guy: You shouldn’t doubt yourself.
You could be extremely valuable to the project.
It’s about this woman, Sophie, who’s got all these people in her life who want to rescue her, only she doesn’t need any help.
She’s doing fine until their judgments get in the way.
We’ve got—
kylie: (to audience) —and he mentions this hot, young director.
A guy you’d know.
(to guy) Well, it sounds interesting.
(to audience) He hands me his card.
“Producer.”
He says he’ll email me “sides.”
Then he walks into his appointment.
I almost collapse I need to scratch myself so bad.
I guess this stuff happens every day.
I was already discovered once working in the drive-through window at McDonald’s.
I could be rediscovered at the sexual health clinic waiting for anti-fungal cream.
Look how far we’ve come.
Click me at the Slippery Dick production office, the fluorescently lit lair of my not-pimp: Johnnie Cockring.
The office is crammed full of every type of porn you could possibly imagine.
The alkaline tinge of stale semen flavours the air.
Johnnie Cockring was once a smart kid out of law school.
He was married and on the fast track at some firm.
Only problem was his pro bono work.
His specialty was representing desperate sex workers in exchange for . . . you get the picture.
He made a video about it back in the nineties and his wife divorced him and his firm fired him.
Now he represents porn stars.
Johnnie sits in his chair behind his desk in a black silk shirt that looks like it could be used to dress up the bad guy in a high school musical.
A few wispy strands of hair sit across his glistening bald head.
This cream really works.
Not a titch.
johnnie cockring smells his fingers.
johnnie cockring: Kylie, did you tell the stunt cock that you loved him today?
kylie: It wasn’t the stunt cock but that definitely makes a better story.
johnnie cockring: I laughed my dick-sack off when I heard that.
Why’d you do that for?
kylie: Post-feminist expression.
johnnie cockring: Kylie, you’re special.
Like a beautiful . . . retarded kid.
I mean that in a nice way.
You get it.
Did you play nice with Stephen Steelcock?
That’s an important relationship for me.
kylie: Yeah, fine.
While I’ve got your attention, can I talk to you about something?
johnnie cockring cracks his knuckles.
johnnie cockring: Oh good, yeah.
Business.
These guys from that website keep emailing.
They’re doing the, ahem, forced entry piece.
kylie: I’m not interested.
johnnie cockring: You sure?
It’s a lot of money.
kylie: I told you, I don’t care.
Those guys are creeps.
johnnie cockring: Did you get a bad vibe off one of them?
kylie: (to audience) Johnnie Cockring likes me to believe that he has a really protective eye on me.
johnnie cockring: Because if you got a bad vibe, just tell me.
We won’t do it.
kylie: I don’t want to get raped.
How’s that?
johnnie cockring: Oh, that.
kylie: Yeah, that.
johnnie cockring: Kylie, can I be real with you for a second?
kylie: Please, Johnnie, be real.
johnnie cockring: You’ve got a beautiful face.
But the pretty loses value.
These pervs . . . they’ve seen you do all the regular stuff.
There’s less demand for it.
We’ve gotta start expanding your repertoire or . . . now if you can’t do it you can’t do it.
I’d never—look at me: I’d never ask you to do something you don’t wanna do.
kylie: You ask me to do stuff I don’t wanna do all the time.
Rape.
Urolagnia—
johnnie cockring: This is not about urolagnia.
I mentioned urolagnia to you one time and you harp on it as if they’re the only words I’ve ever uttered . . .
And it was a good opportunity . . . and I could still get it if you’d reconsider your fundamental position on—
kylie: Johnnie, fuck off.
johnnie cockring: Just doing my job.
You wanted to talk to me about something?
What is it, a gig?
kylie: A movie.
But not a porn movie.
A movie movie.
I met this guy at an opening.
He said there was a part in something I could audition for.
He knows I do porn.
johnnie cockring: I bet he does.
johnnie considers, exploring his fingers with his nostrils.
This doesn’t sound like something I’d be interested in.
kylie: Something you’d be interested in?
johnnie cockring: Yeah.
This is one of those distractions.
You’re talented.
Anyone can see that—and I mean anyone.
I just don’t think this is a good idea.
kylie: You shouldn’t doubt me.
I could be very valuable to them.
johnnie cockring: Kylie.
How long have I known you for?
Where were you?
Working at McDonald’s with that sexy fucking visor on.
Remember that?
What were you, nineteen?
Eighteen?
Seventeen?
You’re like a daughter.
You’re special to me.
I just don’t want to see you get hurt.
kylie: You would let three guys piss on me but I can’t do one audition?
johnnie cockring: Yeah.
kylie: Why?
johnnie cockring: Because it sounds like bullshit.
Kylie—you mean the world to me.
You’re my best friend.
But you’re no fucking movie star.
Okay?
Don’t cry.
Please don’t cry.
kylie: I’m not going to cry.
I’m going around you.
johnnie cockring: We need to talk.
The company is called Slippery Dick.
It’s not called Lippy Bitch.
You’re out doing what you want to be doing and what you need to be doing is what I want you to be doing.
Or we’re going to have to take another look at the face of this thing.
kylie: Can’t you let this go?
johnnie cockring: I could.
But why would I?
kylie: (to audience) He lets his words hang in the air.
As if I might not do it.
As if I might say:
“No, Johnnie.
This compromises my dignity.
This will make me feel bad for much longer than the two hours the shoot takes.”
(to johnnie) Okay, Johnnie.
I’ll do the rape if I can do this other audition.
johnnie cockring: All right!
That’s my girl!
kylie offers the card to johnnie.
kylie: Here’s his card.
johnnie cockring: Oh, you’re calling him yours
elf.
kylie: I am?
johnnie cockring: Oh yeah.
I mean, unless you’re willing to do something for me . . .
kylie: (to audience) He rolls his computer chair back, exposing that he’s had his penis in his hands for our entire conversation.
(to johnnie) No, thanks.
I’ll call them myself.
With soft, moist fingers he recoils his penis, zips his fly.
johnnie cockring: Suit yourself; but, honestly, I have no idea what you see in those people.
kylie: Yeah I’m starting to think I’m a poor judge of character.
johnnie cockring: Later.
Oh, Kylie?
i love you!
johnnie bursts out laughing.
kylie: (to audience) Click me in the middle of the night.
Ayla’s had a nightmare.
ayla: I had a dream where you had to go away forever but it was so much money that you had to.
And I could never come visit, ever, no matter what, forever.
f-o-r-e-v-e-r.
kylie: Awe, snowflake, I would never do anything that meant I had to be away from you forever.
ayla: Will you make pancakes?
kylie: It’s three o’clock in the morning, snowflake.
You want pancakes right now?
ayla: Yes.
Right now.
kylie: (to audience) I turn the lights on in the kitchen.
I take out a glass bowl and a frying pan.
ayla: Mom, how come I don’t have a dad?
kylie: You do have a dad: me, I’m your dad.
ayla: You know what I mean though.
Who’s my dad, reproduction-wise?
kylie: Your dad was a soldier.
We fell in love in high school.
And that’s when you were born.
To take care of us, your . . . daddy went off to fight in the war.
And one day an IUD blew him up.
He was so brave and kind, how could I possibly ever love another?
(to audience) Click me on Oprah.
I know this probably wasn’t the coolest thing to say, but the truth isn’t exactly going to make her feel like a beautiful, unique snowflake.
When she was born I told my fuck-wad high school boyfriend that she was Johnnie Cockring’s.
Then I told Johnnie Cockring she was my fuck-wad high school boyfriend’s.
Neither followed up.
Click back.
ayla: I miss him, you know.
kylie: He loved you very much.
And he’s watching down from heaven.
ayla: He saw me having oral s-e-x.
kylie: He forgives you.
Eat your pancakes, baby.
ayla: I love you, Mom.
kylie: I love you too, snowflake.
(to audience) Click me in my big life-changing audition with Guy Producer, the handsome young studio exec.
In his private studio office, there’s fruit and bottled water.
On the desk: a camera, always a camera.
Behind the camera: Guy Producer’s warm blue eyes.
My crinkled photocopied sides have “Sophie” highlighted in blue.
“Sophie makes an Internet sex video to market herself.”
I guess it never occurred to Sophie that making an Internet sex video only qualifies you to make more Internet sex videos.
I’m going to be perfect for this.
And then that thing, that little breath that starts somewhere deep, warms my diaphragm and dances up my spine and raises the hairs on the back of my neck: it’s spreading into my knees, my feet, and my eyes are focused.
If I do this right everything changes forever.
f-o-r-e-v-e-r.
It doesn’t get any more real than this.
I’m a breath away from being a movie star.
guy: You look beautiful.
kylie: Tell me about your movie.
guy: It’s about this absolutely beautiful woman.
Ethereal, otherworldly.
She makes some fucked-up decisions and, sure, bad shit happens to her; but she refuses to be a victim.
kylie: (to audience) We read.
Fuck . . . acting . . .
Click me in the audition where . . . my big Hollywood dreams . . . are slipping away from me line . . . by . . . garbled . . . line . . .
Click to my yeast infection watching from the back row.
itchia: omg, you couldn’t act your way out of a paper bag—which is exactly where you should be right now.
Where’d you learn to act?
Oh, right, the Royal Conservatory of Porn . . .
You better let me take this one.
kylie: (to audience) Click back.
(to guy) I have an idea: Why don’t we improvise a bit?
guy: We really need to see the text as it’s written.
kylie: I just feel like I can show you way more than what’s written.
She sits on guy’s lap.
Like, for example, don’t you think this brings out a more intimate side of me?
You don’t have to squirm; I want you to be comfortable.
It’s just you and me and the camera.
Aren’t you going to love capturing this little moment forever and ever?
guy: I guess so . . .
kylie: Cool.
And do you think it’s just a little bit cooler if I move a little bit on top of you?
guy: That is cool.
kylie: Are you going to get me this part?
guy: Uh . . . fuck it, why not?
kylie: (to audience) I do it.
I nail this role and I nail this producer, and I don’t regret it for a second.
I walk into the sun, smiling.
Everything is going to be great.
I’ve got a hold on the mainstream.
I’m not just a porn star.
I am an actress.
Click me in my car.
I’m stopping at home to reapply the cream.
Itchia blows smoke in my face.
itchia: Oh my god, if you think you can stop me with vaginal zit cream you have no idea who you’re dealing with.
kylie: (to audience) Click me in my living room.
Something is wrong.
There are cops everywhere.
Diane is sitting on my sofa drinking tea.
Her key, her pick-up-Ayla-drop-her-off-any-time key, sits on the glass coffee table.
A woman in a pantsuit sees me.
sanchez: My name is Detective Sanchez.
Are you Ayla’s mom?
kylie: (to audience) Detective Sanchez has high cheekbones and broad lips that pop off the sides of her face, and she’s talking really slow like I’m five years old.
(to sanchez) Is she okay?
sanchez: She’s fine.
We came here and assessed that Ayla was in immediate danger.
Your mother found a vial of white powder in her bathroom today.
She was worried about you driving.
You look like you’re in some discomfort.
kylie’s been scratching herself.
kylie: Where is Ayla?
sanchez: We did a test on that vial, which indicated heroin.
When we arrived here we found a similar vial in your bedroom.
kylie: Diane, you fucking bitch.
diane: You have no right to talk to me like that.
sanchez: Please calm down.
You can’t make this better right now; you can only make it worse.
kylie: You shameless fucking cunt!
(to audience) I lunge at her.
The cops ta
ckle me.
diane: I have to do what’s best for Ayla.
I always will.
kylie: You’re psycho, Diane!
You’re fucking crazy!
diane: You’re a drug-addicted prostitute and unfit as a mother.
kylie: Click me while I get booked.
I’m locked in a windowless room under fluorescent lights.
I can imagine how my skin looks.
The Styrofoam coffee cup on the table has ink around the edges from my fingerprints.
itchia smokes a cigarette.
itchia: Now you’ve done it: you’ve lost your daughter.
You are worthless.
You are pathetic.
You are stupid.
Now you’ve done it: you’ve lost your daughter.
You are worthless.
You are pathetic.
You are stupid.
Now you’ve done it . . .
kylie scratches her vagina. The door opens. sanchez clears her throat.
sanchez: Are you masturbating?
kylie: No.
I need my cream.
I’m scratching.
sanchez: Where is it?
kylie: On my vagina.
sanchez: I mean the cream.
kylie: In my purse.
sanchez: They didn’t give that back?
Hold on.
kylie: (to audience) I reapply in the bathroom.
Call it a touch-up.
Back in the windowless room, Detective Sanchez asks me if I’m good.
Then tells me:
sanchez: State your name for the record.
kylie: (to audience) I tell her my information.
She stares at the screen.
sanchez: Your daughter was remanded to state custody today when your mother found your drugs and assessed that you were driving impaired.
Is that correct?
kylie: No, how about: my crazy psychotic bitch of a mother found her own drugs in her own apartment and was so wasted she forgot.
That woman is dangerous.
Put that.
sanchez: Are you a sex worker?
kylie: Well then, here we are.
That’s what this is about, is it?
sanchez: This is about Ayla’s well-being.
kylie: Then if it’s for Ayla’s well-being: yes.
I do porn.
I’m a sex worker, okay?
I pay taxes and my job is completely legal.
sanchez: Do you think you provide an ideal atmosphere for a child?
kylie: Yes.
I do.
My daughter is loved.
She has a good home.
She eats well and does her fucking homework and Mommy has sex to pay for it all.
Huff & Stitch Page 6
