Pop Kids

by Havok, Davey

  “Settle.”

  My co-host wants to show another porno tomorrow. I’m maintaining that we provide the comforting pretense of a straight film.

  “How about Jaws?”

  “What?”

  “Okay. What about Showgirls?”

  As I campaign, Lynch begins singing along with the glitzy vocals coming through the speakers: ‘I don’t care what the others say, when I’ve found a new game to play…”

  “It’s not actually porn. The girls can tell themselves that they’re going to a normal Premiere if they need to feel less weird about the whole thing—”

  Claim to fame! Clamor for glamour!

  “Lynch—“ Oh padeo. “Hey—” Oh pa padeo!

  I turn down the music. He shakes his head laughing.

  “You’re seriously way paranoid.” Breaking into a poor falsetto impression of Holly’s butterscotch voice he mimics, “‘I wouldn’t miss it for a Steve Aoki party.’ Does that sound rattled? Doesn’t sound rattled to me. But, okay. If you’re rattled, we’ll do Showgirls.”

  He pulls up to the curb in front of the glowing marquee and cranks his stereo.

  “Fabulous. I know at least Holly will appreciate its B-movie mystique.” Grabbing my Sherman, stepping out of the car, I lean in through the passenger window. “How cool is she? Did I ever tell you that we went ice blocking?”

  Lynch eyes me like I just asked him to buy me a Big Mac.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. She’s really cool.”

  “That’s fucking weird man.” His face diamond disappears into a solemn squint.

  “Yeah. It was cool. She’s cool. I’ll see ya tomorrow.” I shut the door.

  Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I walk into work, thinking of gold.

  Sequoia Creep is wearing a bowler with a brass clock in its brim. He’s tearing tickets. Tonight, Shane has a new sweater and a new position. Reaching into my private stash of San P., I ask the wrestler why he’s working concessions.

  “It makes me happy being around so much candy.” He hands a two hundred pound woman a 4.75-ounce box of box of Junior Mints. “And I like helping people in need.”

  “Oh, right, okay. Well, thanks again for saving me from Bobby last week, man.” I pull a second chilled Limonata from the ice and hand it to him.

  He reacts like I’ve just handed him backstage passes to see Tiga.

  “For sure Buddy!” Bopping, the killer philanthropist cradles the little bottle to his two-toned barrel chest. “But you know, if you’d just hit the weight pile once in a while you’d be less of a scorecrow and no one would fuck with you.”

  “What did you just call me?” I’m hoping that my ears are deceiving me but to my horror, he whispers, “Can I come to the party Mike?”

  Shane’s eyes look like Eddie’s do when something that only she can see runs through our house.

  “What party?” Turning, I spit a swarm of moths into the popcorn machine and shut them in. They bounce against the glass.

  “The movie party. C’mon—”

  I drag him down below the lower level of Sour Patch Kids.

  “How and what do you know?”

  “In Tailoring I heard Sarah talking with Jamie about ‘Score’s Party,’ —something about Caligula I think.” He rapidly confesses, as I curse the girls. “I asked them what they were talking about but they wouldn’t tell me so when I saw Hector in Physics I told him that Score said for me to ask him when the next party is. He was surprised and said ‘Miguelito told you to ask me?’ But then he wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

  I’m impressed by both his cunning and his Cruz imitation. Thank Moz that he doesn’t know everything.

  “So can I come Mike?” he pleads. “Is it at Zach’s?”

  “Um, sure.” Reeling from his use of our old names, I brace myself against the glowing glass and stammer, “I’ll send you the invite once I have it made, but Shane … ” I cup his Brad Pitt jaw-line. “You have to promise to not talk about the party to anyone.”

  “Like Fight Club! I promise man.” He’s ecstatic. Even his stubble feels happy.

  I can’t believe he has stubble. So Colin Farrell.

  “I don’t really talk to anybody but Jamie and you anyway … Score.”

  He smiles his gentle, yet rugged all-American smile, and we arise from our concession case conspiracy. After pounding my sweet-citrusy Pellegrino, I drop it into the recycling, shove my hands in my Ksubis, and step out from the lair of the creeps.

  “That’s a nice sweater, man.” I admit in passing as I click my way down the stained carpet.

  “Thanks Buddy!” Looking like a bouncing bee in his yellow and black striped top, he raises his bottle of San P. and booms. “It’s Paul Smith!”

  In my black Paul Frank devil-monkey robe, I’m stretched across my red comforter. My Mac is open on my lap and my iPod is shuffling in my ears. Fresh from an after-work shower, shampoo, and conditioning, I google up a black-and-white still of Gina Gershon. She has her hand on Elizabeth Berkley’s chest. Both lingeried ladies are lying on a strip club stage. Behind them, sitting in a bar chair, is a leering lascivious man. After a moment or two of consideration, I substitute my face for his, paste on my standard rules and regulations paragraph, call it ‘The NC-17 Premiere!’ and send out the invite.

  Chapter 37

  I probably could have spent more time on the Showgirls piece this morning, but its imperfections deterred no one from coming. Tonight, we have our second full cast. Yet, as my guests socialize, partaking in popcorn and Pellegrino or pills and Patrón, I’m standing rigid in my speech position, becoming more and more unsettled. The school week has crawled by and, still, no one has mentioned our first big sex scene—only Stella, barely. A tension is building behind the curtain. It feels like we’ve all spent hours in line and are finally about to step onto X2 at Magic Mountain. Our rollercoaster is just clicks away from its zenith.

  “Welcome Filmgreats to the NC-17 Premiere!” I’m now unsure about my adamant decision to un-invite Jenna Jameson. If the porn splice really was the essential catalyst needed to propel us into public debauchery, I’m fucked. Well, not fucked. “… A brand new playlist made especially with tonight’s after party in mind…” I look out at my audience, full of high school girls dressed as hairdressers, fearing that last week’s love-in was a once-in-a-lifetime cosmic moment, like the passing of a concupiscent comet, or sexy solar eclipse. “We bring you Showgirls!”

  I kill the lights, join the talent on the floor, and realize I’ve indeed made a big mistake. I should have just yelled, “Premiere Sex Scene. Take two. ACTION!”

  It all explodes so quickly this time that I don’t even know who starts going for it first. With the Xmas lights low and Gershon high on the wall, everyone in Heaven immediately gets down to the dirty work. Though it’s not all business. Our grade school make-out sessions quickly graduate to adult activities, but we all take occasional pause to enjoy refreshments and shout out Showgirls quotes. This relaxed atmosphere should have forewarned me of the impermanence of my position but, right now, I’m feeling totally confident lying next to Lynch. He has Mia on top of him; I have Stella on top of me. The girls are doing it to us like they’re being filmed. It’s fabulous, until the brunettes start focusing on each other. Dismounting, Stella pulls her BFF in front of the screen to showcase their performance and suddenly our scenic ride is over.

  “Woah!” Lynch motions to the living movie magic. “That’s pretty cool,”

  Unable to ignore its rudeness, I point back at his accusatory Producer. “That’s pretty cool, too.”

  We laugh, and I erection-prance over to the soundboard.

  Standing socked and pant-less, I turn knobs and flick switches. “Lynch, C’mere!” I’m frantically trying to start my Sex Scene playlist but my slacking sound tech is too busy manually making up for Mia’s abandonment to help me. Hovering over Holly’s couch, he, Soufflé, and Prius are fully respecting the buzz bomb’s ‘both hands o
n yourself’ rule. Touched by her elegance, I’m transfixed. I can’t imagine why the DJs aren’t. As if in the midst of a gentlemanly competition they keep turning from her solo to sternly gaze into each other’s eyes.

  “LYNCH come on man!” Having just tied a triple knot into an unruly bunch of chords, I pause my fidgeting. Confronting me from about two feet away, Volta’s ass is hoisted in the air as he and Cruz quietly 69 on the purple love seat. Their chinos are barely hanging onto their thighs. “Culo suave!” I compliment,

  One of them makes a slurpy sound that I take to mean ‘thank you.’ Wondering if our own red headed siren is enjoying our party’s new triple-x-rating, I cue up La Roux.

  Patting my brow with my pocket square, I check Surfers’ Paradise, then turn away from MK’s oral work on Leo to find that his sister, Star, sitting cross-legged on a pile of furry pillows in Heaven, has her head turned toward Ash. Propped up on her haunches, dressed like a stripper, the semi-conscious twin is feeling up the sea goddess as they kiss. I’m shocked. I was expecting to find Alvin victoriously exploring Star’s universe, but this is not happening. It’s not happening at all. He’s lying with his head in her lap and she’s petting him while sucking Ash’s tongue.

  I don’t feel too bad for Al. Laid out with his jeans and eyes at half-mast, he is slowly massaging his Dogtown lord and staring emotionlessly at the buzzing gold between Holly’s legs. He looks serene.

  As Alvin films his right hand, “Bulletproof … I Wish I Was” begins miraculously bouncing off the walls and I prepare for my glorious return to group activities. I pocket square my Producer, fold my coat, and confidently step out from behind the soundboard—only to find that Prius has beaten me to the next level. With the exception of the girls’ black thigh-highs, he, Mia, and Stella are completely naked, leaning in a row against the wall screen, heavily petting. The movie flashes across their flesh. The site is fabulous, even with Mr. Pigtails in the center of the Great sandwich. I can see his teeth glimmering from here. But his radiant presence shan’t discourage me.

  Donny has made it very clear that he’s not selfish.

  Driven, yet unsure how to insert myself, I erection-prance over to the playful threesome, and arrive just in time to see Mia reach around the DJ and guide him into Stella.

  Now I don’t know what to do.

  Lurking behind Mia, my Producer stands at awkward attention. She leans into Donny. I graze her gargantuan ass, but she doesn’t notice. She’s kissing the back of Prius’s neck and, I believe, doing something with his production house. Stella is jolting with his thrusts. Catching me watching, she rolls open her melting blues and turns back.

  “Hey Baby!”

  Her mouth gapes. She gasps, surprised, as if she’s just been stabbed. She clenches her teeth, bites her lip, then in an act of unparalleled humanitarianism, commands Mia, “Go for it girl. I know you want to.”

  With vitamin-wild eyes and an almost malevolent sneer, Mia looks over her shoulder, snatches my Producer, and slips it inside herself. Fabulous. I cross my arms around her, grab boobs, pull her to me, and start feverishly kitty humping.

  Gripping double D’s, bopping away, I’m admiring the giant buns mashing into my crotch when a hand slides atop mine. Donny, having spun my former co-star, is playing handsies with me. While still doing it to her, he caresses my fingers. “Hello my brother!” He smiles a huge GO SMiLE and I get freaked out. I can’t understand how his teeth are so perfect. Moz, I forgot to use my whitener.

  Looking down, I suck in my cheeks and we all hump on. I compare and contrast Mia’s internal physiology with her BFFs. She squeaks, and as I’ve begun considering where to release the impending joy, a fourth Filmgreat delays my happy ending.

  “Excuse me sir.” He taps my shoulder. “May I cut in?”

  “Hayyy Rock Star,” Mia boozily gushes. I immediately pull out.

  I turn to gauge Lynch’s demeanor. His two thumbs up, erection, and open-mouthed smile reminds me of a Mastercard commercial: priceless.

  “Certainly my good man!” Relieved that my co-host didn’t suddenly get weird and go all Alpha upon seeing his best friend banging his regular, I remove myself. “The scene is yours!”

  Now a free agent, wavering like a half-stripped fifth wheel, I consider joining Stella and Prius. With his pigtails flying everywhere, he’s dripping sweat and grunting. She’s screaming to the catwalks about the diminutive size and reliable seal of her vagina.

  I’m going to go freshen up and check in on Holly.

  At the mini fridge, I douse and wipe myself down. I polish my teeth, fix my hair, and then cautiously approach the couch of the green-eyed enchantress. Having left behind some French dressing on the floor, Soufflé has gone to dress in Surfers’ Paradise. When I creep up, with my Pellegrino-primed Producer peeking out from the last button of my sweat soaked shirt, Holly is alone. Her head is thrown over the back of the candy couch. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open—barely. Her left hand is squeezing her right boob. She’s left on her black lace bra but her black jeans, remixed Smiths shirt, and black panties are balled up next to her on the couch. With her legs spread and her sock-less feet propped up on the plastic, she reclines while giving it her all.

  Standing a few feet upstage, a lone voyeur, I watch her—dizzied by her magnificence until she senses my presence.

  “Hey Mike.” Raising her head and showing me her chameleonic lavender eyes, she pauses her play. “Mind if I watch?”

  “Oh…” Slightly embarrassed for having not known that it’s been working independently of my brain, I look down at my frantic hand. Like I’d just been caught trying to steal a VMA, I drop my hot Producer and politely return the question. “Do you mind if I watch?”

  “Just don’t get any on me.” Raising the bullet, she presses a hidden golden button. Her vibe kicks harder. “And take off your shades.”

  My eyes don’t leave her face. The beats of Crystal Castles throb. And she watches me. She raises her gaze from my hand, to my eyes, and back again. The sound in the room shifts. All I can hear is her buzzing toy and her rich groans. All else disappears into a homogenous euphony of indistinguishable ambient sex, until Holly shutters.

  She finishes. It sounds like the Smiths. And her expression takes me with her.

  Carefully I catch my warm joy in my clammy left hand then look down at my Union Jack socks. I’m considering using them to wipe off when the echoes of Britpop angels are suffocated.

  “Hey Babe!” Stella is on all fours in Heaven, yelling over Deamau5. “Oh fuck, Donny, fuck yeah. … Come get in Score, I can handle it … shit, fuck fuck fuuuuck.”

  From behind her, Prius seconds.

  “Yeah, my brother!” He waves me over. “There’s room for one more.”

  What I mistook for a white beret in Surfers’ Paradise was, in fact, my dear friend’s bleached hair. Lynch was dressing offstage. Now, he and his disheveled co-star are standing at the mini-fridge, re-hydrating. They left the scene that I left them in. And I wish they hadn’t: I wish it were my co-host’s Producer gagging Stella between her attempts to coerce me into being number four of four. But it’s not. It’s the pastry’s bread stick.

  The man does not shave.

  “Come ON sexy. Fuck m—!”

  Soufflé silences her. I shudder at the sight of it.

  It’s fine.

  “Come tag in my brother!”

  Everything’s fine. I have a good excuse.

  “Thanks guys, I’d love to!” Waving at the welcoming two-out-of-three, I present the joyful evidence dripping from my fingers. “But I’m done.”

  Chapter 38

  I need to shower again. I feel slimy. But The Palace is clean. It looks fabulous. Today I brought my arsenal: Lysol, Oxiclean, Comet, bleach, and apple cider vinegar. I vigorously scrubbed away all the sticky, gooey, musty remains, put a pair of plaid boxers in the new lost-and-found milk crate, and then arranged a hygiene station: stain sticks, sugar-free Altoids, Kleenex, baby wipes, paper towels,
hand sanitizer. and Tom’s of Maine mouthwash. I’ve stacked the overstock behind the mini fridge, where I now stand grinning with pride for what I’ve achieved.

  Contentedly, I sigh, redeposit a few rogue rainbow pills back into the Kitty head, and inhale the smell of overnight success. It’s caustic. My stage smells like a science project. It’s fine. I have an idea.

  “Hay Babe!” Stella actually picks up the phone. “I can’t talk long. I’m waiting for a call from my casting agent friend.”

  “Hey, okay.” I’d sure like to meet this guy. “Can you bring a bunch of your mom’s scented candles to the next party? I just cleaned up in here but I think the smell of the bleach is already giving me cancer.” I check the recycled Amazon recycling box to make sure we have enough empty bottles to use as vases. “I’m gonna ask everyone to bring fresh flowers too.”

  “Oooh, Sexy! I like it!” Stella exclaims before playfully adding, “Maybe they’ll get you in the mood and you’ll actually give me what I want next time.”

  Holding up an empty Patrón bottle, picturing it full of gladiola, I tense. She is calling me out on my hesitant gloppy hand-wave.

  “Yeah, well you know, it’s hard for me to get turned-on when I’m looking at berets and pigtails.”

  “Hey, at least they know what tits are for.” She jabs back, crudely referring to my risky business of improper fluid disposal at the Sex and San P. party.

  “I thought you said that it was hotter that I did it … not on your tits.” Nervously, I defend my accidental internal joy release. My voice rises in pitch as my moths make for the Xmas lights. “You said it was hot! You said that you could take care of yourself—”

  “Settle sexy. I’m just playing.” Stella laughs then purrs. “I like playing with you.”

  “Hey. I’m done here, why don’t I skate over—”

  “Oh, I think this is him.”

  Her incoming call is inaudible.

  “I’ve gotta go Baby. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hangs up.

  As I begin to text her to tell her to bring my Joy Division shirt to school tomorrow, a message from Shane buzzes in.