Pop Kids

by Havok, Davey

  Beneath the throws, my co-star giggles. His co-star giggles. And the skin flick sleazes on. Then everything changes. I can’t say for certain if it’s the magic of the porno, the power of us all being pressed together in Heaven, the red wine, the Colt 45, the Cuervo, the cocaine, the vitamin x, or the perfect combination of all these elements that we have to thank for the following moment of Flimgreat history. But what happens next is this: Everybody starts fucking. And my leading lady is the first to make the big move.

  Stripping off our cover, Stella pulls her shiny panties to one side and mounts my excited Producer. Right here. Next to everyone else. In the middle of Heaven. Only partially out of fear that she’ll suddenly sober up and remove herself, I grab her hips. I trap her to me and as she contends for Best Leading Cowgirl she starts making sex sounds unlike any that I’ve ever heard IRL. It’s really cool.

  Although initially surreal, this end-of-blockbuster-summer-sex-explosion quickly begins to feel familiar. I’ve seen enough group sex online to take cues from. And if the rest of my guests have somehow not spent their childhood exploiting the benefits of their pornography machines, they must either be naturals themselves or intuitively looking to Ms. Jameson to guide them—because no one here is the least bit inhibited.

  Ecstatically, I pat Lynch’s shoulder and grin. Two thumbs up and a huge open-mouthed smile are shot my way as Mia slurps and Alvin hoists up to his knees to hobble next to his brother. His relatively sizeable Producer is jutting from a pair of orange boxers.

  “Do me next!” Al’s wig is still in place and he’s now wearing Stella’s red plastic rimmed shades.

  “Eww. Gross. No.” Mia pauses for a salacious breath. “You’re brothers!”

  “That’s why it’s NOT gross! It’s, like, the exact same thing!”

  Ignoring his persistent reasoning and the bowing saliva bridge from Mia’s mouth to the head of Lynch’s production, I return my hands and concentration to the girl on top of me. Continuing to agilely grind, Stella dexterously removes her roller skates. Their wheels rest against my shins. Her boobs bounce. Her mouth gapes. She touches herself. And I fully enjoy watching. Until like a wet-dream-gone-nightmare, our adult film turns into a spook show.

  Arising over Stella’s shoulder, all fifties movie-monstery, my only fully naked guest leans in, starts lapping at her neck, and squeezes her satiny c-cups. I’m devastated. Now I can’t see her boobs. Keeping our rhythm, Stella turns, kisses Donny, and effortlessly spins into reverse cowgirl. During this smooth move, she neither breaks her lip-lock nor allows me to slip out of my reserved seating. She is so talented.

  Prius stands. Our co-star takes him all the way into her wine-stained mouth, and I look away. I focus on her lower back tattoo then accidentally look back up. The DJ’s expectedly huge hit-single is pistoning past her tongue. Smiling his dashing, ultra bright smile he’s looking at me.

  “Yeah my brother!”

  I sigh. I wave. And Prius gazes off toward the candy couches.

  It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I just hope he finishes in her mouth and not on me.

  I look back down at the tattoo for seconds before a semi-familiar voice draws my attention from stage left. “Hey leave her the fuck alone you creep! She’s passed out!”

  Whoa, I’ve never heard a twin yell.

  MK, having stopped sucking, is still holding onto Leo’s longboard. “I’ll kick you in the dick!”

  Huffing, Soufflé rolls off of Ash and erection-skulks away. He’s wearing a camelhair dinner jacket. And he’s unshorn. Gross. I wonder where his shirt and pants are.

  With the dour DJ out of sight, Lynch, Mia, Stella, Prius, Leo, MK, and I continue to weave a writhing, groaning, laughing mass of limbs in Heaven. Taking the squeakers lead we’re all giving Jenna some stiff competition for the next AVNs while Cruz and Volta tear through their own private Idaho down on their couch. I reach over and grab Mia’s boob. She giggles. Then I giggle. Keeping my left hand occupied with her, I work Stella’s hips with my right and— “Yeah, my brother!” Donny smiles, nods, and gazes off.

  I sigh, smile, wave, and close my eyes. Stella slightly gags, slaps her ass down on my Producer, then someone says, “So am I. Just don’t get any on me.” I tilt my head as far back as I can to get an inverted view of what Prius has been staring at between smiles.

  Sitting on a candy couch, Holly has her shorts and panties piled next to her. With her feet propped up on plastic, her tube socks clinging to her calves, and her legs spread wide, she faces the screen. She faces me. Judged by the upside-down, clean-shaven deity between her legs, my breath is taken and my atheism is shaken. To avoid madness, I have no choice but to avert my gaze from the rapture and confront the two moustaches book-ending her in a high-noon standoff.

  Stage left of Holly, with a double-handed grip, Soufflé is furiously brandishing his bread stick while Alvin, stage right, stands poised with one hand on his Dogtown lord and the other on his well-aimed Flip Cam. Their duel rages forth, as she feels herself up. Delicately, she moves her buzzing golden friend between her legs until, almost inaudibly, she breaths, “I’m gonna…” and causes a seminal chain reaction.

  Soufflé blasts onto the arm of the couch. Alvin purposefully sprays all over Soufflé . Then, just before Holly rolls her azure eyes back into her head, right when the quivering Flimgreat in knee-highs looks at me and groans, “Ugggghoh FUCK,” I release my joy deep inside of Stella.

  Chapter 35

  “Wake up! Boop, boop, boop!” My alarm is rudely screaming.

  Regretting not having taken my GED, I force open my eyes.

  “Boop, boop, boop. Get sexy for the new freshmen!”

  Sick to my stomach with a case of the earlies, I unplug my phone, check my messages, fall out of bed, and turn on Primal Scream. I’ve barely slept. I had to clean The Palace. Mopping up after Soufflé the Saucier is not my favorite thing to do, but sometimes a lot of fun can be a little messy. Last night was a lot of fun.

  Replaying the choppy footage of our first big sex scene in my sputtering mind, I shower, borrow Joey’s Psychocandy shirt, then dash out the door as my beautiful long lost friend rolls into the driveway. The Cadillac has been released.

  “Have a great first day boys!” Gina follows me from the house as I slip into the shiny black ‘59 CC. Alvin probably waxed it.

  “Thanks Mrs. Massi.” Zach yells over the music.

  “Michael!” She hands me my metallic Union Jack thermos, “Have you thought anymore about what you’d like for your birthday?”

  “Yeah.” Slamming the heavy door I push my head from the open window and smile. “A McQueen skull tie.”

  Every year Frank tells me, “Despite what your brother may think, spending two hundred dollars on a tie is insane. Just insane.” Gina shakes her head. Lynch backs out of the driveway, grinning.

  “Last night was fucking awesome.”

  “It was.” I turn down the tunes and sip my freshly brewed PG Tips.

  “So fucking awesome.”

  “Yes it was.” My tea burns my lips.

  Holding the open thermos between my legs, feeling a touch anxious about my forthcoming clothed encounters with my friends, I ask, “Have you heard from anyone today?”

  “No, have you?”

  I shake my head. Lynch turns up the music. It’s the Ramones.

  “I can’t believe that happened.” He gulps his black coffee, sounding not like he was just granted invincibility but more like he just aced a pop quiz. “We’ve gotta throw another party. Immediately. Tomorrow.”

  “Yes but no. That’s insane. Let’s do it Saturday.” Grabbing the Visine from his candy filled ashtray, I moan. “We can’t do Sundays anymore. I feel like I’m gonna die. I don’t know how I’m gonna make it through this week.”

  I pull the sunshade down and my eyelids up.

  “Hey, did you hear?” He passes me his sixty-two ounce thermos. With my eyes dripping, I manage to choke down half of his black coffee. “Another church burned do
wn.”

  He smirks.

  “Yeah, I know…” I croak my caffeinated confession. “I did it.”

  “How black metal of you, Varg.”

  I don’t know who Varg is but, presuming him to be a very handsome, creative young man, I thank my driver for the compliment then take a final gulp.

  “Do they know how it happened?”

  “They think it had something to do with candles and dried up flowers.”

  Lynch reclaims his bitter drink. Joey sings about glue. The CC climbs the hill. We just passed the police station. Now the jail. We’re minutes away.

  “That’s cool.” I stare out of the window. A black-booted grave cutter from our year is smoking in front of the cemetery. “I hope there weren’t any church cats in there.”

  Lurching up, we park in the overflowing Valley View lot and my heart sinks. Now, again, begins the pointless homework, the exposure to cretinous classmates, and the overcrowded lunch breaks with filthy flesh eaters.

  “Hey. Dustin.” Glancing in his rearview, Lynch weakly insists. “Get up,” then turns off the car. Cracking the window so his sleeping brother doesn’t die, he gets out of the Deville. A dirge begins to play and together we walk toward our outdoor campus.

  It’s been months but I feel like I was just here.

  As we step onto the school grounds infested with kids in their new poorly-put-together fall outfits, I lower my head, take a deep breath, and try to hold it in until the next party.

  On this first day of senior year, when Filmgreats meet in the walkways, in class, or in the quad, almost nothing is explicitly spoken of The Seventies Premiere. We just smile like we’ve stolen the answers to the SAT and say things like “great movie” or “you look tired” or … “That was so hot when you came in me last night.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry about that.” Startled by this whispered 7:00 am salutation, I put down my scotch tape and shelve my notebooks. “Are you going to be … okay?”

  “Don’t be SORRY!” Stella, leaning against the locker next to mine, rubs her hand up the back of my head, messing up my hair. “I said it was hot. And I’ll be fine. I know how to take care of myself. I’ll see ya second period Babe.” She kisses me on the neck then struts toward the arts building.

  Her lower back flashes from between her white belt and a black shirt that says ‘Dim Mak.’ The last time I looked away from her cryptic tattoo I saw Donny’s joy filing her mouth. I’m totally relieved that she didn’t just kiss me on mine. I tape a new picture of Moz up between the tears of Agnes Dean and Alexa Chung, sigh, then shut my locker.

  Standing at the edge of the sunken quad, Holly and Mia are talking about some cute new guy at school and looking far less tired than I feel. Interrupting, I ask the handsome fellow’s name.

  “Mr. Snow.” Mia points to a normal looking kid that’s walking toward the language building. “He’s our new Spanish teacher. He’s a total hottie. We heard that he’s hiding tons of tattoos and that he was in a band. But he won’t tell anyone which one. Stella says she’s gonna get it out of him.”

  “I imagine that she will.”

  “I bet he was in Nirvana.” Ogling the Levis of the failed rocker, Mia follows them across campus.

  I turn to Holly. “Wanna do the death march?”

  We both have first period PE—a crimeless punishment that requires diving into a poorly heated pool before 8:00 am.

  “I think you’ll survive, Mike.”

  A group of wrestlers, clumped in front of the Science building, snicker as we walk by. I ignore them. Please, not on the first day. Not in front of her.

  “All you ‘The OC’ people took life guard training right?” I ask Holly. “I’m already having palpitations—”

  “Nice fag-bag faggot!”

  One of the animals has broken from its herd. In an Affliction shirt, it’s complimenting my shiny white Ben Sherman PVC messenger bag—Joey got it for me as a beginning-of-senior-year present. I think the beast may have kept walking if Holly had refrained from deftly commenting, “Douchebag.”

  Whipping around, he glares at her, then me, in simian shock.

  “What did you say faggot?” He shoves me. Hard.

  I stumble backwards. I wish this wasn’t happening in front of the brave and beautiful screenwriter. Shirking my fear of plastic surgery, I calmly explain, “I knew that you and your father had the same taste.”

  “What?”

  “Well, he bought me the bag.” I take off my Fords and hand them to Holly. I wouldn’t want them scratched by an incoming fist. “He gives me presents, we suck each other off. You know. It’s your typical sugar-daddy relationship…” I feign sudden astonishment. “I guess that kinda makes us brothers right?”

  Holly laughs. The seething homophobe yells, “I’m going to fucking kill you!” I wince. Luckily this proclamation grabs the attention of a faggot-sympathizer who’s on his way to class.

  “Leave him alone, Bobby!” Shane bear hugs the daddy’s boy. “He’s my friend.”

  Bobby squirms, but is only released after promising to not fuck with me. Without saying another word, my red-faced would-be murderer storms off. And I blow him a kiss.

  “Thanks, Shane.”

  The back of Bobbie’s rippling tee says ‘Throwdown.’ My savior is wearing a baby blue cardigan over a white Smiths shirt.

  “Richardson’s got a temper.” Shane puts his arm around me and giggles. “And what was a vampire scarecrow gonna do against a middleweight all-American grappler?” Pulling his round tin from his sweater, he dabs his finger into rosy balm and smears his lips. “I’ll see ya in Lake Chlorine, Buddy!”

  Chapter 36

  Aside from the Wednesday trauma of seeing a freshman wearing my same outfit and the Thursday novelty of finding a note in my locker that reads ‘You and your bag are gay,’ the first week of school is typical. So far, I’ve found my classes even less stimulating than last year’s, but this quarter isn’t totally hopeless. Despite its wholesome and pedestrian nature, I know that the fall musical will be a good time.

  Tonight in Hess Theatre, at our first rehearsal meeting, Rick explains how he plans on enacting the play’s ultra-violent war scene without causing the school board to come down on us. He then claims, “I’d like to try to push the limits with the orgy scene.” Cheers arise from our cast, and I shoot a saucy glance toward the Filmgreat in the aisle seat. Next to me, keeping her cool and surely not wanting to risk compromising our secrecy, Holly continues focusing on our director’s lecture and ignores me entirely. I respect her caution. Smiling, Rick turns his back to grab a stack of photocopies.

  Holly stands and begins undressing. She stacks her folded, yellow jeans on her seat. I admire the set. The kids who worked on it really outdid themselves, especially with the giant bed that the platinum blonde lifeguard/actress/sex-toy-expert has just slipped into with Stella. Both wearing golden underwear, the two are playing catch with buzzing vibes of various precious metals. Katie Perry is tossing the toys from stage left. Wearing black satin underwear, gloves, and Chanel pearls, the Ameripop pitcher calls a time-out and beckons me. I rise.

  “All leads are welcome to run lines in here during lunch and free periods.” Rick hands me a photocopied calendar. He’s passing out the rehearsal schedules. ”We’ll start choreography with the players on Monday.”

  Holly and I flip through the time constraints of the upcoming weeks. Fabulous. Saturdays are free.

  “I’m going to send out the new invites tonight.” I whisper to the green-eyed Great. “Any requests?”

  Rick is talking about costumes and haircuts.

  “Oooh, that reminds me,” she coos, then shouts across the seats, “Hey Mr. Nalon, when are we gonna rehearse the kissing scene?” Startled, I look down into my calendar as the cast titters.

  “Not until the end of the month.” Rick shoots a stern glance at my giggling, talent-less understudy before comforting Holly. “You’ll be fine, Becca, don’t be nervous.”

  “Oh,
I’m not,” she announces, then turns to me and whispers, “…You should show Jaws.”

  Leaning against a light post in front of our lockers, I’m discussing old Morrissey solo records with Holly while failing to re-introduce the topic of our musical-mandated lip-lock. I bring up You Are the Quarry, she mentions a b-side that I’ve never heard, and Lynch appears at the top of the campus stairs. He’s come to pick me up. As he walks toward us, all the lights buzz to life, electrified by the passing of his kinetic hair. Kindly, my driver attempts to extend my time with the snowy blonde by offering her a ride. Holly turns it down. Stella is coming to pick her up. It’s Friday night and they’re going to meet the DJs at some live-in art space, somewhere between here and SF. How unbearable—dirty bathrooms, self-rolled cigarette smoke, a houseful of pigtailed men covered in paint. I cringe at the thought.

  “Do you guys wanna come?” Holly flicks at my skinny black tie. “I could ride there with you.”

  “Yeah, totally! I love art.” I hopefully turn to Lynch.

  “Sure. You just gonna bail work man?”

  “Oh, that’s right, No. I forgot.” Nervously, I check my phone. “We’d better go or I’ll be late. Um, okay Miss Wood.” Unsure whether or not I’m indeed demanding her attendance to a second private orgy, I hesitantly insist, “You better be there tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for an open bar with Aoki.”

  I love her crooked smile.

  “Look. It doesn’t matter.” Lynch is shouting. His 2012 system is blaring in his ‘59 Caddy as we speed toward the 8-plex. “Everyone thought it was killer. The Twins were definitely not freaked out. Mia thinks that they secretly want their parents to know about the party … but that’s insane … whatever. The only reason people haven’t been talking is because no one wants to get caught.”

  I turn from the sun visor mirror to face him. The purple and yellow bruises around his eye jewelry are almost gone.

  “They’d better not tell Mr. and Mrs. Christ.”