by Morgan Black
Jeez, I fucking said it, all right?
I love this girl.
The script really is brilliant. Sexually abused heroin-addicted girl from the streets goes into porn, gets clean, then becomes a successful porn entrepreneur and eventually movie star. Lots of family drama. Lots of real-life grit.
Hollywood will hate it, but it might just find a Sundance-y kind of audience.
“It’s a female Rocky, only with porn instead of boxing.”
“Oh my God, you do get it! You really get it! I’ll play Marcellina, naturally. For my older brother I’d like to get the Puerto Rican guy who used to be on CSI: Miami. Jimmy Smits and Wanda DeJesus would be perfect to play my grandparents.”
Squinting, I gaze deep into those brown-yellow glowing spheres.
“Are you sure you want to play Marcellina? You’d be bringing back a lot of shit you put behind you.”
“I am Marcellina!” she says. “Who else could play me but me?”
“I know ... but the rape scenes. And the shooting up. You’d have to relive it all again.”
“You forget, Damien Cage Rock Star ... I’m unbreakable! Besides, where are you going to find a talent with my smarts and this body?”
I look her up and down. “Truer words were never spoken.”
Her eyes narrow with that look I’ve come to know so well. “Oh, you are so going to get fucked right now!”
“Whoa, whoa!” I say, even though fucking her is always a fantastic option. “My dick is a little sore. Which begs the question ... how come you never get sore?”
“Because I’m a happy slut, I’m sexually free, and I love myself,” she says, jumping on me. “Not to mention a former professional.”
“No! Get off! It’s morning. We have a day to live.”
“Shut up and fuck me,” she says.
God, I’ve become her personal accordion, bending me and playing me. Girl is insatiable. So we fuck again.
My life is amazing.
* * *
“Now check this one out,” she says as she fast-forwards through another sex scene with another big-cocked Latino.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. We’re sitting on my bed, a stack of her porn videos on the side. She’s sitting naked in lotus position, commanding the remote.
“Yo, porn star,” I say. “I believe you can act! You don’t need to fucking prove it to me.”
“No, wait!” She leaps up and grabs another DVD. “It must have been this one.”
“See, even you don’t remember which one has a real scene! Ha!”
“Well, I did a lot of them. Here it is.”
She goes to the DVD player, pops out the one we had been watching, and inserts the new one. I watch her perfect ass the entire time, and my dick gets hard. I swear I’m going to die of prolonged erection soon. Either that or I’m going to have to get a prosthetic penis.
She gets back into lotus position on the bed. I stroke her back as Hot Bouncy Ass Orgy #6 starts up.
“Here it is,” she says, slapping my thigh. “Watch this!”
There she is walking across a shady yard toward a pool. The director made sure to get her from all angles, including a long and deep close-up of her ass crack. Don’t blame him. Best view in the world.
She’s wearing sunglasses and carries a blanket, which she sets up on a chair by the pool, going topless while leaving her bikini bottom on. Then she proceeds to rub baby oil all over her body. This goes on for a while.
“Oh, come on!” I say. “I can see this live anytime I want.”
She hits fast-forward. A man enters the scene. Big, bald, black guy in blue trunks. Ripped.
“What the fuck?” on-screen Marcellina screams as she leaps up from the chair by the pool.
“I knew you’d be here,” says the black guy.
“What did you do with Celina?”
He smiles and walks toward her.
“What I’ll do with you if you don’t please me.”
I get up and pour some Jack Daniels into a highball glass, then bring it back to the bed. Why am I agreeing to watch this?
“Ever since you arrived, you’ve called the shots, mister,” says on-screen Marcellina. “Now you think you can just waltz in here and fuck whoever you please?”
“Yes.” He drops his shorts, and a giant black uncut dong pops out. Marcellina’s expression changes from one of disgust to shock.
The screen pauses.
“Well,” she says as she cuddles up next to me, “what did you think?”
I erupt into a fit of laughter. “That was it? That was your big scene? You call that acting?”
“Shut up! Well, there was never much plot. That was the style.”
“Look, Marce, I know you can act. I believe you can act, okay? Just chill out and go to sleep.”
I put the empty glass on the nightstand.
She climbs up on the bed and kisses me full on the lips.
However, I know that stare. She’s disturbed. She has a point to prove, and she’s not going to stop until she does it. She’s like a demented beast when she sets her mind to something.
She leans over me, grabs the empty highball glass off the table, and whacks the top of it on the nightstand, smashing it.
I leap up. “What the fuck?”
She holds the glass from its bottom, jagged shards pointing at me. Holding it to my neck, she never breaks her smile. I sense the cold glass on my skin.
I dare not move.
“I’ll kill you right now, Damien. For not believing in me one hundred percent, I’ll kill you right now. Not only that, Mr. Big Rock Star, I won’t even shed a tear. You’re just a tool to me. A bank account full of cash. Now are you going to get with the program ... my program? Or do you choose death?”
My head spins. My mind reels. Oh my God, she’s a psychopath, isn’t she? I’m already figuring out how to move her out.
Then she smiles. Her voice changes.
“Not to mention the way you used to force Mom and me to do things,” she says. “Horrible things ... with my best friends ...”
She giggles.
Oh, I get it. She’s acting. She’s making up a scene to prove to me she can act.
I begin to breathe easier. Took me a good twenty seconds to pick up on it. Gotta hand it to her, the girl is good.
Even though a small part of me warns me that was real. No, it couldn’t be, I tell it. Relax, it’s Marce.
Giggling, she puts the broken glass back onto the nightstand. After giving me a kiss, she curls up on my chest. A warm electric flow travels through me.
God, I’m in heaven whenever I’m around this girl.
Chapter 7
Halifax, Nova Scotia, 1:07 p.m.
My phone rings. I look at the number. It’s Bob.
“Damien,” Bob says, “can you come down to the set please?”
“Sure,” I say, putting down the book I’m reading. “Is everything all right?”
“I don’t know. It would be great if you could just talk to Marcellina.”
“Be right there.”
I hang up and walk out of the trailer, heading over to the tiny house doubling as the one in which Marcellina grew up with her grandparents.
We’re in Canada because it’s cheaper to film movies up here. Halifax is standing in for Brimford, Massachusetts. All I know is it’s only October and I’m fucking freezing my ass off.
The sign says: Tattered Angel - Closed Set. I walk past it into the house.
I know what you’re thinking. Shut up.
Yes, I got Marcellina the funding for the movie. Yes, I’m writing the music for it. Yes, I’m a fucking tool.
Now I get it. For years, I could never understand why guys do shit for girls. Now I do.
Because when it’s this good, it’s just this fucking good. The problem with most guys is that they settle before truly finding their perfect match.
I’m surely not settling. I traveled the globe looking for the perfect girl. Odd that she found me
by punching me in the face.
And now I’d move heaven and earth for her.
I smile at Tamara, the hot production assistant who gives me the “shhhhh” sign. I nod.
I study Tamara’s ass. I’m going to have to get her up to the house some time for a fuck with Marce and me.
Huh? What’s that, you say? Oh, Marcellina and I don’t play the game played by the rest of the world. We fuck who we want. It’s called being sexually free. The one great thing about Marcellina is that I didn’t have to teach her any of that. She knows it instinctively. I still bring girls up after shows. The only difference now is Marcellina joins in, then stays when I kick them out.
Our connection is not about sex. Sure, she’s the hottest thing going and so am I, but that’s only half of the equation. It’s like we ... shit, can’t put it into words without sounding like a cheesy romance novel or that stupid line from Jerry Maguire so I won’t say it.
But it’s true, and I’m just glad I found it.
Today they’re shooting a scene with Marcellina and her grandparents. Jimmy Smits and Wanda DeJesus backed out, but the two unknowns they found are pretty good.
They’re sitting at a kitchen table in blue-collar clothes. The man smokes a cigarette. Marcellina is wearing black flats, jeans, and a white sleeveless top. A garish Band-Aid is on her arm above the elbow, covering her character’s trackmarks.
She’s a little unfocused. I always know.
“Action!” shouts Bob Tisker, the director we hired.
Marcellina’s cousin, Arely, is off to the side; arms folded and head down. He nods at me.
Why the fuck is he here? He’s the one element of Marcellina’s life that I truly don’t get. Why is she so close with her fucking cousin? Her cousin, who is a certified scumbag. He knows that I know he’s a scumbag, too. How do I know? I sense it. I know scumbags.
Supposedly he was right next to her the day she punched me in the Phoenix airport, but I was too hypnotized by her eyes to even see him.
“Cut!” Bob shouts. “Marcellina, are you all right?” He walks over to her and kneels, but I can’t hear what they’re saying.
“What happened?” I whisper to Tamara.
“Marcellina is having trouble with her lines.”
“Really? That’s odd. We’ve gone over this scene a hundred times.”
“I know,” Tamara says, and looks at me with a sad face.
“Okay, everyone, let’s go again,” Bob orders. “Quiet, please. Roll camera.”
A kid with a digital time slate moves in front of the camera and says, “Scene twenty-four, A, take twelve,” then claps it and steps off to the side.
Take twelve? Shit, maybe there is something wrong with Marcellina.
“Action,” Bob calls out.
“How much did you say?” the actor playing Marcellina’s grandfather asks.
“Five thousand dollars,” says Marcellina. “It’s all there.”
Having gone over the lines with her numerous times, I’m able to mouth them along with her.
“Where did you get this?” the woman playing Marcellina’s grandmother asks, cocking her head to the side and gazing at her granddaughter.
“I got a job!” Marcellina’s eyes are bright. “And I wanted to help out around here.”
“What kind of job?” says the grandfather, taking a step up from the tiny kitchen table.
“I ... uh ...” Marcellina stutters.
Got a modeling job. That’s the line. Come on, Marce. Got a modeling job.
“... uh ...” Marcellina says.
“Cut!” Bob shouts again. “Everyone take fifteen, please. Marcellina, I need to see you.”
I step over to him. “Bob, I’ll take it.”
He just scratches his neck and nods at me with a wide-eyed look that screams, Help me!
Grabbing Marcellina’s hand, I drag her outside. The crisp autumn air is chilling. She takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights one.
“What the fuck, Marce?” I say. “We’ve gone over that scene till we turned blue. What is wrong with you?”
She puffs on her cigarette. I don’t like the fact she’s started smoking, but it’s what she did back in the day. She’s doing the fucking method acting thing.
“I don’t know, Damien. I just don’t know.”
She’s not making eye contact with me, and that pisses me off. I grab her by the shoulders and stare into her eyes.
Something is off. I don’t know what, but the bright light from behind is dimmed. Her eyes are just plain brown.
“I don’t like this method acting bullshit,” I say. “You’re putting yourself back into that time period. It’s killing you.”
“It’s acting, Damien!” she says. “I have to get into the part.”
“You were a heroin addict back then,” I say, nodding at the Band-Aid. “You’re not going to start that up again just to get into the part, too, are you?”
Her right hand moves across to her left arm, covering the Band-Aid. She looks down and to her right. For a frightful second, I see her six years ago … the young addict who will do anything to escape. Even porn.
I glance up at the steel gray sky. Most of the leaves have already fallen off the trees, clattering around the pavement with little gusts of cold wind.
I take Marcellina’s hands, holding them low, and she continues to stare at the ground.
“Look up at me!” I yell, and she does. “I don’t like seeing you like this,” I say. “I know it’s who you were, but it’s not who you are. I know you want this story to be told, but I also don’t want to risk losing you to that time. That’s not you anymore. Would you consider—and I know you’re going to be mad at me for saying this—but would you consider an entirely different movie? Or letting someone else play Marcellina?”
“No! How can you say that? This is my movie! I’ve done a thousand more terrible things on-screen than this.”
“No you haven’t. Sex is easy. This is hard. Because this is the first movie you’ve done in which you’re truly naked.”
“Fuck you!” she says. “You don’t know goddamned shit about who I am. I’m a strong, tough, mean bitch who will slice your throat and won’t care!”
Her eyes are full of tears as she puffs on her cigarette.
“No you’re not. That’s your ego talking,” I say. “Deep inside, you’re still the little girl who wanted to escape. You did it. You’re out. Don’t go back, Marcellina. Please, don’t go back ... even if it’s just in your head.”
“You don’t know, Damien! You don’t fucking know! Don’t fall for it. I’m using you. I’m just using you!”
Her eyes are bulging out of her head now and she’s shaking. I just want to hold her and make it all go away.
“I don’t believe that for a second, Marce. We’ve been together for a year. Lived a lifetime in that short time. You’re just in a bad place right now because you’re bringing it all up again. Why don’t we take a break? Maybe fly down to Antigua again. Get some sun. Away from this cold.”
She just glares at me with that same psychopathic stare from the night with the broken glass. Alarm bells are going all off in my head, but I refuse to believe that she doesn’t love me.
Then, like magic, she softens. Her facial expression becomes warm again. “You’re right, Damien. I’m sorry. I’m just so lost in this part. But no, I’ll be fine. Once production is wrapped up, I’ll be myself again. I promise.”
“I know you will.”
She hugs me, but as I clasp her close, I know something is wrong. Something is way wrong.
Then I see Arely smoking a cigarette staring up at us from across the street. He quickly looks away and disappears around the corner
* * *
Miami, Florida, 2:08 p.m.
I’m in the basement recording studio of my Miami home—mixing some background music I wrote and recorded for the movie—when there is a knock on the door. I look up, unable to believe my eyes, and nod. The door opens.
“Here’s the info on Arely you wanted,” Jason ... er, um ... now Jasmine says in a very effeminate voice as he ... I mean, she puts a manila folder down on the soundboard. She’s wearing a bright pink dress and a wig today. I can’t help but stare.
“What?” she says.
“Timber’s still not right,” I say.
“Huh?”
“Your voice. Got to work more on the timber.”
“I know,” she says in Jason’s voice, “still trying to get it right. It’s so weird.”
I laugh.
“What the fuck are you laughing at?” she says. “This was partly your idea.”
“It’s just ...” I say. “These things take time. You’ve been Jason for years. Now you’re Jasmine. You’ve got to let the rest of the world adjust a little, including me. Plus ...”
“Plus what?”
“Plus you look kind of hot.”
Did I just say that to a guy? Wait no, it’s not a guy. Wait no, it is. I shake my head and take a swig from the bottle of Jack Daniels that always seems to be at my side lately.
“Go on about Arely.”
“He’s thirty-three,” says Jason ... Jasmine! “Nine years older than Marcellina. Arrested three times for drug trafficking. Served two years from 2005 to 2007.”
“2005 was the year Marcellina got into porn,” I say. “2006 was the year she kicked her heroin habit.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“Don’t know. Just thinking out loud. In her movie, her older brother gets her into heroin.”
“But she doesn’t have an older brother in real life.”
“Exactly.”
Jasmine looks at me. Her lipstick is too red and she needs some tits. Chest is ... I don’t know, just not right.
“You think she’s using again?” she says.
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
Leaning back in the chair, I take another swig and offer him ... her some.
“Are you drinking that all day long now?” she says.
“What are you, my fucking wife?” I say.
“Look, Damien ... I’ve got to say something to you about Marcellina.”
“Yeah, what about her?”
“Look, everybody loves her. She’s a bright, happy ball of energy and all of that, but I gotta tell you something.”
