by Havok, Davey
“Okay…” he laughs, “hopefully you’ll be less rattled by her once you’ve banged her on the build-up tables. Speaking of … I’ve gotta find something to bring my boner back before this chick gets here. … Oh wait, what’s with meeting in the parking lot two hours after sundown?”
“I figure it’s better that we’re not lurking right in front of the hotel.”
“Yeah, but why two hours after sundown? Why not something a little more vague?”
“Mystique, my friend. Mystique.”
“Of course. Okay, well I’ll be back Sunday morning. I’ll meet you in the lot an hour and thirty two minutes after sundown, just so I’m not late.”
“Fabulous. See ya then Lynch.”
“See ya then Score.”
Chapter 11
“This cow’s not getting any deader!!”
Frank is calling me to dinner. Anxiously, I check my message from Sarah. It says,
“Hi :)”.
That’s it. It’s but two letters away from exclusively inspiring emoticon nausea and yet I’m still tempted to respond. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to “hi” plus a stupid smiley face.
Throwing the offending phone against my silk-screened pillowcase, I ignore the text, return to my laptop, and send out the invitations. I wish I could invite Becca. She’s not the type of girl who’d use an emoticon in her first rudely delayed post-coital text. She had a Smiths shirt on. People who wear Smiths shirts don’t use emoticons. She would have hand written me amorous poetry exalting my potency. Or even called. I pick up my phone. As I’m dialing Sarah, Frank yells, “GET OFF THE COMPUTER AND GET IN HERE!”
I let it ring once, hang up, then join him and Gina at the table.
Focusing on my plate, ignoring Frank’s hat and his monstrous display of devouring bocci-sized murder-balls, I consume about eight square inches of Gina’s beautiful eggplant parm before putting on my iPod. Quickly, I do the dishes then rush back to my Mac. As I had hoped, the responses to the invite are already in. And everyone is excited. The thread begins with Jamie:
“OMG! I LOVE the 80s!!! I’m so there! I can’t wait!”
David adds: “Mr. Scorsese and Mr. Lynch, thank you for the invitation. My man and I would love to attend. —John Travolta.”
Hector follows his BF’s lead: “Yes! We’ll be there arm and arm. He’s keeping his burns but I finally shaved that beard from Dawson’s Creek! —Tom Cruise.”
And, with the continued good spirited mockery of their hosts’ Screenames, so comes confirmations from the Olson twins, Tony Alva, and a retracted acceptance from Jamie. Mia Morris will be taking her place on the red carpet come opening night. I don’t think Jamie accepts that there’s a difference between Uma Thurman, the actress, and her character in Pulp Fiction. I once tried to explain the relation of Miley Sirus and Hannah Montana to her but she just wasn’t having it.
Slightly distressed that Sarah has yet to respond, I point out to Dustin that though he thinks he’s Tony Alva he is in actuality Alvin of chipmunk fame. Amidst the following LOLs Volta requests that Alvin sing “Christmas Time Is Here” before the film.
Finally, thirty-six minutes later, at the bottom of a long string of replies, Sarah’s response appears. Calling herself Stella she writes: “Amazing! There is no place I’d rather be. Don’t you forget about me! Check your text Mr. Score!”
With intent to immediately respond to her ‘:)’ message, considering sending back a ‘;)’ I frantically retrieve my phone from the bed. Since sending her first soul revealing passage, the poet has written again: “Mom’s away and she left the vegan treats unguarded.”
I open the text. A self-shot pic of Stella wearing pink panties, lightly touching a fruit pop to her half-parted lips, pops up on my screen. She’s topless. Her panties match the pop. Below the picture she’s written, “Come over! xxooxxoo”.
I power-shower. I power-dress. I power-fix my hair then smile in my brother’s mirror before powering my board out from under Eddie.
“Sorry girl. … Bye Dad, bye Mom,” I yell toward the elder Massis’ room, “I’m going into town for dessert. I’ll be back later.”
From the flats, I call her.
“Hello, is this Stella?” I ask, skating past the 7-eleven, already enamored with our new name game.
“Maybe … is this A-lister hot ass party promoter Scorsese?”
“You know it.” I can hear her sex hum through the phone.
“Well, I’m not sure if I’m the girl that you’re looking for but why don’t you come to 452 Reisling and see. The door’s unlocked. I’ll be in my room reading scripts.”
“I’ll see you in four minutes.”
Pushing onward through the warm dusk I speed toward some of the finest earthly delights my seventeenth year on this planet has yet to offer.
Stella’s bed is unmade. And pink. Soft pink sheets, a soft pink comforter, and soft pink pillowcases are ruffled into the fluffy pink cloud, in which I now languish, nude, like a CK model in Candyland. Lying on my back amidst scattered copies of US Weekly, I reach down past Brad and Angelina’s faces to touch nipples while the iPod shuffles from insipid pop song to insipid pop song. I don’t think that Stella owns any full-length records. And though I’ve yet to hear even one UK single, everything is erotically wonderful until Katy Perry’s voice nullifies my moment of OJ bliss. The chorus makes me question if there really is a Moz.
Desperately, I play with Stella’s boobs, smelling cotton candy, admiring her skilful oral diligence between glances at the promo photo pinned above the pink dresser. Stella’s mouth. Katy Perry. Deep naked cleavage. Blue wig. Luxurious brown hair cascading across my belly. Deep, corseted Ameripop cleavage. Moist sounds of suction. “I kissed a girl and I liked it.”
Struggling to ignore the unforgivably annoying song, I reach for a tabloid, hoping to find a picture of Megan Fox to help with my progress. The super-couple on the cover is holding babies.
Fucking Gross. Okay, that’s it. I pull Stella up to me. We make out. Furiously. For about four, wet seconds. Then she rolls over and grabs the edge of her pink mattress. On her knees, she arcs her back like a house cat in heat and faces her pink wall. “Fuck me,” she says, and buries her head in a pink pillow. A fresh, shiny black Kanji tattoo pops through her all over tan. The bold, slightly scabby symbol on her lower back makes me want to learn Chinese.
Happily, I follow her command, forgetting all about Katy until approximately two minutes later, as I spatter pearly joy across the pink baroque wooden headboard, I realize that the three-minute single is still playing. I’m slightly mortified, but Stella doesn’t seem upset by the unexpected brevity of our scene. When I return from her bathroom with a pink hand towel, she’s contentedly texting. Something buzzes into her phone. She smiles. And responds.
I guess we’re not going to cuddle. Wondering who she’s talking to so soon after our soul shaking spiritual collision, I wipe down and walk to the kitchen.
“Hey!” Shoving my sex hair into the cooling fridge, I yell, “You want a Diet Coke?”
“Can you bring me that red wine?” Her voice is dry with texting distraction.
“Uh, would you like me to wheel in the cheese cart too?”
“The wine’s fine Babe, thanks.”
Gross. Wine is just unacceptable. ‘Babe’ is too. It’s fine. I don’t want to ruin the post coital merriment. And the alcohol could encourage a second round of activities.
With a wide-mouthed pink ceramic coffee mug halfway filled with Barbara’s open bottle of stenchy Navarro, I walk back into the frosted pink room. “Poker Face” is my entry music.
With her back propped against the glistening headboard, wearing only a pair of Victoria’s Secret PINK athletic shorts, Stella is carefully erasing something she’s penciled into The Breeders copy of US.
“Sorry, I couldn’t find any stemmed glasses.” I hand her the mug. “Won’t your mom freak when she sees that you drank her nasty wine?”
“She drink
s it with me.” Stella takes a big gulp. I admire her boobs. “Does that bother you Mr. Unclean and Sober?”
Reflexively, I inspect my face in the pink mirror. She takes another drink. As she tilts it back, some of my joy dips toward her mug.
“You still have, um…” Proud of my achievement, but always courteous, I point at the wet dangling strand. “You have some in your hair.”
With a side-glance, she grabs the globby tendril. Silently humming, she listlessly twists.
“Does that bother you too?” Casually, she licks her fingers.
“Not at all.”
She’s a good girl.
“Me neither.” She smiles and chases me down with another sip.
Standing naked over her bed, I drink mineral water as Stella reads me tasty gossip from celebrity sites. I am about to direct her to CocoPerez.com when her Mom messages her. She’s on her way home. Barbara will immediately be able to tell that I’ve just spread joy all over her drunken daughter.
Terribly disappointed to have neither a second scene nor a pink shower, I begin my rapid exit. With a moistened Hello Kitty towel, I wipe down before pulling up my Ksubi’s and slipping on my Chucks. Britney sings “Hold It Against Me.” Then I remember the theft.
“Hey…” buttoning the same black and white checkered short-sleeve that I saw on that Stroke who dates models, I ask, “Where’s my shirt?”
“In the laundry basket. It got all smoky so I’m gonna wash it for ya Babe.” She picks up her vibrating phone.
Her hamper is empty—surrounded only by a pile of unlaundered, pink delicates. But I’m in a great mood and a greater hurry. In her pink baroque vanity, I adjust the skinny tie that I left loosely knotted around my collar.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up from her text. “Oh, I’m kinda super busy.”
“Oh okay, well I have tonight off.” Her reflection ignores mine. “Do you wanna get YoGoGo or something? I’m feeling like some frozen low-cals.”
Her phone vibrates. She giggles.
“Ohhhh, I can’t Babe.” Pouting, she types. “I really should be here when my Mom gets home. We’ve got a Sex and the City girl-night planned.”
She’s making up this previously unmentioned date with Babs. I know it. I wonder who’s actually coming over. He’s probably in a band.
“Oh okay cool. Yeah, that’s cool. … I actually need to get some stuff ready for The Premiere anyway.”
She types.
“I can’t wait! It’s gonna be A-Mazing!”
“Yeah, okay.”
Pausing in the hall, I silently watch her. She types.
Diving back into The Pink Room, I snatch the phone from its evil princess, text “I’m sorry, I have to go bang Michael Massi. We’ll have to talk later DJ DiCaprio,” hit send, and then do it to your pink highness all the way through the reveal of Bigs’ real name. She makes me her prince. And together we rule.
Stella stops typing. Finally, she looks up.
With my board under my arm, I smile. “Okay, I’ll see you Sunday.”
“Bye Babe.” She sings and looks back at her phone.
As The Pussy Cat Dolls show me the front door, Stella, in perfect unison, loudly joins in. “When I grow up, I wanna be famous, I wanna be famous … “
At home, everything’s fine. Frank and Gina are asleep, I’m only two nights away from throwing my dream party, and my relationship with Stella could rightly be considered ‘sexually active.’ In bed, I’m intimating to Eddie.
“Yep, as of right now I’m sexually active with one of the hottest girls in school.” She winks, and I clarify, “Oh no, it’s not like that, but it’s still totally fabulous.”
Were I Stella’s boyfriend assuredly the relationship might be a bit trying (with my having to navigate around all the other guys she’d still be touching) but it could work. We look great together and since we both aspire to escape this town, we wouldn’t have to worry about breaking up after graduation. She says that she’s moving to LA, that she’s going to be a star.
“Who knows? It’s always something different.” I feed my cats curiosity. “Acting, modeling, singing. … Every time I ask she says, ‘once I’m there, how I got there won’t matter.’ You can respect that, right?” Eddie pads from my chest and flops down onto the pillow next to my head. “I totally respect her ambition. She’s a good girl. When I got there, when I walked in her room, she was totally naked, lying on her bed with this Hello Kitty vibrator…”
Chapter 12
It’s Sunday. Finally. The Day of their Lord has come and given way to the warm summer night of our opening. I am attired in my black two-button Top Man suit, tie, and Chucks. I couldn’t host my first party in anything less. Everything is ready. In our perfectly arranged theatre, my shuffling iPod is pumping secret music up toward my sock-less feet while I calmly await the arrival of our guests.
“Can you stop pacing?” Lynch, wearing his Dead Boys jacket, squints up at me from the WAMU curb. I make another pass in front of him.
“Can you go change into something less ventilated?” I point with distrust at the knee popping through the rip in his jeans.
“Maybe if you had some holes in your tux you wouldn’t be so hot and bothered.”
He’s scrolling through photos of surfer girls.
“It’s not a tuxedo.” I plant myself next to him. “Where are they? Everyone’s going to flake.”
“Settle. They’re coming.” I press my moist brow to the shoulder of his coat. Without pulling away, he half-heartedly complains, “Aw, c’mon man.”
“What? All my matching bandanas are in the wash. You want everyone to see me all sweaty?” I peer into his phone. “Thanks for those beach nudes by the way.”
“They’re killer right? Dustin took’m. None were as hot as this though.” He holds up one of Stella’s photos that I forwarded. Shaking his head, he smiles. “Man, she’s a natural.”
I haven’t heard from her since The Pink Room. As I grab my phone to check my texts, someone calls out, “Ooooh, I see someone fancy.”
“Here they come!” Standing, straining to find Stella in the group, I wave back to David. I feel like they’re pacing up the street in slow motion.
“Mary Kate…” I kiss Michelle’s cheek. “Ashley…” I kiss Drew’s cheek. “Mia…” I kiss Jamie’s cheek. Then open my arms to welcome Hector.
“Uh, uh! Where’s mine?” He puckers.
“I apologize, Mr. Cruise…” Smooch. “Welcome!”
“I’m next Culito!” David plants one on me. He smells like the CK One cologne that my brother’s circus friend wears.
“So, Volta…” I tug on his blue Nike tank top. “This is a new look for you.”
“You like it Mr. Scorsese?” He twirls. “I wanted to be Bender but Hector already had the shirt.”
The Boys are dressed as the characters from The Breakfast Club. Volta looks like The Sporto, Cruz has mussed hair, a red bandana around his ankle, and a short-sleeve flannel, partially buttoned over a thermal.
“I love the outfits, guys.” I pantomime applause. “Fabulous.” Then, to the stunning Jamie with her self-given Screename, I ask, “Mia, Where’s your louder half?”
Her giant ass is curving violently out from her grey and baby blue striped jersey dress and her arms are curling around Lynch. She stares at me blankly before realizing that I’m speaking to her.
“Oh! Me! Don’t worry cutie! Sarah’s coming.” She grins. “So, are we going to the 8-plex or something? This parking lot kinda sucks.” Looking up over her shoulder, she begins to baby talk. “Zach what’re we doing? Zaaaaach, tell me…”
Keeping our secret, my partner silently gravitates to the parking block on which The Twins are daintily balanced. As he looms, they listlessly lick melting ice cream cones—both double scoops of strawberry cheesecake.
“Why do you guys get two scoops of the same flavors?” I ask.
“Can’t have too much of a good thing.
” In unison with her sister, MK licks her cone while my co-host practically drools onto their blonde heads. I covet their treats a bit myself.
Releasing Lynch, Mia turns her attention to a text. Lynch makes a hungry sound. Ash rolls her eyes, surrenders her cone and, as Lynch greedily bites through half of a scoop, Alvin trots into the parking lot with Stella on his back. Her arms are wrapped around his chest. Her thighs are around his waist. And her re-usable grocery bag is gripped in her fist. It’s clinking.
“Hayyyy kids…” Giggling, the tardy equestrian bounces into our gathering. “Wooh!…” As she dismounts her heels tik and her boy-pony bails out onto the lot. “Am I late?” she asks.
“Fashionably, of course.” I nod to her sack of supplies. “What’cha got in there?”
“Oh just a lil’ something to celebrate your first party Babe!” Thrusting her hip like a swimsuit model in a liberty pose, Stella victoriously raises a large bottle of Cook’s.
Her libations elicit praise from everyone but me, Lynch, and Alvin, who is silently hunting atop the warm black asphalt. Using his advantageous position to look up her dress, he stealthily captures ill-lit stills of Mia’s vast wonders while she’s yelling “Woooooo!” at the hoisted bubbly.
I knew Stella would bring booze. And if she didn’t, someone else would have. This was inevitable, yet I still feel conflicted about permitting drinking at my party. If I don’t put a stop to it immediately, everyone will be drunk, annoying, and potentially vomitous for all Premieres to come. Bagging her poison, Stella commandeers Lynch’s ice cream and shares a simultaneous lick with Mia. Though I wouldn’t want to be seen as an ungrateful, oppressive host. Their tongues circle the creamy pink—they almost touch. Or discourage any loss of sexual inhibition. I decide to overlook the thoughtful gift of champagne. A pink drop drips from the communal cone. Mia looks down to check her dress and, sadly, Alvin is caught.
“Little pervert!” Her furry boot kicks at his ribs. The baby pap screams like a kitten.
