by Tyler Knight
Amanda mounts me. Her pussy is hot.
I drift.
• • •
The opening bars of Radiohead’s “High And Dry” nudge me awake. Sunlight. My stomach twists and grinds, crying out to me to put something in it.
The song’s bass drum repeats itself. I grab my cellphone off of the dresser and open it, ending the ringtone.
“Hello.”
“Yo nigga, this is Stan.”
“Hey.”
“So I’ma come right to it,” he says, “Wanda got your performance report from the Divines this morning.”
“Yeah? That was fast.”
They’re gonna dump me… Great, I fail at porn! Well at least I have Amanda, and now the move-in money can last us until I get a job telemarketing or something.
“TK,” Stan says, “We’d like to make you DVD Gangstas’ first ever male contract star. You gonna blow up nigga!”
I hang up, and I do not move. The tears want to come.
I let them.
The Rise of the Mech-Peens
Today I’m to have my genitals molded for mass production. I gaze out of the passenger-side window of Stan’s SUV, paying as much attention to my fellow Angelenos as they pay to me. Everyone playing hurry-up-and-wait at the 101/405 freeway interchange. Stan’s been on the phone since we left the studio, playing verbal grab-ass with a porn starlet who is the “it” girl of the moment. We snake our way through the freeway on the way to the Premiere Exotic Novelties, Inc. (PENI) factory.
I’m not sure how I feel about latex facsimiles of my cock sold and distributed across the Earth…each with a half-life of 7,794 years. Seven millennia from now archeologists could excavate our ruins and brush debris away to discover my rubber phallus in situ wedged inside a female skeleton’s pelvis, and extrapolate what life must have been like at the dawn of the twenty-first century. Shit, the most thought I’ve given to the still nebulous process of casting my cock was the mention of a fluffer girl to keep me hard…what will she look like…
We turn onto a major boulevard where the single-family ranch homes and the pink-stucco apartment buildings dissolve to warehouses and business parks.
“I dunno why they picked you for a sex toy.” Stan’s off the phone, scraping his SUV between two parked compacts. “You ain’t packin like Lance or them other niggas.”
Stan knows how to put a gimp in my swagger with the skill of an ex-wife.
He’s right…this is insanity! I’m making a fool of myself! I’m gonna make a run for it as soon as we stop.
I don’t. Instead, I stand in the parking lot evaluating the PENI complex. No sign to distinguish it from its neighboring office buildings and warehouses. Could be an auto-supply firm. Could be a covert DARPA weapons test lab.
At the door, I close my eyes and listen to the sound of passing traffic while I put my stoic mask on. I enter.
• • •
The executive is already waiting for us when we enter, standing square to face the door.
She introduces herself to me. “I’m. Jen.” She hands us visitor’s badges. “This. way.”
• • •
The conference room. Another female executive in a well-crafted suit who resembles my mother sits poised on the edge of the conference table. She stands as we enter. In the center of the table is a glass-encased dildo. Its latex skin is sliced open and pinned back to expose skeletonized robo-guts. Spread out in front of the executive is a stack of documents.
“I’m Roberta! It is just such a joy to finally meet you!”
Christ, did she say “finally”? No one at PENI knew I existed a week ago.
I say, “Hi,” then I sit.
Roberta, with perfect enunciation, explains the engineering and design of the cock in front of me with enthusiasm. I’m not listening as much as I’m letting an occasional phrase find its way into my ear.
“—like the next generation, teste-shaped motor housed in the scrotum!” she says. “The heart and soul of your signature vibrating phallus—”
Did she just use the word “teste” in a sentence?
“—because we want only the best. No expense will be spared for your product line!”
Riiight.
Stan whips out his video camera and films the meeting’s proceedings.
Jen slides a document and a pen over to me. “If. You. Sign. Your. Name. Right. Here. With. This. Pen. You. Can. Have. Your. Next. Check.” Since Jen laid eyes on me, she has been speaking at me in monosyllabic words. It’s as though she expects me to break out an English-to-Ebonics dictionary from my back pocket and mouth out syllables as I work through a response. “Oh-kay,” I say. I hold the pen in front of my face and ponder it with a grimace as if I’ve never seen one before.
Jen blows out her cheeks with a sigh and says, “Please!”
I skim and sign. In a coordinated effort, Jen snatches the document and Roberta slides a check across the table my way.
Next, I watch them good-cop-bad-cop me through an explanation of the toy-making procedure. But I’m not listening. I stare at the mechanized penis centerpiece…
A faint red glow pulses from the “teste” inside the robotic dildo’s surrogate scrotum.
The Future…
Eardrum-bursting bangs of concussive bombs exploding in the distance quake the ground; the crunching of concrete crumbling underfoot. Closer still, mechanized servos whine. Crackling fire stoked with burning flesh, the nutty stench invades my nostrils. I raise a tattered sleeve to my face. It filters the soot but not the misery.
Gunfire…
I snatch the glass of water and kill half of it in a single chug before the ice slaps against my upper lip.
I slam the glass down and reach over to tap the dildo’s head and say, “Is this thing…on?”
Laughter all around the room. Jen says, “What. Else. Would. You. Like. To. Know?”
I dig my crumpled STD test out of my pocket and smooth it out onto the table with the enthusiasm of a kid showing a report card full of As.
“Yeah,” I say, “When do I get to meet my fluffer?”
Jen and Roberta glance at each other, passing information in the unspoken exchange.
“The…what?” asks Roberta. Her demeanor shifts, now mirroring her coworker, Jen.
“Fluffer!” I say. “You know…the girl you guys are supplying to, uh…keep me going through the long molding and casting process?”
“There will be no fluffer.” Roberta says the word fluffer the way you would say “gonorrhea.”
“Look,” I point to the dong. “I’m not a machine—”
Despite how it makes me feel to ask a woman who could be my mother to fetch a girl to suck me off, I hold my ground.
“—you can’t possibly expect me to obtain, let alone maintain an erection surrounded by factory workers as you’ve described in the process.”
Stan joins in, offering his council. “You’re a professional. You should have no problem.” Roberta steeples her fingers. “I’m confident we can accommodate your needs with some lubrication and a magazine for the first molding. When we get to the body cast—”
“Body what?”
“Yes,” she continues, “the body cast. You did bother to read the contract, right?” She punctuates her verbal bitch slap by stabbing a finger at the stack of papers in front of Jen.
“Of course. I read the entire document.”
“Very well, then,” she says. “As I was saying, when we get to the body cast portion of your commitment,” she punches each syllable of the word, ‘commitment’, “you will be provided with your fluffer. Are these acceptable terms?”
What the fuck! She’s acting all indignant as if I asked her to personally toss my salad…I mean, we’re sitting at a table in a sex toy company, not a prime table at Le Cirque. Her job is to make dicks! D
ICKS!
I say, “Fine.”
“Very well,” Roberta says.
She gathers the papers, places them in an attaché case and heads for the door. As she walks, she hugs the wall away from me as if she thinks I’ll touch her.
She says, “Good day,” to no one in particular.
This fluffer better be good.
Jen says, “Come. With. Me.” We leave for the production floor.
• • •
PENI’s factory is the sound of a radio stuck between stations. The drone of machinery spritzed with Spanish. White noise of Southern California industry. Workstations stretch across the floor. Workers mill about the second-tier loggia bringing supplies down to the floor below. Industry in this particular factory is sewing vinyl pubes on “Vanessa Velvet’s Vice-like Vagina,” rumpling rubber foreskins, and attaching “nubbed-for-your-pleasure anal-tract A” to “sphincter B.”
The Artisan’s workstation is situated on the periphery of the action, unique from the others in that it’s cast in shadow. A child-sized man is hunched over in deep concentration, jeweler’s loupe squinted tight in his eye, he peers through the opening of the halo-lamp at his work. The master finishes his task before setting his brush down and placing the loupe in its worn leather case. He stands.
Eyes cast down, he moves toward us through the station as if remembering where he buried land mines. The lights beating upon his narrow shoulders diminish him before my eyes like a chip of ice dropped in a cup of hot tea. He stops, eyes scan from face to face until settling on mine. He stares as if burning every detail to his retina.
Jen introduces us, says she’ll be back when it’s time to do the body cast, and leaves. Stan stays.
The craftsman hands me a magazine and some Vaseline and tells me to go behind a curtain hanging at the end of his station and to let him know when I’m ready. Stan looks like he’s going to follow me but the murder in my eyes stops him cold.
It’s a leg fetish magazine. Not my third choice but it gets the job done. When I emerge I follow the man to the factory floor, not breaking stride as I stroke to keep the erection going.
I’m instructed to lie on the table. I do. The craftsman hands me a Plexiglas tube which I place over my stiffy. He has a bucket of gummy, viscous solution he’s whisking with a painter’s stir-stick. He then pours the material through the open end of the tube and onto my genitals. The sensation feels as though I’m buried in cold, wet mud. He tells me it is extremely important to hold the tube still so that my penis does not move while the solution sets. As the mixture dries, I feel its weight. There is a tightening sensation around my dick, like a fist clinching deliberate and slow. The feeling is transitory, going from the periphery of perception to a very fleeting stage of “Hey, this shit ain’t half bad” to the discomfort of a shoe a full size too small. Just as it starts to strangle, the craftsman says it’s set. He gives the tube a tug and my dick comes out with a hushed schtooop. Stan gets a close up of this.
First mold done, I’m instructed to roll on my belly. More workers rush in with buckets and get to work while the craftsman barks orders. Cloth soaked in Plaster of Paris is then layered on my back from my lower lats, across my ass, and to mid-hamstring. It feels the same as wet washcloths. This takes considerably longer than the dick-in-a-tube mold to dry.
Bottom half done, the cast is removed and I’m rotated onto my back by the assistants with the efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew.
Yeah, there is no fucking way I could get and stay hard without help for the front part of the casting… I can’t believe these people would even make this a point of contention… It’s win-fucking-win if they get the best cast possible from me, right?
The craftsman tells me he is going to fetch Jen, who will then get my fluffer.
The fluffer is here? That was fast… I’ll bet they had her on the way the entire time. Christ, what the fuck was all the hemming and hawing about? I’m tired of these fucking games.
The crew starts plastering the non-vitals while I’m counting my money from the check in my pocket.
It’s fluffer time. Jen peeks her head in the station, grins, then goes out to the factory floor and shouts a command in Spanish. The factory workers stop working, and through the shadows a woman of a certain age who is wider than she is tall waddles forward, wiping her hands on her apron.
Fuck my life.
Jen, heels clicking, trots over to a group of less battle-hardened factory girls, spreads her arms like a horse whisperer, and corrals them into a tight group. Jen isolates one girl and rustles her over.
The Girl she retrieves is a dark-haired, sun-toasted chica. She looks like she walked off a Mexican soap opera set. Parchment-thin jeans are shrink-wrapped over her camel toe. Her T-shirt, hanging there on aspirin-hard nipples, is begging for a super soaker gun.
The Woman. A low-to-the-ground, Weeble Wobble–shaped specimen with half-empty water canvases for tits and features sandblasted by seasons of desert wind. She could have ridden with Pancho Villa.
I say to Jen, “What the fuck, man! I asked for a fluffer and you give me a used-up worker with skin flaps for tits, and some sponge brain, tight pants girl?”
“I speak English,” says The Girl.
Oops.
“Sorry.”
“You should be,” The Girl says.
Jen snickers and leaves. The more seasoned of the two ladies, without any more comment than flashing her Jack o’ lantern smile, scoops a three-fingered gob of Vaseline from the container, and it’s NAFTA on my cock. The Girl does not seem to be experienced. She’s resorted to interpretive dance which is supposed to pass for a slow tease, mixed with cheerleading the old woman in a dial-a-date voice. While I’m on a roll, I say something sensitive like:
“Stop talking, pull your pants down and show me your ass.”
Did either of these women have any idea that this day would come when they filled out their job applications? I seem to be the only one who’s hung up on this situation, because both of the women take to their duties of giving me, some strange dude, my jollies without complaint? Because some skinny bitch in a suit told them to. Just like that.
Another fulfilling day at work. You never know what adventures you face on the job working for the man in the US of A…cleaning toilets or stroking fat negro cock. But hey, God bless America, right?
Doesn’t take much to get me hard again ’cause that’s just the kind of buck-toothed pervert I am. When I’m erect the women back away from the cock and the crew rushes in and does their thing.
While the crew works, I cup a handful of young-girl ass and ask two questions. “How old are you? Swell. After this is over, you want to go somewhere and fuck?”
Why the fuck not? She’s already handled the package, right?
The crew has gone, taking the casts, with them. The Girl and The Woman stay.
Somebody forgot to tell The Woman the job is over because she pounces on the dick. The mastery of her hands is unsettling. Each twisting downward stroke sends sparks shooting through my shaft, sending my jaw slack. She strokes me way past the point of pleasure. The place where any normal man would have long since surrendered control and just released but I hang on where it’s uncomfortable. I still have this hang up about what’s going on in my head but this moment, I am hers. No on-screen alter-ego bravado bullshit. I’m just me, and I’ve got nowhere to hide. She double-fists me, the slick, wet schliiip of her hands dripping with Vaseline goo is warm with the friction. Maestra reads the conflict written all over my face.
“Shhhh. Cálmate,” she purrs. Her voice and the rhythm of her hands lulls.
My body relaxes one muscle at a time, melting into her slicked hand. The tug-of-war for Oedipus’s ghost is lost, I let go. She slays me. I empty into her hands with all the guilt of eating meat on Lent.
She wipes her hands on her apron and rubs a hand through my
hair. Her voice is soft. It takes me a moment to realize The Girl has vanished. Like a freshly-turned-thirty Hollywood ingénue, you don’t notice she’s faded off the lips of conversation until she’s long gone.
I’m back in the Artisan’s station. He’s gone for the day. My clothes lie folded on a table with a copy of the receipt I signed on top. Next to the table is a gift basket full of PENI merchandise.
Orgy
I open the door and enter the reception area of Elusive Scoundrels, the studio owned by Alpha Man.
Coming from outside, my eyes need a moment to adjust to the lower light. I hear the voices before the faces fill in. Asian girls of every shape, skin tone, color, and size lounge around some sofas. One dark-skinned girl with waist-length black hair is dressed in a bright floral print dress and a crown of flowers on her head. Some girls are dressed in sweats, some in designer fashion. All are evaluating their options.
Today’s scene is an orgy. For these events, girls typically have a limitation to the number of boys they will fuck within the scene…unless more money is offered. Among these girls are a handful of black men who are fighting for position. Though the pussy is guaranteed, boys preen and seduce; each one doing his best to show why he’s the most desirable mate.
Someone notices me standing at the door and the seduction, pathos, and negotiating stops. A score of eyeballs burn into a singular point. Me. Some girls smile. Others play coy but their body language betrays them. The Flower Girl flat-out stares at me, mouth open and googly-eyed. The other men grumble, suck their teeth and sigh. One man takes his preening rituals up a few notches and struts between me and the girls, talking loud. In his Borealis-blue track suit, he resembles a chortling peacock on the make. The girls ignore him.
Alpha Man bursts into the reception area from the office proper to coordinate who will be working with whom, and how many partners each girl will work with. The girls point to me. All of them. Obviously, all girls on me cannot possibly work out for an orgy. Negotiations, barters, begging, and ultimatums ensue from all parties as I hide in a corner making myself invisible.
