Pop Kids

by Havok, Davey

  I’m going to need back up.

  I steal a breath mint from Sponge Bob, check my compact, then creep over to court the camouflaged wallflower.

  Alone on purple plastic, watching the Oral Joy, the sedated twin ignores me as I ease myself next to her.

  “Hey MK. I’m really sorry that Leo’s not here.”

  Without expression or words she turns to face me. So I go on.

  “I can’t believe that none of those guys came, can you? Jerks.”

  Nothing. No response. She’s simply attacking my Premiere confidence with a heavy, glassy-eyed stare. Yet I press forward.

  “But I’m really glad that you’re here…”

  Wondering if I’ve offended her by unwittingly sitting down on Roxy’s lap, I’m almost ready to give up and join the American Spirit as it enters Stella. I shove my hand in my pocket.

  “So…” Click, click, “Ash went to hang out with Star?”

  A semester goes by before her expression slightly shifts and through a faint, almost imperceptible, understanding smile, she finally says,

  “You can fuck me if you want, just not in my cunt.”

  I’d thought that the ‘C word’ was a sin, but I do not question her expression of faith. I dart to the kitty, sift through the condoms, grab as much lube as I can carry, and return to MK with my pockets bulging. Taking my lady’s hand, I guide her holiness to the mattresses. With my teeth, I tear open a little red plastic pillow. Flavored goo spurts out. I taste strawberry. I see lime. The green couch where Holly should be playing is empty. I miss her, but as I commit several uncontestable crimes below Stallone and next to Stella, in Heaven, I’m elevated.

  This is fabulous. MK is asking me to do things I’ve never even done to wild-reality-girl. I slide my slippery Producer out of her divine loophole and deep into sin.

  ”Owe, owe, owe … mm … ugh…” Sounding almost pained, the grease-painted, half conscious twin shutters. “Jesus fucking Christ Leo.”

  And I flow with the scene. It’s fine. I’m having a good time. MK’s having a good time. Prius and Stella are having a good time. Everyone’s having a good time. Mia’s probably not dead. And it’s fine. Everything’s fine.

  Chapter 43

  I’d forgotten this tracksuit was powder-pink. I remembered it being black. Having spent most of the day sleeping, cleaning, and showering off last night’s blood and sodomy, I hesitantly pull two pastel pieces of polyester from a box in my brother’s closet and put them on. My suit has proven to be a real pain to get off. I need something that better facilitates quick undressing. I turn in front of the mirror. I’d always thought Joey’s Y3 jogger was really cool. This might be a bit too informal for a host to wear to such a grand affair. I stare at myself—inspecting and adjusting—then realize exactly what I need. Adding a skinny black tie to my shallow white v-neck and polishing my teeth up to the reflective shine of my Fords gives the outfit a whole new look. I’ve got a new-wave, soccer-hooligan, rock-n’-roll-runner-type thing happening here. I can totally pull it off.

  Though there are strangers and small aggravating sanguine stains on my stage, I can already tell that this is going to be perfect. All the Extras brought flowers. The basement is packed with flora, Filmgreats, four art-house kids, and Violet Diaz. Sitting on a stage-left couch, she’s impressing The Twins with the big yellow buttons on her belted grey trench.

  Tonight, all the girls have conspired. Like myself, they’ve taken the invitation’s ‘dress to undress’ command to heart and are wearing long coats over little else. Even the two pixie-haired, art-house Extras are taking part in the flasher fashion trend, which, I’m sure, was started by Stella. She and Mia have on identical fuchsia raincoats—Mia’s covers teal underwear. Stella’s hides only a Hello Kitty tattoo. At my speech position, I learn this as she stands and flashes me. The outline is perfectly centered over her own hairless anatomical feline.

  “Is that permanent?”

  “Nah.” She re-belts her coat. “I was thinking about getting it done but I only want stuff that’s unique. Stuff that means something.”

  “What’s the kanji on your lower back stand for again?” I ask, having never known.

  “Love.” Plopping back into Heaven, she takes a pull from a bottle of wine, passes it to an Extra, and attacks Holly. “You’re overdressed, beautiful, let’s get those jeans off.”

  As they giggle, Stella strips the blonde of her raspberry pants. Standing and posing, flaying wide her polka dot lined raincoat while spreading her black silken wings, Holly reveals a red cotton bra.

  “Well how ‘bout now?” Across her matching hot shorts, a silk-screened shark swims between her dairy-free thighs, “Still too much?”

  Alvin takes a picture.

  “Welcome everyone! Welcome!” I raucously clear my throat and clap. “Ladies, I must say that your complimenting coats look wonderful…” I motion to the trenches. “But you should have left them at the door, because this, my esteemed guests, is the Let’s Not Pretend Premiere!”

  Throwing out my arms, I wave Jenna Jameson to the wall and in near choreographed unison, unveiling bras, panties, and fully naked female forms, the girls toss their constricting coats to toward the sandbags. Perfect!

  I’m on my back, unzipped in a pile of faux fur. I was making my way to Holly’s couch when two Extras pulled me down. Stella is next to me. She’s moaning, and Prius is enjoying her Reverse Asian Cowgirl. Having used my feet to ball my sweats around my toes, I stare down past my mauled necktie. The Extras are giving me OJ. I’m trying to recall their names, but Stella is distracting me.

  “Oh fuck I love it!” She announces, “It’s so fucking huge!”

  A mustached Extra has positioned himself in front of the barebacked rider and unbuttoned his APC fly. He looks like a cross between the dark-haired girl below my waist and Mr. Pringles. He’s even better hung than Donny, though I imagine that Stella’s big love profession is more a testament to the abnormally large size of our audience—for whose attention she has newfound competition. One of The Twins has been challenging her.

  “ChristfuckLeoFUCKMEJesusfuckingchristGOD! FUCK FUUUUUUCK!” As MK repeats this prayer, the god of surf snickers.

  “Ahee hee hee”

  “OHgodLeooooGod,fuckingchristfuckFUCK!”

  “Ahee hee…”

  Leo clearly finds The Twin’s uncharacteristic oration funny. I find it transcendent to hear her proselytizing so freely, especially while a strange blue-haired girl with genital jewels is mounting me.

  The Blue Extra pushes her palms down on my chest. She rolls back her aqua contacts and begins grinding in brutally slow, syncopated thrusts. It feels like a succession of ever growing waves pounding upon my Producer. The raven haired Extra swoops in and bites her shoulder. This is pretty fabulous. The Blue Extra cringes as I try to decipher the scrolling script tattooed across her collarbone. The last word is ‘destroy.’ I first met this girl online. When Stella introduced us, IRL, she simply smiled. I’ve heard her voice once—she was talking to her black-haired, biting friend about a white ring. The Raven Extra twists a nipple ring, and blue nails dig through my black tie. Silently she is taking her pain with pleasure. Unlike Mia.

  “Cállate hooker!” Understandably disturbed by the force of the eerie, piercing noises coming from the mattresses, Cruz pauses his downstage OJ. “You’re creeping me out!”

  Past my feet, arcing her little butt into Lynch’s face, Violet is probing away between Mia’s trembling legs. If the perennial, ostensibly fourteen-year-old surf flower is indeed young, her oral work proves that she is certainly not green. She’s licking out some of the loudest squeaks that any of us have ever heard.

  “Yeah, Lynch. Shut your woman up.” Volta pushes his BF’s head back down below his Burzum shirt. “I’m turning straight listening to that shit.”

  “I’m on it guys!” As the Blue Extra is repositioning herself over my face, I slip out from my scene. I erection skitter to the PA and scrolling through my iPod p
romise, “I’ll have Ke$ha up loud in a second.”

  Bickle, a few feet downstage, is looming over the purple love seat. I’d forgotten that he was here. Fully clothed with his giant arms folded across his bumblebee chest, he stands statuesque, hawking over Cruz and Volta, just watching. He’s not even brandishing his stinger. Some sort of philanthropy, I suppose. He’s fine. I’m glad I invited him. I start the playlist made in honor of Stella’s one-on-one callbacks, then erection-walk back through Heaven.

  Between the Xmas lights and the mattresses, Star is giving a twin OJ. Ash’s new collarbone implants sparkle beside her crucifix as I pass. Upstage, The Pringles Extra is playing with my pixie-haired Extras. Covered in Jenna, they’re all leaning against the wall screen as a shirtless bearded Extra Bjorks out from a cloud in Surfers’ Paradise. Shambling into their scene, he snubs his joint on a projected dildo then sucks a pierced nipple.

  Tik tok on the clock and the party don’t stop.

  Cautiously, I step over Prius’s crumpled grass green baby briefs, lie down, and spoon my way into the pigtail-free side of a 69. I creep my arms around Stella and reach for her boobs. When my nails accidentally scratch Donavon’s downy belly, she turns over her shoulder and licks at my mouth. Artfully dodging the sloppy DJ-flavored kiss, I strike a stunning pose. Stella’s mouth moistens my neck and Mia’s eyes meet mine. Hers are red with tears. And a thin string of thick drool is dripping down from her chin. Lynch found the missing ball gag from the Pulp Fiction Premiere, took Cruz’s advice, and silenced his co-star.

  “Look Score!” Catching me, as I watch him hump the spit out of her from behind, my co-host raises his arms to the catwalks. “No hands!”

  Al, running by, wearing nothing but Violet’s silver bra across his chest, a camera around his wrist, and a sizeable erection, slaps his brother a high five.

  After slathering my jaw, Stella re-arranges our threesome. On her hands and knees, in kitty-style, she’s giving the standing DJ some OJ. I’m behind her, on my knees. Sexily I thrust through our scene, singing along to Amerigirlpop while watching the baby pap pet red dreads. When Al grabs his camera, I pucker my cheeks and wait for him to take my picture. Holly moans from the green couch behind him. Her performance is so heartfelt. So moving. So genuine. Keeping the beat, I admire the classy blonde through one Nicki Minaj song and half a Gaga mega-hit before my co-star stops sucking Donny. Turning back to me, she drunkenly criticizes, “What the fuck Score?”

  “What?” Ravishing Stella with my perfect timing, I look from Holly to Prius for some insight on this uncalled for and sour attitude.

  Still in her hands, he smiles and shrugs. Then, abruptly, she detaches herself from our trio.

  “Okay!” Standing the middle of Heaven, Stella declares, “All guys on me!” And drops to her knees.

  Happy to do my part to help her live out her dream scene, I form a circle with Prius, Soufflé, Alvin, Lynch, and the well-hung Extra. At our center, Stella is taking on the role of the sole participant in a lurid horizontal tasting event. It’s obvious that she’s completely wasted. Even on her knees she’s stumbling. She’s barely able to hold herself up.

  It’s fine. This is the first time I’ve participated in a scene like this, IRL. I’m not going to be the one to call cut just because she’s blackout-drunk. I’m the one who tells her not to drink anyway.

  Stella starts with Alvin but before the longhair finishes, she turns to test Lynch’s mouth-feel and bouquet. Flipping off his brother, Al proceeds to handle himself, while my co-host gets his moment of OJ, and Mia quietly lies bound and gagged behind him. Lynch left her to join our circle just as Leo left a sleeping and satisfied MK to get prime placement in front of Holly.

  Patronizing my own Producer while the surfer waxes his longboard, I focus intently on the OC soloist. Opening her phosphorescent green eyes, she adjusts the speed of her bullet. Even if I can’t get any on her, I bet that she’d let me come close or maybe hold her toy while I’m trying. With my eye on the gold, I’m about to exit our scene when Stella tears me out of my buzzing trance.

  “Come on Mike,” she slurs. “It’s been so long since I’ve tasted you. Give it to me.”

  I look back down into the circle and confirm that all my genital attention is self-applied, just as the Extra begins to violently fuck-punish Stella’s grape-stained mouth. What a relief. I thought she just called me by my old name in front of everyone, but it seems that Kid Pringles is named Mike too.

  Frantically, Mike spears for wine soaked Bubble Yum. The noises that start coming out of Stella begin shifting the light-hearted mood of our mingler. Horrible, inhuman choking sounds burst between coughs, as thick, streaming, viscous spit drips down from her chin and over her breasts. I’ve never heard anything like this before. It’s beyond animalistic: it’s preternatural. Her muffled gagging pulsates. She sounds like she’s about to puke. Moz, don’t let her puke. Her teary eyes roll back in her head and Mike, grabbing a tangle of her sweat-dampened hair, forcefully relieves her of his art instillation.

  With her head lolled back, Stella gasps one thick, wet breath of bleached-rose air and demands, “Give it to me.”

  Weakly, she forces out her tongue, giving all that she has left. Being naturally talented with his hands, the artist instantly bursts all over her. His joy drips between her swollen lips and spills from her mouth. “Yeah…” she groans, grinning with Bordeaux eyes. “That’s what I wanted.”

  I look down.

  Smiling, satisfied, covered in joy, haunched onto her patent heels, Stella tenderly holds her gum between the thumb and forefinger of her limp left hand.

  “Wow,” I say to no one in particular, “That was kinda cool.” And not wanting to compromise the power of our circle, keeping my stance, I speed up my wrist work.

  Somehow, seemingly suddenly, I’m the last man standing. Everyone else is crashed out at my feet, dressing in the wings, or beautifully buzzing on green plastic. Britney Spears is singing and Stella is unconscious. Presuming she was still on her knees, I just overshot. Like the rest of the guys, I was watching Holly. So now my success is icing one of our fur pillows.

  For a full chorus of “Toxic,” I stare at the comatose Filmgreat, still barely hanging onto her bubblegum, then call it a wrap. Flaccid-walking, I go to freshen up with Lynch.

  “Man, am I glad I wasn’t paying attention at the end there.” Dousing my raw Producer with cold Pellegrino, I gently wipe down with baby wipes. “I don’t think I would have been able to make it happen if I’d have seen her like that. Did you see her eyes? They are all rolled back and, like, half open.”

  “Gross.” Lynch swallows a swig of mouthwash and then pours me a shot. “She said she was gonna do some more coke to sober up. Guess they ran out.”

  I swish mint, spit into a vase, pull on my sweats, and then snatch more towelettes. With my bottle of cleansing San P. in hand, I navigate my way through Heaven, stepping over Star, Violet, and Mia’s legs to get to the broken centerpiece of our disseminated circle. I soak the sticky pillow that caught my misfire then, wondering which joy came from which boy, begin cleaning Stella. She doesn’t move or make a sound. I wipe off her face, her hair, her shoulders, her boobs, and her belly. I dry her with a clean, fuzzy throw. Her fake tattoo is cracked and peeling. I take her gum.

  Slipping into the musty, smoky, passed-out pile of guests, I lay down next to Stella. She smells like bleach-flavored cotton candy. Beyond her, the blue-haired Extra is facing Holly and mirroring her play. A fallen bottle of Patrón is spilling its poisonous magical potion on the couch between them. Katy Perry is singing “Teenage Dream.”

  Before I fall asleep, I think I hear the Blue Extra speak. Then Holly’s voice cuts through the pop.

  “I am too…” bzzzzzz.

  Someday, I will be golden.

  “…Just don’t get any on me.” Bzzzzzz.

  She’s such a good girl. She really is such a good girl.

  Chapter 44

  On Monday morning, I drift into
the Cadillac with a horrible case of the earlies.

  “I don’t give a fucking fuck, I’ll tell Score!” Alvin crawls into the backseat. “Hey Score, I’m in love. Wanna throw the wedding?”

  I wince. He’s loud. I don’t understand how he can be so alive at this hour.

  “You’re insane.” Lynch backs out of my driveway. “She’s like, twenty-two.”

  “Twenty-three, Fucker!”

  They’re talking about Star.

  “Whatever. She’s old.” Our driver tilts his rear view. “If you’re so in love, why do you barely touch her?”

  “We kinda made out a little when she stayed over that one night—“

  “What?” I stare at him through the mirror of my compact. “You guys only made out?”

  “She said it felt weird so we stopped. She said we could try again later, but when we got to her house and I asked her if it was ‘later’ yet, she didn’t know what I was talking about. I don’t think she remembered. ” Al points at me and yells at the passing sweater girl. “He thinks you’ve got sick tits!”

  Lynch yells, “So do I!”

  The sweater girl ignores us. Al takes her picture then drops back through the window of the Caddy.

  “Seriously? The only part of her that you’ve touched is her hair?” I turn around to check the kid’s pupils. “What the fuck Al? Are you on drugs?” I reach for his shades. “You’d better not be dipping into the little kitty.”

  “Fuck you, fuckers.” He slaps away my hand, raises two forward middle fingers and smiles. “We’re in love. You’re just jealous.”

  I sigh, take Lynch’s thermos and gulp hot bitter blackness as “Bicycle Race” rings us into the parking lot. The Deville eases next to a fat-bottomed Filmgreat getting out of her dad’s black Cherokee. Lynch honks. He waves and Mia flips him off.