.
::
Giggling
::
Next table over there's an infant who can't stop staring at his
face. It's the beard. Babies just can't get over beards. It's
fucking bizarre, all that hair on a face. Fucks everything up in
their little heads. Roy mugs as he tries to close the deal. Look,
he's saying into the cell phone. Look. I know. I know. It's part
of the fuckin' Honey Ryder mystique. But it's like, it's like
that show. The one with the guy, wants to fuck that girl, first
she doesn't want to fuck him, then she does, except now he can't
stand her. Right? Well, sooner or later the audience gets tired
of that shit. Right? Sooner or later, bam! They got to get it on.
Am I right?
Shit yeah, I'm saying it's that time. This would be major. Think
of the press. Think of the interviews. AVN, Flynt--what? What's
that? You're breaking up. I said you're breaking up!
He sighs. The kid's still looking at him. Kid's mama is yammering
away at her friend, the one with the bad dye job and the
sunglasses. He's in a tunnel, says Roy. The kid blows a bubble of
spit.
The cell phone chirps. He stabs it with a finger. Yeah. Yeah. All
very good-- Yeah. But I gotta tell you, the mystique thing is
wearing thin. Everybody knows about the video with her and
whatsisname. Guy had that big hair band back in the eighties. You
know what the fuck I'm talking about. The video. Two of them
going at it like rabbits. Kinda blows the whole-- Shit yeah, I'm
telling the-- You can download the motherfuckin' thing off the
goddamn Internet-- What? What? I'll sue your-- What? You want to
tell me that one more time? You want to tell me that one more
time? No, fuck you. Fuck you. I'm not making fuckin' Dickless
Wonder VII here, okay? I need--I need--
He looks away, listening. Looks back. Kid's still staring at him.
Mama's laughing a nasty two-pack-a-day laugh. Rare sound in
California these days. He takes a deep breath, sighs. He tried.
Okay, he says. Okay. You made your fuckin' point. But I want two
giggles out of her. Two, and I want some a. Bad enough there's no
dick. If I can't get anything in the back door, it's fuckin'
useless to me. Might as well cuddle for fifteen minutes and go
home. You--what? What? You want to tell me that again? The scalp?
You want her to get the scalp? Let me get this straight, you
might be going through another fuckin' tunnel or something. She
breezes in, does two giggles, blows me a fuckin' kiss, and gets
the goddamn scalp?
He sighs explosively. The kid is still staring at him. Roy screws
up his face, makes his eyes tiny little ball bearings, bares his
teeth in a snarl, sticks out his tongue. The kid bursts into
sudden frightened tears. Fuck you, thinks Roy.
All right, he says into the phone. What? Yes. I said yes. Fuckin'
kid is wailing over here. All right. Twelve, though. Twelve and
that is as high as we go on this. Absolutely
non-fuckin'-negotiable. And the scalp. Yes. Standard fuckin' deal
for the scalp. Twelve plus five for the fuckin' scalp. Are we
done?
Roy slaps his phone shut and drops it in his pocket. Prima
fuckin' donna. He drains his cappuccino and drops fifteen percent
to the penny on the counter. You want to shut that kid up? he
says on his way out.
::
Where is he?
The first words out of her mouth. Honey's a vision, she is. She's
wearing one of those long-line sports skirts and a
spaghetti-strap crop top with barely enough room for her tits,
much less a bra. Her hair's a wind-tangled mess and her face is
bereft of makeup, which makes her look oddly naked to anybody
familiar with her, shall we say, public persona. She kicks open
the glass door to the house. One hand is struggling with a big
black bag that's trying to fall off her shoulder, the other is
holding one of those ubiquitous bottles of water. She's wearing
puffy athletic shoes for some sport that hasn't been invented
yet. Looks like they were molded on her feet.
Where the fuck is he? she says, dropping the heavy black bag on
the white shag carpet.
Out back, Honey, says the naked man on the couch. The girl
squatting between his hairy legs doesn't even look up. Just keeps
stroking his mostly tumescent cock.
Honey storms towards the back of the house, past the kitchen, a
glaring vision of chrome and black and white and nasty
fluorescent light. She throws open the sliding glass door. Out on
the concrete deck by the pool, three guys are bent over a pool
chair. One of them has a little hi-8 video camera. One of them is
fiddling with a couple of big black lights on tripods. And one of
them is Roy, in a big billowing ridiculous pink silk shirt.
This is fuckin' nuts, says the guy with the camera.
They're fuckin' antiques, says the guy with the lights. Give me a
fuckin' break.
Hey, Roy, says Honey. Since when do you spring for a fluffer, you
cocksucking motherfucking shitheaded cheapskate?
They all stand up and turn around. Roy snorts. How you doin', you
skanky-assed crack-whore slit-lickin' bitch?
What's with the chippie in there? Viagra doesn't work on Scottie
any more?
That girl's strictly freelance, says Roy. None of my concern. He
starts walking towards Honey. There's a woman lying on the pool
chair. She's naked and nut-brown and gleaming with suntan oil
like a greasy sausage. Her face is buried in a hardcover book big
enough to club a burglar with. She has a dark tattoo coiled
around one breast like a threatening clump of mutant ivy and a
gold chain around one ankle. She doesn't appear to care or even
notice that one of the guys is waving a light meter over her
shaved cunt.
By the way, says Honey, that tape is a myth.
Tape? says Roy.
Don't give me that bullshit. I never fucked Sammy Dane, so he
sure as shit never got it on tape. So ain't nobody downloading
mpegs or jpegs or any such shit. So if I hear you say that to
anybody else after this moment right here that we're having I'm
gonna sue your lousy ass for libel. Honey grins. It isn't a nice
grin.
Who said it was Sammy Dane? says Roy.
What?
Who said it was fuckin' Sammy Dane? I just heard it was some
hair-band reject. It's what I heard. Word on the street.
Fuck the word on the street.
Okay, okay. I spoke without what do they say. Attribution. Fuck
it. I'm not a reporter. I'm makin' a fuck flick here. So you want
to get your game face on and fuck, or what?
You're lucky I don't walk right this instant, Roy.
Go ahead. Roy shrugs. I'm sure the freelance fluffer in there can
lick cooze as well as she can suck dick.
If Scottie's fluffer can prove she's a day older than seventeen
I'll kiss your fucking ass.
That a threat?
There's a minute where nobody says anything. The guy with the
lights says, Okay, I think I got it, and the guy with the camera
agrees with him. Somebody go get Scottie. Without putting her
book down the girl on the pool chair scoops up a tube of lube,
squirts some out on her palm with a deft one-handed twist and
rubs it on and around her cunt.
Mikey got you the scalp, says Roy.
What?
Mikey insisted. My girl gets scalp or no deal. I told him there
was no way you'd want your face on the box of a Roy Smolin fuck
flick, but he wouldn't hear otherwise.
I have to pose for fucking stills?
You have to do me two giggles with a and then you pose for stills
and then we go back to our respective fuckin' homes and toast a
job well done.
Shit.
Hey. Honey. You know why you're doing a Roy Smolin fuck flick?
Scottie's walking out of the kitchen, his cock bobbing in the
air, the tip purple and swollen and wet. His fluffer hangs back,
away from the Teamster rejects. She sure looks like a groupie.
Honey's about to answer Roy when the fluffer looks up and meets
Honey's gaze. She holds it for a moment with big brown eyes that
blink once, twice, and then look away, somewhere, anywhere else.
Honey frowns. I have bills to pay, she says to Roy.
You're on my set because you're on fuckin' stage four, says Roy.
Speed, says the guy with the camera. Scottie grunts. Oh, oh God,
says the girl on the pool chair. Oh, God, you're so big, oh. Cut,
says the guy with the camera. I can see your fucking book,
Deedee. Jesus Christ.
What the fuck is stage four? says Honey, when it's clear Roy
won't tell her unless she asks. Roy holds up one thick furry
finger. Who's Honey Ryder? he says. He holds up a second. Get me
Honey Ryder. A third. Get me someone looks like Honey Ryder,
she's too fuckin' expensive. A fourth. Get me someone looks like
Honey Ryder, but younger. He waves his fingers a little in the
air between them.
And what's five? she says, voice even, calm. She knows there's a
stage five. Has to be.
He sticks out his thumb. Who's Honey Ryder? He grins. You're on
stage four. You're this close to fuckin' stage five. He jerks his
thumb toward the house. So you want to get naked and earn your
goddamn money or what?
Honey turns on one artfully molded athletic shoe and marches back
inside.
Speed, says the guy with the camera.
Scottie grunts. His ass starts pumping up and down, his skin pale
and white compared to the roasted tan of the girl on the pool
chair.
Oh, she says, oh God. Oh, God, you're so big, oh. Unh. Unh unh
unh unh unh oh ohh!
::
Scottie says you're a dyke.
It's Scottie's freelance fluffer, sticking her head around the
bathroom door. She doesn't seem to mind that Honey's naked and in
the middle of lipsticking her mouth.
Well, says Honey. You're going to come in, you might as well come
all the way in and shut the friggin' door.
Which is what Scottie's fluffer does.
Sonofabitch can't even be bothered to spring for makeup, says
Honey. Her face is creamed and blushed and powdered, her
cheekbones shine, her eyes are shadowed green, her lips are
cocksucker red. She blots them and smiles, grimaces, then
suddenly dabs her nipples with lipstick, one, two. She grins,
looks over her shoulder in the mirror to see Scottie's fluffer,
her face solemn, biting her lip. Well? says Honey. What do you
think?
Are you? says Scottie's fluffer.
What's your name?
Barbie.
Honey tries not to roll her eyes. How old are you, Barbie?
I turned eighteen last week. Honest. I could show you my driver's
license and everything.
Uh huh.
Scottie says you're a dyke. Are you?
Honey turns around so she can look at Barbie directly and holds
up her left hand. There's a thin silvery ring on her ring finger.
The diamond isn't very big at all, but it catches the light. I'm
married, says Honey. I like girls. But I'm not a dyke. I just
don't fuck guys on film for money.
Why not?
It's just something I don't do. Why do you care?
I just... says Barbie. He said you were a dyke. That's all.
Scottie know you're in here?
Barbie shrugs. They're doing the come shot. When he's done, he'll
go take his vitamins and drink a protein shake. He says I can't
mix his protein shakes right. I always fuck it up. They're going
to shoot you next. He won't need me for a while. You want me
to...?
Do I want you to what?
You need help getting ready, or anything?
I already hosed myself out. But thanks.
I mean, says Barbie, and she steps closer, I know how to eat
pussy. I've done it before.
Honey blinks. I don't need fluffing, if that's what you're
asking.
I just like to make people feel good. I just want to make you
feel good. That's all. She takes another step. Her hand drifts
over, floats unsteadily, fingers trembling, over Honey's tiny,
carefully trimmed patch of bleached pubic hair. It's really
pretty, she says.
Thanks. Grew it myself.
Can I, says Barbie, but Honey is already leaning back, resting
her butt against the bathroom counter, spreading her legs a
little. Barbie's fingers are feather-light. She doesn't look
Honey in the eye at all, just looks down, and down. She takes a
deep breath and holds it a minute, then lets it out and kneels
all at once.
Maybe she's done it before and maybe she hasn't. She's clumsy but
enthusiastic. She sucks up Honey's outer lips and worries at them
with her mouth like a teenaged boy. Honey hisses and Barbie
starts licking ferociously, great swooping licks from bottom to
top like she's trying to win a pie-eating contest. Her tongue
rasps like a cat's over Honey's suddenly sensitive clit. Easy,
she says. Easy. Barbie's eyes flick up from Honey's cunt,
worried, and Honey makes a face, ooh, oh, oh that's nice. And it
is. Barbie's calming down, she's settling into it, and in spite
of everything Honey can feel the cold greasy knot of tension
that's been tangling in her gut all day start to loosen and melt.
Maybe she has done this before. Honey rests a hand on Barbie's
head.
The bathroom door opens and the girl from the pool chair, Deedee,
looks in. Hey. Twenty minutes or so. They're having problems with
the lights again.
'Kay. Um. You my first?
Yeah. You doing two?
Uh huh.
Cool.
Deedee leaves. Barbie never even looked up.
Honey closes her eyes, smiles a little, to herself. Mm hmm. Oh.
Hey. Sweetie. She runs her hand through Barbie's hair, strokes
her temple with a thumb. Sweetie. Let me ask you something.
Barbie pulls her mouth away and looks up with those puppy's eyes,
big and brown. Want me to stop? She lays a sticky kiss along the
crease of Honey's thigh.
No. No. Let me just. Ah, let me--your dad. Let me just say
something and see if I get it right. Your dad. He left at some
point. He died, or, ah. Honey feels Barbie's jaw working under
her fingers, and she feels weirdly detached. That rolling,
chewing motion of Barbie's mouth is somehow more real, more
immediate, than what her tongue and lips are doing so far below,
so very far away. He just up and left one day, says Honey. She
swallows. And your mom, she took up with somebody, or maybe a
couple of different somebodies, and one of them, ah... Honey
shifts her butt against the counter, arching her back a little,
her hips forward, as Barbie falters. Barbie's fingers dig into
Honey's ass, her thigh. She looks down and away, her chin leaving
a smear of spit and juice along Honey's hip. It was my uncle,
says Barbie.
Your uncle.
Honey reaches under the girl's arms and pulls her up on her feet.
Look at me. Look at me. She kisses Barbie's forehead, and then
tries to kiss her mouth. Barbie looks away. No. It's gross.
Don't.
Don't?
Don't.
Are you saying I'm gross? says Honey, gently.
She kisses Barbie's mouth. She can taste herself. She can taste
Barbie's lip gloss. She can taste an actinic hint of the shaving
cream from the trim she just gave herself. No, Barbie's mumbling.
No. You aren't.
Honey unbuttons Barbie's cutoffs. Tugs the zipper down. I can't,
Barbie is saying. I have to go back. Scottie's--
Scottie is making a protein shake, says Honey. Scottie's popping
Viagra. Scottie's lucky if he can even remember you're here.
The zipper catches. Screw it. Honey tugs the cutoffs over
Barbie's hips. She's wearing cotton underwear, white cotton
underwear with little flowers sprinkled all over like
marshmallows in some kid's cereal. Honey slides her hands under
the waistband and feels Barbie's skin, cool and a little clammy.
She pushes the underwear down, too.
I wanted... says Barbie, as Honey's fingers spread her open.
Shh, says Honey. Barbie's so wet one of her fingers almost falls
in. Barbie gasps. I wanted to make you feel good, she says.
Honey slips her finger almost all the way out, and then back in
again. You are, babe, she says. You are.
::
You found Dixie yet? Roy is saying.
She's not answering, says the big bald guy. His name is Marvin.
She's not answering?
I don't get an answer. Just her machine or voice mail or
whatever. I left a coupla messages.
Did you try her cell? I said, did you try her fucking cell?
Jesus, you shit-brained lunkhead. Think! Roy picks up his bag in
a sudden fury and fishes a battered black Daytimer out of it and
throws it at Marvin, who ducks. The thing bounces off one of his
meaty forearms and sends business cards and tattered notes and
post-its fluttering away like moths. Look up her goddamn numbers
and find her!
Christ, says Linus, who's been trying to keep the lights lit.
It's not like we're even ready for her yet.
I don't give a flying fuck! She was due on the set a fuckin' hour
ago! Haven't you people ever fuckin' heard of professionalism?
Jesus! Why are you still here? he shrieks at Marvin, who's trying
to pick up the cards and notes and post-its, looking for Dixie's
phone numbers. Call!
Hey.
Roy's head turns like a slow gun turret on his massive neck. His
mouth is twisted under his beard and his eyes have turned into
ball bearings. Honey's standing there wearing a white terrycloth
robe, her black bag slung over one shoulder. She's made up,
hair's done, ready to go. One eyebrow's cocked and she's meeting
Roy with a cool glare of her own.
What's the build? she says.
The build?
For the fucking scene, she says. What's the build? What am I
doing here? What am I wearing? What's the scenario?
This ain't Stanislavski, he says, his voice low and dangerous.
You want your fuckin' motivation? Go do dinner theater.
I just want to know what the fuck I'm doing.
You're horny! She's a chick! You dig chicks! You want to fuck
her! She says why not! You fuck! End of fuckin' story!
We could do something with me swimming in the pool, says Deedee,
not looking up from her book. You know. I'm swimming, she walks
up, I climb out of the pool. Now she looks up, her mouth
half-grinning. And Honey's so blown away by my awesome bod she
gets down on her knees right then and there.
You wish, says Honey.
We could shoot it a couple of times for coverage and then set up
for the master, says Terry, loading a fresh hi-8 tape into his
camera. He starts hooking it to what looks like a tripod
jerry-rigged with a couple of trucks from a busted skateboard.
Whatever! screams Roy. Where the fuck is Dixie? He goes storming
back towards the house.
So, says Honey, looking into her bag, you're thinking swimsuits?
I got this bikini...
Nah, says Deedee. I'll just hop in. It's like maybe I want to get
clean after fucking Scottie.
There's a round of chuckles at that. Scottie's inside, he can't
hear.
And I just happen by? Naked?
Just wear the robe. Keep it simple. Deedee stretches and lifts
herself off the pool chair in one easy motion, steps up to the
edge of the pool, and dives in. She surfaces, playfully spitting
water. You getting this?
Speed, says Terry. Honey shrugs, ditches the bag, and steps up to
the pool ladder, watching Deedee swim.
Whenever you're ready, ladies.
::
Hey, says Deedee, treading water.
Hey, says Honey.
You want to come in? The water's fine.
Actually, I'm pretty wet already.
They manage not to giggle.
Deedee strokes over to the ladder as Honey steps down into the
water onto the first rung. Deedee hoists herself out of the
water, gleaming like a dolphin, face uplifted, eyes closing,
mouth opening. Honey meets her kiss, sliding one hand--left
hand--down Deedee's flank. She tilts her head to the left--the
right, the right. Terry's over there with the camera. She tilts
her head and showily licks Deedee's lips.
::
Hey.
Hey.
Want to come in? The water's fine.
Actually, I'm pretty wet already.
Deedee rolls her eyes at that, which is fine for her, since the
camera's close in on Honey's face. Terry backs away a little, the
camera gliding back smoothly enough on its primitive dolly, as
Deedee hoists herself up the ladder, gleaming like a dolphin, her
skin bare and brown all over, water streaming in a little rivulet
down the pursed furrow of her smooth, bare cunt.
::
Hey.
Hey.
You should come in. The water's fine.
I'm wet enough already, thank you.
Honey's step is a little unsteady on the ladder. When Deedee
hauls herself up she nearly tumbles into her, and she grabs
Deedee for support. Left hand? Right hand? Fuck it. Deedee grabs
her and gets her robe. They manage to kiss, but it's clumsier.
The robe slips off Honey's shoulders and she crushes Deedee to
her to keep them both from falling.
Oh, Terry's saying. Hey. That works. That's hot.
As the robe slides down her arms, Honey tips one shoulder back
and lifts her head so Terry's camera can film Deedee kissing her
neck, licking, taking one of Honey's nipples into her mouth.
Damn, says Terry. Can we get that one more time?
::
Hey.
Hey.
She remembers to step with the right foot first. Right hand on
the ladder's rail so her left hand is ready to slide down
Deedee's flank. Deedee explodes out of the water, gleaming. Cool,
wet skin, smooth and bare, the weight of her in Honey's hand. The
sunlight is bright on the water, lapping in Deedee's wake. It
blazes from the lens of the camera as Terry crab-scuttles behind
them. Rough terrycloth slides down Honey's shoulders. She tastes
coconut oil and chlorine.
::
The double-headed dong is the color of grape Kool-Aid and has
bubbles trapped inside it like seltzer water. About six inches of
it have disappeared inside Deedee. Honey kneels beside her, her
fist wrapped around it, watching the bobbing head on the other
end as she pounds it into Deedee, her fist slapping against
Deedee's groin with every thrust. Deedee's grunting and making
her come face. Honey leans over Deedee's hips and licks the head
of the dong and then takes it in her mouth. Deedee's still
bucking her hips, but slower now, so Honey can blow the dong and
lube it up a little with some spit. Deedee's hand reaches up and
cups the back of Honey's head.
Hey, Terry's saying. You wanna do spoon or scissors?
Did we get a spit take? says Roy.
Yeah, we got a spit take. Spoon or scissors?
Let's get more spit. I don't give a fuck. Give me another spit
take.
Honey doesn't roll her eyes as she lifts her head up off the dong
and lets her mouth fill up with spit. She dribbles it off her
lower lip onto the tip.
Yeah, Roy's saying. Yeah.
Honey rubs her thumb along it. It's pretty much ready. Deedee
scootches back in the pool chair a little, lifting one leg. Looks
like it's going to be a scissors. Which is fine. Honey gets to
her feet and straddles the pool chair, crouching over Deedee,
who's holding the dong steady for her. Everything's bright.
Sunlight and movie light bounce off water and sweat and lube and
suntan oil. Honey braces herself with one hand and reaches down
with the other to spread herself, hooking the head of the dong
with her forefinger and guiding it home as she slowly sinks down.
Trying not to think about how goofy this must look. Trying not to
think about Terry zoomed in tight, watching the purple dong slide
into her, getting it all on tape. She barely feels it, she's so
slick with lube and concentrating on trying not to fall over and
maybe even look a little bit sexy while she's doing it. Not that
Terry or his camera can see anything but Deedee's cunt and her
cunt and the purple dong like a fat gummi worm stretched between
them. But hey. It's the thought that counts. Right?
So they kiss and they fuck for a minute or two. Honey's trying to
figure out if she's worked with Deedee before. She's pretty sure
she hasn't. She saw one of her tapes once--that tattoo's pretty
unmistakable, it's a nice piece of branding, really. She liked
it. Deedee's good at making it all look like something fun,
spontaneous, hey, let's fuck on camera, it'll be a blast.
But even though Honey's pretty sure she's never worked with
Deedee before, there's something familiar about her. It's not the
body, the body's pretty much standard issue Southern California
porn star: flat stomach round ass long legs jacked boobs like
perfectly formed patties of ground beef wrapped in smooth plastic
the color of burnt butter. It's the ineffable stuff: the way she
moves. The way her mouth opens when they kiss. The way her weight
shifts, and one slick hand trails up Honey's spine and then back
down again, to grab her ass. It's all of it full of deja vu, and
it's making Honey vaguely horny in spite of the lube and the sun
and the camera and the lights and Roy. It's all professional,
mind--fucking Deedee is like dancing in a Broadway chorus line,
where everybody knows what everybody else is doing and there's
almost no need to think about any of it, leg here hand there kiss
lick thrust and pump! Not at all like holding Barbie in the
bathroom, turning her around on unsteady feet, tripping over
discarded shorts and underwear tangled about one ankle. Not like
pulling her back against you and wrapping your arms around her
and feeling her clammy ass against your cunt and fingering her
until she comes, shuddering. Not like not knowing what to do or
what to say next, and just watching her without saying anything
at all as she pulls up her shorts, not looking at you. Opens the
door. Leaves.
Fucking Deedee is not awkward.
Until it's suddenly darker, and cooler--it's still bright and
hot, but not so much. Like half the white-hot sun went out at the
flick of a switch. For one absurd moment Honey thinks it's
somehow her fault. The lights. The lights just died. Goddammit,
Roy's saying. Don't move, Terry's saying. Don't move, girls. Hang
on, says Linus. You fucking idiots, says Roy. Don't move? says
Deedee, annoyed.
Don't move, says Linus. I've almost--
Don't fucking move? says Honey.
Yeah, just--we're not done, we just need to get the lights back
on and we can get back to it.
Can we at least... Deedee's shifting a little under her, their
skin chafing now, no longer lubricated by motion. Strange how
this sort of thing is actually comfortable when you're moving,
but stopped dead--legs stretch, muscles protest. Fuck not moving.
They just won't get up. Won't take the dong out. Honey shifts her
weight from her knee to her other foot, puts out her hand.
Deedee's resting the weight of her upraised leg on Honey's thigh.
Roy and Linus are arguing. Just break the fucking thing up and
start something else. No, no, we don't have enough coverage, the
scene will suck and you'll yell at me, why didn't we get more?
I'm yelling at you now, you little fuckup. Honey sighs. Deedee
rolls her eyes.
Hey, says Honey. This is weird, but, I mean--have we ever worked
together before? I mean, it's totally embarrassing if I forgot,
but...
No, that's cool, says Deedee. It was before the tattoo. And I
wasn't Deedee Lick then.
Yeah?
Yeah. It was on, uh, one of the Girls' Club shoots. The one with
the big orgy on the soccer field? I was one of the goalies? We
did a 69 under the net, and then a strap-on with Heidi and
whatshername, Lexi Day?
Because, says Honey, who vaguely remembers the soccer orgy and
who's never liked working with Heidi, the thing is, she says, I'm
horrible with names and faces, but I never forget a body. So. The
dong is starting to feel not entirely pleasant inside her: it's
slowly becoming a dull, persistent ache, like a pulled muscle in
a really weird place, filling her up, doing nothing at all for
the vague need, the unexpected horny hum in the back of her
brain.
My third flick, says Deedee, looking away. We gonna get this show
back on the road? she says. In a minute, I swear, Christ, how the
fuck much is this costing me? Deedee grins. It was so cool, she
says. I got to work with the famous Honey Ryder.
Honey rolls her eyes like she's supposed to, shucks. And then you
got the tattoo? she says. She doesn't touch it, even though she
sort of wants to. Lying naked one on top of the other, a
double-headed dong stretched from one cunt to the other--touching
the tattoo would be an imposition. An unwarranted advance.
I met Cece dancing at the Cosmos, and we were gonna be the Lick
Sisters. It was spooky: we looked so much like each other we
could be twins. We got matching tattoos, except on different
sides. Like a mirror. We were gonna clean up.
But?
She found God a week later.
I've seen a couple of your tapes.
Well, Lunchbox got nominated for a couple of AVNs.
Yeah. Yeah. Best anal, video, right?
Yeah.
Cool. I mean, I like what you do. You've got a way of enjoying
yourself on camera--it's rare, you know?
Thanks, says Deedee, flatly.
Christ, thinks Honey. Could that have been any more
condescending? I mean, she says, I like working with you. That's
all. Christ, this is getting ridiculous, she says, looking up at
Linus and Terry, jiggling cables and plugs. Can I get up already
or what? she yells.
Just a minute, almost got it, need you there to focus the lights,
we'll have this in a jiffy, stop your fucking whining.
What Deedee says then is almost buried by all that and Honey
almost misses it and wishes she had, or wishes at least she'd
stopped herself before saying the reflexive What?
I said, you looked like you were enjoying yourself. In there.
Because now Honey can't ignore it.
You mean with Barbie?
Scottie's fluffer? That's her name?
I know. It was weird, I just... And suddenly Honey wishes this
conversation would stop dead. Go some other direction. Because
all of a sudden she's asking herself, why did you do that? Why
did you let that girl do that? What were you thinking? And none
of them are questions Deedee would ever ask, any more than Honey
would touch her tattoo, but still, the very fact that the
questions exist turns her stomach, dashes something icy along her
nerves, a cold front that collides with the warm aching itch
around the goddamn dong still shoved up her twat, and between the
two of them there's suddenly a storm inside her that has nothing
to do with oiled skin and swimming pools and one half of the Lick
Sisters and a double-headed dong the color of grape Kool-Aid.
Hang on, Honey says. She stands up. The dong slides out of her
with a slithering sucking wet plop. She feels--empty. Moved.
Numb. I gotta go-- she starts to say.
What the fuck?
I gotta go piss, she says. You keep me here any longer you're
gonna end up paying extra for a goddamn golden shower.
You have any idea what this is going to cost? How far behind
schedule we are?
Maybe if you sprung for decent equipment in the first place, she
says, thumping Roy on his pink silk shirt, you wouldn't lose so
much trying to jerry-rig this shit when it breaks down.
You want I should maybe send Scottie's girl in to let you know
when we're ready for your high and mighty ass?
Shut the fuck up, Roy, she says, trying to sound more tired than
anything else, which isn't hard to do.
Walking away, back to the house, she feels more naked than she
is. She feels eyes crawling on the back of her scalp like
immaterial bugs. She feels like her ears are twice their normal
size. She's listening for anything, a whispered remark, a
chuckle, a laugh. She hears the clank of tools. The breeze. Water
lapping in the pool. Whatcha reading? asks Terry, trying to make
conversation with a naked porn star while Linus ratchets away at
the lights.
A book, says Deedee, bored.
What's it about?
Whores, she says, and rolls over on her side.
::
Hey.
Oh, uh. Hey.
Honey, wrapped up in her white robe, sits on the carpet next to
Barbie, leaning back against the couch. Honey's drinking water.
Barbie's got a bottle of one of those Seagram's malt coolers that
she ostentatiously does not try to hide.
Now what? So. About your uncle? Look, about what happened in the
bathroom? You know, I'm not that kind of girl?
Honey's still trying to think of something to say and trying not
to look like she's trying to think of anything at all when Barbie
says, You done?
With Deedee? Yeah. Finally. I've got one more giggle to do,
though. With Dixie Bangs, if she ever shows up.
A giggle?
Yeah. You know. A lesbo fuck scene.
Oh. Why is it called a giggle?
Cause it's girl-girl. Get it?
Oh. So. We were, uh, giggling, back there, then, huh?
Sure, says Honey, even as she's thinking, no, no, not at all.
What does Barbie look like? She looks young, yes, but how? Still
a little pudgy in her face and arms, her neck and belly and
thighs with traces of leftover baby fat. Her hair is thick and
dyed an artificially rich auburn with dark roots and comes down
to about her shoulders and is lank and damp with the heat and a
little greasy, her eyes are big and brown when you can actually
look into them, her mouth is wide and if she ever really smiled
it would be big and guileless and light up the room. Her nose is
not as small and cute and pert as it could be, and she'll
probably end up getting it chopped about the same time she has
someone slide bags of silicon into her tits, which are just big
enough to do fine on their own, though they'll start to sag when
gravity finally catches up to her. But she won't listen to
anybody who tells her otherwise. She'll chop and stuff and tuck.
She'll do abdominal crunches at the gym where she'll pay the
trainer with money from her first couple of flicks. One of Dick
Hardin's endless Gonzo Jailbait tapes, or maybe a magazine spread
for Home From School or Just Come of Age. Penny loafers or mary
janes instead of dirty white canvas Keds, white ankle socks like
she's got on now, a schoolgirl kilt and a black thong instead of
tight cut-offs and white cotton underwear with flowers, a white
blouse unbuttoned enough to show off the bad girl black bra,
instead of a baby tee with a faded silkscreen of some seventies
movie star. Lip gloss. A cigarette, maybe. They'd definitely play
up her sullen bad girl vibe. Sunglasses. Dick pretending to pick
her up on the street, following her around with a handheld hi-8,
hey, girl, you wanna make a movie? Gee, mister, I don't know.
I've never. It's so big. Can I lick it? Oh. Oh. They'd eat her up
for about six months or so, and if she doesn't blow it all on
stupid shit and unemployed musicians, she'll be doing okay.
She'll get a tattoo on the small of her back if she doesn't have
one already, either something Chinese or something Celtic, and
she'll buy a new VW bug to match the color of her new latex
minidress. She'll burn through a disposable Bic or two a day
shaving everywhere because waxing's too inconvenient and maybe
she'll kid herself that all-natural shaving creams with aloe and
herbal extracts are better for her pores. She'll practice sitting
upright with her back arched, her legs folded just so, her hair
bleached blond now and spilling back over her shoulders, she'll
work on her lustful pout, her lip lick, her come face. She'll
stop drinking those sickly sweet alco-pops and start drinking
water and juice blends, and if she ever takes up smoking she'll
spend years on the verge of quitting because there's nothing else
to do with your time while they fiddle with lights and cameras
and big dopey slabby men, their bland, lifeless faces gone red
from too much Viagra. She'll marry her agent and they'll forget
to have sex, and she'll come up with some stunt to set herself
off from the pack, like never fucking men on camera, and
somewhere along the way all the fat will melt out of her face,
eroding away from her cheekbones and chin but leaving her eyes
somehow smaller, hidden in a mask of eyeshadow and mascara, and
her smile will be buffed and polished into something slick and
gleaming and professional.
She'll have to come up with a better name, though. Barbie just
won't cut it.
It's hot, says Barbie, draining her Seagram's.
I wish to God I had a cigarette, says Honey.
You could bum one.
Honey blinks. No, she says. No, I quit. Honest.
Oh.
You actually want to break into this business, don't you.
Yeah.
You shouldn't drink that stuff. Not on the set. Never fuck on
film while you're drunk.
Shyeah, says Barbie, with just enough adolescent snottiness that
something inside Honey makes a decision and she doesn't stop to
worry about whether it's right or even sane. She stands up,
suddenly. Come on, she says.
Where? says Barbie.
You serious about breaking into porn?
I said I was.
Then come with me. Someplace a little less open. And bring your
cigarettes.
::
Whoever Roy's friend is, he's got a big house and bad taste. The
master bedroom is all white and black and chrome like the
kitchen, with mirrors and a king-sized duvet and ankle-deep shag,
and a chrome butler's stand holding an expensive rumpled Italian
suit in ugly green sharkskin. A giant painting over the bed looks
like some deranged kid scribbled all over it with chalk and
crayons and left it out in the rain. Cy Twombly, says Barbie.
Honey cocks an eyebrow. Art criticism is the last thing she
expected. Barbie shrugs. Hey, she says, I read Interview
magazine. She tosses the cigarettes to Honey. The cold feeling is
sluicing through her nerves again. Why are you doing this? What
are you thinking?
We gonna fuck? says Barbie.
Honey shakes out a cigarette and lights it. Oh, God. It tastes
good. It's been too fucking long. She takes another drag on the
cigarette, and she can feel Barbie's eyes on her like lasers, the
girl's finally looking at her, not the floor, not her own navel,
not the sky, but another person, her, Honey Ryder. Blowing out
the smoke, Honey locks her own eyes cool and calm on Barbie's
defiant gaze and reaches down, undoing the belt to her robe.
Shrugging it off her shoulders. Letting it fall to the floor.
Naked, she has power. Naked, she is strong. Barbie blinks, and
Honey, still cool, sits on the big soft bed and smokes her bummed
cigarette.
So you want to be a porn star, she says. Do something sexy.
What? says Barbie.
I shouldn't have to tell you, says Honey. Make me horny. Make me
want to fuck you. Make me come.
I knew it, says Barbie. You just want to get back into my pants.
Do you know who the fuck I am, little girl? I'm Honey fucking
Ryder. I own half my own production company and I make twelve
hundred dollars a day doing pieces of shit like this. One phone
call from me and you'll have a movie deal and if you impress me,
I just might remember to make it. Go along to get along. Give
some head to get ahead. But do something real soon here because I
gotta tell you, babe: right now you ain't doing nothing for me.
Make or break. Honey honestly has no idea what she wants to
happen. Barbie could just walk out of the room and she'd be fine,
and maybe the cold would just leak out of her and she could
finish this fuck flick and go home. Or Barbie could do what she's
doing--look up from staring a hole in the carpet with eyes
suddenly sly and determined, her mouth set just so, her Keds
whispering through the shag as she slowly struts up to Honey with
an absurd sway to her hips. Honey covers the impulse to laugh
with another drag from the cigarette. Barbie licks her lips, her
eyes hooded with a girl's idea of what lust must look like, and
tilts her head, leaning forward to kiss Honey. Honey turns aside
at the last moment. Nope, she says, looking away. No touching.
No touching? says Barbie, close, not backing away.
Porn's a visual medium, babe.
Not even a lapdance? says Barbie.
Honey cocks an eyebrow. You can give a lapdance?
Well, says Barbie. Let's see. She plants a knee on the bed on one
side of Honey's hips, plants the other knee on the other side,
climbing into Honey's lap as Honey lifts the cigarette out of the
way. Barbie grinds her crotch into Honey's and then rolls it
back, swiveling in and out in slow motion. Threads from her
raggedy cut-off jeans tickle Honey's skin. Barbie catches Honey's
arm and starts to lean back and Honey grabs her back with the
hand that isn't holding the cigarette as Barbie leans way, way
back, her tight tee riding up to reveal her deep dark navel,
peekaboo, stretched out in an oval in her flat belly, taut as a
fucking drum. Honey's arm is full of girl. She's small but she's
not little, she's solid. She'll be in the gym a lot over the next
few years, eating breakfast bars and salads. Barbie pulls herself
up slowly, slowly, her back rippling in a perfect sultry wave,
like stacking one vertebra on top of another until last of all
her head rolls up, eyes shining, lips parted just so, and Honey
lets her have a kiss, one kiss, wet and soft. Barbie reaches out
for the cigarette and plucks it from Honey's hand, takes a deep
long drag and blows the smoke up at the painting. Well? she says,
one hand still on Honey's arm. How'm I doing?
Pretty shabby, says Honey. First thing you've got to do is come
up with a new name. But actually, before you even do that, you've
got to get rid of Scottie.
What, so I can hook up with you? Scottie's going to get me my
first flick. So I don't need your help.
Only thing Scottie's going to get is himself a meal ticket. He's
already got a reputation for losing wood. He's just this close to
being called a balsa boy and when that happens not even Roy
Smolin will return his calls. But he drags you to enough sets to
fluff him, some director says, hey, we can use her for Eighteen
by Seconds III, starts shooting next week--and he's got it made.
He'll ride you till you crash and burn, and then you're turning
tricks in Studio City or Reseda while he's moved on to another
chippie. So cut him loose before he gets his chance.
And you'll treat me so much better? I knew it. I knew you were a
dyke.
You came on to me, remember? In the bathroom?
Barbie looks down and away. I told you. I like making people feel
good.
Well. I'm not feeling the least bit horny, you know.
Which is a lie: that warm, empty itch is back, clashing with the
cold and if Honey were to hold up her hand right now, it would
tremble. Her thighs are getting sticky and the heat she can feel
coming off Barbie's arousal through cotton and denim is only
making things worse, or better. But Barbie doesn't need to know
any of that. Barbie grinds out the cigarette on the black formica
nightstand and unbuttons her shorts, pop! and tugs on either side
of the fly, pulling the zipper down a little. Leaning back,
biting her bottom lip in a gee-I'm-gonna-do-this grin, she slips
one hand flat along her belly under the waistband of her
underwear and sinks it into her crotch. Rolling her hips again.
Breathing in sharply through her nose. She's smart enough to know
she shouldn't fake it, shouldn't cheat it, not here, not now, not
so close. What she's really feeling is enough, and it shows.
Now I'm starting to feel something, says Honey.
Barbie's grin really is amazing.
Why are you doing this? Why are you letting this girl do these
things? What are you thinking? What on earth do you want? Honey
has no idea. She wants--she wants to take Barbie home. Throw her
in the shower. She wants to soap her till she squeaks, scrub her
till she smells of talcum powder and citrus and sandalwood. She
wants to wrap her naked in thick white terry cloth and bundle her
off to bed. She wants this girl to fall asleep in her arms
listening to Stars or Alpha and then to lick her awake from head
to toe and eat her out till she sees fireworks. She wants to
watch dumb old movies with Barbie's head on her shoulder. She
wants to kiss her on the balcony while rain falls in the
courtyard. She hasn't felt like this in a long time and it's
dangerous, and there's no way she can stop it now to save her
life.
Barbie takes the hem of her baby tee in her hands and slowly
peels it up and off. Her hair bounces as it falls through the
neck of the shirt, and her tits bounce as she throws it across
the room. Nice tits, not perfectly round soup bowls like Honey's
or Deedee's, but drooping tear drops just the least bit pendulous
with fat little nipples the color of pale lips. One hand back in
her pants, she plants the other on Honey's chest, between those
geometric tits, and pushes, and Honey gratefully falls back.
Hiking up on her knees, Barbie's second hand joins the first,
doing something seductive down there with her fingers. She closes
her eyes, humping gently to a slow beat only she can hear. Your
love, she's singing, in a small clear voice that's mostly on-key,
is better than chocolate, it's better than anything else that
I've tried. Your love is better than ice cream, and everyone here
knows how to cry--
She stops, dead. Her eyes flash open. Her hands pop out of her
shorts and she plants them on her hips akimbo. She cocks her head
and looks down at Honey and there's a lot there in her look:
glee, trepidation, a little defiance, that so-cool ironic gotcha,
arousal. Not a little arousal. Well? she says, breathing just
heavily enough to disturb her studied nonchalance. How'm I doing
now?
Honey can't help it. She bursts into laughter, delighted gales of
laughter, great whooping gouts of laughter that toss back her
head and shake the bed and make her lungs ache. Barbie blinks,
taken aback, her mouth falling open, until Honey grabs her arms
and pulls her down into a voracious hug, kissing her between
quakes of laughter, rolling her over on her back and tugging her
shorts over her hips and down her legs, laughing, and Barbie, her
grin cracking open to light up the whole damn room, Barbie begins
to giggle.
::
Ten minutes later it's serious indeed, Barbie crouched over Honey
in a tightly knotted 69, legs jackknifed and interlocked with
arms, mouths busy. Barbie's still wearing her Keds and her socks
and even her white cotton underwear covered in flowers. Honey's
shoved them aside with one hand so she can lick at Barbie's lips
while two fingers sink in up to the palm with practiced grace,
careful with the nails, and Honey can tell Barbie's about to come
yet again and she does, groaning, shivering, trembling,
transfixed. She falls, shuddering, on her side, away from Honey's
mouth. Honey tries to follow, reaches for her, but Barbie's
scooting her hips away, mumbling no, no, it's your turn, it's
your turn, dammit. And Honey's hand falls away from the leg band
of Barbie's underwear and she lifts her legs, letting them fall
open as Barbie, still on her side, licks at Honey with her
sideways tongue. Her fingers are plucking around the edges of
Honey's cunt, and her nails thank God are short and bitten down,
not glossy porn star claws, and she's peeling Honey open so her
tongue can slide in like a thin elastic dick and it's cool and
wet and delicious. And her fingers and tongue together are
building something marvelous, this hum that's swelling in the
back of Honey's head and Christ but it's stupid, it's a dumb
little quotidian epiphany, as her toes knot up and her calves
clench and the muscles in her thighs set like concrete, right,
she's thinking, as she realizes she doesn't care what her face
looks like, as her belly cramps and her back arches and she
groans in spite of herself, an ugly groan, right, she's thinking,
right, this is why we do this, this is the reason, as the tidal
wave crashes out of her cunt and sweeps everything away, all of
it, a drowning roar of white noise that finally starts to recede,
slowly, so slowly, leaving her gasping on a beach somewhere far
away.
::
Okay. I'm starting to think you really have eaten pussy before.
And you said you weren't a dyke.
They're lying up by the massive white pillows, away from the
large wet spots soaked through Roy's friend's white king-sized
duvet. Honey's sprawled on her back, playing with Barbie's thick
red hair. Barbie's lying on her side, her head pillowed on
Honey's shoulder, her leg crooked up over Honey's legs, and she's
finally naked, her shoes and socks finally off, her underwear
gone, and her wild and thick and untamed pubic hair is pressed
against Honey's hip.
I haven't come that hard in--a while, says Honey.
I thought, says Barbie, you were married.
Honey's face screws up. Babe, she says, thinking of Michael
sitting on the edge of the bed, jerking off over pictures of his
latest client. Of blowjobs in limos. Of the infamous quickie with
Heidi at the post-awards dinner last year, in the service
corridor. Don't ever marry your agent, she says.
Oh? says Barbie.
He's like a kid in a fucking candy shop. Literally.
So I should maybe not hook up with your production company?
Hey. He's a great agent. He's just a lousy--everything else.
Honey looks down at Barbie. I'm serious, you know. You say the
word. You'll get your flick. It doesn't have to be with me. I can
set you up with good people--Jack Zorn's Revolution X, the Orgy
Grrls. Say the word.
Okay, says Barbie, not looking up. Okay.
They lie there, not moving, not speaking for a bit. It's so
incredibly relaxing. It's a comfortable bed, even if it is ugly
and white. So soft. Honey closes her eyes. Thinks about Deedee or
Marvin or Scottie or even Roy, God forbid, busting through that
door to catch them here, asleep. Realizes she doesn't care. Bring
'em on.
Barbie starts quivering against her and for a moment Honey thinks
she's crying, half sits up, alarmed, her heart thumping, what?
What? But Barbie's pointing to the wall at the foot of the bed,
and she's laughing almost soundlessly, little gasping giggles
sputtering at the back of her throat.
Somehow, in all that, they managed never to notice that the
entire wall at the foot of the bed was nothing but one big
mirror.
Laughing, Honey waves at herself. The naked blond SoCal porn star
with her red-headed protegee on someone else's fuckpalace bed
waves right back. God, she says. The height of taste.
Mary Contrary, says Barbie.
What?
Instead of Barbie. Mary Contrary.
I don't think so, says Honey. Too--smart. Porn names have to be
real dumb. Think of your audience.
Because Barbie's my real name. Barbara Sue Dickerson.
No way.
Yes!
From Iowa or Indiana.
Illinois. Actually.
Well. Say hi to Juliet Schorstein from Cadillac, Michigan.
Barbie takes her hand. Hello, Juliet Schorstein, from Cadillac,
Michigan.
Please. Call me Julie. They start giggling again. But doors are
being slammed and footsteps and thumping and someone's yelling
about something. They both freeze, listening.
I don't think it's you--
I don't hear your name--
Thump. Thump. Well, get ready, goddammit. The fuck you think I'm
paying you for?
Shit, says Honey. It's Dixie. She finally showed. Honey sighs,
sits up, starts to crawl out of bed. I have to get back to work,
she says.
Yeah, says Barbie. I should see if Scottie's done. Honey tosses
Barbie her tee shirt and she catches it and scrounges for her
socks. Honey slips into her robe and fishes around in her pocket
for her cell phone. Here, she says, plucking a business card from
the pocket on the side. Here.
Your card? says Barbie, holding her shorts.
Yeah. Call me.
Barbie takes the card.
And not just for business, either, okay? says Honey. Call me. I
mean it.
And there's that amazing grin again.
::
Dixie Bangs is maybe the only brunette ever to come out of
Finland. That's her mystique. Doesn't hurt that she's cute as a
button, wears her hair short and spiky and dyed even blacker than
it is, has those mysterious flat dark eyes and just enough of an
accent to round off her words like they were turned in a lathe.
Sexy as all hell. She's currently lying on her stomach on a
blanket spread on the grass above the pool, her arms folded under
her, her knees hiked up a little and her back arched so her bare
butt sticks in the air at a good height for Terry to catch a shot
of Honey sliding a chrome dildo into her ass. He's in close and
tight to get what they call the pee and pee: pimples and
penetration.
And Dixie's cooing.
Ooo, she's saying, oh, ooo, that is soooo good.
Dixie, hon, says Honey, working another inch of chrome into the
girl's ass, they're not miking this for real. You don't have to
sell it quite so hard.
But it does feel good. Oooh.
Honey, who's just had the best fuck she's had in the past six
months courtesy of someone else's fluffer in a bedroom she's
never going to see again, whose thighs were still sticky with
snail trails of come and spit till she blotted them with her robe
as Linus was checking the light, because she hadn't had time to
clean herself up, she'd barely had time to fix her lipstick and
hair--Honey, who's still feeling loose and wobbly, her legs like
noodles, her lungs like meringue, her heart like some tiny
furnace--Honey just shrugs. Her second giggle of the day, this
one with a, but she gets to slip the dildo into Dixie's ass and
not the other way round--since even though Dixie's an
up-and-comer, lots of buzz, no big breaks yet but she's already
copped the scalp a couple of times, still, Honey's got seniority.
Age has its advantages, she thinks, working the dildo in another
gleaming inch.
You got coverage? says Roy. He doesn't seem to care his shadow's
lying across the blanket, standing there with Marvin beside him
for all the world like a couple of duffers trying to plot the lay
of a golf ball on the seventeenth hole.
Yeah, says Terry, backing up, I've got it. So Dixie hikes up her
butt even more, turning her head to face Terry, nibbling on her
thumb as Honey works the dildo with one hand and lays the other
along Dixie's belly, reaching back with a couple of fingers to
spread the girl's cunt open so she can go down on her. They
hadn't even bothered with a build for this scene. She has no idea
how this will fit into whatever sketchy storyline or theme Roy
has planned and she officially doesn't care. She isn't even too
sure about what's going to happen next. Probably Dixie will go
down on her, close with a 69. Whatever. Dixie tastes like suntan
oil and smells like some artificial fruit. It's all that lube
leaking down from her ass. That tang there, maybe that's what she
really tastes like, a hint of salty musk under all the chemicals.
Honey's tongue feels tired and furry. She's remembering Barbie's
taste, rich and funky like some unknown ethnic food, her smell
like fresh bread in some weird way.
So she's distracted, which is maybe why she doesn't notice what's
going on until she hears Scottie's voice. Hey, you girls look
like you could use a hand. She jerks up her head from Dixie's
cunt and there he is, big as life, his six pack and his chiseled
tits and his ropy arms and his balding head red with sun and
blood from the Viagra that's kicking awake his erection like some
sluggish zombie in his grey athletic shorts.
You have got to be kidding me, says Honey.
Don't stop, Terry, says Roy. Don't stop. Honey. Honey, listen to
me. We're running out of time. I had to compress a couple of
scenes. You don't touch him. Okay? I am not breaking our deal.
You do not touch him. It's just a little variation on the 69th
Street Bridge, okay? You do Dixie, Dixie blows Scott. We all go
home happy. Okay?
Honey's shaking her head, saying no, no way--
--when it hits her.
It's visceral, like a kick in the gut. The cold is back. It fills
her body like a tornado, spilling tendrils down her shivering
arms and legs, freezing her brain with the sudden, certain
knowledge. It's in Scottie's grin. It's in Roy's cocked eyebrow.
It's in Marvin's puzzled little smile. It was in Barbie's look.
That very first look. Those big brown eyes.
It's a set-up. The whole goddamn thing was a set-up, for this.
Roy is saying somewhere out there, we good? Honey? And she wants
to throw up, she wants to smash the camera, she wants to kick Roy
and Scottie and Marvin rolling down the hill, she--she doesn't
want to do anything to Barbie. No. Dixie's saying, you know, it's
just sex. No. It's like she's cut off from the world by a soft
curtain of static, a ghost channel on an old television set, and
even her own thoughts are turned way down and she has to listen
hard to hear them. Losing her temper would be enough. And Roy has
the goods on her and Barbie to make her life hell, now. She's
fucked.
Honey? We good?
She's pretty sure she nods to that. Yeah, she hears her voice
say, somewhere far away. It's just sex. We're good.
Scottie loses his shorts and Dixie hikes up on her hands and
starts to lick his half-hard cock, and Honey wonders if Barbie
fluffed him, you know, for old time's sake.
::
It seems like it takes Scottie forever to come.
::
Honey goes back to licking out Dixie's cunt under the theory that
she won't see Scottie at all from there. But something, an image,
gets planted in her brain and grows there like some nasty weed
and won't go away. She sits up, leaves the dildo sticking out of
Dixie's ass like a banderilla in a bull, shoves a couple of
fingers in Dixie's twat and plants herself behind her like she's
fucking the girl doggie-style. Leans over so she can watch
Scottie's thick, hairy fingers cup the back of Dixie's head as he
fucks her face. So she can watch his belly, his thighs, gleaming
with sweat.
::
God, it's taking Scottie forever to come.
::
Oh yeah, he's saying, oh yeah. Shit yeah. He's gonna blow.
Dixie's moaning around his cock as he pumps a couple more times.
It's a delicate operation, coming into someone's mouth for the
benefit of the camera. Takes two seasoned practitioners working
at the height of their craft, judging timing, intensity, arc, and
velocity in a split second, and even then you're going to make a
mess. Scottie leans back pulling out his cock as Dixie opens her
mouth and then he's coming in three long pumping ropy pulses that
mostly splatter into her mouth.
Yeah, Roy's saying, as Honey lays a hand on Dixie's shoulder.
That was... Honey's pulling on Dixie's shoulder, turning it a
little as she rolls onto her side by the girl, and Honey turns up
her face so Dixie can look down and without really thinking about
it kiss Honey. And Honey opens her mouth and Dixie opens hers and
they're sharing Scottie's slimy, tasteless load, vaguely salty,
like medicated snot. Honey pulls back, letting the honey kiss's
trademark strand of come dribble between their lips, and then for
good measure she licks up a shining spot from the corner of
Dixie's mouth.
That was, uh, Roy's saying. At a loss for words.
Honey stands. Terry's right there, his mouth hanging open. The
camera had been tight on her and followed her up, instinctively.
She leans forward and spits a load of come on the lens.
Walking away from them all, naked, scrubbing her lips with the
back of her hand, she hears Roy's awestruck voice, my God, Terry,
please tell me you got that.
I got it, says Terry. Fuck.
::
There's an enormous crack in the bathroom mirror, and a
crunched-up shattered place where the cell phone hit. Honey's
rinsed out her mouth five times and still her teeth feel filmy,
her tongue feels slimy. She wants a cigarette. She wants a drink.
She wants to be mind-numbingly drunk. She doesn't ever want to
hear the voice that says, hey, Honey? You okay?
Get out, she says, looking up to see Barbie in the mirror,
standing in the doorway behind her. Her face flat, her eyes gone
dark, hidden. Honey remembers her pulling the fake-out with the
lapdance, stopping dead. How'm I doing?
Get out! she says again. Barbie blinks. I just, she starts to
say. I don't care! yells Honey spinning around to confront her
for real. Grabbing the door. You lied to me, she says, and she
slams the door in Barbie's face.
Honey? says Barbie. Julie?
Get out! screams Honey. She throws her ruined cell phone at the
door.
::
She's calmer when Roy knocks. She's as ready for him as she will
ever be. Toilet seat down, she's sitting on it, her robe spread
beneath her. Naked, she is strong. Naked, she has power.
He sticks his head around the corner. Look, he says. I don't know
what possessed you out there, but this is gonna be huge. Okay?
Word of mouth is gonna double my sales alone, but if you play
along--I mean, I'm willing to cut you in for a taste. Strictly
net, but...
I don't want it.
Honey. Babe. That's great, and I can't believe I'm saying this,
but think twice. You just broke your mystique out there, babe. We
just made the tape of the year out there!
It's bigger even than that, Roy. You just shot Honey Ryder's last
fuck scene. So. There. You've got your place in history. How's
that?
Roy blinks.
How old is she, Roy? Sixteen? Seventeen?
Dixie? says Roy. Honey, are you--
Barbie, you fuck. How old is Barbie?
Roy frowns. Barbie's eighteen, Honey, he says.
Cut the shit. Yeah, I know you have to pretend that's what you
think, but you've also got to gloat and warn me that if I make
any trouble, queer this up for you at all, breathe funny, well,
you've got somebody waiting in the wings, ready to testify,
certainly Your Honor, the defendant knew she was underage. And
engaged in carnal relations anyway. Statutory rape.
You, uh, you fucked Barbie? says Roy.
Don't be an idiot!
And Roy turns and gently closes the door, then leans his bulk
against the wall, folding his arms over his absurd pink shirt.
Honey. Listen to me. I'm, well, I'm flattered you think I'm that
Machiavellian. Really. But if somebody's told you I treat my
people like that, setting them up like that, I want you to tell
me who it is so I can hunt them down and cut off their balls and
shove 'em down their fuckin' throat. Okay? I did not set you up
to fuck Barbie or be fucked or whatever you think has happened,
okay? I did not let an underage girl on my set. I've had enough
trouble with cops. We really were running out of time and I
figured I could maybe sweet talk you into a sort of king triad
with Scottie and Dixie. Fuck, it was worth a shot. But that honey
kiss out there--babe, that hits the racks, your Q-rating is going
through the fucking roof. Now is absolutely the worst time to
quit. Hell, I'd be willing to broker something with Mikey, get an
absolute top-drawer guy, maybe Lance--
Shut up, Roy, says Honey.
Or maybe not, says Roy. Maybe not. Maybe later.
Honey feels dizzy, like if she doesn't brace her foot against the
tub she's going to topple off the toilet. And Barbie's really...
she starts to say.
Her birthday was, like, last week. Me and Scottie are talking to
Jerry Kepnick. She's got a shot at Eighteen by Seconds IV, starts
shooting next month. She's gonna be a hit with that jailbait
stuff, you know.
She wants to laugh. She wants to yell something, anything. She
wants to burst into tears. She feels nothing but numb, and a
little vertigo. I thought they'd only made two of those damn
things, is all she manages to say.
::
Honey Ryder leaves the way she came in: face bare, hair mussed,
kicking the door open with one puffy-shoed foot, her big black
bag slung from one shoulder. Outside, a flash of white catches
her eye on the gravel path to the driveway, and she bends down,
picks it up. It's the torn corner of one of her business cards.
There's another piece, there, caught in the grass. And a third,
under the tire of Marvin's van.
::
Dixie Bangs drives a black VW Jetta that matches her black
pleather miniskirt, her black bandeau top, her black leather
jacket, her black Chuck Taylors All Stars. It's a brand new car
and more powerful than she's used to but she loves it anyway,
loves the way it roars into the courtyard of the condo she bought
with the money from Topping Tushy II and III. She climbs out
feeling slinky and skanky, sexy and sleazy. Slutty. Her legs
still tremble from the rush of the engine.
Eric's sitting on her new denim couch eating some kind of
puffed-up chip from Japan and playing Twisted Metal on the
Playstation. He doesn't look up, doesn't say anything, just
hammers away at the touchpad with his thumbs.
You know you are getting jaded, says Dixie, if a porn star walks
into the room and you do nothing.
Oh, says Eric. Hey. Um. How was your day?
I did a quickie for Roy Smolin, she says. Fucked an over-the-hill
porn star for twenty minutes and a big beefy guy for an hour and
Roy is going to put my photo on the box for doing this.
Who? says Eric, who still hasn't looked up. Some murderous clown
is threatening him on the big flatscreen TV.
Who what? says Dixie, starting to get annoyed.
Who was the porn star?
Honey Ryder, says Dixie.
No shit? says Eric. You fucked Honey Ryder? Damn. She's hot. She
like, never fucks guys.
I, says Dixie, shucking out of her leather jacket, am going to
take a shower. If you are still here when I am finished, I shall
call the police.
What? says Eric. The fuck? Babe, I, uh...
Please do not take it personally, says Dixie. I just don't like
you. So go.
Where the fuck will I spend the night? says Eric.
That is not my problem, says Dixie, kicking off her Chuck
Taylors.
She wanders back to the bathroom, where she strips off the
bandeau and the miniskirt. She never wears underwear after a
shoot. It would be--wrong. She'd have to burn it, she thinks. The
smells never really come out if they're rubbed into fabric like
that.
The shower is hot and strong and long and by the time she gets
out and pads naked into the living room, Eric's gone. He left the
TV on, though. She sits, damp, on the denim couch, fishes the
remote out from between the cushions, goes surfing. She's
restless. She draws her heels up to the edge of the couch, flips
past the Spice Channel, flips back. There's a shot of Honey Ryder
from a year ago, the AVN Awards. She's smiling. Her hair is
glossy and artfully tangled. She's wearing a silvery mesh
minidress that's practically hanging off her nipples and she
looks like a movie star. She's saying something about how much
she loves the industry, how it's, it's a cliche, you know, but it
really is like one big family. Everybody loves everybody else.
God, says Dixie, to nobody in particular. I'm horny.
::
Giggling
--n.
::
/~nickurfe/
http://www.ruthiesclub.com/
nickurfe@yahoo.com
This story may be freely circulated by anyone, anytime, anywhere.
Originally published at Ruthie's Club. Thanks to Ruthie for
editing, Garv for illustrating, and MichaelD for Reseda.
.