86'd

by Dan Fante

  The first day of actual shooting on It Creeps was a location at Santa Monica Beach beneath the Palisades, a quarter mile away from where a hundred Baywatch episodes had been filmed. It was a summer night-swimming scene where two girls are in the water nearly nude and their stalker, a tattooed serial killer called Kozmo in the script, wades in to slash them both up with his barber’s razor.

  I drove Ronny and his secretary Kimberly around L.A. all that day running errands and then to the location during the setup at sundown. Ronny was edgy—barking orders—and constantly on his cell phone. We’d been fighting the home-ward-bound rush-hour traffic that feeds north on the Pacific Coast Highway from the 10 freeway.

  As we pulled into the parking lot young Ronny became unglued. Some unsuspecting human shitball that was working on the film had been in a hurry and parked his Toyota sedan in the spot marked “X-Producer.”

  Stedman threw his cell phone across the car, smashing it against the wooden console. Then he got out and slammed his two-thousand-dollar briefcase on the roof of the limo. Then he stomped over to where the director and the cast were running lines in preparation for the scene.

  Kimberly had been putting up with his crap all day. She sighed deeply then jumped out too, hustling after him carrying the briefcase.

  Standing there by Pearl, waiting for the shit to fly, was one of the grips, who came over to check out the stretch. He said his name was Chico but he wasn’t Mexican. Chico asked to look inside the limo and ogled the red leather and the woodwork and the TV and stocked bar. “Nice ride, my brother.”

  “Thanks,” I said back. “Holllleeeewood. You know.”

  “So how long have you been driving Mr. Big?” he asked.

  “Not that long, but he’s become a damn good customer.”

  “This is my third film with him. Ever been to his office at 9200 Sunset?”

  “No,” I said.

  “So you’ve never seen The Orchid?”

  “The Orchid?”

  “Yeah, he has an orchid in a big pot behind his desk on the cabinet. Ronny’s famous for that orchid.”

  “Okay,” I said. “How come?”

  “Well, you know that Mr. Big almost never leaves his office during the day. He never goes out. During business hours when he gets busy on the phone and that stuff, when Mr. Big has to take a squirt, what do you think he does?”

  “He pisses in The Orchid?”

  “Yup.”

  “Isn’t it dead by now?”

  “It’s a fake orchid. The thing’s plastic. He sprays air stuff around the office but it doesn’t matter. You can always smell the stink. The Orchid and the piss smell are Ronny’s claim to fame in this town. His trademarks.”

  I nodded. “He’s a pretty intense guy,” I said.

  “His receptionists get the pleasure of emptying the planter every couple of days. That’s why he never keeps one for very long.”

  “C’mon. Straight dope?”

  Chico was grinning. “Straight dope, my man. Hey, anyway, gotta go. Nice ride.”

  “Okay, see you.”

  I looked over at the group standing by the director’s chairs. There was young Ronny. He’d found the culprit, an assistant director kid named Matt. Thirty feet away from my limo with two dozen crew members watching, Stedman was yelling and lambasting the guy for his stupidity and unprofessional conduct.

  Matt was sorry, he’d been in a hurry delivering extra copies of the last-minute scene notes for the actors. But sorry ain’t shit. Sorry just didn’t cut it. Ronny Stedman was boss and he took this five-minute opportunity to make sure everyone present could completely comprehended how a true Hollywood jerkoff actually conducts himself.

  fourteen

  That night I got back to Dav-Ko after one a.m., exhausted and a little buzzed, and as I was rolling over the drive and pulling into the raised carport, I misjudged the distance and bumped the rear of our brown stretch with the tip of Pearl’s right fender.

  Hearing the thud I got out to take a look. I’d dislodged a piece of front chrome molding. Surely a five-hundred-dollar repair at the Lincoln dealer’s body shop and the loss of a day’s rental for the car, another twelve hundred bucks.

  I was pissed. When I got inside Joshua was just leaving for the night, shutting the office down and forwarding our phones to the answering service.

  After he’d gone I remembered what Jackie, our New York mechanic, used to do when a chrome strip or a piece of molding came loose on one of the older Caddys. I located a tube of Krazy Glue in our tool cabinet and went back outside to see if I could reattach the molding.

  The glue worked. Five minutes later Pearl’s fender strip was in place and as good as new except for a tiny, almost unnoticeable ding.

  Back in the office I entered my “Time-In” in the computer after tossing the glue on the desk. I could hear an Etta James CD playing in Portia’s chauffeur’s room/bedroom. I knew that I’d better go in and say hello.

  “Bruno!” she called from across the room. “Hi, darling.”

  She wasn’t alone. She was close-dancing with a partner, a young guy. Portia pulled her head from his shoulder to introduce us. “This is Sidney,” she whispered. “He’s my friend. A personal trainer and massage therapist.”

  The kid was tanned and overmuscled and looked as if he’d stepped out of a gay men’s magazine.

  Both of them were giggling and nicely gassed on drinks and whatever else they’d been drugging that night. Portia was wearing her favorite oversized man’s dress shirt and her thonged panties. Sidney, a tight tee and sweat pants. L.A. fitness casual.

  I knew that the kid being here with her was payback, Portia’s way of showing me what a jerk I was for pulling back and avoiding contact with her.

  She asked me if I wanted a Cuba libre. I said yes because I needed a pick-me-up after the annoyance of Pearl’s fender ding.

  Crossing the room I sat down on one of the puffy velour chairs Portia had brought in weeks ago to dress the place up.

  The shit was starting. “Sidney and I first met in a yoga class at my gym. He’s from Chicago,” she purred. “My young friend has a spectacular body, don’t you think?”

  “Sidney looks like he lifts weights day and night,” I said. “He’s an impressive physical specimen.”

  Portia was leering. “Sidney darling, slip your shirt off, beautiful boy. Bruno ought to see what’s possible when a fellow devotes himself to improving his body.”

  Apparently Sid was shy but equally as drunk as his skinny, grinning host. He also stuttered a bit. “Ca-ca-c’mon Porsh, you’re ma-makin’ me nervous. You know I don’t la-like to show off.”

  “Bruno, Sidney’s bisexual.”

  “That’s just swell,” I said. “He’s in the right town for it too. The very rectum of deep thinkers and financial opportunity. How about that drink?”

  “Of course” she said. “Help yourself?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Across the room I spotted a one-third-empty half gallon of rum, ice, some limes, a tall glass, and a quart of Coca-Cola on the magazine table. But, as I started toward the bar, Dav-Ko’s office manager changed her mind, breaking her hold on her personal Ken doll. Her shirt was open, exposing her tits as she slinked her way across the floor to mix me a drink. “No, no, no,” she purred, “I’ll get it for you. My treat. Service with a smile.”

  “Mind going easy on the mix,” I asked.

  It was then that the bell went off in my head and I fully got the message. Earlier that night, when I knew my assignment with Stedman was ending, I’d phoned in to tell Joshua my ETA to the garage and to let him know my out-of-pocket expenses for the run. Portia was in the office, in the background. I could hear her lecturing a driver. She knew I was on my way in. But the extra glass on the magazine table was the real giveaway. She’d been expecting me.

  I decided that I didn’t care. Let the woman have her even-steven for the way I’d treated her. Let it play out. Screw it. I deserved it. I had it com
ing. Maybe after tonight we’d be able to get back to where we were before the whole mess began.

  She handed me my drink and I took a hit. A good one. The glass was mostly rum and ice. Now I was okay. I could relax. I was fine. I took another long hit.

  Ms. Portia was smiling, a drunken leer, her teeth stained by red lipstick, her boy’s white hair and pretty face glowing in the soft light. She rejoined Sidney and pressed her tits against his chest and began dancing again. Etta on the CD player wailing out “At Last.”

  “Don’t mind us,” she said.

  “Hey,” I said back. “Just pretend I’m a tired chauffeur having a well-needed nightcap.”

  “That’s nice,” she whispered.

  “Mind if I help myself to another?” I said, pointing at the liquor table.

  “Pleeezzze,” she slurred. “Sidney’s been promising me a mah-sage. You don’t mind if we just go ahead? It won’t embarrass you, will it?”

  I nodded no. In for a peso, in for a pound.

  With that she picked up her glass, took a last hit, draining it, then crossed the room to pull open the sleeper couch.

  She slipped off her panties and long-sleeve shirt to lie on the bed, her ass in the air.

  Sidney, as if choreographed, finished his drink too, then stood above the bed peeling off his clothes, down to his red bikini underpants, attempting to appear nonchalant. Near naked, the guy was a living cartoon: the perfect tanned steroid vision of what his West Hollywood clientele expected and paid for.

  He produced a bottle of massage oil from his fanny pack on the table then got on the bed with Portia, on top of her, sitting upright, fitting his ass just behind hers. After squirting her with the oil he began rubbing her shoulders.

  Portia let out a sigh, then surprised me by doing something she’d never done with me; for once, she removed the nicotine gum from her mouth, tossing the wad on the nightstand.

  At the magazine table I made myself another blast. A big one. I had a secret that neither of my hosts knew about: One more drink and I wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t give a damn what happened.

  When I sat back down Sid was in the same position above Portia, except now he was working his hands down into the crack of her ass.

  I lit a cigarette and took a long hit at the rum.

  “More?” he whispered. Portia’s eyes were closed and she was humming. “Oh yes. Please. Please.”

  Now her legs were wide apart and his bikini shorts were off and lying on the floor.

  Sid was behind her rubbing his cock against her wet cunt and asshole. Portia opened her eyes then looked over at me as if asking permission.

  I lifted my glass to toast the event.

  He removed a rubber from his fanny pack on the nightstand and slipped it on. Then he fitted himself deep inside my skinny girlfriend.

  A minute into it he leaned forward and breathed in her ear. “How ’bout the ass too? I know you like it up the ass.”

  “Oh yes, the ass too,” she purred. “Do me in the ass, Sidney. Please. Fuck my ass.”

  My drink was done and I got to my feet. “Okay,” I said, “I’m leaving. Thanks for the demonstration. I’m working tomorrow.”

  “Wait, Bruno,” she breathed, stopping, looking up at me, her fat tits dangling beneath her against a pillow. “Don’t leave.” She pushed Sid away.

  “You’ve made your point,” I said. “My dick’s in the dirt. I’ve seen enough.”

  “Please. There’s some excellent Peruvian in my purse,” she breathed. “Have some. Have as much as you like. I don’t want you to go.”

  The drug invitation made me change my mind. I was now drunk enough. “Okay, you win,” I said. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  I located her handbag and found a two-gram bottle of blow in a velour pouch along with a gold straw and a mirror.

  With the two of them lying on the bed I cut out three fat rails on the magazine table then snorted them. Coke has never been my drug of choice and I hadn’t done any in months so the effect was immediate and euphoric. I was whacked—drunk and wired.

  “How about sharing,” she purred. “Bring it here, darling. Join us.”

  Sitting on the corner of the bed I handed the bottle and straw and mirror to Portia. She cut out several lines, snorted two fatties, then passed the works to Sid, who did up the rest.

  Her hand was on my arm. “Can I do you?” she whispered. “Can I suck on you?”

  “Why?” I said. “This isn’t my party. I’m not needed here.”

  “I want to. I want you to cum in my mouth. You know I love sucking your penis. I love tasting you.”

  Unzipping my blue chauffeur’s slacks, I pulled them down to my knees. My cock was iron.

  Lying back against the pillow I watched as her tongue began circling the head of my dick. Then I closed my eyes. She wasn’t a deep-throat artist. If she took too much in she began to gag. She was more of pole licker and helmet sucker.

  When I opened my eyes again it was because Sidney was banging her from behind, long jarring strokes, interrupting her rhythm and my fun.

  “Wait,” I said. “Let her finish with me. Then you can go next.”

  Sid smiled but kept at it.

  Then Portia stopped and pulled his cock out. She turned around and began sucking him off too. Then back to me.

  Finally, sliding his cock from her mouth, she purred. “Sidney, let’s give Bruno something special. You and me. Okay, beautiful boy?”

  Sid was ready for anything. Beaming. “I love it.”

  So they both went to work on me, tongue kissing each other and passing my cock between them.

  Sidney was a master at giving head. Cocks were his expertise. He’d take my entire joint in his mouth in one gulp then let it out slowly, holding it in his lips before allowing the head to pop from his mouth.

  Then, while she was sucking on me, Sidney dropped down and started tonguing my asshole. Deeply. Then around the rim and back inside again.

  A minute or two later, when I came, it was like a planet exploding against the sun. Boom boom boom.

  Portia held my jizz in her mouth until she could lean across to Sidney and pass my cum through her lips to his. They tongue-kissed while swallowing my load.

  When I opened my eyes the two of them were cutting out lines with the last of the coke. I reached for the rum bottle and sipped from it instead.

  When Portia offered me more I refused.

  She was smiling. “Did you enjoy that, dear Bruno? Am I back to meeting your needs?”

  The words that came from me were a mistake. I was drunk and stoned and stupid and not conscious of the damage I was doing—or if I was I didn’t care. But saying what I said made me realize I had just pronounced my own death sentence. “Your guy Sidney is a master at sucking cock.” I said. “He’s better than you. Blowjobs should be Sidney’s life’s work.”

  Portia was off the bed and slipping into her panties and shirt. “I’m tired now, Bruno,” she hissed. “I’d like to go to bed. Leave, please.”

  I struggled up the stairs leaving the two of them in the chauffeur’s room. I knew she was pissed off, but in my mind she had it coming. Anyway, I didn’t care. I’d figure out what to do in the morning.

  When I awoke it was because daylight was blasting through my curtains and I badly needed to pee. It was just after dawn and my head was pounding and Jimmy began yammering away: Good morning, asshole! Have fun last night? So it turns out that now you’re a faggot too. Just swell. You don’t care what you stick your dick in, do you? By this time next year you’ll be wearing lipstick and working downstairs on Selma with the rest of your swish pals.

  I began to hear noise downstairs too. Real voices. The front door slamming shut.

  As I tried to get up, swinging my legs toward the floor, there was a sudden sharpness of pain in my groin, a pulling at my thigh and testicles.

  Slipping back down on the bed to a sitting position I tried my best to clear my head. That’s when I realized the problem: My penis an
d balls were stuck to my leg and some substance—something hard and dry—was covering my crotch area. My pubic hair was a thickened mesh of cemented steel wool. I tried pulling my dick away from the gathered skin of my testicles. It was impossible.

  A foot away on the nightstand I saw a folded piece of yellow legal paper. On top of the paper was an empty squeezed tube of glue. Krazy Glue.

  Unfolding the note I read the message:

  Good-bye Bruno. You’re insane and I despise you. You are a monster and a prick and a son of a bitch!

  P.

  The emergency surgery to remove my superglued penis and testicles from my thigh lasted two and a half hours. After first trying an array of solvents and stinging chemicals it was determined that nothing short of cutting away the skin would do any good. I had a choice, the doctor said. I could lose the flesh from my cock or they could cut away the tissue from the leg.

  Because I had alcohol in my blood the guy refused to put me under. I was numbed but fully conscious as I watched him sweating, cutting away at my thigh, removing a seven-inch-long patch of tissue. Part of the urethra opening at the tip of my cock had been glued shut too. An incision was made there to reopen the hole so I could pee properly again. In all, sixty-one stitches were needed.

  In my room after the surgery and when the meds wore off and the pain began, I started to shake. I was jonesing in alcohol withdrawal, a tonic-clonic reaction. My body was out of control and the tremors were getting worse all the time.

  I rang for the nurse. When she came in and saw me shaking and sweating the on-call doctor was summoned and they hooked me up with a diazepam IV. Half an hour later I was okay.