the kitchen.

Judas is at the table sipping on a Hennessey. He passes a blunt to another instantly recognizable man wearing his trademark baseball cap, Mr. Darkus. Darkus has a brunette girl sitting on his lap. She looks like she should be going door-to-door selling cookies. The only give away to her real age is the rape-whistle-neon bikini she’s got on. Well, that and the fact that she’s squirming on a large black man’s lap. And his cock is out. And she’s stroking it. I recognize her from the trade magazine as Assley Screw, the reigning Female Performer of the Year. Judas see’s me, and Assley and Darkus turn to where he’s looking. The boys are all pussy-and-rainbows smiles.

The girl releases the jungle-cock, hops off Darkus’s lap, points her elbow at me and says, “Hi, I’m Assley.”

I remember where her hand was a moment ago and it’s right about then that I gain an appreciation for that porn handshake. I say hello and return the elbow bump.

She says, “Okay, I have to get to my next scene so I’ll see you guys later. It was great working with you again, Darkus.” She slips on some flip-flops, snatches some keys from the table and drags a travel bag by the handle. I watch her little ass churn under the glow-in-the-dark fabric as she walks past me and out of the kitchen.

They guys introduce themselves, and when I speak, “I’m Tyler,” comes out of my mouth in my nasal Mid-Atlantic accent and immediately I want a do-over. My idle hands need to do something to keep busy, I snag a diet Red Bull from the ice-chest on the floor and join them at the table as they resume their conversation about phat Brazilian ass. I don’t talk. I nod and listen as they dish about, “So-and-so girl is a freak,” and, “Those crazy white boys that shoot their dicks up with needles to get hard,” and, “Did you film in Prague yet this year?” and, “Yo, Rex is working day and night. He clocked 27-gees last month. Nigga be straight ballin’!” The words drifting in between the lazy game of puff-puff-pass with the silky cognac cooling the harsh smoke in their throats. I sip my sugar-free energy drink.

My lethargic brain is sloshing in a contact high that would fuck up Snoop, but the conversation is riveting and I don’t want to miss a single anecdote. My head’s on a slow swivel from Judas to Darkus, and not back to, rather all the way around to Judas again as I read their lips; the lip movement coming a full second before the words hit my eardrums. I let the kronik smoke-enriched baritone voices lull me into their world; an exotic lifestyle of travel, flash cars, bitches and money. I reflect upon my world; an exotic lifestyle of running after busses, and washing my scrotum with paper-towels in a McDonald’s bathroom sink.

Stan slithers into the kitchen holding a video camera. “Yo, we good-to-go, niggas. Let’s do this!”

Darkus says goodbye and how it was nice to meet me, and unlike most people in LA I believe he means it.

Judas and I follow Stan back to the foyer. He motions me to stop and we hang back a few paces.

Stan continues to the base of the steps. On the steps, a statuesque girl in black booty shorts with her juicy white ass cheeks tumbling the fuck out of the hem-line. The meaty cheeks are criss-crossed with wide-gauged, fishnet stockings that squeeze the holy hell out of the flesh, like two hams mashed up against a chain-linked fence.

Stan says, “Aight, so I’ma talk to Lana and we gonna go up the stairs and into the bedroom. TK, just hang back and do how Judas do, and you’ll be straight.”

“Okay.”

Judas unbuttons his shirt and slides of his pants and is standing in his underwear. I undress as well. Stan turns on his video camera and points it at Lana on the steps. They talk.

“Tell us your name.”

“I’m Lana Pierce.”

“And where you from, Lana?”

She sits, and the shorts strain against the puff of her pussy. “I’m from Canada.”

“Tell us why you’re here today?”

“I love it hard, deep, and black in my ass,” she says. “I’m here to fuck.”

Naked, I rock back and forth on my bare heels. My hands clasp, unclasp, then search for pockets that don’t exist on my side.

Two scenes more. My own spot.

I fold my arms.

Stan says, “Stand up and let us see that phat white ass, girl.”

Judas takes my hand and presses something into it. I look and see a yellow pill.

He whispers into my ear, “Cialis. Works faster than Viagra.”

I pop it in my mouth.

Lana is on her hands and knees, bent over with her ass aimed at the camera as she looks over her shoulder. She pulls her booty-shorts to the side, plunges a finger in her steaming cunt with a sklisssh, pulls it out, and shows the camera. It sparkles. Judas spits in his hand and is stroking his elephant cock. My hands cup over my softie in an attempt to hide it.

Fuck, he’s already hard and I’m still soft. I can’t blow this.

Stan says, “We got two stiff black cocks for you today.”

Lana moans as she friggs her sloppy-wet cunt with three fingers now. She says, “Hurry up with that black cock! I’m a big girl, I need more cock than the average woman.” She rips the fishnets so that her muff is unobstructed.

Judas’s dick is all purple and veiny. Mine burrows into my abdomen.

Stan says, “Here you go, boo,” and hands her a vibrator. She turns it on.

The blue vibrator roars to life. Judas has pre cum. Lana’s cunt glistens. Stan goes in for a close-up as Lana attacks her clit. My cock is cold; I want to flee.

Judas speaks to me in a whisper, “First time doing anal?”

“Um…yeah.”

He backhand strokes his cock; the vibrator is a muffled howl when it’s plunged into cooze; it rattles like a can of pissed-off bees on the out-stroke.

My pants are on the floor behind me. I can scoop up my bag on the way out and be down the street before-Oh for fuck sake, don’t be an idiot! Where are you going to go, huh? What the fuck are you going to do, you loser?

Judas smiles. “Relax, it will happen. Use your eyes. Hear her breath. Work with your body.”

Lana coos and places the sex-toy on her quivering meat-flaps. Her folds ripple and dance. The aroma of her pheromones reaches my nostrils.

Please, God This has to happen.

Stan says, “Let’s go upstairs to the bedroom. I’m sure we can find you some black cock.”

Lana clicks off the vibrator, stands, and walks up the stairs. Hips swing, the fishnets threaten to snap, and ass-cheeks jiggle as she climbs the stairs. Lana is a woman, the girl in the gym was a child. I feel a twinge. My cock climbs to room temperature.

Stan follows her up the steps, the camera’s lens a tongue-length from her wonderful flesh. Her ass warps the ebb and flow of space-time around it. Stan waves from over his shoulder without looking up from the viewfinder as he walks. Judas and I follow them up the stairs. I feel the tart snap of citrus in my jowls far sooner than I would with Viagra. My skin stretches tight.

Lana is kneeling doggy style on the bed. Stan backs away from the action and blends into the pattern of the wall paper like a ninja. Judas plays with his cock on her lips. Her tongue flickers on the head and he stuffs his cock in her mouth. The sound of slurping.

I take a lung-full of air, climb onto the bed, position myself behind her and with one hand, I grab her by a meaty hip that’s already slick with a sheen of sweat. Her flesh gives fractionally in my grasp and pushes back against my fingers. My other hand is just able to wrangle my dick and I imagine my skin separating like a wet paper bag. My tip rubs on her lips to scoop up some cunt-juice for lubrication.

I push past her lips; she gives a sharp inhalation; synapses overload; my mind snaps alert!

*****

Fuck Viagra. With Cialis, I can actually feel my dick and my heart isn’t threatening to spray the inside of my chest like a microwaved packet of ketchup. The game of puff-puff-pass Judas and Mr. Darkus played with the kronik downstairs has melted into me and Judas playing fuck-fuck-pass with Lana. We’ve both taken our turns going biblical on her with savage impunity for the vaginal sex positions. There are only two anal sex positions in this scene and he’s already done the first one on Lana. My turn to fuck ass.

Judas steps off camera to clean his dick with a baby wipe from the rape kit. Lana rolls over onto her belly, props up on her elbows and rests her head in her hands.

Pussy drunk, when I step off the bed to grab a bottle of lube from the rape kit, it’s with all the grace of a newborn fawn discovering his legs. I hold the bottle of lube over Lana’s ass cheeks but I do not squeeze. Gravity does its work. The clear, sparkling oil oozes from the nozzle with the lethargy of tree sap. When the cold lube hits her skin she emotes a squeal pinched off by a cough, and the gelatinous lube piles upon itself like soft-serve ice cream before spreading out under its own weight; I write my name on her ass the way a kid would decorate a pancake with syrup. I feel my heart pulsing in the tip of my aching cock.

With my shaft, I slather the lube on her cheeks, then on her asshole with my tip; the viscous goo warms with the friction. Next, I take the excess fuck-oil on my hands and massage it into Lana’s supple cheeks. I take a Tyler moment to enjoy my handiwork. The narcotic scent of fresh-churned, pussy hangs in the air like fresh-baked cookies and seeps up my nostrils doing all kinds of primal shit to my brain. To a pervasive perv like me it’s inebriating. I inhale deep and there’s a phantom taste of pussy on the back of my tongue.

A slap from my hand makes her juicy flesh jiggle and glint golden under the glaring lights. Lana coughs and lays on her side, inviting me to lay behind her like spoons.

How does a girl that looks like this end up getting her ass bored out by two strangers in porn?

Right before I insert into her anus, I notice something odd. That voice that usually screams in my head when I’m unsure, afraid, or trying something new is silent. I wait something to go wrong, like locusts to come crashing through the bedroom window. Nothing happens.

Sometimes things do work out for me, I guess.

My tip pushes past her sphincter, she grips me tight, and I take my first hit of ass. Ever. Not sure what I should have expected; it’s like pussy, but not. Tighter, but only at the entrance. Not bad, not great. Just different…sort of. While fucking away I forget I’m partaking in the sodomy arts and I say how great her pussy feels by mistake. My first anal position speeds by without incident and is over within a few hundred strokes.

Stan say, “OK, we gonna take the stills of the sex now, then do the pop shots.”

I forgot the bastard was even in the room.

Judas takes command and says, “Let’s work backwards-last anal position with Tyler then mine, then wipe our dicks off for vag and bj so we can fuck pussy to pop. Easier.”

Stan says, “Coo, coo. TK, just stay in the ass since you all up in it right now.”

“OK.”

The stills are being taken of me spooning Lana’s asshole, and I’m still pumping away.

“Tyler,” Stan says, “Stop fucking, yo. You gotta lemme take the stills.”

This is stupid. Holding fuck-poses for stills without actually stroking makes as much sense as trying to balance a biscuit on a puppy’s nose. It’s a digital camera. No film to waste. Why not increase the shutter speed and rip off shots like he’s shooting sports action?

The three of us talent go through all the positions for stills. Judas knows when to pump to keep the erection going between shots and when to freeze for the picture, changing up fuck faces, hitting each pose sharp. He’s the drag queen, Willi Ninja, fuck-voguing to house music in his head. I take notes.

Stan says, “Aight, who gonna pop first?”

Lana coughs.

Judas says, “Let Tyler go first, I can pop at will.”

“Yeah, I know how you get down, Judas,” Stan says, “TK, we gonna clear off the set so you can fuck to pop without a bunch of niggas starin at you ‘n shit. Holla when you feelin it, but give a nigga thirty seconds so I got time to turn the camera back on, aight?”

Say, “nigga” one more time, white boy…

“Yeah, sure.”

Even though Lana and I have been slam-fucking for the entire scene, now we may as well be first cousins sitting in church. We sit side by side on the bed, both of us staring straight ahead and out the window, looking but not seeing at the cityscape sprawling at our feet.

She’s the girl I picked up at the club to fuck and when I wake up she’s still there in there morning and we’ve got nothing to say to each other.

What would 50 Cent do?

My silly alter-ego turned off with the camera and I’ve got nothing to hide behind. Right now, I’m not that silly nom de guerre, Tyler Knight, just Eric, and being Eric has never been quite good enough with the ladies. No one is more amazed than I for the high quality pussy I’ve scored in spite of myself.

Lana makes the first move by stroking my cock. “I guess we better hurry, they’re paying location fee’s by the hour.”

“Yeah.”

I lean over to kiss her but she turns her head.

Smooth. Real smooth.

She says, “We should keep it professional. Besides, I have a cold.”

I take her by the chin and turn her head towards mine; she smiles at me-really smiles at me-and I lose the power of speech. I’m doomed.

“You’re beautiful,” she says not much more than a whisper.

She looks into me and I into her and I feel fire going down my body like a shot of aged rye. We kiss.

I finally manage a “Thank you.”

She strokes my cock as I finger her clit which is swelling under my fingers.

I say, “What the hell are you doing here?”

She smiles. “Have you asked yourself that question?”

Lana lays on her back and pulls me atop her. Kissing. Faces pull away. Eyes sync. I enter her. It feels right. Too right.

Helooo, asshole! You’re a professional, Eric. We’re both professionals and we’re here to do a job. YOU ARE AT WORK! This is a j-o-b and Amanda loves you! Chill.

Within a few strokes our pace speeds to a blur and I wrap a handful of her sweat-drenched, honey-flavored locks in my fist; my other hand cups her supple ass. Her pubic bone slams into mine with the fury fists trapped under ice. Her lips part, framing slick alabaster. Eyes exchange what words would ruin. Connected. One.

Our mouths touch again and stay that way, shattering the last vestige of pretence pornstars construct to keep it professional.

Biology pulls a “Surprise, motherfucker!” on me.

FUCK!

Lana’s face screws into a questioning look. “Did you just come in me?”

Lie!

“No.”

I look away and this time it’s her taking me by my chin. “Tyler?”

“Yeah. I’m really sorry.”

She furrows her brow. I feel like the time I got caught stealing sunglasses at the mall and security called my mom. Lana says, “Why did you lie?”

“I dunno.”

She chuckles. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’m on birth control.”

Thank Christ, no porn nigglets.

I say, “I’m still screwed though. No way I can give a pop shot now.”

“Relax, you’re still hard. Call Stan back in, and when we set up the pop shot I’ll drop to my knees you’ll pretend you’re coming in my mouth. Leave the rest to me.”

“Thanks.”

*****

I’m stroking my dick. Lana is on her knees in front of me. Judas is off to the side. Stan is rolling camera. I give a wail like I’m having the best orgasm ever felt by man or beast then I shove my cock in Lana’s mouth. When I pull out, she lets spittle dribble from the side of her mouth, and fuck me if it doesn’t look like cum. She smiles at me with her eyes and I do my best to keep from laughing. When I step back Judas steps forward to deliver his load.

“Cut, we got it,” says Stan.

Lana and I exchange complicit grins.

The three of us pose for the pop shot stills, and I hold a freeze-frame pose. I do my best to put on the, my-face-is-contorted-in-the-thralls-of-ecstasy, look but it comes across as my, I’m-taking-a-shit-but-the-log-is-too-big-for-my-asshole, face. Apparently this is good enough because Stan says, “Stills done.” and leaves to go downstairs. Judas follows him, Lana goes to take a shower. I sit on the bed, evaluating.

A place of my own.

A yawn pushes past my lips as I come down from the vagina high and I lay back.

*****

“How do you think that went, Gee?”

I open my eyes.

He’s not looking for honesty. Don’t say shit about the pop shot.

“Well, Stan. It went well.”

He sits on the bed beside me. I’m still naked. I slide over to make more space between us.

“Yeah,” he says, “I was sure you’d find a way to fuck up, so I threw you in the scene with another guy that I knew could handle bidness in case you failed.”

I nod. “Sure.”

He says, “Didn’t know if you could do it, I had to protect the studio’s money. The pop shot was tricky—”

Fuck.

“Next time tell a nigga if you gonna nut in a ho’s mouth. But I caught it on tape. You did your thang though, homey. You did it.”

He bought it!

He offers his elbow. “Give a nigga a pound.”

I’ll let it slide, this time.

“You can pick up your check in a couple days from the office.”

He get’s up, walks out the door, and tosses, “I’ma have Wanda holla at you.” over his shoulder.

Lana comes out of the shower. The booty-short-and-fishnets whore uniform is gone. She’s back in her denim gardening bonnet and cargo shorts. She covers her mouth, coughs, and walks over to me.

“I’m Lisa.”

She extends her hand, I take it.

“Nice to meet you, Lisa. I’m Eric.” I kiss her hand.

We smile.

“You’re going to go very far in this business, Eric.”

*****

“Tyler?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Kendra calling from DVD Gang.”

Kendra!

I sit up, “Hello, Kendra! Nice to finally talk to you! How’s it hanging?”

Jesus, “How’s it hanging?” You schmuck!

She says, “Your check is ready. The receptionist has it at her desk. Also, Stan said you didn’t blow it the other day, so I’m letting 2Coc go and giving you his slot in the male talent rotation. Expect a call from our directors Dana and Alfred Divine tonight. You are working for them tomorrow.”

She hangs up.

“Thank you.”

Amanda, now awake, sits up too. Her bed is small but that’s okay. Beats that fucking train.

We speak in Spanish.

“Who was that, papi?”

I’m smiling so hard my goddamn face hurts. “DVD Gang.” I start to say, “I’m in the rotation!” but a cough breaks out half way through.

*****

That’s me impersonating a shower mat at the tub’s floor, my limbs drawn tight, shower set to magma. Hospital tag on my wrist. I cough, shake, and cough some more. Droplets sizzle and steam against my nape; water plings with seething violence against the basin around me. A milky shampoo waterfall tumbles off my hair and before my eyes, feeding the river flowing between my feet; the flow diverges into quickening streams around a pastel starfish grip-sticker. I spit dead center on the starfish’s ten ring. I stand with care into the denser, humid air and turn to face the nozzle. My hands brace the wall, straddling the showerhead. Head bent down, I hack my lungs inside out in back-arching fits; my diaphragm burns and my throat feels like I’ve gargled shurikens.

The coughing wave subsides, and that’s when I see it. The first white pubic hair. Lifting my balls and moving my dick from side to side reveals three more. Postcards from The End.

Death writes, “See your black ass soon.”

I pluck a hair.

Eventually, but not today.

It’ll take more concentration than I have to steady my hands enough shave my delicate parts for today’s scene, and the razor’s blade has rust. Fuck it, why tempt fate? I cut the water, towel myself and dress in the bathroom to take advantage of the warmth. I put my socks and shoes on with the skill of a nursery schooler.

The bedroom. Amanda is sleeping. Her mouth is naturally inclined to turn up at the corners, hinting of a smile, like she knows something I don’t. She usually does. I’ve been spending the night at her spot since I came down with this fever. Her idea. One day at her place carried over to a few. This is the first chance I have to sleep in a bed a few days in a row but I have to camp the couch instead lest I make her ill. I still haven’t unpacked that sea bag because…the fuck if I know why, really. The fever wouldn’t break on its own after a few days so last night she put my ass in a taxi for the ER.

*****

No insurance. I wait among the knifed, the burned, and the left for dead who changed their mind about dying and crawled into the ER waiting room. Brown faces speaking Spanish. People get seen, and afterwards, I see some of them leave. Many don’t. My number’s called over the PA.

*****

Part 3