Pop Kids

by Havok, Davey

  “Totally…” My rebellious tongue riots. “It would…” —be my pleasure, be an honor, be rockin’— “…make me happy.”

  “I’d love that.”

  She smiles. And we kiss until my driver barges again.

  As Lynch drives, I send my guests an apologetic message calling off tomorrow’s Premiere on account of work.

  “Wait, so you’re canceling just to hang out with her?” He turns down the song about Ghost Rider. Lynch doesn’t understand the magnitude of the cataclysm he has just witnessed.

  “Holly’s never let anyone touch her. No one. She’s like, totally pure. But I’ve now kissed her thrice.” I hold up three fingers. “She’s a model who loves Moz, Lynch. Her spit tastes like a creamsicle. I’ve gotta hang out with her alone.”

  “I get it. Yeah, that makes total sense.” We skip the turn to my house. Cruising past The Grounds, he wryly translates, “You’d rather maybe get to touch Holly’s other boob than definitely bang twenty girls in one night. You gonna cancel Saturday too?”

  “Phhh, Come on.” My suit smells like cucumbers. “I’m not insane.”

  “Well, if you don’t, I hope Stella shows up.” Passing The D-hole, Lynch parks in front of our towns latest frozen yogurt boutique. “I liked fucking her a lot.”

  “Yeah … me too…” I slide my iPhone from my breast pocket and check my messages. ”She still hasn’t responded to any of my texts.”

  “Maybe she’s already too famous for us.”

  Maybe she is.

  The analogue synths drone through the speakers, rolling like the soundtrack of some twisted old-school video game as Lynch’s headlights pop the pink and green pastels from the YoGoGo logo.

  “I think she’s still in San Francisco.”

  “Wait! Whoa!” He kills the engine and perks up like a cat chauffeur who’s just seen a bird land on the other side of his windshield. “Is that her?”

  “Where?!” I peer through the windows. I see the XIV decal on Volta’s cousin’s Impala, a well dressed vineyard couple ordering dessert from Mr. Chang, a cowboy on an outside bench eating yogurty blue berries with his fingers. “Dude, what—?“

  “Shh, Shh. No. Listen!” Throwing out his hands he cocks his head, hushing like a psychic communing with the dead. “I can hear her. She is still in The Sco. Can you hear her?” His big blue bejeweled eyes question mine. I cup my ear and gravely he reveals, “She’s shouting ‘Blake. Fuck my ass’.”

  “You’re right!” Mournfully, I shake my head. “I can’t believe it. She should be shouting my name.” I perfectly affect her sex voice. “Oh Yeah, Score, Score … Score needs a part in your show. There’s room for one more Baby!”

  Laughing with raucous approval, Lynch swings open his door. While somewhere in SF, Stella is getting her ‘love’ tattoo covered in Blake joy we’ll be here eating YoGoGo.

  “Seriously though, I do hope she’s back on Saturday.” I admit, “It wouldn’t be the same without her.”

  “Totally,” he steps out then leans back into the Caddy. “What flavor do you want?”

  “Whatever you have. Just put gummy bears on mine.”

  He slams the door. I hit speed dial. Her phone doesn’t ring. I hear “I’m a free bitch, baby.” My eyes begin to sting.

  Chapter 52

  By Friday night, everyone but Stella has courteously responded with disappointment to the cancellation. But any thought of her having married Blake, gotten cast alongside DiCaprio in a Scorsese film, and skipped town to live in Hollywood without me, is far from my mind. All that I can think of is Holly and how good I’m going to look when she gets here.

  With my teeth sponged in GO SMiLE and my body misted with a tester that Prius gave me, I throw back my shoulders, adjust my maybe-McQueen tie, then grab Eddie. I moosh her face to my neck.

  “It’s called Angel. How do I smell? Heavenly?”

  She meeps, wriggles, thuds to the hardwood, and my phone buzzes. She’s here!

  Grabbing a nearby lint roller, I frantically remove all traces of my feline affair, flounce out the front door, and confidently plop into Holly’s mint Bug.

  “Hey, Mike.” She tosses her lunchbox to the backseat. In her orange jeans and white hoodie, she looks orange-cream delish. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Oh no problem.” I unbutton my coat to assure that my designer tie is totally visible.

  “You look great.” Looking over her shoulder, backing out of my driveway, she tells me, “I thought that maybe you were gonna wear the pink track suit.” I realize I’ve forgotten both my lighter and my shades.

  Though the D-hole has historically offered little for those with refined diets such as ours, it does provide privacy. Holly slides her little butt into a booth at the back of the empty shop and I head for the counter.

  “Hogan?” I yell toward the back, peering into the glowing treat cases. Mmm, French Crullers. I miss donuts. I haven’t eaten one since I realized there were eggs in them. Woah, he has vegan brownies now.

  “Be there in a hot one!” The scraggly haired owner pops his head into the kitchen window. “Ayyyy Mike!” Recognizing me, he throws open the swinging counter doors. The dusty back roads growl in the old biker’s voice as he embraces me. “It’s been a long time brother. Good to see ya man!” Firmly, he shakes me by the shoulders then hollers toward our booth. “Hey gorgeous. Good to see you again too!”

  Dropping a baggie of loose-leaf tea back into her lunchbox, Holly waves and I smile at my warm welcome. Hogan’s making me look great.

  “Great to see you too man. I’m glad that you’re back.”

  “They can’t keep me down brother.”

  There’s flour on his hands. The pot-leaf tattooed behind the skull on his forearm has faded. But the green lettering is still bold.

  ”That’s Holly.” Dusting my suit, I nod back at my date. “She’s a screenwriter. And an actress. And a model. And a vegan. Can we get a couple of those brownies?” I point to the top row of the case. “And some hot water? She brought her own tea. She only drinks organic herbals.

  “Hell yeah you can!” Hogan laughs and marches back through the swinging doors.

  I’ve only just folded my jacket when he returns to our booth with two brown mugs, two bags of English breakfast, and a pink cardboard box.

  “Here you go kids!” Setting down the treats, Hogan lifts the lid. An assorted dozen is layered below two brownies—one is twice the other’s size. “Compliments of the house!” I read ‘FUCK YOU’ below the skull tattoo as he points to the un-frosted brown brick. “That one’s for you Honey. It’s fresh from the oven. Make sure you don’t get’m confused now, I know your boyfriend here hates walnuts!’ Laughing like a conspirator, Hogan slaps my back.

  “I don’t hate walnuts…” Puzzled, I watch him chuckle back to the kitchen. Lynch is allergic to nuts. Maybe Hogan has us confused.

  “That’s good.” Snatching both brownies, Holly shoves them in her lunchbox and pulls out a loaf of banana nut bread. “…’Cause I made this especially for tonight.”

  In the fluorescence of my old hangout, delicately sipping the black tea that she chose over her private stash, Holly tears through three huge slices as we discuss music, cinema, scripts, and sharks. I’m amazed by her extensive knowledge of sea life.

  “You’d make a really good host for a beach party reality show. Maybe you could start it online if El Fin doesn’t get picked up right away.” I finish off a cruller for old time’s sake. “I bet you could do it a Leo’s place. And Alvin could shoot it … and I could be—”

  “Hey. Wanna go see that 3-D horror movie?”

  “Um … I don’t really feel like being at work tonight.” Sucking my sticky sweet fingers, hoping for 3-D activities within a room from which I wasn’t fired, I haphazardly suggest, ”How ‘bout we go watch a movie at my house?”

  “Okay, sounds good.” Holly latches her lunchbox and stands. “We could stop by my place and get my Planet Earth DVDs. Or maybe we could watch Donnie Dar
ko. I missed most of it last weekend. I’d be into seeing the director’s cut again.”

  “Fabulous.” Thoroughly napkining the saliva and remaining glaze from my hands, I rise to button my coat. “Lynch’s version did have its merits. …” I offer Holly her hoodie. “But I prefer the original too.”

  On the way home, just to make sure that some lost Extra (or Stella) isn’t disappointedly waiting in the WAMU lot, I have Holly drive by The Palace. As we pass Crystal Eyes, I see four tall tees creeping the cracked sidewalks. Fuck. I think these may be the same nasts from last weekend. But I can’t tell. These people all look the same to me.

  “Can I help you guys find something?” Turning down “Killing an Arab,” I lean from the passenger window.

  Holly picks at her brownie as we slowly roll up to the curb.

  “Yeah…” Holding up his pants with one hand, the kid with a blunt behind each ear spits on the concrete then glares. “Are there more fags in this town or just you?”

  “Oh yeah, tons.” I swish my wrist. “But all of us are only into straight guys so you boys should just go back home.”

  As we speed away Holly laughs. Sparks cans hurl toward us and four middle fingers rise up into her review mirror.

  Chapter 53

  We made it. Having just barely escaped being force-fed candy corns, fun-sized Butterfingers, and Gina’s freshest Cherie Cherie selections, I shut my tear-sheet-covered door to lock us in with Moz, various models, and Leo Di. Apologizing for the motherly onslaught, I crawl onto my red comforter, grab my laptop, and lay down next to Holly. We enjoy about twenty-two minutes of a straight film. Then start making out.

  I’d almost entirely lost interest in this delightful PG activity but with Holly kissing is anew—it feels taboo. I haven’t done this with anyone since the early days of The Premieres, since The Pink Room. It feels fabulous.

  Slowly, I slide my hand up her worn grey, remixed D.A.R.E tee, struggling with my hesitancy. My parents are rooms away. It’s fine. Holly thrusts her tongue in my mouth. I squish unexplored boob in my hand. Everything’s fine. My co-star unbuckles my belt. Pulling her to her knees, I liberate her shirt and toss it to the ground. She falls back onto the bed. Her jagged, icy, asymmetrical a-line shatters across my black and white paparazzi pillows. She stares up at me in anticipation. Her black lace bra pleads to be set free. I straddle her, admiring her perfect face, her perfect body, and all her perfection. Then, envious of the pillowcase paps, I grab my phone from its charger. “May I?”

  Holly poses lusciously for the camera. She’s a professional.

  After presenting the stunning stills for her approval, I begin undressing. I loosen my tie, unbutton my shirt, and close myself over the surrendering angel. I brush back her luminous locks.

  “Holly?” Kissing the delicate cucumber-scented spot behind her un-pierced lobe.

  I romantically whisper, “Can you be quiet while we do it?”

  “I want to make you happy Mike.” With meekness usually reserved for only Stella, she sighs. “But I don’t know if I can.”

  “What?” I sit up, shocked to hear her question her natural ability. “Of course you can. I have no doubt. You can make me very happy.” I recklessly toss my shirt on the floor then realize I’ve been right about her all along.

  “It’s just that I—” Looking away like an actress in an enhanced reality TV drama, Holly pauses. Beyond our heavy breaths, the only sound to be heard comes from plates clinking in the kitchen.

  I relieve her from having to make the awkward confession.

  “Wait.” I hopefully ask, “Have you never … Have you only had sex with … toys?”

  Clearly shocked by my insight, she laughs. “Um … well … basically. Yeah.” Struggling to choose her words, she’s looking at me like I have the answers.

  She shouldn’t be embarrassed. She’s like a perfect ten amateur posing for nudes in a sea of silicon.

  “I mean, I’ve fooled around with people … I guess…”

  “Not even OJ?”

  I knew it. She is pure: A virgin. She’s like a saint. She’s like Morrissey.

  “Nope.” Looking up at me, she deliberately shakes her head. “Never gotten it … but I’m willing to give.” Sliding out from between my legs, she kneels up, throws her arms around my neck, and professes something that will haunt me for the rest of my sexual career. “Mike, I really like you. I wouldn’t want it to be anyone but you.”

  For the first time, that old-timey song “It ‘Has’ to Be ‘Me’” starts playing. Sinatra is insisting that my acclaimed Producer be the first to go where no boy or girl or DJ or thirty-three year old casting agent has ever gone before.

  “Fabulous.” I push her back down to the paps and passionately recommence our improvisation.

  For all the Greats and Extras that I’ve worked with, I’ve never been as inspired as I am right now. I unhook Holly’s overflowing a-cups. This was always meant to be. I toss her bra into the surreal intimacy of my bedroom. It feels like we’ve been typecast. I cup bare side-boob and suck. She must soak her nips in agave. Reaching down, cautiously, as if trying to pet a strange cat, I delicately begin unbuttoning her fly.

  “That’s it! Fucking killer!” In a director’s chair, backlight by studio cans, wearing silver lamé lingerie, Alvin films from the shadowy corner of my room. I suck in my cheeks. “Keep it slow, rom-com. Ease it in there.”

  Shifting her hips, Holly assists, and together we slip her loaded pockets down past her knees. We kiss for an eternity. Almost one full minute of pure make-out seduction burns away before she places her hand on the top of my head and gently pushes. The camera boy chants, “OJ, OJ, OJ…”

  Like a cat cleaning traces of spilt soymilk, I descend. I lick her neck. Her collarbone. I explore the sweet succulence of her soft, neglected left nipple. She pushes me further. I taste my way down her smooth, un-trodden trail of happiness. Firmly pressing her immaculate skin, I slide my fingers over her soft belly, her waist, under the thin black strip of lace hugging her right hip, Everything is coming up cucumbers. I graze my lips a few r-rated inches below her belly button. She pushes me further. My heavy breath beats against the cotton barrier to her unplumbed sanctum. She trembles, hooks her panties, and tears them down.

  I see Moz. And the sound of my old name cuts through the rhapsody.

  “Michael!”

  “Yeah Mom,” I yell back, totally annoyed.

  “It’s awfully quiet in there! No babies please!”

  Sinatra has silenced.

  “I thought you wanted grandkids!” I protest, and Holly’s blissful expression changes to horror. Gesticulating wildly for her to stay put, I whisper, “It’s fine.”

  Bucking me, she springs up to find her bra.

  “Don’t be smart!” Gina Scolds from the kitchen.

  “Mom, we’re watching a movie!” I stand to yell through the locked door. “…And I just had to pause the best part!”

  My Producer, still fully prepared to start the scene, grazes the wood between Morrissey and Moss.

  “Oh! Sorrrrry … do you kids want some fresh pumpkin pie? We’ve got cider…”

  By the time I convince Gina that we have no interest in seasonal snacks, Holly’s standing next to me, completely dressed and ready to leave.

  “Mike, I’m sorry.” My overdressed paramour whispers, “I thought I could, but I just can’t with your parents here. It’s weird.”

  “Yeah, totally. I get it,” I take both of her hands. “We can finish this tomorrow. I promise my folks won’t be at The Palace.” I smile.

  My Producer stares up at us, frowning.

  “Actually, I don’t think I’m going to go tomorrow.”

  “Why not?” I recoil. My tummy hurts. I feel like Jesus kicked me in the nuts.

  “I think I’m just gonna stay in, and lounge.” Her expectant, unearthly, dilated green eyes are disabling. She gently shrugs. “Maybe you can come over?”

  She’s wants me to cancel another party. I�
��m bound by the female Morrissey’s gaze. I suppose I could. We could sneak into The Palace alone. Fulfill our destiny in Heaven. Maybe Al could shoot it. She half-smiles. But what about my guests? My reputation?

  “I wish I could.” Dropping her hands, I run mine through my hair. “But tomorrow … It’s gonna be huge. Bigger than Dark Grey,” I stammer. “And I mean … I’m the host. I just—.”

  “I understand.” Holly wraps her arms around my waist and kisses me. “I really should go.”

  Alone in my room after walking Holly to her car, I take off my pants, open my Mac, and pull up a dorm room solo. I fast forward through a strip tease. The small-boobed bleached-blonde spreads her thighs and suck-slickens a red silicone rod. The soft voice of Old Blue Eyes is interrupted. Threats are being whispered. “We’re gonna out you and your party, fag.” The college girl shoves the toy inside her and I immediately release my pent up joy. It flies wildly from my relieved Producer. The hateful vows subside. I wipe my misfire from the monitor, clear my history, plug in my phone, pocket square my production house, and then crawl into bed.

  It has to be me.

  Chapter 54

  The Fuck-it Premiere starts off well. In freshly washed Y-3 sweats, a Bickle-for-McQueen tie, a black Top Man suit coat, and a fantastic Massi mood, I greet our overwhelming turn out. Hot unfamiliar girls looking like flashers with flowers are coming to the corner planters and introducing themselves in between the whispered details of my almost perfect date. Lynch accepts a Germs sticker from an Extra wearing a black shoelace choker. She pins a Bona Drag button on my lapel. I light her cigarette. She licks me then vanishes in the smoke screen.

  “Man, that’s crazy.” Peeling the waxy paper back, Lynch pats a white vinyl square onto the breast of his black hoodie. “It sucks that she didn’t come tonight. I would love to see you DV Holly. And I could have been her equally unforgettable number two. … I mean, if she really is a virgin and not just totally lying.”