by Havok, Davey
Good girls. I’ve gotta remember to ask Stella for their names.
At Bob, I gently wipe off my still totally-connected, yet red and chaffed Producer. I hand sanitize and crack open a San P. In the movie, a pretty brunette wearing a pig nose is getting OJ from a guy in an industrial shirt. I pop a curiously strong mint. The splice cuts back to Donnie Darko. Two voices loudly quote, “What’s the point of living if you don’t have a dick?” With his knees on pillows on the stage, in front of the wall, Lynch has Stella in an anvil.
“Cheers!” I raise my bottle.
Laughing, my co-host throws up a wobbly thumb, re-props his right hand and without looking over, Stella responds to my voice.
“Scoooooore. Come fuck my ass Baby!” Her bouncing calves scissor my friend’s pink neck.
I glance toward Holly. I can hear her toy, but in front of her couch a cluster of ab-tastic Extras are giving each other OJ, obscuring my view.
“Baby, there’s room for one more. Your boyfriend won’t mind.”
On her back, with her toes above Lynch’s ears, Stella is drunkenly slurring. “Score fuck my ass!” It’s unappealing. “…Score!” Her tone is wilting my Producer. Her words are making me want to rinse my own mouth. I twist open the Tom’s. Then coming to my rescue, one of my guests fills in for me. Bridging over her face, Prius pushes my name back through Stella’s lips. I swish, spit, and return to the obscene mess in Heaven.
Roughly, I am delivered. Rising from the mats, the Raven Extra pulls me down into a sweaty, groaning, writhing cast. It’s moist. The smell of sweat, weed, wine, and joy oozes between slick flesh and crusty matted fur. It’s filthy. It’s fine. Calling action, I slide between the wet bodies to mingle with my guests. This is going to be unforgettable. This scene is going to be a timeless classic and the foreign fluids will come off in post with some orange cream body wash. I suck in my cheeks. Maintaining the expression of a leading man for Alvin’s omnipresent lens, I begin a captivating struggle with the Blue Extra, but soon can’t tell who is who, what’s on what, or who’s on me. Some vaguely familiar pierced parts asphyxiate me. I grab Mia’s ass. My hand falls asleep. I see bright red dreads out of the corner of my eye. I roll toward the beacon. And end up on Donny. “Hello my brother!” I face 3-D teeth and pigtails but what I feel dueling with my Producer is even bigger than his grin.
“HellllO my brother!” I cheerily return then roll on, into another teenaged knot.
Some girl pins me down on top of someone else’s leg. Holding me captive between her fishnets, she clamps my face with her thighs. Instinctively, I begin licking upward, peering breathlessly past under-boob, toward razor-cut indigo bangs. Proudly I watch the Blue Extra’s expression change. Someone whispers. “Finger her Daddy!” I follow the order. I presume it came from the Raven Extra, before she slipped down to give me this OJ. “Harder! Hook it! She’ll give you a bath.” She’s still in my ear. I glance down at the brunette that’s sucking my Producer. Her technique is unique—toothy. Brushing her hair from her face, she pulls a strand from her mouth and looks up. I lift my head from between garters, press my chin to my chest and in a constricted creak ask, “What the fuck—”
“Don’t worry about it fucker.” Alvin keeps his grip. “It’s for Star. She’s way fucking into it.” Grimacing, he wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “Just let me know if you’re gonna blow. Don’t fucking cum in my mouth.”
It’s fine. He’s in love. Everything’s fine.
“Come backkkk! I’m so close!”
The Blue girl speaks! Driven, I return my tongue, and when she showers my face in whatever it was that Holly didn’t want on her last weekend, I have no choice but to follow.
“Fuck! Dick! You’re a DICK!” Al spits my joy back onto me. “What the fuck man?”
“Sorry Al, I forgot. Really, I swear, I’m sorry.” The Blue Extra and I can’t stop laughing as I wipe her rain from my eyes. “Go get some mouthwash, you’ll be fine.”
“Fuck you man!” Shaking his head, he skulks away.
“The poor boy doesn’t know what he’s missing!” Still giggling, the Blue Extra finishes what Alvin left behind.
With my torso tongued clean, I leave the big scene to towel off my soaked hair. I pass Bickle. We high five, and he points toward my soggy tie.
“Looks like those push-ups are paying off Scorecrow!” He giggles.
He’s right. Proudly I grab a cold bottle from the fridge and douse my chest with Pellegrino. I’ve already completed two fantastic scenes, my left pec is pulsing, and my Producer is still relevant. With my confidence soaring, I down the remains of my fuzzy water, zip up my jacket, and pocket some lube. I’m ready for the grand finale.
Erection-creeping behind her couch, I stealthily lean over Holly to deliver a French-Texan accent that’s down right magnifique. “Ce va, lil lady? Want a back rub?”
”Fuck! Mike!” Laughing, she whips back her hand and smacks my chest. An empty wine bottle bounces off her couch. It rolls against a Mac counter Extra’s heel. “I was almost there … but yes…” She slides her golden vibe back between her legs. Her smile twinges. “I’d love one.”
Biting open a tiny plastic green pillow, I spit out the tab and squirt water-based goo all over her soy-milky skin. Tasting artificial apple, I rub her neck, while my right hand attends my sensitive, overworked Producer.
The view from up here is exquisite. With her head thrown back, Holly breathes through slightly parted lips. Under the pornographic score, I can hear her toy buzzing. I can smell her cucumber though the thick musk in the air. I run my hand across her shoulders, over her collarbone, and down to her boob. When I squeeze a hallowed handful of red cotton, the autoerotic OC-angel finishes me with a super-sexual quickness that only the divine could achieve.
“You’re… ” I joy all over the back of the couch, “…fabulous.” And as the sublimity of her trembling climax surges into me through our once forbidden physical connection, I fall.
Lips first, I dive into oblivion and kiss her, upside down. In the ether, an un-released Smiths song begins to play. With my mouth open to hers, ignoring a faint familiar taste that reminds me of Stella, I savor our delicate union and softly Holly responds. Driving her tongue down my throat, she grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls. I barely save myself from toppling onto her fragility and gently free my head from her hand. Looking into her soul, I slowly pull away. And we are consummate. Our scene is pure romance.
I rise. She speaks. And our spirits interweave, exploring each other for the eons within each fleeting second that passes before I reply,
“I’m leaving.”
Fleeing to the wings, I pull on my track pants, grab all my shoes and, scurry barefoot off the stage. I know why she has been so hesitant with me. I run down The Path of prayers. It’s because I mean so much to her. I can feel it. I knock over a candle on the way out of the ballroom. The wax spills into the stairwell. I could turn back. I could gently push, succumb to my desires, and convince her to further our activities. But I don’t want to cheapen our moment. I take off my shades after tripping up the final step to the lounge. I have to keep running because it was beautiful, because it was perfect. … Even if she did whisper something that sounded like, “I want you to fuck me like that pig on the wall.” The leafy mouth of The Palace creaks. I breathe in the fresh middle-of-nowhere night. In a few hours, Gina’s making gluten-free huckleberry pancakes—with tempeh bacon. I’ve got to get home.
I’m on the top of the WAMU steps lacing up my new shoes when I first see them.
All four of are drinking Sparks and have fat joints stuffed behind their ears. I stand to make a disappearance and the blonde-haired, blue-eyed mohawked one notices me.
“Sup bro?” Holding his belt to prevent his sagging shants from falling completely off, he limps toward me. “You heard of some party happening around here?”
“I wish.” Laughing, I remain planted above them. “No man. You guys aren’t from here are you?”
Their dumb hazy pink eyes all blink at me.
“Nah.” Grumbling in unison, they crane their tattooed necks, searching for a mailbox decorated in streamers and balloons.
“Yeah, there aren’t parties in this town.” I grip the laces of both pairs of Chucks. A light breeze swings them at my side. “It sucks. Nothing ever happens here.”
“Fuckin’ toldya dog.” The cranky kid in the black flat-brimmed Rockstar energy drink hat spits onto the sidewalk. “Let’s get the fuck outta this bullshit town.”
Suspiciously, they eye my Union Jack socks. I stand, frozen, hoping they didn’t see me leave the hotel. The mohawk spits. The wind blows. A Solo cup scrapes across the lot. The kid with the awful, colorful throat tattoo lights a joint, takes a drag, passes it to the guy with a matching soul patch and, holding their belts, they all limp away tossing crushed Sparks cans into my lot.
Chapter 48
“Mike! Pancakes!”
Springing out of bed to Frank’s call I check my phone, tie on my devil-monkey robe, and speed down the hall to join the Massi breakfast table. Waiting for me at my place across from Gina is a tall glass of citrusy San P., a side of bacon, and a steaming stack of my favorite mini Mickey Mouse cakes. Sitting down, slicing through the silence, I stuff my mouth with three of the all-natural maple syrup soaked rodent ears before Frank gravely says, “Mike, your mother and I want to talk to you about something.” They haven’t touched their food. I stop chewing. This is it. I’m caught. Twisting beneath their suspicious, critical stares my brain scrambles to figure out exactly which details of my secret life they’ve discovered until Frank sighs, “Are you doing drugs?”
I chirp a laugh that shoots gooey crumbs into my palm. Rain or shine, every weekend, when Gina’s at work, Frank gets naked, lights a joint, and paints surrealist still life in his garden. If she knew about the weed, he’d be sleeping at Uncle Cosmo’s. Vigorously shaking my head, I swallow. “No. I’m not on drugs, Dad.”
“It’s just that…” He agonizes, “you’ve seemed … run down lately—”
Wiping my hand on a napkin, I fix him with a guilt-rendering gaze.
“And you carry around that lighter.” Gina flails her hands in a tizzy. “And your clothes smell like smoke!”
“You guys.” I place a comforting, slightly syrupy hand upon hers. “Despite the lack of stimulation in this joke of a town that you moved me to, I don’t do drugs. I promise. Some of Alvin’s friends get stoned while we game. But I do not. Swear to Moz.”
“Oh, okay. Well, that makes sense.” Frank appeals to his wife while squirming in the sticky stinky resin of his own hypocrisy. “But don’t be smoking any of that crap yourself. It will get you hooked and rot your brain.”
“Yeah, and pot impairs your fashion sense.” I eye his hat. “Obviously you don’t need to worry about me. I’m the best dressed kid at school.”
Gina and I share a hand held smile of relief. Frank claps his hands. “Great then!” Rubbing his palms together he wipes them clean of the drug interrogation. “There is something else that I’d like to talk to you about. Pinky! You still haven’t told him what you’d like for your birthday!” He gives me a conspiratorial look. “How about an easel and some canvases? I could give you a few lessons out back?”
In my unwashed Top Man button-up, I’m napping on my bed, dreaming of skinny ties, when my phone buzzes.
“Where are you?” Lynch asks. “I’m in the driveway.”
Running my hand through my hair, I shade my eyes and jog out to the Deville. A monotone voice sings about Russian roulette, as I swing open the door and drop onto the bench seat. Before I can even reach for the volume, Lynch mutes the song.
“Man.” I sigh, as he speeds down our hill. “Last night was legendary, but things have just been going downhill ever since.” I open my compact. “This morning I sit down at breakfast and Frank says, “Your mother and I want to talk to you about something.’”
“Oh shit—” Lynch sounds more concerned than I’d expected.
“Yeah, right?” I bare my teeth. Eh, good enough for my co-workers. I replace the unopened tube of whitener. “So I of course think that he’s about to ask me if I’ve been throwing wild drugged-out sex parties in abandoned hotels, but instead he just asks “are you on drugs?” Can you believe that shit? Frank. But man—”
“Mike. I’ve kinda got some bad news.” Stopping for a thrash kid who’s shucking his flipped bill through the crosswalk, Lynch turns to me.
He just used my old name. Unnerved, I snap shut my mirror.
“Don’t freak out.” Driving on, he keeps his eyes on the road. “But one of my brother’s videos went up on Stella’s blog this morning.”
I freak out.
“Fuck you. Are you serious? How the fuck did that happen? Is it still up?” He stutters half answers as I continue to explicitly agonize. “Fucking Alvin and his fucking camera. Fucking Stella. Why would she do that? We’re fucked man. We’re so fucked…”
Spent, I throw my head back over the seat. Envisioning a future of eternal shopping at Walmart, I stare through mirrored lenses at the peeling sticker blighting the perfectly restored ceiling of his ride. It says ‘The Damned.’
“It’s down, Mike.”
Stop calling me Mike.
“And I don’t think a lot of people saw it.” Lynch swings right, parking next to a red Mini Cooper in the theatre’s lot. “Stella said someone hacked her private video section. But after I saw it, it totally disappeared. I can’t find it anywhere. Alvin swears he never sent anything to her—”
“Was it one of my scenes?” Rubbing my right temple, I picture myself with sweaty red cheeks, crusty pink pants around my ankles and a purple Producer choking in my clenched fist. “Was it the one where I joyed in my own face?”
“The clip only goes like seventeen seconds before it cuts off. And the shot is so tight that you can’t really tell that you’re the one that’s doing it to her.”
“Who?”
“Stella. Well really…” Laughing, he corrects himself. “She was doing it to you. She was on top and totally going for it for the camera. She actually winks and blows it a kiss.”
“If that gets out we’re all so fucked man.” The weight of fear and Sunday crushes my voice “You know that right?”
Paralyzed, I stare.
The Damned
“We’re okay.” I can hear him opening his Mentos. I think he just offered me one. “No one’s talking about it. And I couldn’t even figure out how to pull it down before it was gone. Sucks really … ”
Silently, we both sink into the re-upholstery. The motor churns. Lynch stares at me. I peel the sticker from the roof, and try to make sense of everything: potential party crashers, the pancake incident, McQueen denial, and now, video blog terror. Balling the torn vinyl, I shove it in my shirt pocket. It’s fine. The Dark Grey Premiere was an unparalleled success. It was huge. Everything’s fine.
“Oh.” I scrape goop from under my nail. “I’ve gotta tell you something too. About Al—”
“Yeah?”
I face him. “Or did he already tell you?”
“Is he on drugs?”
“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s not that big of a deal.” I grab my Sherman from the backseat. “It’s just that, he gave me an OJ.”
“Oh yeah. I saw. Star, right?”
“Yeah.” I push open the heavy passenger door with my foot. “ I’d better get in there. I’m a little late —.”
“Mike, don’t freak about the video.” He leans over the armrest. “It’s whatever.”
“It’s fine. I’m over it. Everything’s fine.” I smooth my wrinkled shirt. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He drives away texting and I head toward the ticket booth. Honk honk. “Hey Mike.” Stopping, I turn back toward the lot. Rolling toward the street, steering with his knees, Lynch has both of his arms pushed out his window. He’s giving me two thumbs up.
Sulking behind the hot pretzels, Bickle is we
aring his immutable black and yellow stripes with an exaggerated frown. He looks like a sad-face emoticon. Moz, I pray that this has nothing to do with Stella’s stupid fucking blog. From the door, I head straight for the concessions. Mia probably told him something.
“Mike, man…” Intercepting me, shaking his ratty pony, Philip is wildly waving his hands in a ‘no-no-no’ sort of way. “Don’t even bother coming in. I’m sorry man but you’re fired.”
“Are you serious?” I take off my shades.
Bickle looks like he’s going to cry.
“Man, this is the sixth time that you’ve been late. And you pulled that crap of not showing up on Friday?” My oppressor throws up his hands in fascist hippie disbelief, “What happened to you Mike? I’m sorry, but you’ve left me no choice.”
“Whatever.” Turning to leave, I pull out my phone, and dial, muttering. “A year from now you’ll be bragging about knowing me. I don’t have time for this place anyway.”
Lynch’s phone begins to ring and Bickle bounces up.
“I’m sorry buddy.” Blocking my exit he sympathetically hands me a small grey, animal printed paper bag. “I tried to talk him out of it.” His eyes are glistening like his lips.
“It’s okay man, really. … I’ve just gotta try and catch Lynch.”
Ending an unanswered call, I dig through tissue paper.
“What’s this?” In a daze, I pull out a skinny, black skull tie. How the—?
“I got you something else too but wanted to give this to you early so you could wear it at … well, you know, your birthday party.” He enfolds me in his massive arms. “And I figured that you might need some cheering up today too.”
“You bought me a McQueen tie?” His muscular sweater muffles my voice. “They’re, like, two hundred dollars. That’s too much man.”
