Sex and Murder Magazine

By Tyler Knight

“Hey Honey, Shylock from VELVET just called me from set,” my agent says. “They said they have to reschedule tomorrow’s scene.”

“Sure, what day did they have in mind?”

“Today, two hours from now. Can you make it?”

I’m unwashed, three days growth covers my face and I’m standing knee-deep in a pile of dirty laundry at the Laundromat, which is full today, so I only have one machine. The first loads of white clothes are already soaking. Fuck.

“Same movie?” I ask.

“Yeah, he says there’s some drama on set and he wants to see if they can get the scene shot-out today.”

“Drama? That’s never good, Cindy. What kind of drama?”

She says, “I asked, too. He didn’t specify. I have to call him back to let him know if you’re available right away; so can you make it in time?”

Even if I only wash and dry the clothes that are already soaking I’ll have little time to get ready and make it from where I am in Hollywood to where the set is on the far end of the Valley near the LA/Ventura county line. And it’s going to be rush hour when I head out. My printer’s out of ink so I have to run by an Internet cafe to print a copy of my HIV test but doing that won’t leave time to find Dr. Heintze to get my “in case of emergency” Caverject—fuck Viagra, it doesn’t work for me anymore—in the event the girl I’m working can’t lock her psychosis down long enough to shoot a half-hour sex scene. The test is mandatory, the drugs—somewhat. Although I’ve done most of my scenes drug-free I never, never do it without the insurance in my possession. Still, this is a chance to show VELVET and DVD Gangstas that I’m a team player. Too many people in porn have no idea where their next paycheck will come from and I’ve got a cushy contract. Fuck it, it’ll be okay.

“Whatever, that’s cool,” I say.

“Okay, Hon.”

She hangs up and I text the driver to tell him to pick me up today instead of tomorrow, then I go to the vending machine for a mini-box of powdered detergent. I put the quarters in and the box of Tide drops. Looking to save time, I lift the washing machine lid and stuff some dark clothes in with the whites then add the detergent hoping it will be okay. All the darks won’t fit in the washing machine so some clothes, like a couple pairs of jeans and a black hoodie will have to stay soiled. My lips move as I read the detergent box:

"No time to separate the whites from the coloreds? Use Tide! It keeps the whites white and the coloreds from running!"

The machine rumbles and I’m leaning my back against it staring at the picture on the box—a target—when the cell phone vibrates in my pocket, breaking my trance.

“Yeah.”

“So, okay...I just spoke to Shylock. The scene is going to stay on for tomorrow.”

“Same girl?”

“Yes.”

The lady at the machine next to mine is pulling her items out so my hands dig into my laundry bag and pull out the shirt and the pants. I say, “Who is the girl, anyway?”

She’s silent for a while which makes me wonder if she’s hung up. Then she says, “She’s new.”

We hang up and I text the driver telling him to ignore my last: the scene is still tomorrow, and as I send the text off the cell vibrates in my hands. My agent, again.

“Okay, scratch that,” she says, “the scene is back on for today.”

I sigh. “Cindy...”

“I know, dear. Same call time and location. Try to make it on time”

I stuff the shirt and jeans back into the bag. “Okay.”

*****

It usually takes a few moments for people to figure out where they’ve seen me before. It’s like watching the process of thought on a game show contestant’s face as they come up with the correct answer right before the buzzer is about to go off. The facial expressions are often my only warning to slip from “Eric” into “Tyler” mode. For this kid, a weasel-faced twentysomething with a guitar slung over his shoulder, flash of recognition is instant.

He says, “Oh shit!” the micro-second he steps onboard and sees me.

The other rush-hour passengers on the subway car look over to see what the commotion is and the train doors snap shut behind him, trapping me inside.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! Y’ALL NIGGAS KNOW WHO THIS NIGGA IS UP IN THIS MOTHAFUCKA WIT US?”

I place my finger to my lips in an attempt to shush him down. He gets the hint but gives me a surprised look that says: you’re on TV, what do you expect, nigga?

“Eric! He be fuckin' them bad ass bitches!” He stands right in front of my seat, and he smells like he took a shower in Colt .45. He says, “Me and my shorty was just watchin' you get down on them hos in the Tyrone’s Steel movie last night!” He smiles wide and his mouth, framed by a goatee, looks like a flapping cunt with teeth. “Yo nigga, you got how that nigga, Tyrone Steel be talkin' down cold!”

Many of the passengers have turned away but a few of the close-by still burn holes into my face with their eyes. I think of ways to make myself small in my seat, then I think of pressure point neck pinches, like they do in the movies, to knock him out.

“Thanks,” I say.

He says, “That scene where you was all dressed up like a bitch...what was that?...a maid, right? Yeah, nigga, you was dressed like a bitch!”

He makes a fist to give me a pound and I don’t know why but I make a fist, too, bumping knuckles with him. I want the train doors to magically open; I’d take my chances and jump out at eighty miles-per-hour.

“Nigga, you was dressed up like a whore-maid from like, France ‘n shit...wearing all that make-up? And then your asshole was all hangin' tha fuck out! And then...and then...and then-then-then, them fat-assed porno ho’s? They had the whips ‘n shit? Nigga, that was some cold shit right there, nigga—”

He laughs. Juicy meat-curtains-for-lips peel back and reveal slick, discolored teeth, and it occurs to me that this man right here, the man standing in front of me, is my de-facto boss. That he’s stroked to me fucking enough times to actually recognize me. By name. I look around at the spectators as the train speeds and jostles underground toward Porn Valley. A middle aged woman who has figured out who I am through the context of the conversation peers at me with derision. She folds her arms with flaps of hanging meat across her saggy chest—also with flaps of hanging meat. A pair of wild-eyed, surfer dudes with questions on their lips are pushing their way toward me through the crowded subway car.

Pussy Mouth is still talking, “Whaddaya think that nigga Tyrone and them stank-assed mistresses thank about you playin' them in the POOOOORNOS?”

Over the PA system the conductor’s metallic voice says, “Next stop: Universal City.”

My eyes dart up and down the train until they settle on a sign that says, “You never know, the person next to you on Metro could be an undercover cop!” and I mumble, “I’m the least of his problems.”

Only a few people stand between me and the approaching surfer dudes, and this close, it’s clear there’s something off about them. The train slows down as one of them, pushing a passenger out of the way, opens his mouth to speak; the train door slaps open; I bolt off the train and up the stairs and dash through the turnstile, up another flight of stairs, and into the sizzling sun of the parking lot where I see my driver waiting car. I rip open the car door to the eardrum rupturing sound of techno, get in, and slam the door shut. The driver, an Abercrombie and Fitch, wholesome, boy next door with a heart the size of his home state of Texas, accelerates, snapping my neck back until my head thuds against the headrest and we’re out of the parking lot barreling down the freeway on-ramp picking up speed; he threads the needle between slower cars and merges down onto the freeway.

He uses The Force to weave a through-line past the slower traffic while he fucks with the stereo with one hand, settling for a trip-hop song that goes, “How should you feel when you’ve felt everything you can feel and you still feel unreal?” and uses his “free” hand to pull up GPS on his iPhone, steering with his knees, (or his cock, who the hell knows?) he drawls, “What’s with the on again, off again nonsense with VELVET?”

He slows down, looks up from the cell phone and to the road every ten seconds and steers with a part of his body that’s actually above his waist, and I relax my asshole by degrees.

“The fuck if I know,” I say, still catching my breath from running up two long-assed flights of stairs. “New girl. Guessing they wanna shoot the movie before she has a vision of Jesus and disappears.” I say to the passenger side window, and as an afterthought, “It smells like pussy in here.”

“Yeah,” he says, almost irritated, as though I’m pointing out that water is wet, then, “Who’s the girl?”

“Nobody’s telling me shit, dude.”

We drive past the VELVET building, whose garish neon sign blares right across the freeway from the Universal Studios family theme park.

“What if they call you while we’re on the way and cancel again?”

I glance at my cell for any missed calls while I was underground and out of service range. Only a missed a text from Maite.

“Fuck 'em. They can tell me in person.”

*****

There are no luxury cars or grip trucks lining the driveway and street, no activity of equipment carrying crew members wandering back and forth from truck to house or any of the usual signs that scream “porn shoot location,” so the driver almost circles past the house. This home, situated at the back of the cul-de-sac on the top of one of the highest hills in one of the farthest points in The Valley, is unremarkable.

Since there’s no way to be sure how long this will take, I tell the driver I’ll text him when I’m done. I watch him fly down the hill to his next pick-up, the engine buzzes as the car twists along the road that snakes along the hill below me, and when the noise of the exhaust fades to nothing it’s replaced with silence and tiny red dots as he, on occasion, taps the brakes.

My hand twists the front doorknob expecting it to yield as they always do so I can help myself inside. It doesn’t. Walking around the property reveals the curtains over all the windows are drawn shut, and garage, pulled down, is also locked. As I make my way back to the front door I pass my eyes over the neighborhood: no activity; even the air is still. I give the front door a gentle knock. I wait.

*****

Another house, last month. As I entered the home I noticed a faint scent of jasmine and cinnamon in the air. I wandered around calling out for the director so I can fill out the paperwork, not finding him (or anyone else), then decided to look for a bathroom so I can clean up before the scene. Wandering the home’s interior—decorated with old furniture incongruent with its mid-century, minimalist architecture—I followed the sound of a TV, which lead me to the master bedroom. A Louis XV, four-poster bed with heavy velvet drapes dominated the room. A 20th century television set with rabbit ears sat on a cart. Paintings with serious looking men in powdered wigs hung on the walls, and an ottoman, with a copy of Reader’s Digest and a National Audubon Society pamphlet resting on it, sat at the foot of the bed. There was a gilded writing desk with the roll down top. Sitting on it was what looked to be the start of a handwritten letter (who still hand-writes letters?) on personalized stationary, and three volumes of Collier’s Encyclopedias.

The scent was stronger in the master bathroom. The bottle of Chanel No. 5 on the counter told me why. The lone towel, monogrammed, that hung on the rack was still damp, as if it was just used, and there were no fresh ones so I couldn’t take a shower…

Reader’s Digest...

…so instead I snatched a clean washcloth, also monogrammed, dropped my pants, soaped the cloth in the sink and proceeded to clean the space between my scrotum and legs. Next, I lathered up my dick…

Encyclopedias...

…making sure to clean under the foreskin well, wringing the washcloth into the sink, and splashed fresh water over the cock to rinse it off when I noticed I could no longer hear the TV set. What I did hear was tentative footfalls on carpet, then:

“Oh, good heavens!”

I spun around to face a woman with damp, thinning hair, clutching her monogrammed bathrobe shut with trembling liver spotted hands. Her milky eyes dropped to my hanging penis, and my heart squeezed and released, squeezed and released, wringing out all its blood before sopping up more like the washcloth dripping in my hands, and visions of spending the rest of my life in a six-by-nine cell flashed, and I mumbled something like “sorry, wrong house,” as if that could explain everything when you discover some black guy washing his balls in your sink—leaving curly pubes and a tan water in the basin. I pulled my pants up and brushed past her, out through the bedroom and into the foyer—the bedroom door slammed shut behind me—and I bolted out the front door and into the August humidity that straight away stole my air like a punch to the gut between breaths, running across the lawn as my pulse screamed in my ears. Running. Monogrammed washcloth still in my hands

*****

The scraping sound of metal-on-metal as a chain is undone and locks turned and tumble. I glance at the address on my handheld again. The door opens and through its crack comes rock music, and I expect Shylock or a familiar face from the crew to greet me. Instead, a fresh-scrubbed woman with her hair pulled away from her face in a pony tail, wearing onion-skin running shorts and a t-shirt stares at me, expressionless.

“I, uh...Hi,” I say. “I’m looking for One-oh-eight Lemongrove Court?”

Stoic, she looks from me, to my laptop case slung over my shoulder, then back to me. She says, “This is it.” An involuntary exhalation blows past my lips.

She turns, leaving the door open, swishes her hips into the home, then tosses, “Lock the door behind you,” over her shoulder back at me. Firm ass cheeks covered by flimsy fabric churn as she walks. I follow them.

Even though there’s music playing somewhere, out of habit I lower my voice to a whisper whenever I enter the shoothouse. “I never ring doorbells in case cameras are rolling. Don’t want to ruin the shot.”

She sighs. “Whatever. That’s the least of this production's worries today.”

We turn a corner. One song ends and fades into the beginning of that Stereo Mc’s song, Ahh-Ahhh-AaaAahh, something ain’t riiight...

“I’ll ask you to please observer the rules of my house while you are here. You’ll find them posted in the kitchen.”

She leads me into the kitchen where her ass-cheeks hand me off to Shylock, then she disappears around a corner. A door slams. On the counter behind Shylock, the NBA finals are playing on a muted TV. The starting line-up is being introduced.

“Good to see you!” Shylock says. “Thanks a lot for being patient, dude.”

We bump elbows.

“No worries,” I say, “thanks for thinking of me.”

He chuckles. “Oh, I didn’t pick you. You were requested by female talent.”

He hands me the paperwork and I hand him my IDs and HIV test. I say, “That’s cool. At least I know whomever I’m working with really wants to be here.”

Shylock looks at me and a smile flashes across his lips as if he’s struggling to hold back laughter. When I finish with the forms I hand them back to him.

He tosses the paperwork in a folder without giving them as much as a glance, and says, “Okay, so I’m the set’s designated “safety officer,” he makes quotes with his fingers, “because Cal OSHA is on our asses. Please note the hazardous waste bin…”

He points across the kitchen the way an airline steward points to the emergency exits. There’s a red 50-gallon garbage container with the word BIOHAZARD, and the accompanying symbol, stenciled on its side.

“…and,” he continues his pitch in a mock gameshow-host voice, “I’m supposed to show you a video on safety protocol—”

“I’ve seen it, bro.”

“Thank God.” He trots to the sliding glass door and gives a dramatic wave of the hand, and says “And behind door number one...the whores!”

The sliding door leads to the backyard. On the other side of the glass and off to the side are three bikini-clad women, each past their used-by dates but still looking fuckable at this distance, gyrating their hips in front of an infinity pool that seems to cascade off the grassy cliff and into the Valley bellow. Bass is pumping, a camera flashes every now then, and women dance and change poses with looks ecstasy on their faces, because apparently getting your picture taken is orgasmic. Except for the woman in the middle. Her lips are moving and she looks to be waving her pointing finger at something in front of her, as though she’s having a bad conversation with a pixie only she can see.

They look familiar in the abstract. “Who are they?”

The woman in the middle plops on the ground, legs open, and swats at the air around her head while the other two continue Voguing for the pictures.

“Those,” Shylock says, “are Tyrone’s mistresses.”

My gut sinks, like I’ve woken up just in time to feel myself rolling off the bed.

“But... they’re...” Of all the questions swirling in my head I should have asked, I ask a stupid one. “I have to have sex with all of them?

“Of course not, dude.” He points. “Just the one in the middle.”

The woman in the middle is pulling up large clumps of grass.

He slides open the glass door and the music is intermixed with a wailing car alarm that has to be at least a mile away somewhere down the hill. “Come on, dude,” he says, “I’ll introduce you to them.”

*****

I’m sitting on a stool clutching a wrinkled-to-hell call-sheet that says “Three Bitches,” still in the kitchen because I told Shylock I didn’t want to interrupt the stills for the box cover; but the real reason is I need time to work through my “surprise motherfucker” moment and I’m hoping Ashton Kutcher pops out of the red toxic waste bin with a camera in his hand, laughing his ass off, telling me, “This is all a joke: You just got Punk’d!” but he doesn’t.

How much do these women know about me making fun of them in my Tyrone’s Steel movie; and is that the reason I was requested, for revenge? And why didn’t VELVET just tell me upfront what the movie is about; and if they did, would I have shown up?

Tom Tom, whom I’ve not seen since the Tyrone’s Steel movie, enters through the sliding door. We hug and talk and this makes me feel better the way being around good people often does. We catch up, laughing about a time when someone put a suction-cupped dildo on the trunk of his car and he drove along the freeway and all the way home with it flapping in the wind, through his neighborhood, only to discover it when he got home. He called me, pissed, and I told him, “In five years it will be funny.” We hug again and he goes off into another room to set up the lights. On the TV, Pau Gasol drives to the basket, makes the shot, and draws a foul.

The first mistress to come inside and talk to me is a redhead with aftermarket tits: one nipples pointing to the side, the other, straight up.

She stops at my side. Very close to me. Because I’m seated, her tits hang eye-level at my profile and I have to crane my neck to see her face.

She says, “Hiii, I’m Roslyn Blames!”

I’m doing my best to match the name against the bitches I’ve satirized. Looking up into her smiling face, if she’s one of them it doesn’t seem to be bothering her.

“Tyler.”

“Pleased to meet you!”

She offers her hand and we shake, then she just stands there with the heat radiating off her cunt, roasting my arm. Smiling.

Silence.

She smiles. I smile. Seeing me smile, she smiles even harder and I half expect her teeth to shatter.

Outmatched, I break her stare and let my gaze drift down, avoiding the nipple that’s pointing up to the ceiling, I look down. On her flank are some Chinese character tattoos that look like she was tagged by Triads. Capitulating to the pressure the silence, I say, “Wow, nice ink. What do they mean?”

“Loyalty!” she says to the top of my head. “I’m loyal to a fault which has always been my problem because I put other people before me like that asshole—you know who—but that dickhead stopped returning my texts after all the time we shared together, can you believe that? I mean, I’m super loyal—not the kind of girl to go kiss and tell…”

“Uh huh.”

“…and yes, I really used my real name with the media because I’m really a real person and I have nothing to be ashamed of because why should I be…”

I feel like I’ve run up a ten flights of stairs breathing through a snorkel, and I look up at the woman and her eyes are half-lidded and transfixed in rapture, and I realize she’s not looking at me. She’s looking through me.

“…today, I learned on Phineas and Ferb that summer and winter combined makes S’winter…”

“Boy!” I slap my palms on my thighs. “I sure am thirsty. I’m gonna grab a Red Bull from the ice chest, can I get you a drink?”

She takes a breath, then says, “Oooh, that’s so sweet. No thank you, but you know you could never buy me a drink in public because people will say were dating…”

I make my escape across the kitchen and at the sliding glass door I’m intercepted by a woman whose hair is German Sheppard brown, the Woman-in-the-Middle. I can’t get out, she can’t get inside. Our eyes lock, and it occurs to me she’s not trying to get inside—she timed it so we’d meet face to face at the doorway.

She says, “Our sex scene is going to suck.”

“Wow,” I say, “that’s just...swell.”

“I am not looking forward to having sex with you. Not at all.”

I attempt to maneuver around her. She mirrors me, blocking my path.

She says, “They told me you used to be a model.” She looks me up and down. “That had to be a very long time ago because you’re losing your hair, and there are bags under your eyes, and your face is kind of fucked-up.”

These women are what a good-looking, young billionaire with a dime piece for a wife risks everything for.

“Yeah, I get that sometimes.”

“What happened to you?”

As I squeeze past her, I say, “Pussy.”

At the ice chest is a blonde I recognize from TMZ, Molly Stanford.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

We both smile and introduce ourselves and the small talk is easy, and my eyes trace the angles of her well-cut cheekbones, and my fidgeting hands need something to do so I lean down and open the chest—taking in the view of her toned, flat belly—and snag a sugar-free Red Bull, and while I’m down there either her pheromones or the scent of her pussy, I don’t know what, slaps me in the face, swaying me giddy, and just like that she’s gone and I can’t quite remember what we’ve been talking about (something about girl-on-girl porn being silly). My penis presses against my pants. I adjust.

Lawn chairs flank the patio table. I sit. A 270º view unfurls in front of me. The buildings in the Valley’s basin look sun-bleached white, and in the setting sun they glint pink. I sit for a moment, listening to the infinity pool’s water crackle and splash while I sip my drink. The car alarm stops.

It occurs to me to take notes so I take my laptop out of its case and load up RoughDraft.

Shylock steps outside and sits next to me. I alt+tab to Twitter.

“You have to be anywhere tonight?”

“Not really.”

“Cool, were going to shoot a girl-girl-girl scene first, then a boy-girl with Steep Threat and Roslyn, then a boy-girl with you and your girl, Dena Lames.”

I’m silent for a moment, then, “Dude...what the fuck?”

“Yeah, I know, man. I’m just glad you’re here. Your girl is a serious flight risk so we moved the scene up to today before she skips town. Nothing but drama all day.”

“Figured as much. I’m used to loopy bitches—remember what I always say about me being part Carl Jung, part Colombo, and part Obi Wan, slinging Jedi mind tricks to keep ho’s under control? But this shit is...is she on something?”

“She’s just shy.” He stands up and pats me on the shoulder. “This is scoring big points with VELVET, bro. Seriously, we appreciate it.”

“I’m just fulfilling the obligations of my contract.”

He looks out to the vista of the sprawling Valley. He mumbles, “You have no idea.” He turns and disappears into the house.

My cellie vibrates with missed texts from both Maite and Amanda. I turn it off, alt+tab back to the word processing program and stare at the blinking cursor on a blank screen. The sun is setting. Everyone has gone inside the house. It’s quiet.

The door slides open. Roslyn stands there naked except for a Negroid, strap-on dildo that looks so much like my penis I have to look twice.

She yells, “Look!” and hops up and down, swinging her hips the way you would with a Hula Hoop so that the phallus swings round and round like a propeller. Giggling, she takes a step toward me and I warn, “Don’t do it,” then Shylock snags her by the arm, dragging her inside and slams the door shut. From inside the home the music cuts off and I hear somebody yell, “Rolling, quiet on set!”

*****

The first scene is done, so I’m in a back bedroom thumbing through a copy of Fahrenheit 451, distracted by the game that I’m not really watching either. It’s the halftime break and the camera pans to Kobe’s wife, then pans to a fan holding a sign that says “THE MEDIUM IS THE MESSAGE” before it cuts to a Buick commercial.

Shylock enters.

“Molly’s gone and Roslyn is cleaning her pussy. As soon as she’s done we’ll rock out that scene, then we get to yours.”

I toss the book on the floor and as he’s leaving I stop him by saying, “Why don’t the studio use me in roles with greater significance. Shit where I actually get to act, or at least where I’m a guy that happens to be black and my race has nothing to do with the exposition of the story?”

I realize the rhetorical nature of the question as soon as it leaves my mouth, and that it’s not his decision.

He says, “We’re...not really shooting anything with scripts these days.”

The silence hangs between us. Even though he knows that I know the entire reason—having a lead role in a VELVET flick would logistically require interaction with, and most likely working with, the draw of the movie, a VELVET contract girl, most of whom don’t do interracial scenes—we both chose to accept this as fact. Even though I’m shared property with DVD Gangstas and VELVET it makes no difference.

“Keep the whites white...”

He says, “It’s out of my hands, dude.” He leaves.

*****

The Lakers are filing off the court in victory when Tom Tom pops his head in the bedroom to say it’s time to shoot the sex stills. Dena is waiting in the master bedroom.
It was my call to shoot sex stills before we shoot video because: A) With this girl, it’s best to feel out what I’m dealing with first, and it gives me an opportunity to warm her up (if that’s even possible), B) the girl is “new” and probably has no clue about fucking on camera so I want to block out the positions before the videotape rolls—a game plan, and C) frankly, I’m not feeling this girl at all, and I don’t have my “in case of emergency” drugs, and it’s best to get warmed up during the stills in the event of me struggling when we get to deep waters.

In the bathroom I wash my balls because I’ve been sitting around on set for hours and I’m not-so-fresh. Not for her benefit, for mine. I’m not giving this tabloid bitch any excuse to fuck up the security of my contract.

*****

The girl has mellowed since earlier in the afternoon. A lot. She’s quiet but considering the alternative it’s fine with me. We start the pictures clothed, and Tom Tom directs us as we undress each other as though we’re telling a story. Actually, I’m doing the undressing for both of us—it’s as though someone cast a hypnotic spell on her. Tom directs me to kiss her. I spy some black, curly, pube-like hairs on her chin. I don’t kiss her.

My pants are on the floor next to the sofa, and she’s naked, lying on her back with her legs closed. Tom Tom tells me to go down on her and when I open her legs I see her cunt. Meat curtains: flaps that look pulverized by a hammer, seared at the tips, and tossed to a Doberman to chew on. I decline this, too.

Maneuvering her through the sex stills is a bit tricky because it’s as if she has no bones and I’m fucking a slug. Otherwise, we finish without incident, and in silence we get dressed again for the video.

*****

“Action!” says Shylock, and the girl snaps out of her trance as if someone has flipped a switch. She is tearing her clothes off, then mine, then she drops to her knees in front of my hard penis, opens her mouth, sticks out her tongue, leans in close...and licks my thigh. Up one leg, avoiding my genitals, then down the other.

The camera man says, “Hold the roll! Honey, what are you doing?”

Dena says, “What do you mean?”

Shylock, holding the c-light says, “His dick. Put it in your mouth.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Nuh-uh. Nope. Oral sex is out of the question.”

This is not funny but I can’t stop myself from laughing.

Shylock says to the camera man, “Cut.”

The camera man says, “What do you mean no blowjobs. This is porn.” He turns the camera off. “Porn!”

She says, “I hate this! I told Cindy this morning in VELVET’s office I never give blowjobs because they’re super-duper scary, and she made me feel like I was stupid.” She’s crying now. “I’m not stupid!”

This woman is fucking with my money! Time for some sleazy Jedi mind tricks. I say, “Nobody thinks you’re stupid, Sweetie. Right now you’re the most important woman in the whole wide world and we just want you to look sexy and beautiful.” I hug her. “Isn’t that right guys?”

They look at each other and nod.

The girl says, “Oh-kaaaay.” Then she brightens up. “Hey, why don’t you guys have me dressed up like Tyrone likes it? He likes it when I dress like a little school girl with a rollerblade on one foot and a Gestapo boot on the other, and then I punch him in the dick, and then—”

“Uh, no.” Shylock says. “This is just your word and we can’t substantiate any of this. We avoid cease and desist letters whenever possible.”

“It’s okay; he’s really terrible in bed anyway. Did you know he likes to dress up like a woman and I spoon-feed him his own ejaculate?”

Goddamn it! With that visual in my head my erection is free-falling. I say, “Lets just get back to the scene, okay.”

We resume the scene. Because VELVET needs footage for the softcore and there’s no BJ involved Dena and I spend ten minutes hugging each other in silence. Hugging. No kissing, either. I’m flaccid, bereft of Caverject, and I’ve got no blowjob to fall back on from my scene partner to get erect again. I step off camera to get a bottle of lube from the rape kit and grab the girl with one hand stroking my dick, the other cupping her ass. I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine her as someone else. Doesn’t matter who.

“What are you doing?”

“The pervert hug.”

“What’s the pervert hug?”

I squeeze her ass and continue stroking, eyes still shut. “This.”

“I’m an escort, but I’ve only had sex with three men in my life. When you stick your thing in me you’ll be the fourth.”

Shut the fuck up!
I recover my erection and we rock out a few positions but I’m losing my ability to keep it up.

I say to Shylock, “Transition to the last position or just be there?”

She says, “Transmission? Is that like Ebonics or something?”

“Sure. Ebonics.”

Shylock says, “It’s short hand. We’ve all been doing this a long time.”

“Why is everyone talking black all-of-the-sudden? That’s rude to speak a foreign language when not everyone can understand!”

Shylock says, “So, did the Lakers win?”

She says, “Who were the Lakers playing?”

The camera man says, “The Cavs.”

“Nuh-uh!”

Who is Tyrone Steel?

I say, “They mean Kobe tore his calf. It was a scary moment.”

“You guys think I’m stupid but I know sports! Who was that quarterback that got drafted but he was traded because he sucks? You know...the big guy!”

The camera man says, “Hmm. A big football player? Who could that be?”

During the banter I’m able to stroke my erection back up, so I grab Dena and push her onto the sofa, doggy. “Place your outside knee where my hand is. Do not move it.”

“Action”

I’m behind her, about to insert when the smell hits me. Her ass smell like ass. Her asshole, winking at me as though something is behind it, is five shades darker than the rest of her. There is a purple, blood-filled bubble on her asshole.

You’ve been poor, Eric. Fuck going back.

I insert in her pussy and fuck.

She says, “Wow, you’re good.”

“I’m a professional, now please be quiet!”

“You’re such a nice guy.”

“Hold still!”

“Say ‘spray’ to me. I love that word.”

“Spray-spray-spray-spray-spray-spray-spray!”

“Oh my God, I’m coming!”

Shylock says, “Okay, cut. Fuck it, we got enough footage. Fuck to pop, dude?”

I look at the juicy sphincter zit. “Christ, no! Set up.”

They explain what a set up is. I fuck, pretending I’m getting off, then I hop off of her and she drops to her knees in front of me. I make noises like I’m getting off. The camera cuts. She stays on her knees while I do whatever I have to ejaculate. In this case, because I’ll bet no help from her via blowjob, this means jerking off in a corner while I flip images through my head. When I ready, I’m to step back in place, the camera will roll, and I’ll shoot my load. Editing makes it look like we never cut the camera.

She says, “Well, how will I know he’s ready?”

“I’ll say something clever like, ‘I’m coming.’ Don’t move and it won’t be a problem.

*****

Stroking, and stroking, and stroking. My dick is numb. My body does not want to give up the seed to this woman. How long have I been standing here? Jerking to pop isn’t working so I push Dena onto the sofa, face-down-ass-up because it’s the lesser of evils, and I fuck to pop as my mind drifts…

*****

Shylock and the crew have vanished. Someone who could be my twin is shooting the camera, directing the scene. Black hoodie. Red hat. No pants. Then I realize it’s not my twin. Why the hell didn’t I wash those pants this afternoon?

Somewhere an orchestra is playing and the volume rises and Sinatra is crooning:

“I've got you under my skin,
I've got you deep in the heart of me,
So deep in my heart, that you're really a part of me,
I've got you under my skin...”

He squats down, peering through the camera’s viewfinder as if lining up a shot. He says, “That’s not how I would do her.”

“Fuck off.”

“Here.” He sets the camera down, places his hands on both sides of my waist and pushes my hips. “Let me help a nigga out.”

The girl moans.

“You See? You gotta hit her spot.”

He pushes, and pushes, speeding up the pace of my fucking. The girl hollers in orgasms.

“Leave me alone.”

He says, “Not an option. Hey Eric, you ever pull a Soul Train?”

“Get out of my head!”

“Relax, man. Just keep fucking the girl. I’m the caboose!”

His pushing on my hips slows down. There’s a warm, pulsing pressure between my buttocks and in an instant it feels like I have to take a monster shit, and I’m pulling away from him out of reflex when I realize both his hands are still on my hips…

He says, “Choo-choo, motherfucker!”

…manipulating me into a frantic Bucking Bronco, which turns the girl I’m fucking into a bucking bronco, and he’s beating on the back of my head with his fists, donkey punching me, each whack sends flashes of light behind my eyes and I twist around, dismounting both myself from the girl and him from me.

The walls, ceiling, and floor have been replaced by mirrors and sofa and the girl have disappeared so it’s just me and...me in this room that now feels a suffocating ten times smaller.

We stand face to face. His cock is veiny, throbbing, and purple. A glistening string of come dangles from his tip.

He looks at me and says, “Let’s joust.”

In a blink, my hands cover the distance between me and his neck but he knows my thoughts and with deft economy of motion he gets an angle on me, belts me in the gut, and his follow-up cracks me across the jaw. I’m on my knees, fighting to retain consciousness, and he’s standing over me, laughing. I puke. He does a fist pump.

“Don’t be such a bitch, that was just the tip!”

I’m still on my knees when he stands closer to me. He slaps my face and says, “Tyrone’s Steel? Oh, that is rich! You think it’s funny making fun of other people’s sexuality? When’s the last time you cleaned out your own closet, Mr. Pretty Boy porn star.”

The mirrors flicker static then become video screens. Scenes from throughout my career—like ball-on-ball rubbing, double penetrations, bukkakes, me as a runaway slave, a rapist strangling a girl with the cord of an iPod, and the scene where I got blown by my little sister—play out in endless loops across the room on mute.

Standing in front of me, he grabs me by both my ears, twisting them as though he’s going to tear them off my head, and there’s a tart pain that tears my eyes. I know what’s next.

He says, “You really wanna know me? Well, let me show you how I get down!”

With one hand on an ear and the other on his dick, he presses the head against my lips until they separate and it’s pressing against my teeth. It smells like a pile of Lakers jockstraps left to dry in the sun after two-a-day practices.

“Open your mouth, nigga!”

I turn my head into the ear that’s being pulled and the cock drags across the side of my face until his balls are in my other ear, and it’s like listening into a seashell. My hand shoots up and grabs scrotum. I squeeze, he howls.

His testicles rupture in my grasp with the satisfying pop of bubble wrap. He squeals and voids his bowels, staining my breathing air with the stench of a burst colostomy bag, and I squeeze some more. My fingernails dig into skin. The scrotum tears, spilling its stringy contents, resembling fresh-ground chuck and uncooked egg whites, sloppy and wet over my fists. My fingertips now touch the tip of my thumb.

He passes out so I release my grip to let him fall. Hanging from his ripped scrotum is what resembles an unformed chick dangling from its umbilical cord. I stomp, shattering the mirror the floor.

“Don't you know little fool, you never can win,
Use your mentality, wake up to reality...”

My shattered reflection leers back at me, and the glass crackles across the floor and up the walls. I cover my head as the entire house falls around me.

“Cause I've got you under my skiiinnn!”

*****

Someone says, “I think you’re hurting her.”

I got a fistful of Dena’s hair wrapped around my fist, she’s face down-ass-up, and I’m thrusting into her pussy. She’s getting off. I’m snarling like a rabid wolf. I stop fucking.

Dena says, “That’s the first time I’ve ever been fucked from behind! That made me feel like a virgin all over again!”

I roll off her. “I know the feeling.”

Shylock says, “Can’t come?”

“No.”

“No worries, dude. We’ll fake it.”

Dena is squeezing her nipples. She says to no one in particular, “I’m pregnant.”

Tom Tom, who was sitting across the room the entire time, takes a bottle of Cetaphil from the rape kit. His job is to squeeze the bottle, spraying the white hand soap over the girl’s ass while I pretend I’m ejaculating, all while the camera man and Shylock work the camera and the lights.

The camera rolls, I howl in fake orgasm, Tom Tom pumps the soap. We get it clean in one take. Somebody yells, “Cut!”

Dena says, “I’m having Tyrone’s baby!”

*****

The crew is packing up. The camera man is long gone. Shylock’s in the kitchen, packing the forms and documents. I stand there watching him.

“Shylock...”

He says, “No need to say anything, dude. We’re surprised you got as far as you did. We got the scene and my boss will be happy. Seriously. Good job.”

He leaves.

I text my driver to hurry up and get me the fuck out of here, and go out to the end of driveway to wait. This far away from the rest of the city the sky is full of stars and the insects are making their music.

I know the porn critics will skewer me over this scene. It will look choppy because of all the stopping and starting, even with good editing. They won’t buy the faked pop shot for a second, and the entire fucked up scene will be blamed on me because fucked up scenes are always the male talent’s fault.

Tom Tom pulls up next to me and leans out his window. He says, “In five years this will be funny.” We laugh. He drives off.

Down the street, Dena is yelling at her driver by a limousine—something about her not getting paid today.

Shylock pulls up next to me next. He says, “Remember Rainbow Party?”

“The teen, girl band from the ‘90s...they made all those Disney movies, right?”

“Yeah, well, they’re all grown up now. Their manager contacted VELVET and said the girls are interested in making premeditated sex tapes to revive their careers. I’m thinking: a big orgy with all five women on you...girls wearing different colored lipstick...put a fake gangsta-grill in your mouth. That could be great for your career, dude.”

“...and the coloreds from running!”