Dead Stars

by Bruce Wagner

  the tomgirl gal rushed over, and a few stragglers too, half-smiling not knowing if it was a joke, Heather saying

  shouldn’t I tell someone, who should I tell? (half-smiling/half-spooked as Telma backs up in shock & embarrassment then falls on her ass but keeps backing up crab-like) WHO SHOULD I TELL??????!!!!!!!!!

  . . .

  On the long walk back to the car, all Gwen could do was ask her daughter why.

  When Telma said she thought it would help get her on the show (tho her logic was torqued & perilous), Gwen’s heart broke again. It broke all day long, every beat like a bone china teacup shattering against a wall.

  A golf cart headed toward them, not from the soundstage but from the direction they’d originally come. Gwen saw the shaven head from a distance and knew it was Ryan Murphy. When Gwen told Telma who it was, her face dilated in tiny ecstasies.

  He pulled up, smiling.

  A tiny girl sat in front, with his asst & a mom in back.

  “Sorry we missed you!” said Ryan.

  Ryan shook hands with Telma from the cart. He turned to the tiny girl, who had some kind of harelip. The mom seemed to have something going on in that area as well.

  “Gwen & Telma Ballendyne? Meet Melanie & Aleisha Hunter. You 2 ‘single ladies’ have a lot in common.” He spoke directly to Telma now. “Aleisha’s a breast cancer survivor. Melanie, how old was she when she was diagnosed?”

  “She was two.”

  “Two-years-old,” said Ryan, his sensuous lips in pouty incredulity. “I’ve heard of the terrible 2s . . . but that is ridiculous!”

  (Ryan’s relationship with Melanie & Aleisha was such that all seemed completely comfortable with him making ‘light.’)

  “She’s 6 now—aren’t you, Aleisha? Our Aleisha happens to be the youngest breast cancer survivor in the world. We’re on our way to introduce her to the cast. Do you two have time to come back for a little lunch?”

  EXPLICIT

  [Jerzy]

  Spurts, Illustrated

  Jerzy

  got lucky & snatcherazzi’d Amanda Seyfried (27) sliding out of a friend’s Tesla at the Brentwood Mart (that rare passenger seat honeyshot!)—no panties. He thought of photoshopping a kite string because at this time, Harry round the Ovaries was paying a premium for Ragtime pics. HoneyRagtimers! was a new link celebrating what Harry, authentic Mad Men-era-ish madman that he was, still, in conversation, quaintly called the monthlies AKA the red meanies, showcasing rag hags of the week (subheading: “They Got The World On A String!”), a riff on those pukeworthy stars-are-just-like-you-&-me features in the newsstand tabloids—pics of Tobey Maguire pumping his own gas, Demi Lovato scratching her own ass, Lena Headey leaving Ikea, Shailene Woodley leaving Café Gratitude, iCarly jaywalking, Jared Leto drilling for oil in his left nostril—Harry’s banner victoriously proclaimed “They get periods!” Jerzy got eight grand for the Seyfried, a bit higher than usual because on closer inspection the pussyhair revealed itself to have a week’s growth from a recent shave. Harry could be mollified but never satisfied. His latest dreamquarry was Her Anexo-Bulimic Hardbodied Highness Kate (unhairy around the) Middleton. Ever since he saw pix of her bikini bod on a yacht off Ibiza he coveted a royal honeyshot! “A fella can cream can’t he?”

  Jerzy knew how to keep HM happy. What he did was he snapped all the lolitas—the Chloës & the Elles & all the single hailees, the stylists always lagerfelded em up like jonbenets for premières & whatnots in freebie Miu-Miu/Marchesa/Prabal Gurung (Miss Hailee), Stella/Dior (Chloë M), YSL couture (Miss “Sally Draper”—Harry said he’d pay 25,000 for Kiernan Shipka’s honeyshot!), Rodarte/Philip Lim/D&G/Ferretti/Chanel (Miss Elle), you could usually count on the ensembles being too revealing/sophisticated for their age, young money cash money honeyshot!s were easy pickins—though you could forget about a no-panties pic, the kids always wore panties, they were way too far as yet from that rebellious stage, probably for the best because an all-the-single-hailees pantiless honeyshot! would’ve given Harry an instant coronary.

  In the meanwhile, Jerzy had his pumped-up kicks cause no one in their wildest dreams could’ve guessed he was angling for a young harpie’s Hairpie around the Middle honeyshot! . . . . . . there was just no legal market for them. To make matters slightly more conducive to our patient, young money cash honey-seeking underagerazzo, all the clueless single hailees were of course as yet unschooled in the proper methodology, the Emily Postmenstrual etiquette of exiting a leather backseat whilst holding a clutch over Area 51, a maneuver that was the most-favored by publicists, the latter-day equivalent of the primly self-protective Bunny Dip of bygone days. Jerzy knew that H around the M could never post underage honeyshot!s for fear of prosecution—it was written into their secret handshake contract that any on-the-fly prepube portraits went straight to Harry’s private reserve, do not pass goo.

  A wine bought young & stored will cost less than to purchase the same wine once it is matured. It can also give great pleasure in anticipation (each time you check your cellar, you will see bottles growing in both taste & value) & when opened has a sense of occasion about it. Imagine the romance when opening a bottle at a dinner party when you mention how long you’ve been saving it & remember where & when you bought it . . .

  The fearless bossman always bossed up & said Get em!

  One of the things that kept him on his toes was Harry’s intriguing unpredictability. Last week, Jerzy brought him a treat, no big thing, a little aperitif, just a snatchshot soupçon of Chloë Sevigny, not meant to be anything more than a cordial, a nice port, a nighttime sweet left under a hotel pillow—less prosaically, a retriever bringing his master a dead bird.

  Harry erupted: “That’s fucking coals to Newcastle! That’s bringing cunts to an OB/GYN! She is a hooker. Have you seen her blowing Vincent Gallo? That’s a pair to draw to. You oughta go on the internet a little more often, my friend, you’ll get an education. What the fuck was it called? That movie he directed? You can watch the scene on the internet. That phony prick . . . . . Brown Bunny! Vincent Gallo directed a piece of shit called Brown Bunny, starring his girlfriend. That slimy piece of shit—can you imagine his personal hygience?—she should have sued his skinny ass. But she didn’t, cause she’s a whore. Vincent Gallo: actor, model, director, phoney. I’m telling you, the guy was the James Franco of his time! Go on the internet, go, you’ll see her gobble-gobble. & this ain’t a sex tape, we’re not talking about a Kardashian, we’re talking about something voluntary. & pretentious, which in my book is the worst of sins.

  “& don’t ever bring me pictures of that cocksucker’s cunt again!”

  . . .

  His half-sister was crashing with him and Tom-Tom.

  She told him never to call her Jerilynn, only Reeyonna or ReeRee, Hey fine with me, sis, remember who you’re talkin to? Jerzy who used to be Jerry Jr. She said he could call her Ree, too, or Yonna or Reezy. Yeah yeah, just don’t call me Al, or maybe it’s ‘You can call me Al,’ or whatever it is. Ree was pregnant and moved out of MoMA’s after MoMA told her about the grand theft art-o, lootin’ the poor kid’s legacy. Looks like l’il homie finally got what he’d been telling her for years: that MoMA’s a douchebag. But he didn’t gloat about it. Funny how nobody ever sees the truth till they get hit in the pocketbook, to borrow an antique phrase of Harry’s.

  Jerzy was sort of attracted to her, speed made him attracted to everything, & when Reeyonna wasn’t there, he and Tom-Tom (who lyked to dyke) joked about an all in the family 3-way. ReeRee was hot but even hotter to Tom-Tom, being that she was already beginning to show. On weekends, ReeRee’s black boyfriend stayed over and Jerzy & Tom-Tom listened to them fuck through the wall, then Jerzy & Tom-Tom would fuck like rutting dingoes while the teen lovebirds were all moanballing and mattresspringing. Fun! The black bf was hot too, though not to Jerzy. Not really. But with a little fairydusting of the ol’ spackle m’gackle Jerzy could for sure find himself jacking to a thought bubble of the boy’s brown washboard abs, im
agining that sleeping giant, that eggplant, that Deep Purple napping below deck, with its rutabaga-, deflated punching bag–sized scrote, the whole deal fisting up from the loamy stank of Jockey Gardens.

  One time the 3 of them—Tom-Tom, Jerzy & ReeRee—watched porn after the black bf went home. The internet was on the big plasma in the living room. They smoked dro & sat on beanbag chairs. Tom-Tom wanted to blow Ree Witherspoon’s mind (she liked annoying Reeyonna by calling her that, but it was really only more like Reeyonna got half-annoyed because she liked the attention though she’d never admit it, liked to be half-teased by an attentive dyke even though she didn’t run that way), she wanted to play some XXX shit because she knew ReeRee wasn’t a pornhead. So first she went on one of the milkmaid sights & they watched pregnant chicks pump breast milk, tittie squirters, &tc. Reeyonna said it was disgusting. But Tom-Tom had a plan, a ground control to major plan, Jerzy couldn’t believe what she cum up with, man a new low in frickin depravity. Fun!

  This video they were suddenly looking at was super strange, shot outdoors, somewhere like up on Mulholland. There must have been 40 chicks milling around, just chatting away like they were getting mani-pedis, all nude except for high heels. Put em in jogging clothes & they’d look like a bunch of moms shootin shit at a dog run. The chicks on the frontlines were the only ones not being casual, these were like savage bitches they had this savage energy and they were all gathered around this Kreayshawnlooking white girl who was kneeling on the ground on a towel so she wouldn’t scrape her knees, & this frontline of chicks was circling her like she was frickin prey, man they looked badass. And these chicks, they’re all, like, mildly jacking, standing straight up & mildly jacking, it’s like they’re about to start a race, you know, gentlemen start your engines . . . then one of em, black chick, nasty-ass Tina Turner type, straight outta Compton, naked except for heels breaks from the line & struts forward toward White Girl like a singer taking—owning—the stage in the final finals of The X Factor—The XXX Factor! gets real close to White Girl like she’s gunna do a solo, which she does, drum solo, she Han Solo hand solo hand so low starts to beat off, fanning that pussyclit with stiff longnailed lacquered nasty-ass fingers man she brutally works it, arm moving like a piston, then starts yelling too, fucking Zulu-style! & her chorus line buddies join in, they’re jacking but still casual, you know, they don’t want to steal their sister’s thunder, they’re not at bat yet, they’re still on deck, &, like, they don’t want to, you know, fuck up their turn when it comes, they don’t want to fuck it up by coming before they’re at bat, but this Zulu shit even got the attention of the desultory mani-pedi chicks six rows back, the Tina is screaming & beating herself & cussing out the pathetic cowering Kreayshawn———& then WTF!!! some watery shit frickin GUSHES from the Tina’s hole, man it is a horizontal geyser, even Jerzy who’s seen a lot of porno never seen anything like it & ReeRee says O my God! What is that? but Tom-Tom is not forthcoming with an explanation. Ree’s eyes are glued to the screen anyway (whose wouldn’t) (Jerzy watches Tom-Tom get off, watching Ree watching), man that Tina’s like a broken fire hydrant, she’s in White Girl’s face, standing right over it, straddling the mousy chick’s already soaked, dirty blond Kreayshawnscalp, the Tina’s bending her knees, fuckin awesome quads, like she trains for the event by doing squats at the gym, she’s got this tuffskin, murderous cool-looking face, & lets another torrent rip, fuckin hydrant-hydrosquirts on the retard cracker, Reeyonna still looking on in transfixed fascination, saying now, “Is it pee? What IS that? Is it her pee?——” Tom-Tom, ever the old pro/black widow, white black widow, keeping on the downlow, saying nothing as the fountainspray diminishes though man it is still jetting out, Jerzy wondering/marveling where it’s all coming from. The rearguard of mani-pedi freaks walks forward now like fresh infantry, like they used to in the Civil War, those old paintings, soldierly stepping up to replace their dead/bayonet musketwounded/spent comrades, all impressively nude & heel-shod. And they commence to beat off together, 5 bottle Rockettes at a time, blurry piston machine arms! then OUT pours the . . . fluid, granted not as much as the Tina who clearly was the heavyweight, the legend, the headliner, superstar spurtswoman of the day cant touch that & the watery shit (not called Patricia) is like jellyfish/insecticide dusting White Girl’s idiot face, blond hair stuck & slick from waterbombs seeming called on command. Jerzy wanted to ask Tom-Tom if the squirty shit was the result of the bitches cumming, or could they get it to squirt without cumming, but he didn’t. Later.

  Tom-Tom, exspurt in such circus anomalies, bless her , Tom-Tom then did proceed to explain the gynephenomenon to her sponsee, explain the ABCs/sex biological ed of it, coolly, calmly, clearheaded/clinically, ol’ pro Tom-Tom, reeling in the fish by playing the dispassionate tutor, she might just as well have been explaining to a child why the sun comes up in the morning and the moon rises at night—he knew it was exciting for Tom2 to be schooling Ree Witherspoon suchwise.

  Jerzy snorted adderoxys off the base of his thumb whilst pondering a mystery right up there with the pyramids and Stonedhenge. Namely, Where the fuck did somebody find FORTY chicks who could squirt? I mean, just the logistics of getting em all in one place at one time . . . they couldn’t have been paid much, probably some weren’t paid nuthin at all . . . doing it for the love of the art I guess, you know, like, the love of the game. Jerzy himself never had the luck to fuck a squirter not even a diet squirt & wondered why, because he’d consorted with a fair amount of kinky ladies. So it did seem all the moreso to be no mean feat, tho he surmised that if your job was casting porn you were likely to have a file with 1000s of names, contact #’s and preferences—a Who’s Who of who swallows, creampies, facials, fists, who DPs, grannies, shemales, ladyboys, gangbangs & BDSMs, who pisses, fatties, dwarfs&midgets, who racials, rape-o’s, monster cocks, tortures, toilets, who old mans, & who so on & so on & so forth. Jerzy further surmised that if you were responsible for finding talent (not backroomcastingcouch sort of walk-in talent), you could probably do goo diligence & round up a squirtsquad.

  But still—

  Forty of em!

  Sheesh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Reeyonna was uncomprehending and shocked, oblivious that Tom-Tom & her half-brother were getting off on watching her trip. Suffice to say that by now the cretinous, kneeling, whitetrash white-thrash’d blond was drenched. Jerzy was in the speedball sweetspot. He even jacked a little over his trousers making sure his sister wasn’t looking. He went on an extended fantasy, like, the cops arrive on Mulholland but the others disperse & only White Girl is arrested. She’s a runaway. The police call her parents who live in Utah. Super Mormons. Morm & dad fly in to bail her out, they’re not really understanding what was her crime, & a cop starts to tell them what she was doing at the time of the arrest but decides that a picture’s worth 1000 words. & Jerzy imagines himself gathered with the snickering cops on the other side of a huge 2-way mirror watching Morm & Dad look on as Tina & her Amazon sistuhs firehose their precious baby———————————Reeyonna now saying she heard about something like this, but never actually saw it—Jerzy saw the wheels beginning to turn, Tom-Tom’s strategy already working, the brilliance of it being that half the battle was getting ReeRee to start talking about the pervy shit instead of just walking away in repulsion—ReeRee said a friend said Larry Fishburne’s daughter did it in a movie, squirted, & then Reeyonna’s eyes mesmerically wandered back to the screen and she said, “This is so completely gross!”

  Jerzy, sinuses burning, took in the lovely pastoral scene, his ½sis still glued to the set in spite of herself, even tho the rest of her body was simultaneously trying to back itself out of the room&out the door, Tom-Tom’s eyes goo’d to ½sis, & glazed over too; he was afraid he might do a little gushing himself.

  . . .

  Bristol Farms over on Beverly Boulevard & Doheny was always very good to him.

  He sat in his car & got em like sitting ducks: Lily Collins . . . Jon Cryer . . . Aly
son Hannigan . . . Tyler Perry (with bodyguards).

  He drove back to his spot on Burton Way and parked.

  Walked to Sprinkles for cupcakes.

  Wandered into Gagosian . . . . . . . .

  Oh!

  . . . . . . . . . large fotos on the walls snapped by a Jap named Sugimoto—b&w pre-tsunami seascapes— + pics of empty movie theaters. (All you saw were seats & screens, also pre-tsunami.) It was spooky, especially the seascapes, because when Jerzy looked all he could see in his head was the tsunami porn he watched on youtube after that shit went down, it really did a number on him, he was high in his room for 2 wks watching that 10-story blackwater tube of water breaching the sea wall, trapped japs fluttering like moths in sealed tombs of swept away cars. The big wave still gave him the creeps. One of the things that he still thought of at least one time a day was the people on the roofs of five-story buildings, which is exactly where he would have gone, he knew himself, he’d have totally thought “I’ll be safe on the roof of this 5-story building” but when the camera came back the building was underwater & gone. That always hit him in the gut because he knew that kind of denial/fantasy life/poor planning—an erroneous feeling the story will have a happy ending, of overall safety stemming from the childish view that reality can be regulated by thought/wish/need, that everything that happens is all a big dream he can choose to wake up from whenever he desires—Jerzy knew this feeling he carried around in daily life was nothing but a terrible bullshit weakness in character, a spineless character flaw born of pathological lassitude/inertia that would prevent him from ever becoming an adult, from becoming a man, from taking responsibility for his actions, he knew that he was missing whatever that thing is that fully grown men had, probably the same trait that would allow him w/o compunction to turn in friends & family if the fascists ever took over. He felt the familiar twinge at the end of this train of thought, & felt queasy.