by Havok, Davey
“Um, Yeah.” Looking up into her wild blue eyes, I hesitantly agree, “Totally. Holly’s runway.” Stella grabs the back of my hair, lunges in, and furiously has her way with my mouth.
With the image of disemboweled Freddy bunny terrorizing my mind, I run my hands beneath her dress, sliding them up her belly toward pink-scented bounty. I squeeze boob and black cotton bunches up to bare her mid drift. Abandoning her Bubble Yum flavored tongue, I dive toward her awful curved bellybutton barbell. l chew bejeweled steel. It clicks on my teeth. Stella undoes her bra. I lick upward. She forces her left nipple into my compliant mouth. Upon my first sweet suck, my co-star makes a pained sound that threatens my sanity. I’m forced to take a breath. Abating my intent to bite, I rest my forehead on her fragrant c-cups, panting, watching her black cotton panties grind against my crotch. Tonight, they’re polka dotted with tiny pink hearts. And my skillful Ford prospect is commanding these speckled icons of affection so well that I may soon have to explain jean stains to Gina. My Producer stands to applaud. Stella moans. I’m about to christen my grey camo CK briefs. Then she stops. She pulls away, and stops.
“Ugggh,” she chirps, stretching again before dismounting.
Panting, I watch her strap down my dessert, straighten her dress, and grab my licorice.
“I’d better go. I told them that I was just going to get some candy.” She raises an eyebrow and the unopened box of Red Vines. “I should get back down there before Donny comes looking for me.”
I feel that I may weep. Stella leans back down, shoves her tongue into my mouth for a few more vigorous seconds, and then backs away. “But they’re leaving tonight. Mom’s mushrooming.” Her hand grasps the back of my neck. I swallow saccharine saliva. “You should come over tomorrow. …” She hums, “If you forgive me.”
Chapter 27
At dinner, I’m eating the remaining leftovers from Pasta Sunday while the folks feed on carcass. To protest their violent lifestyle, I’ve begun wearing my shades whenever they eat meat. With my eyes stylishly shielded from the horror, I twirl my spaghetti in cool opposition. Frank forks flesh filet under his brim. Gina sips Cabernet.
After the slaughter, I clear the table, scrub the dishes, then tell the elders that I’m staying at Lynch’s. I skate into the valley with my iPod pumping Justice. Joey says we used to listen to them when he’d drive us to browse Barney’s NYC in San Francisco in his baby blue T-bird convertible. I didn’t know that they were French, but my brother assures me they are, and that the dissuading crucifix on their album cover is supposed to be viewed upside-down. It’s no Britpop, but it’s okay.
Wearing a grey scoop neck long-sleeve under a black military coat by OBEY—(the label is owned by some British street artist that never shows his face and is loved by Brangelina)—I climb Stella’s porch, bandana the light moisture from my brow, and knock. She opens the door wearing the Joy Division shirt—only the Joy Division shirt.
“Hey kid.” Grabbing the back of my freshly styled hair she pulls me in for a tonguing. I taste seconds of watermelon and wine before suddenly finding myself standing at the edge of her bed. In The Pink Room, I get straight down to business.
“Is that my shirt?”
“Yep!” Happily, she plops onto the fluffy comforter.
“Why aren’t you wearing DJ Prius’s?”
“Yours fits better.” She pulls me down next to her.
“You have to give that back to me, you know.”
“I know Babe.” Humming, laying on her side, she traces my belt buckle with her finger. “But did you know that my mom won’t be back ‘til Friday?”
At sun up, lounging naked in the pink sheets, I’m awakened by Katy Perry and Stella. Wearing only Hello Kitty aprons, they serve me berry pancakes and a soy cocoa. Stella tries to add a kiss to her gesture of appreciation, but I stop her.
“Oh, fuck.” I begin to roll off the bed. “I’ve gotta go back home real quick.”
“What? No!” She throws herself on top of me. “Why?”
“I forgot my toothbrush. Morning breath.”
“Oh settle, Babe. I’ve got a ton of new ones.” Her bare thighs sandwich my ribs, trapping me. She motions toward her pink bathroom drawer. “I always have them around just in case I have surprise slumber parties.”
“Oh, okay. Guess I’ll use one that hasn’t been claimed. So, what’d you do today?”
Releasing me, she grabs her pink coffee cup from the pink end table, takes a sip of red wine, and then offers me the acrid, stained mug. I decline with a look. She shrugs, takes another gulp, and then sets her drink atop the gum wrappers scattered about the nightstand.
“Becca and I hung out at The Grounds. She showed me some pictures from the party.” Chewing her Bordeaux-soaked Bubble Yum, she stretches out inches in front of me. The bed creaks. My brother’s old tee shirt crawls up her hips. She’s must be sponsored by pink Hello Kitty panties. “It looks like I really missed out.” She adjusts my bangs. “I think you should throw another one tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow?” I begin calculating the time needed to decide on the perfect film, detail the perfect invites, compile the perfect playlist—to make it all perfect. “I don’t know … I don’t know what I’d show? And I’d have to go home to make the invitations—”
“C’mon, Babe.” Derailing my train of excuses with her sex hum, she lightly scratches my chest as she tugs the relaxed collar of my shirt farther down. Every hair on my body stands at attention, and my Producer quickly catches up. “We’ve only got a few days before school starts and this could be our last summer together. You can just use my computer to make the invites in the morning…” She blows then implodes a bubble. ”If you’re not too exhausted. Annnnnd…” Her voice rises as she rolls over to grab her laptop. “I know exactly what you can show!”
Propped up on her elbows, next to me on her bed, Stella brings up download after download of celebrity sex tapes. I’ve only seen clips of a few of them but she’s extremely familiar with them all. Naming each of the celebrated young ladies, she critiques their performance, explaining why some of them are more deserving of their fame than others. She tells me all about the girls’ pre- and post-porn endorsements, reality shows, books, and makeup lines, while detailing how these rewards of fame and fortune are not only informed by sex skills but by social status and online presence. She schools me on Paris, Pam, Jenna, Kim Kardashian, a porn star named Faye who is now a model, and another named Sasha who ‘stars in a straight film made by a totally respected director.’ I recognize her. But not from the straight film.
“Ugh, I totally would. Isn’t she a turn on?” My porn historian points to the screen. A dainty brunette demands to be choked by a massive tattooed boner while my smaller and ink-free, yet equally ambitious counterpart begs to be released from its denim prison.
“Totally.” Uncontrollably breathing—deeply, like I just did nine push-ups—I turn from the monitor to watch Stella. She rises to her knees, takes off my shirt, and throws it to the floor. I make a mental note of where it landed with an addendum that reminds me to send a ‘thank you’ to each one of Stella’s online teachers. “She’s amazing,” I agree. The topless Great tables her Hello Kitty Mac. Leaving the porn playing, she sets it next to the pink mug.
With her body naturally defying gravity, Stella barely bounces over to her pink dresser and presses play on a docked iPod. Hello Katy Perry. As a seeming afterthought, she picks up a giant, elaborately bobbled pink and black Tarina necklace and drapes it over her neck. In the pink baroque vanity, she approves of the way the kitty pendant lays on her boobs. California girls are unforgettable. She stalks back, steps up, and stands on the end of the pink bed. They’ll melt your popsicle. Her toenails match the bedspread. And her underwear. And the wall. And the pile of the socks by the hamper. And the hamper.
She points at me. “Take off your clothes.” Then at the filth playing atop the pink nightstand. “And let’s do that.”
Katy Perry has a lot of singles. B
y the time I awaken to the sound of her latest, I know them all. Feeling haunted and heroic, I open the Kitty Mac and send out terribly boring invitations to the Flash Premiere. Stella’s in the shower. Last night she was strongly endorsing the showing of a Jenna Jameson film. But I feel that tonight will be more of a True Romance sort of evening.
The confirmations come in. Reading the replies, I begin wondering if I’ll be able to get everything ready in time. I’m not stressed out about it. Laying here in The Pink Room, on pink pillows, in the pink bed, with the pink computer on my lap, as Stella soaps my dried joy from her nakedness, I feel quite at ease. I put on my shades, roll off the bed, and walk to the bathroom.
“Stella!” I yell, through the open pink door. “Everyone’s already responded. They’re all gonna come. The surfers too.”
“Oooooh, that’s great Baby!”
“Yeah Babe.” I force out the dulcet diminutive. “I’m gonna go help Lynch set up.” Lingering in the steam, I wait for her to push aside the Hello Kitty curtains and insist that I not leave before marching over to give her a lick goodbye.
“Okay Baby!” She yells, as I begin gingerly padding over the shaggy pink bath mat. “I’ll see you tonight!”
Chapter 28
As I ascend our hill, the sun descends. When I reach our driveway, it’s dark.
Rushing into my room, I undress, slightly alter the playlist from the second Premiere then take my first shower of the day. It’s only when I pull my dress shirt from a hanger that I remember my Joy Division tee. It’s still on Stella’s floor. It’s fine. I suit up, style my hair, and grab my iPhone from its charger. “You’re coming tonight as Dick Ritchie?” I smile at the text. By implying I’d show up as the pathetic, dorky, aspiring actor-character in True Romance, Holly is flaunting her knowledge of the cult classic, and, quite possibly, flirting. I hope. I’m really looking forward to seeing her tonight. I consider telling her this before I breast pocket the phone, triple check the mirror, grab my board, and bolt for the door.
“Well you look like a million bucks!” Franks stops me just before I step outside. “Big game tonight?”
“Thanks Dad, yeah.” I straighten my tie. “Zach got a metal track pack and Hector and David are coming over. We’re probably gonna be playing all night so I’m just gonna stay at his place again. See ya tomorrow.“ He tips his hat as I dart into the driveway.
For the first time, we have a full cast in my basement. But only two of the Greats have come in character. To match Alabama Worley, Holly and Stella are wearing teal bras: Miss Wood’s shows through her sheer white shark-pinned-tee; Stella’s peeks from her short red dress with purpose. I do miss Holly’s bare supple side-boob, though I love the lace. And her hot pink leopard print tights are a lovely surprise. Mia has surprised us as well. Her once blonde hair is now a black bob with short bangs and she wearing an AC/DC hoodie. But she’s not in costume. At least she doesn’t think so.
Standing in my speech position, I watch the two Worley’s slide next to each other in Heaven as Star invitingly rattles her bottle.
“These will be right here.” She fills a large, hollowed Hello Kitty head that now lives atop our mini fridge. “The round ones with my name on them are MDMA.“ A magical rainbow scatters into the white plastic. “And don’t be shy, there’s plenty more where these came from!”
Having not been entirely upset with the influence that the Flintstones had on my last party, I don’t vocally object to the everlasting drug dispenser but do ask all hippies to “please keep weed smoking confined to the other side of the curtain” before giving an a eloquent unrehearsed speech.
“Good evening Greats. I wasn’t prepared for this.” I appeal to my room of already unruly guests. “But by the look of your outfits, I guess that you guys weren’t either—“ A flurry of popcorn and bottle caps rain down upon me. “So … um, thanks for coming to the first Flash Premiere!” Batting away a Solo cup, I rattle off, “We bring you True Romance. Do it Lynch!” I flee as the unruly mob cheers at the opening credits.
With the movie and most of my guests rolling, I’m soberly lying in Heaven and hoping to casually reposition myself. Stella’s to my left and Holly’s pressed next to her. I’d very much like to be between the two of them, if not simply farther from Stella. Since the movie started, she hasn’t stopped talking about how hot Patricia Arquette is, how hot Christian Slater is, and how hot I look. Unable to argue with any of these irrefutable, loudly stated facts I continuously agree, “Yeah he’s … she’s … I’m … totally hot,” as Mia’s mating call adds to the bright white noise. Her squeaks are even more cutting than Stella’s high pitched fawning, but everyone is so deeply involved in quoting, kissing, drinking, and pillow fighting that Lynch’s scene is no more than a blurry, x-rated backdrop.
As the rumpus escalates, Stella moves upstage to direct her chatter toward a captivated Cruz and Volta. Free from her physical proximity, and any misperceived obligation to pay attention to her, I scoot next to Holly.
“Finally,” I sigh. “I’ve wanted to ask you something but didn’t want to shout over Stella.”
“Oh Yeah?” Holly shows me her crooked smile. “What would you like to know?”
“How could you possibly think that I’d host my own party dressed as character that wears boxers throughout the majority of the movie?”
“You’re right. That was wrong.” In an act of contrition, she offers me a Red Vine. “Forgive me?”
I accept the licorice branch. Cooled by her minty stare, I’m about to profess that I’d forgive her any transgression when Stella commands the room’s attention.
“He’s fucked everyone!”
She must be yelling about Prius.
Accidentally, I speak my mind. “Moz, just tweet it. It would be so much quieter.”
Holly covers her delicate mouth to suppress an adorable laugh. “Do you even get any sleep when you stay over at her place?”
I’m not sure what she’s asking me. I think this may be about sex.
“Yeah, well, sometimes she’ll stop talking to text…” I pocket my licorice. “Or to watch videos—”
“Oh, right.” Holly bites her lip. “That’s what I’ve heard.”
Discretely chewing moths, I’m struggling to decide exactly what it is that she has heard, who it is that told her, and how her eyes could possibly be so transformative when, from painfully close by, Stella squeals,
“Oh my God, my favorite scene is coming up!” Suddenly, she’s looming over us in a stance very reminiscent of the private under-boob presentation that she gave last night in The Pink Room. “Hey kids!” She announces, “Hollywood and I are gonna do this one.”
I swallow musty insect dust. Though it’s restrained, I swear to Moz that I can see eagerness in Holly’s viridian eyes as she gazes up at the brash brunette. Twisting her white locks, she’s flushed, yet calm. I, however, am in a bit of a frenzy—as everyone here knows, the phone booth scene is THE sex scene. It’s really one of the best PG moments to ever have graced cinema.
Sounding disappointed by her own words, Holly politely declines. “Oh, I don’t really know this scene very well.”
This causes me utter sorrow. But Stella, intent on creating what would surely be visual perfection, contends, “Oh, I think you do.”
I look giddily back and forth between Alabamas.
This is wild. I really want this to happen. But it’s so advanced. Stella’s not asking for a Ringwald lipstick trick. She wants the two of them to get deeply physical onstage for everyone’s enjoyment, and Holly knows this. We all do. Alvin’s already got his camera out. And Leo has turned his back on Surfers’ Paradise. Because this scene isn’t about dance. Or dialogue. It’s about doing it. It’s about girls gone wild.
Feeling I should do something to either start or stop my fantasy from coming to life in front of me, I’m relieved when The Boys take the initiative.
“Come on Hollywood, you got it sexy!” Volta shouts.
Cruz joins in to
encourage the ingénue. “Come on girl, you’re a star!”
Blushing, Holly graciously maintains that she’s not right for the part.
“Okay Babe.” Rising from her knees, Stella grabs my hand and pulls me up into the projection. “Let’s show’m how it’s done.”
Though I may have fumbled my speech, this impromptu performance doesn’t seem like a terrible idea. We’re proven to work well together. In affected protest, while folding my coat and fixing my hair, I reason, “It’s not really that much of a scene. The dialogue is rather weak—”
Stella effortlessly drags me toward the life-sized pink Cadillac on the wall.
“What…” She raises her one offended eyebrow. “Just because it’s not the Twist it’s not good enough for you?” Brushing her lips up my neck, she secretly hums. “You know I twist better than her.”
And I’m ready to steal the show.
With cinematic history flickering through my aviators, I channel the rebellious spirit of a nineties Christian Slater and reach up Stella’s dress. Digging my fingers deep into her naked thigh I spin her around, press my mouth to her, and press her to the wall. Perfectly, I mimic the action in the blanketing film. Her complete lack of inhibition decimates what’s left of my own, while the cheers of the Filmgreats encourage our ravenous pursuits. I reach deeper into our performance, tasting watermelon, wine, sweat, and sweet adoration, until I become vaguely aware of Lynch’s distant, deviant, goofy laughter. The dialogue of the film disappears and like a pop bomb dropped from the catwalk “I Kissed a Girl” booms onto the stage.
Internally, I smile at the surprise attack, though neither my messy haired partner, nor the Ameripop Princess is powerful enough to deter me from my mission in the phantom roadside phone booth. Maintaining audience approval, keeping both my ratings and my Producer up, I stare into Stella’s wintry blues, Alabama Worley’s mountainous cleavage, and finally, Holly’s beguiling greens, before feverishly sucking down Stella’s neck. I lick above teal-laced wire, across her overflowing cotton candy scented top-boob then, just as I have the bottom of her dress heading for her head, she whips me around and sends us crashing into Heaven.
