The Visit.

The Visit.

As promised, Logan flies Allie out to LA to celebrate Spring Break.  They spend afternoons in Venice and on the shores of Zuma Beach, they see a movie at the Landmark, have dinner at Umami, drink at The Den and The Surly Goat.  They carry on like kids in love.

Logan is invited as a special guest for a radio show called “Probing the Industry.”  The show is hosted by a flamboyant ex-performer named Roy Genoa, and staying true to his name, Roy looks as if he ate a few too many salami sandwiches.  Nowadays, Roy mainly works as the porno equivalent to a character actor—non-sex rolls--as the industry refers to them. 

Roy is proud, always raving about his show, his frequency of broadcasts, and his “millions” of viewers.  Logan figures his appearance on the show will be good press, and a great way to introduce his civilian girlfriend to the industry. 

The day of the show, Roy calls Logan.  

Through labored breaths he says, “Hey Pierce, I wanted to make sure you were bringing tail tomorrow night.”

“You want me to bring girls?”  

“Oh yeah, bring some of the new girls.”

“Well, I mean, my girlfriend is in town. I was going to bring her.”  

“Tell her to bring her friends, but only if they’re hot.”

“…It is a radio show, right?”  

“Oh yeah, but no one wants to hear a guy talk.  Bring a couple girls.  I like to have fun in the booth.”

“Right.  I’ll see what I can do, Roy.”

“Be there by 7:00.”  

“See you then.”  

That night Logan and Allie drive to the studio.  In the car, Logan prepares her for what she might expect. 

“Just be warned that people in this business tend to be a bit more, uh, hands on.”

“Hands on? Like groping and stuff?”

“No, no, not like that, just like a bit more friendly.  For example, Roy may hug you a little too long or compliment you on your body or say weird, kind of creepy things, but I promise it’s all in good fun.”

“Fun.”

“I’m just saying I have yet to meet anyone who is a complete jerk.  Everyone is just kind of chill and super comfortable with their bodies and stuff. Just roll with whatever happens.”

“Yeah, sure.”       

They arrive at 6:45.  They take an elevator from the parking garage up to the studio.  When they enter, Roy is already in the booth, on the air, and has a naked girl sitting on his lap.  Across from him sits another girl with her tits out, attempting to fit a soda can into her mouth.  

Logan signals Roy through the glass window, but he waves him away.  Logan can’t understand why, so he signals him again.  This time Roy puts up his index finger as if to say, “Wait a minute.”

So they do.  Allie and Logan sit outside the booth for fifteen minutes before Roy opens the door to let them in.

“Oh, boy, another plaything.” Roy says to Allie, returning to his seat.  He pats his knee, and says,  “Come sit on daddy’s lap.” 

Allie throws Logan a look of confusion.  He shrugs his shoulders and raises his hands as if to say, “Don’t worry, its cool.”   

She reluctantly sits on Roy’s knee and Logan notices him resting his hands on her hips, squeezing her abdomen.  

Logan sits across the table in between the two naked girls who are now wearing silk robes.

Roy says, “Ladies, say hello to Logan.  He’s the new stud on the block.”  

The one to Logan’s left, a dark skinned girl with pink hair and a septum piercing, drapes her right leg over his left knee, exposing her pussy to Roy and Allie.  

“Hi new stud,” she says.

The girl to Logan’s right, a middle-aged blonde with fading tattoos and cesarean scars, grazes his shoulder with her long acrylic nails.  

“Cougar snack.”  She purrs.

“Hi ladies.” Logan says, casual.      

“Okay, so this is how it’ll work.”  Roy says.  “We are back in a minute and when we go on the air I’m going to talk for a bit and finish chatting with the girls.  Then I’ll introduce you and ask you a couple questions.  That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Asks Logan.  

”Yup.”

“But, I thought--”

“Hush, hush, we’re back in 5...4...3…2” He pushes a button, the on-air sign beams red, and they are live.  

Logan puts on his headphones and listens in.

Roy lowers his voice to bedroom volume and says, “Hello, Hello, and welcome back all of you fellow perverts and pervettes.  This is the human foot long himself, Dr. Genoa, here with my analysis.  Speaking of anal, I am once again joined by my two beautiful co-stars, Tammy Cumz and Jade Jackson.  Ladies, please say something for your adoring audience.”

“Oh, god, I’m so wet,” says the punk princess.

“I’m ready for sucky-fucky,” says the M.I.L.F.  

“Also in the studio with us here today,” Roy continues, “is an alluring new starlet who’s name I have yet to receive.”  He looks at Allie and asks, “My little teeny-bopper, what is your name?”  

In a soft, unassuming tone, Allie says, “Um…well,”

Roy interjects, “Lean a little bit closer into the microphone dear.”

She leans her head down toward Roy’s microphone.

“That’s a good girl,” Roy encourages, placing a hand on the back of Allie’s head, her body tensing at his touch.  “Now, open nice and wide.  Don’t be afraid.” 

Allie continues, “Um, well, I’m not actually a performer.”

“Oh no?” Asks Roy.  He starts humping the air.  “Maybe we ought to break you in right now, eh?  What do you say, Darling?  You wanna play with Daddy?” 

The girls cackle and cheer.  Allie’s skin pales and she is speechless.  She stares at Logan with contempt.  

Roy continues, “Also here with us is new male talent, Logan Pierce.  Logan, tell the audience, did you ever harbor any naughty feelings for a family member?”  

“What!?”  Logan shrieks, taken aback.

“Maybe diddle your little sister?”  Roy asks, “The topic of the night is incest.”  

Tammy adds, “Yeah, I had a crush on my cousin and gave him a hand job when I was a kid.”  

“…Right” Logan says.  “Um...to answer your question, Roy, no I didn’t.”  

Roy pushes a button and a buzzer goes off.  “Boo! Boring!”  He yells.  He reaches under the table and pulls out a bottle of vodka.   “You know what that means, everybody.” 

The girls cheer, “Shots! Shots! Shots!”  

Roy takes a swig of the bottle and hands it to Allie, who refuses to drink and hands it to Logan.  He can’t stand the taste of liquor, especially vodka, but he wants to be a team player.  He takes a swig and fights to swallow it.  He gags and his eyes water.  

Logan hands the bottle to Jade who says, “Awe, poor baby.”  She takes a swig and hands it to Tammy cheering, “Hot damn, baby girl!”  

Tammy holds the bottle and takes an extended gulp, theatrically spilling vodka on her face and down onto her chest.  “Whoopsie,” she says, licking her lips.  She hands the bottle back to Roy.

“Okay,” he says, “Be sure to join us tomorrow night as we probe deeper and deeper and deeper into the industry.  Goodnight, everyone.”  

He pushes another button and the on-air sign goes out.  They are off the air and the show is over.

“Wow, that was great.”  Roy says.  “Fantastic show, everybody.”  He shakes his knee, pushing Allie away.  “You can get off me now, sweetheart.” 

Roy walks over to Logan and sticks out his hand.  “Come back anytime, kid.”  

They shake.  “Uh, yeah, sure, thanks for having me,” Logan says.  

Roy shifts his attention to the girls, who have resumed drinking from the vodka bottle.  “So, my little troublemakers,” He says.  “Where shall we eat?  Daddy’s starving.”

Allie and Logan leave the studio and take the elevator down to the parking garage.  The tension is palpable.  In the car, Logan breaks the silence. 

“Look, uh…I’m sorry if that was uncomfortable.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. 

“Hey, it was weird for me too, okay?  Seriously, Fuck that guy.”

“Can we just go home, please?”

“Yes.  I mean it, though, I’m really sorry.” 

Later, in bed, they fall asleep in each other’s arms, estranged but together.  In the middle of the night they both wake, sleepy eyed and longing for affection.  They kiss, they grope, and they tear each other’s clothes off. 

Logan eagerly goes down on Allie, pinning her legs in the air, opening up the action like he would for the camera, performing his duty, his job. 

Just another day at the office.

Suddenly, he hears whimpering and looks up to see Allie fighting back tears.  The moment is lost. Allie closes her legs and turns away, embarrassed. 

Logan holds her, unsure of what else to do.   

As she cries in his arms she confesses, “I can’t get the thought of that creep out of my mind.  He was disgusting.  Is that really what you want to become?” 

“Baby, that’s nothing like me.”

“His fat fucking hands on my body.  I could feel his hot gross breath in my ear.”

“I promise I will never become like that.”

“It doesn’t even matter, those are the people you work with, that’s the company you’re in.”

“I don’t know what to-“ 

“This is wrong, okay?  I don’t…feel right.  I feel used, like you’re doing to me exactly what you would do to those random girls tonight.  Like there’s nothing special about our sex anymore.” 

Logan doesn’t have anything to say to convince her otherwise.

He should have expected this day would come sooner or later.  “It’s not cheating, its work.” Total bullshit.  Just a fabrication repeated in his mind for a false sense of security.  Of course it’s cheating, he’s having sex with other people for money.  A relationship like that can’t survive; that’s no way to treat someone he claims to love.  If he loved her he would climb out of the hole before he sinks too deep.  Then again if he cared at all he wouldn’t have exposed her in the first place, but he did anyway.  He broke what they had, and now he would have to let her go. 

What's in a Name?

What’s in a Name?

He goes to a house party in North Philly and takes shrooms for the first time.  He eats an eighth, but after thirty minutes he doesn’t feel anything so he eats another. 

Soon the graffiti stricken walls of the house are pulsating and he sinks deep into the cushions of a dirty couch.  

The next thing he remembers is his tongue inside of another person’s mouth, swirling around with their tongue.  He stops and pulls away.  He is relieved to find this person is a girl.  Cupping her face, he looks into her eyes.  In a moment of clarity, he discovers she is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen before in his life. 

“What’s your name?” He asks.

“Allie.”

“Allie.  Do that again,” he says, pulling her lips back onto his. 

Soon one of her friends comes and grabs her, takes her out of his arms and out of reach.  Too much too soon.   

Then the drug begins to turn. 

Everyone in the house mutates into gross caricatures.  Panic sets in.  He needs air.  He stumbles around and comes face to face with his reflection in a hallway mirror.  He freezes in terror at what he sees.  Thankfully someone bumps into him, breaking his trance, giving him the strength to run outside into the night air and puke on the front stoop. 

Delirious, he discovers the city has morphed into a fiery post-apocalyptic hellhole.  Tears well and he falls to his knees, crying.  The world as he knows it disappears, and he loses all sense of time and space.  Picture fades to black. 

He wakes the next morning in a stranger’s apartment amidst half a dozen outstretched and bare skin bodies strewn across a couch and the living room floor. 

He looks down by his side and finds Allie nestled in his arms.  He can’t believe it.  He can’t remember how he got there or how she came to be with him, but he didn’t care; having her here is what is important.  He runs his fingers through her long brunette hair just to make sure she’s really there, and as her soft waking eyes look up to meet his he feels a calming sense of warmth in his stomach. 

He likes this moment.  He wants this feeling to continue.

They make plans to see each other again, then again, and again, and again. Allie and him soon become exclusive, and after two months into their relationship he figures it's time to tell her what he plans to do in Los Angeles, his porno pursuits.

It isn’t the most ideal conversation, but it's necessary.  She can’t understand what is driving him, and he can’t seem to offer her a reasonable explanation. 

Honestly, he doesn’t even have one for himself; He wishes he could verbalize why he is so drawn to Porn and what he hopes to find when he gets there, but he cant.  Not yet. 

Maybe that’s the motivation, to answer Man’s most plaguing question of, “What if?”   

He tells Allie he’s sorry, and he reassures her that this won’t affect the way he feels about her.  He tells her he’ll make enough money to fly her out anytime she wants.  He tells her they can stay together, and they can make it work; they will make it work because they are hopeful, they are idealistic, and they are in love.

He jokes, “And like, it won’t be cheating, I’ll just be doing it for work.”

Not Funny.

*          *          *

The time comes for him to leave and he realizes he has yet to pick a stage name.  It’s a task he’s been avoiding.  A name is everything; its an identity, it’s a brand, and it’s a major fucking responsibility.  He wants something memorable, distinct, and empowering, something strong and yet something warm, inviting, and casual.

He and Allie brainstorm together in his bedroom one nigh after sex.

“What do you think about Guy Pierce?”  He asks.  

“Like the actor?”

“Exactly.  Except, I would change the name to spell P-I-E-R-C-E.  You see?  Double entendre.” 

“Piercing like a sword.“

“And like a cock.”

“Oh yeah?  Pierce is fine, I think.  Not too crazy about the name, Guy, though. It feels so impersonal, you sound like a prop.” 

“I think that’s usually what the guys are.”

“See, Guy.  You’d just be another ‘one of the guys;’ another anonymous penis.” 

“You think it sounds too porny.”

“Too porny or too corny?  Is there even a difference?  Anyway, you’d probably get sued by the actor or something, right?” 

“I never thought about that.  I guess that’s fair.”

“You know what name I love?  Logan.  I’ve never met anyone named Logan before, but I love the way it sounds; it just rolls off the tongue.” 

“Logan.  Yeah, when I hear it I think of Wolverine.  That’s not a bad look.”

“You could pass for a Logan.” 

“You think?  Logan…Pierce?” 

“Logan Pierce: Male Performer.  Ha, Kind of has a ring to it.”

“Yeah, it sounds good; natural, a sophisticated character.” 

“The kind of guy who will take you out for wine and then bang you in the back of a dark alleyway.”

"Now that I like!” 

“Me too.”

“Logan Pierce.  I think I’ll keep it.”

“Good.  Now get out there and make it happen Mr. Pierce.”  

And just like that, he is given a name.  He is born.       

Two weeks later, he packs all of his clothes, his books, his DVD collection, his X-box and his video games into his car.  He kisses Allie goodbye and leaves, driving four days across the country toward the Pacific, diving head first into dark waters, unafraid, ready to make a splash.  

And They Tell You It's Not Natural.

I meet fellow performer, Pepper Graham.  She's Half Thai/half Oaxacan, has blonde hair, tan skin, curvy body, and fake tits.  She's a real sweetheart.  She comes over, we drink wine, and I massage her feet and legs on my couch as we watch Velvet Goldmine.

"Since you've done my feet, you should massage my legs," she says.  So I do.

"You've come this far, why not continue massaging my thighs?"  She says as she slips off her tight black yoga pants.  She caresses her own stomach and then lays her hands on top of mine, following them as I grip and rub her juicy thighs.  She lifts her foot and brings it to my mouth.

"Kiss it," she says.  I open my mouth and let her toes slide past my lips and onto my tongue.  She smiles devilishly as she thrusts it in deeper, to the back of my throat, forcing my jaw to extend and my eyes to well.

"That's right, hold it there," she says.  "That's a good boy. Now I'm ready to play."     

We move into the bedroom. There, she instructs me to remove my shirt and my pants, saying, "they're pointless, get rid of them." Then she has me wear my Siberian wolf spirit hood that I have hanging on my door. "Oh, now there's my little puppy," she coos.

She tells me to get on all fours, on my hands and knees and beg, wag my tail, worship her feet, roll over and play dead, bark and even yelp like a begging dog.

She takes off her shirt and makes me play tug of war with my mouth. Then she kneels and instructs me to worship her big fake tits with my tongue, licking and swirling around each nipple, one at a time. We embrace, kissing, exploring each other's mouths and biting each other's necks.

She pins me to the floor and climbs on top, smothering me with her sopping pussy and her ass. I eat like a hungry dog having its final meal.  Meanwhile she pulls down my boxers and swallows my manhood. I thrust up and down, feeling it poke the back of her throat, making her tear and gag in a slight retribution for my earlier submission, a small taste of things to come.

Suddenly, she jumps off and brings her face to mine, lapping her juices while whispering, "Fuck me, please."

I put her on her knees and press her against my bed frame. Penetration sends her squealing and shivering. I grip the back of her hair with my right hand, and with my left I squeeze her neck, bringing her up to me, digging my face into her neck and securing my teeth around her shoulder, fucking her hard, into oblivion.

She cums, screaming in ecstasy and falling back down onto the bed. I press her face deeper into the mattress, between the sheets, muffling her cries.

She then turns her head, looks up at me, and says, "Now I want to make you cum. I want you to drop your seed deep into this little pussy. Can you? Please, can you for that for me?  You better.  You have to. You have to cum inside my pussy like a good boy."

I lay on my back and she straddles me like a proper cowgirl, riding until eruption, filling herself with my pearly seed. As it drips out and down my shaft she laps it up, and bringing her face to mine we share a big sloppy kiss.

"That's momma's good boy," she says with sly contentment.  

She melts into my arms, and we share a calm moment of silence and recollection; a return and a resettling of nerve-endings.  We close our eyes, concentrating only on the sound of each other's breath.     

Anxieties.

Anxieties.

I forget her name, but she is a true to form, cold-as-ice professional; that is, she’s on the clock.  She isn’t here for the sex, only the paycheck.  

She doesn’t want to me to kiss her.  She doesn’t want me to touch her hair.  She doesn’t want to touch me if I am not already hard, and especially not until cameras are rolling.  She requests to not have to suck my dick after it is to be inserted inside of her, and to make matters even worse, my co-star is on her period, so the industry standard method of shoving a makeup sponge deep within the vaginal cavity in an effort to—um—plug the hole, has rendered her completely dry. 

My co-star’s disdain for everyone around her—particularly myself—is beyond palpable, and that tension leaves me hopeless.  I endeavor to hold a conversation with this woman—forget getting a hard-on; she is incongruous with what makes me vascular, with what transforms me into a throbbing he-man, leaving me limp and about as firm as a wet noodle. 

Everyone’s attitude changes the moment wood troubles begin on set.  The director tries to remain calm and sympathetic, but I can read between the lines; I can see the look of disappointment on his face. 

I sequester myself in the bathroom. 

"Just give me a minute!” I call out as I sit on the toilet seat trying to squeeze life back into my dick, but it’s useless.  I hear them all whispering about me, and I can’t concentrate.  I lose all interest and motivation.  I no longer feel sexy or aroused, just weak and embarrassed. 

I have never in my life thought the day would come when the communication between my mind and my manhood would be severed, especially not after giving up everything, leaving my family behind, and dropping out of college to become a bona fide, mother fucking, PORN STAR.  

            I am left unable to do my job.  

            I fail.

I go home defeated.  I think my career—or whatever semblance of a career I have established up until this point—is over. 

My mind is racing with questions like:

“Will they ever hire me again?”

“Will word spread?” 

“Am I gay?” 

Feeling less than zero, I call Mick and tell him the bad news.  He laughs at me over the phone.

“Big fucking deal.  This was bound to happen sooner or later, kid.  Everyone has bad days.”

“Not everyone.  Not me.”

“Look, they can’t all be home-runs.  But remember, you’re only as good as your last scene, you understand?  You start making this a regular thing and soon nobody is gonna book you.”

“Well, shit.  What am I supposed to do?”

“You want a guarantee?  Go pay a visit to Dr. Dose.  He’ll give you exactly what you need.”

I am nearly six-months into my porn career at this point; I haven’t exactly declared my official arrival, so to speak.  I am still new, still green.  I have to keep working; I have to keep shooting if I want to succeed.  I can’t afford to lose my edge, so I follow my agent’s advice and take out an insurance policy on my career.

Dr. Dose is the industry’s primary care physician. He runs an urgent care clinic in the armpit of the valley.  I enter his office and one of the nurses leads me to a neglected examination room.  With stale lights and stained walls it resembles something straight out of Requiem for a Dream.  I sit anxiously atop the wax paper. 

Ten minutes later the Doctor walks in.

“So, Sporto, I hear you’re in dirty movies and you want some medicine, yeah?  Well, we can get you fixed up with whatever you need: Viagra, Levitra, Cialis, even Caverject if you don’t mind jabbing a needle into yourself.”

“What? Uh, No, that’s okay, Doc, I’ll just stick with the pills—the Viagra.” 

“No problem, Sporto.  Whatever you want.  You need anything else? Xanax? Codeine?  Maybe some antibiotics; Do you have a scratchy throat?  Could be gonorrhea, you know.  A shot in the butt and a Z-pack would clear that right up for you.” 

“No thanks, Doc.  I’m fine.  Just the Viagra, please.”

“Sure, sure.  Got a script written up right here for you.”  He hands me the slip of paper.  “Just take this to any pharmacy and you’ll be good to go. “

He opens the door and shoos me out.

“Okay, have fun; take care of yourself, Sporto.  See you soon.”

I am dizzy by the time I leave his office. 

I get into my car and drive to the nearest CVS.  With my script in hand, I approach the pharmacy counter, doing my best to remain inconspicuous. 

“Hi, I just wanted to drop this off.”

“Sure, what’s your date of birth?”

“October 17th, 1990.”

“And what’s the medication?”

Under my breath I mutter, “Uh…viagra.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Viagra.”

“Right.  Okay, sir, how many pills would you like?”

“Well, how many can I get?”

“The max is ten.”

“That sounds good.”

“Just so you’re aware, the price will be $220.”

“Holy shit.  For ten pills?”

“Yes sir.”

“Uh…okay then, I guess I’ll take it.”

Thirty minutes later my prescription is filled and I leave with my first bottle of magic blue pills—my new best friends and most trusted allies in my male-performer tool belt.  Hereafter, all of my on-camera erections will grade nothing short of pharmaceutical.    

Walter Neff and The Los Angeles Narrative.

Name: ***** ************

School/Class: SCT/L.A. Plays Itself

Assignment: Walter Neff and The Los Angeles Narrative.  

Date: 20 March 2012

    The film Double Indemnity paints the picture of what should have been the perfect crime committed by the perfect criminal, but as cinema always reminds us, nothing ever goes according to plan. 

    Walter Neff had a stable career as an insurance salesman.  He lead a fairly average and maintainable lifestyle, something one could refer to as traditional.  And maybe that was his downfall.  Walter Neff found himself unhappy, found himself longing for something a bit more exciting, something darker, taboo. 

    That’s when he met femme fatale, Phyllis Dietrichson, and that’s when he allowed himself to be seduced by desire.  Phyllis convinces Walter to kill her husband in an attempt to acquire insurance money due to a loophole known as “double indemnity.”  And thus the stage was set for Walter Neff’s demise. 

   My story.

   Prior to entering Los Angeles I was nearly finished writing two feature screenplays – one detailing a group of survivors during the ZPocalypse, and another chronicling a duo of psychotic deviants (Hello, Man Bites Dog meets Following.)  Of course I keep trying to coax my mind into forgetting the fact that I have been writing these screenplays since early 2009. 

    Feature screenplays aside, I have actually produced some work; work I am proud to say I created.  I wrote, directed, and produced a short film entitled, One Step.  One Step observes a young man as he inexplicably decides to rid his body of its biological need for food and the fatal effect it has on his life.  One Step is to this day, my only “real” body of work.  Real in the sense that I had an idea, ran with it, and assembled like-minded budding artists to help bring the story to life.  Together we scripted, storyboarded, cast, scouted, and financed; you know, all the basic facets that go into producing a short film, hence the term, real.

    After its completion, One Step was accepted into a few local film festivals.  It didn’t win any awards or anything, but just being accepted was validation enough.  I thought I was well on my way to becoming a blossoming young filmmaker. 

    Coming off of One Step, I undertook another project, a big project, a big project that shouldn’t have been assembled in the first place, a project I started with such high hopes and charisma, a project that took over a year to shoot, with every day longer and colder and slower and less artistic than the last.  “Grey Matter,” as the film was called, soon suffocated and fell dead in its tracks.   Even today the fucking movie still sits on my hard-drive – cut up to the best of my ability, but still missing final sound effects, score, transitions, color correction, titles, and what would probably be some of worst ADR since Tommy Wiseau's, The Room.  

    Months later, I saw the short film Mortal Kombat: Rebirth on Youtube.  I was enthralled by it.  In the wake, I longed to shoot a video game adaptation of my own.  Max Payne-- a brutal noir about a fugitive cop who dual wields through the night streets of New York City mercilessly searching for the killer of his wife and baby girl-- was my all-time favorite video game series, and thus my adaptation, “Max Payne: Defrayal” was born.   I went full throttle into this production with prop guns, stunt dives, bullet time, and CGI.  My team and I shot my 12-page script over the course of 3 days.  I was beyond ecstatic; I thought my story was original, faithful, and a pretty damn good attempt at an independent reimagining.  But just like that, just as headstrong as I was in the beginning, the second we wrapped principal photography the entire team disbanded. Editing was painstaking, and soon I realized I did not have the capacity to complete it.  Much Like “Grey Matter”, “Max Payne: Defrayal” was abandoned and later died a slow, painful death.   

   I wanted these projects completed, I wanted them circulated through festivals, I wanted those scripts shopped around, and like everyone else who dreams of Hollywood, I wanted to be somebody.  So then, why has Double Indemnity--a story about desire and fantasy, crime and punishment--why has it been the most relatable film to my life, and how does it so perfectly parallel my Los Angeles experience? 

  You see, I have been seduced by fantasy, entranced by the promise of women and wealth, coaxed into the underbelly of the city; the sub-market, the world everyone sees but no one discusses.   Like Walter Neff, I’ve longed for a radical change, for something raw; unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before, and soon after arriving to the west coast, I found solace in the adult film industry.   I have since been working fulltime as a stiff, a swordsman, a male performer; that’s right, I am a Porn Star.   

    I suppose YOU—Reader--are the ‘Barton Keys’ in my story.  You are the one who must hear my tales, my confessions, and you are the one who must make the final conclusion, the final judgment.  Rest assured, this is not a cry for help; rather, this experience has been cathartic, awakening.

    I realize people will criticize me for my choices.  I’m sure my reputation as an “artist” will certainly be tarnished, and even perhaps later in life I will retrospectively look upon my decision with regret, but right now I don’t care.  I am experimenting.  I am having fun.  I am living out a fantasy.  Under no circumstances do I believe I have degraded myself or am a victim of any kind.  I am not afraid to admit that I enjoy what I am doing; it offers me liberation in a way I never thought possible, an escape from the parameters of the reality we are conditioned to expect and abide by.  I am ready for the consequences, and I understand this career--if that’s what you want to call it-- will be more taxing, both mentally and physically, than I may be prepared for, but at this moment I am ready for battle.  My scenes, my work, my body, and my soul are now forever stamped on the lower back of Internet, so I will embrace it.

    Now I ask you, is that a crime?

The Cool Kids.

The Cool Kids.

Part One.

I met fellow swordsman, Vincent Vanowen, on a movie set where we played brothers who swapped girlfriends for a night.

The first time the two of us hung out we tripped on shrooms and walked around Hollywood Boulevard with his girlfriend/fellow performer, Mischa Bear, and their friend, Budd--the acting drug dealer of the group.  Budd walked around with the contraband hidden in a Hello Kitty backpack.

Budd gave me his number with a wink, saying, “You know, just in case you want to party.”   

While tripping, the Hollywood stars came alive.  They transformed into a scroll of credits to the greatest movie of all time, my movie.  I was the star, front and center.  I felt invincible, and Vincent--my Sherpa--appeared to me as a God.     

Weeks later, Vincent introduced me to his poly-amorous and free-spirited Burner friend Fiona Day. Through Fiona I met her artist boyfriend, Oz.  Fiona and Oz were living together in a small one-bedroom house in the depths of the Valley in a long forgotten about town called Winnetka.

One night, Fiona and Oz invited me over for dinner.  At the table we discussed psychedelics.  Oz and Fiona reminisced about the crazy experiences they had while tripping on acid.  I admitted I never tried acid before.  Fiona said she had a few tabs left over from the previous weekend.  She suggested tonight should be the night to drop them.   

 I am cool, I thought.  If they can do it so can I.  Fuck it.

The three of us were sitting on the couch when the drug was in full effect.  My body began to feel light.  My brain surged, my eyes sharpened, and I couldn’t stop smiling.  Fiona and Oz began flirting and soon they were making out.  She began stroking him as he fingered her.  I watched the action with growing anticipation.  

Oz whispered in Fiona’s ear, “Give him some attention.”  

Fiona crawled over toward me and started playing with my cock through my jeans, making out with me while Oz ate her out from behind. Soon Oz was fucking Fiona doggystyle as she was blowing me.  Fiona turned around and pounced atop Oz.  She road him in cowgirl.

He asked, “Can you fit two?”

Fiona pulled me towards her and told me to stick my cock in her alongside Oz’s.  I entered with almost no resistance.  She could fit the two of us rather comfortably.  I was enthralled by this seemingly impossible feat.  Before I knew it both Oz and I were simultaneously fucking Fiona.  

My first private threesome ever and here I was doing double Vaginal penetration on this girl while tripping on acid.  This was unprecedented.   

Shortly thereafter, Oz began to lose wood for some reason.  Frustrated, he pushed Fiona and me away and walked into the bathroom.  As quickly as it had started, the threesome disbanded.

“Did I do something wrong?”  I asked.  

“No, you’re fine,” she reassured.  “It was my idea for him to take the lead.  He is still getting used to threesomes.  I have to go talk to him.”  Fiona walked away and left me alone on the couch.  

My body was tingling; I still felt the drug coursing through my veins. Anxiously awaiting the couple’s return, I sat on the couch and stroked myself as I listened to the faint sounds of their voices wafting from the confines of the bathroom.  I don’t know what they were arguing about, but soon their conversation escalated and the volume of their voices intensified.

I sprawled across the couch and stared at the adjacent wall toward a hanging portrait of a tranquil deserted island.  With two hands, I firmly grasped my third leg and tugged with intent.  I closed my eyes and drowned out the sounds of reality with the symphony of my mind.  I transported myself to the island.  I imagined the island to be populated by beautiful Nubian princesses and myself.  I was king and the women worshipped me properly; a dozen soft hands and wet lips caressed every square inch of my body.  The women poured red wine on my cock and lapped it all up, savoring every drop when the bathroom door suddenly burst open and Fiona stormed out and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her, breaking me from my trance.  

As my mind returned to this planet, Oz walked into the living room and literally caught me with my pants down.  We laughed.  I got dressed and he joined me on the couch.

“You guys okay?” I asked.

“She said I embarrassed her.” Oz confided.

“I guess she just really wanted to fuck.” I said.  

“Yeah, I’m just too high for sex right now.  These days...I don’t know, man, times have been weird since I got back from Afghanistan."

“What the hell were you doing there?”

“I was a soldier.  Served for five years.”  He turned and pointed to the back of his rib cage.  “Check it out.  I was shot.”

“No shit?” I said as I reached out my finger to trace the circular wound.

Oz continued, “I was walking through a poppy field, and thwack!  It felt like a bee-sting.  Next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital.  Bullet missed my heart by an inch.”

“You were so lucky,” I said as I pressed my palm flat against his back, feeling the complex intricacies of his exercised shoulder. 

“I was discharged, flew to Cali, and now I’m just trying to focus on my art.” 

His skin grew warm in my hand.  I had a sudden urge to lean forward and kiss his back, but I suppressed it.  Oz turned to me and our eyes locked in a lingering stare.  He began to study my face. 

“Your features are so strong,” He said.  “So masculine.  Would you mind if I painted you?”

 “I’d like that.” 

Oz put on an album from the band Polica and poured himself a glass of red wine.  He sat Indian style on the floor and placed a blank canvas in his lap.  While admiring me, he painted a portrait of the face of LSD as I lay on the couch.  I remember thinking about my future, the places I’d go, and the people I’d meet.  I wondered who Logan Pierce was and what would eventually become of him on this journey.  In that moment, I was content; I had no worries.  I then closed my eyes and let the sounds and vibrations of the music carry me away on my trip. 

Babysitter Chronicles.

Babysitter Chronicles.

The scene begins with Logan welcoming the new babysitter, Haley, into his home.  He leads her into the living room to meet his wife, Krystal.  Krystal walks Haley through all of the basic baby-sitter requirements and the emergency contact list before her and Logan leave the house for their romantic evening dinner.

Time passes at the Pierce residence.  Haley puts the kids to sleep and retires to the living room couch where she finishes her homework for school.  Suddenly, the home phone rings. The caller I.D reads, unknown.  Haley answers anyway. 

“Hi, Pierce residence, this is Haley speaking.”

“Haley…are you the babysitter?”

“Yes I am.”

“Are you a…naughty babysitter?”

“Am I a what!?”

“You heard me.  Are you a bad girl?”

“Well, I—“

“Tell me what you’re wearing right now.”

“I don’t know about this.”

“What’s wrong, are you scared?”

“I’m not scared!  I’m just not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“It’s fine.  You can trust me.”

“Well, if you say so, Mister.  I’m wearing black Mary-Jane’s with white knee-high socks, a plaid skirt, and the polo uniform for my school.”

“Go on.”

“Well, what else do you wanna know?”

“What color are your panties?”

“Ha-Ha.  You’re silly.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’m not wearing any panties, Mister.”

“So, you are a naughty babysitter, after all, aren’t you?”    

“Maybe.”

“I like that.”

“He-He.  I had a feeling you would.  You’re a pervert, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

“I like that.  Well, Mister pervert, what would you like me to do?”

“How about you play with yourself for me?”

Rather than hang up the phone and call the police in fear for her life, Haley obliges the pervert and satisfies his depravity by stripping off her clothes and rubbing her clit while moaning into the phone receiver. 

Suddenly, Krystal appears in the living room, lurking behind Haley.

“What do you think you’re, doing, little lady?”

“Oh my god!”

“You’re naked.”

“I can—“

“And you’re playing with yourself.”

“But I—“

“You are a dirty, dirty, girl.”

“I’m so sorry!”

“…I like it.”

“I….you…what?”

“You heard me.  Keep going.”

“You want me to—“

“I want you to rub your little pussy and continue moaning into the phone.  Do you understand?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Good girl.”

Haley continues playing while Krystal looks on in admiration, stripping off her clothes in the meantime.  Soon, she joins in the fun herself, groping Haley, fingering her, and eating her pussy, all the while commanding Haley to remain on the phone and narrate all the unfolding action to the voice on the other line. 

The voice says, “Tell me exactly what she’s doing to you.”

“She has two fingers inside of me and she’s pushing them in and out.”

The pervert’s voice appears within the confines of the living room, reverberating off the walls when he says, “I want you to taste them.”    

Startled, Haley turns around to see Logan holding his phone up to his ear.

“Mr. Pierce! It was you?”

Logan tosses his phone aside.  “That’s right.  Now it’s time to play.”

Logan loosens his tie as he approaches the girls.  He joins them on the couch and the two women begin worshipping his cock.  Krystal teaches the timid Haley the finer points of giving a proper blowjob. Krystal then leads by example and climbs atop Logan, riding his cock in reverse cowgirl as Haley watches and studies while rubbing her own pussy. Krystal wants Haley to learn first hand, so she instructs Haley to take her place and sit upon Logan’s throbbing meat stick. Haley obliges, and like a good little slut, she makes sure to rest her feet atop Logan’s thighs while she rides him. Krystal instructs Haley to clean her pussy juices off of Logan’s cock, and she does so while Logan and Krystal make out, commenting on how quickly Haley is learning. Logan stands and forces Krystal to kneel on the couch so he can fuck her doggy-style while she licks Haley’s pussy. Logan gropes and slaps Krystal’s supple ass, and then he puts his foot on top of Krystal’s head,  pressing her face deeper into Haley’s teenage snatch. The women swap places and Logan begins fucking Haley from behind.  Krystal returns on top of Logan and rides him in regular cowgirl while Haley sits on Logan’s face. Haley then rides Logan’s cock once more in reverse cowgirl before he finally puts both women on their knees and shoots a volcanic load of creamy pearls all over both of their pretty faces. The women then swap his cum back and forth before Krystal finally commands Haley to, “Swallow it all.”

Krystal stands and both her and Logan smile at one another in contentment.

Krystal says to Haley, “You were such a great little babysitter.”  She turns her attention to her husband and says, “Wouldn’t you agree, honey?”

“Without question; probably the best one we’ve had so far.”  He looks at Haley and says, “Now, lets get you paid.”   

Cut. Print.

Unexpected Side Effects

Unexpected Side Effects

I was lying on the living floor of the shoot house, reading Matty Lee’s 35 Cents.  

My scene partner was sitting across from me in the makeup chair.  Her name was Linda Lust.  Linda was nineteen years old.  She stood at 5-foot-2 and weighed ninety pounds.  Her skin was ivory toned and smooth as milk.  Her face was adorned with freckles.  Her emerald eyes were piercing against her pale skin and her wavy auburn hair. Linda was absolutely delectable.  

The two of us began a dialogue.

“I’m a very passionate performer,”  she boasted.

“Oh yeah?  Thats great, that’s exactly what today is all about: passion,” I said.

“I love kissing and being held tightly,”  She said.

“Two of my favorite things.  I also love staring into the eyes of my partner,” I said.

Linda cooed, “Oh, I’m so excited for today!”

“Me too,”  I said.  Then I returned to my reading.

*    *    *

As I lounged on the king sized master bed, my mistress seductively danced in front of the grand window while gazing out toward the Los Angeles skyline.  Linda was dressed in lacy black lingerie.  She turned to face me, and while slowly swaying her hips, she playfully removed her bra and tossed it at me.  Linda crawled up the foot of the bed, outstretching her arms and grazing her hands upon my legs and then up to my thighs, nearing my loins.  Linda noticed my manhood as it visibly throbbed from beneath my boxer-briefs.  She used her tongue to tease it through the cotton fabric.  She removed my underwear and passionately worshipped my meat.  She stared longingly up toward me as she swirled her tongue around my cock and licked it from the base to the head.  

Linda crawled further up the bed and the two of us shared a deep and sloppy kiss while I wrapped one hand around her throat and with the other, I gripped the back of her hair.  I pulled her further up the bed, and Linda removed her lace panties.  She maneuvered my meat inside of her wet pussy.  Passionately, we fucked in a cowgirl position while I grabbed Linda’s hips, ran my hands up and down her back, spread her asscheeks apart, and groped her perfect teenage tits.  

We continued like this for ten minutes.  Then the director yelled, “cut!” so the crew could readjust the lighting for our next position.    

During this interim, Linda stepped out into the hallway.  Moments later, she called me to come join her.  

“I want to show you something,”  she said.”

“Sure, baby,”  I said.

Linda Lifted her right leg and placed it onto the top railing overlooking the staircase.  She bent over and spread her pussy.  She asked, “Does this look weird?”

I inspected her and deduced that her pussy has become inflamed.  “Um...it looks...swollen,”  I said with reluctance.

“How bad is it?”  She asked. “It started burning a couple minutes ago.”

“Yeah, it looks like you were using a pussy-pump or something,”  I said.

“What?  Oh, god.  It hurts, I don’t know what to do,”  She whined.

“It’s definitely swollen,”  I said.  “You should talk to the director.”

Linda went back into the bedroom and took the director aside.  She confided in him.  

I can’t imagine what could’ve caused her pussy to literally swell shut.  She must’ve had an allergic reaction to something.  Maybe it was an unexpected side effect of the detergent the crew used for the bed sheets, or maybe it was the remnants of her makeup left on my dick, or maybe it was me.  Maybe she was allergic to my body wash, or my laundry detergent, or maybe she was just plain allergic to my cock.  

In either case, the director decided to break for a half hour to let Linda’s body rest.  In the meantime, she ingested four tablets of Benadryl, two Ibuprofen pills, and smoked a bowl of weed in an attempt to rapidly reduce the swelling. Thirty minutes passed and her hole was tighter than a closed lens aperture.  Linda decided to take a bath and then ice her pussy as a last ditch effort.  

Two hours later, Linda determined she was too sore to continue.  “I can’t even fit two fingers inside,”  she said.  “There is no way I can have anymore sex today.”

We contemplated.  The director had solution.  “We’ll just finish the scene with a blowjob,”  he said.  Fine by me.  

Unfortunately, by this point, Linda’s overdose of pharmaceuticals had begun to manifest itself.  The coursing drugs left Linda aloof with about as much enthusiasm as a walking corpse.  

Even though it was a blowjob, I had to do most of the work.  I guess you could say, in this instance, I acted as a power-bottom; thrusting my hips toward Linda’s agape mouth while holding her by the hair to keep her head upright so she wouldn’t pass out.  Finally, I jerked myself off onto her face and tits.  

The director yelled, “Cut!”  

Linda immediately fell asleep on the bed.  The crew and I cleaned up and then left Linda alone as the medicine worked its way out of her body.

And that, as they say, was a wrap.     

Having The Edge.

Having The Edge.

The opening of the scene had up-and-coming asian starlet, Crystal Li, seductively strutting through a high-end modern apartment.  Crystal was nude underneath a skin-tight, pink fishnet mini-dress.  She walked on six-inch spiked black heels.

Crystal played in front of a full-length mirror; spitting and drooling all over her tits and rubbing it into her tight teen pussy, groping herself and whispering sweet nothings to the investigative camera lens.  Crystal sauntered into the living room where she sat atop the white pleather couch.  She continued rubbing herself, all the while staring at the camera and beckoning for a stud to come and stuff her.

Crystal confided, “I only have one thing on my mind; Big cock.”  

That was the boy’s cue.  He entered screen left.

The boy joined Crystal on the couch.  While kissing, the boy began rubbing her clit.  He dropped to his knees and began tonguing and spitting all over her warm hole.  The boy stood up and tightly gripped the back of Crystal’s hair, pulling her toward him.  She began grabbing his crotch and begging him to reveal what was underneath his pants.  

She traced the outline of his cock and awed, “Wow, its so big.  Feed me that meat.”  She looked up at him with puppy dog eyes and begged, “Please, sir, may I have it?”

“You may,” the boy said.  Crystal cooed and began unzipping his pants to reveal his glorious sword.  Cut from steel, the shimmering shaft was smooth and the edges were razor sharp.  It was a tool designed to pierce.

Crystal admired the work of art in front of her eyes; she almost didn’t know where to begin.  The boy smirked in contentment.  Crystal began sucking his cock.  At first, she traced the shaft with her tongue and teased the head, but soon she was leveraging him down her throat.  She spit stringers and smeared saliva all over her face and his his meaty member.

With tears dripping out of her eyes and makeup running down her cheeks, Crystal looked up toward the boy and demanded, “Take me.”  

The boy spun Crystal around and pressed the head of his cock against her eager hole.  He slipped it in with ease and her welcoming lips enveloped his shaft.  The boy began fucking Crystal doggy style.

Crystal looked back at the boy and said, “I want to use you.  Sit down.”  Then she hopped on top of the boy’s cock and rode him in cowgirl.  

The boy spun crystal around and placed her feet upon his thighs to further amplify the size disparity between her nimble body and his fantastical fuck tool. Crystal rode the boy in reverse cowgirl. Then she fell back onto her side. The boy joined behind her and they fucked in a spoon position.

Soon, Crystal crawled away.  She turned to face the boy and commanded, “Lift your legs.”  The boy did as he was told.  Crystal dropped to her knees and began tonguing the boy’s asshole while stroking his cock.  The boy loved this.  Soon he was throbbing harder than ever and veins were protruding from his shaft.  Crystal admired him once more, “it’s so beautiful, “ she boasted.

“Now, I want you to feed me your milk,”  She said.  “I’ve been such a good slut, I deserve my treat.”  The boy did as he was instructed, and he rewarded Crystal with a shower of pearls in which for her to bathe.  

Licking her lips, Crystal looked up.  She said, “You gave me what I wanted, you're such a good boy."  Then Crystal turned back to the camera and playfully, she said, “But I still need more.  Who’s going to feed me next?”   

Cut. Print.  

Meridian

Meridian.  

I have but one tattoo. It is subtle and unobtrusive.  At a first pass it may be overlooked entirely.  It is a small red triangle located right above my left pectoral muscle.  I received this tattoos alongside my two best friends.  They too received the very same small and unobtrusive red triangle above their respective left pectoral muscles.  

The date was September 19th, 2014.  It was a Friday.  

In the afternoon, Ryan, Joey, and myself took a walk to our local Trader Joe’s to get dinner supplies.  We settled on one bag of frozen orange chick, one bag of frozen chicken pot stickers, one bag of frozen pork pot stickers, and three six-packs of Trader Joe’s own, “Simpler Times” beer.  Simpler Times - in case you're unaware - is sold as 12oz cans filled with fairly flavorful lager with a 6.2 abv. percentage all at the cost of $3.50 per six-pack, and although they are only sold at room temperature, for the price and alcohol content alone Simpler Times cannot be beat.  

We returned to the apartment we had been renting in the Design District of West Hollywood and prepared the dinner while rapidly cooling the beers in the freezer because we were all quite parched and in these dire situations who honestly has the time to use the refrigerator?  

In time the orange chicken was a sticky golden brown, the pot stickers were crisp and sizzling, and the beers were ice cold and frosty.  With our plates in hand we relocated upstairs to my bedroom patio where I had set up a small picnic table for the evening.  There we gorged our food and guzzled our beers over great conversation and grandiose laughter.  We finished our first six pack during dinner and then as we moved on to the second we passed around a freshly rolled joint.  

We reminisced about our collective time spent in Los Angeles so far, recalling accomplishments, goals and unfulfilled promises.  We recalled a fantastical idea we had to get dropped off at the sands of Manhattan beach one Friday afternoon and then spend the next 48 hours traversing the coast on foot all the way up to the shores of Malibu – our self proclaimed Social experiment.  We remembered a road trip to drive north to San Francisco and then after a few days exploration continue onward to Napa Valley; a road trip that we had been planning for and failing to act upon for what felt like two years and counting.

We also recalled a pact we made to get matching tattoos to commemorate the completion of a short film the three of us created and were all particularly proud of.  The film was titled Meridian.  Meridian detailed three men immersing themselves into nature and ultimately becoming one with their individual elements in poetic ambiguity.

Taking a moment to contemplate we decided to amend the previous pact.  

We came to a general consensus that if any one of us were to ever leave Los Angeles and stop chasing the dream we would make good on our tattoo promise.  Only this time it would serve to symbolize a chapter in our lives and if and when this pact were to ever come to fruition there would be no bickering and no backing down. 

More beers were consumed.  Another joint was passed.

...There was no sense in waiting until a prolonged and unidentified end as an excuse to make good on a promise, if we were at all serious about these plans we would need to start acting on them.  All of our talk up until this point had been cheap and trivial.  No more procrastination, if we wanted tattoos than we should fucking get tattoos. 

And what better time than the present?  We agreed we would do it and we would to it tonight.  

We planned to walk along the sunset strip and get our first tattoos, but meanwhile we had another six-pack to finish and a discussion about proper tattoo design and premise placement.   

Considering the three of us created Meridian, and the fact that Meridian detailed, among other things, a man climbing a mountain; add to that the fact that the universal symbol for a mountain is a simple triangle, and Sub-text aside, a small and unobtrusive triangle would be the perfect way to get our feet wet in the world of body ink.  It seemed only logical.

The questions of what, when, and why were determined.  Now the only thing left to discuss was where.  

I was adamant about getting the triangle in the small webbing between the left forefinger and the thumb, itself is already in the shape of a triangle.  Unfortunately the guys weren’t too keen on the idea of a hand tattoo, I guess that’s a fair concern.  Next we considered the vertex of the elbow and then we moved up to the upper-inner-arm between the bicep and the tricep, and then we moved laterally across the chest.  Something about the area right below the collar-bone and right above the heart intrigued us so that's where we decided it would go.    

Then we continued drinking the final six-pack and passing around another freshly rolled joint.  

10:00 Pm.  We decide it was do or die, win or cry, so we put our shoes on and shuffled our feet toward the door and outside onto the streets.  The train was now in motion.  The night air was brisk but comfortable enough to walk with a mind full of wonder.   

The strip was about two miles away so we had a bit of a trek ahead of us.  Now the weight of our decision revealed itself in the form of a lump in our collective throat.  Conversation was sparse but we continued moving forward.  We had plenty of time to recollect and think and over think and ponder our options and possibly get cold feet.  I started to reconsider this decision but I kept it internalized.  On the surface I was calm and stoic but on the inside I was panicking like a little child.  

Our feet kept moving forward.  We had to press on.  We had a goal in mind, we had to stop living a life full of what if and should’ve done.  We had to act.  We couldn’t back down now.

Twenty-five minutes later we arrived on the strip. 

We walked into the first shop we saw.  I don’t even remember the name of this place; I don’t think either of us could.  We just saw the word Tattoo strewn in bright neon letters and like gnats to a light we were subconsciously lured in.  

As an Acapella group we glided over to the counter top, and following each other’s speech in turn, we told the girl behind the counter exactly what we wanted in great detail.  As a matter of fact she informed us that there was a shop minimum of $100.  We retreated and conversed for a minute.  We deduced this particular tattoo may not be worth such a steep price, so we left in search of a new shop.

On foot I began thinking that perhaps that was a sign that this venture wasn't necessary and the tattoo should just be forgotten about like the million other dumb and fleeting ideas we constantly regurgitate.  I am always battling myself internally and I need to learn that it's a big a fucking waste of time.  

We made a promise to see this through to the end.  We would succeed.  Until the fuckin' wheels come off.  

Stumbling down Sunset we searched for another shop.  Joey declared, “We need to get off Sunset.”  This kid did have a point.  We were on a major strip of expensive boutiques and tourist traps.  Every tattoo shop around here was bound to be grossly overpriced just based on location alone.   However, Sunset was the only street that guaranteed us a litter of tattoo parlors on every other block, not to mention the fact that we were such a long way past drunk that referring to Yelp or any other kind of directory for assistance would've proven to be entirely impossible.  No, we would just have to accept the excessive cost as being worth the convenience and continue onward in search of someplace reasonable, er, somewhat reasonable.  

Soon another neon sign beckoned our arrival.  Once again the name of this place eluded me.  I remember us walking past a group of bikers and guys in wife beaters sitting out-front of the shop smoking cigarettes and I remember the three of us looking like we just stepped out of American Eagle, and I remember walking into a small shop where three men covered head to toe in black tattoos greeted us.  

We approached the counter and gave the same song and dance as before.  This time around the artist, who introduced himself as Sam,  told us the shop had a minimum of $70.  I mean, sheesh, its $30 less than the last shop but still not exactly fair, from my layman’s perspective at least.  All I am saying is this tattoo would literally constitute three straight lines and would be no larger than the size of a quarter.  

We retreated to our corner and yet again deliberated.  We considered the fact that we were already here and the fact that the deal was immediately 30% cheaper.  With fiery determination in our eyes we chanted our unofficial slogan of the night and in brotherly unison we declared, "Fuck it," while simultaneously popping off our shirts so Sam could apply our respective tattoo stencils.  

Ryan was the first one in the chair.  He was visibly on edge, his right leg twitched with anxiety.    He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as he prepared for the needle to enter his skin.  Upon contact his demeanor didn’t change much except his grimace softened when he realized the needle didn’t hurt nearly as bad as he imagined it would.  Literally, thirty-seconds later he was done and then it was my turn to take the chair.    

Since childhood, getting a tattoo had always been a goal of mine and up until this point I had always shied away in fear, but now it was time to jump, time to dance.  I was so far past the point of no return.  The safety bar was down and locked.  As Sam prepped the needle I took a few deep breaths to slow my breathing and effectively calm my nerves.  The singular trajectory comforted me, though, and I liked knowing what was about to happen next.  In that moment I was more excited than anything else.  

Upon puncturing my flesh the needle sent a sharp and constant vibration through my body.  I could feel my teeth rattling.  It wasn’t a painful vibration, mind you, it was just a bit of a shock.  I must admit I enjoyed the sensation.  The thirty-seconds it took to apply the tattoo wasn’t enough for me.  I wanted more of the shock surging through my body.  Something had begun here, something had changed.  I knew in this moment that I had opened a door for myself.  This would most certainly not be my last tattoo. 

Joey was next in the chair.  He sat through the very short bout of pain which he deduced to actually be more painful than he had anticipated.  Its funny the different ways in which people deal with pain; some just cope with it while others find comfort in it.  

After Joey’s session in the hot seat Sam pointed us in the direction of the shop’s full length mirror.

There the three of us stood and flexed our muscles while admiring our new ink. 

These tattoos signified the bonds between us and the time we’ve shared together since the day we all met.  These tattoos were a simple representation of solidarity and kinship.  With these tattoos we became eternal brothers and no matter where would all individually go, or how far we would separate, or who would eventually become in life we will always be able to reach our hands to our chests and trace the small red lines forever etched into our skin.  Taking the good with the bad we will never be alone in this life and every conflict we individually face we will be able to face with the strength of three men.  We must embrace the struggle in order to persevere because it is within the pain where true pleasure is derived.  

We rejoiced in our decision to live in he moment and push against the grain.  Much like Our bodies our lives were now forever altered.  We would never forget this night. 

My Stepmother The Whore.

My Stepmother The Whore.

These days in porn Pseudo incest is a trending topic. 

Audiences seem to really get off on the notion of a stepfather taking advantage of his new stepdaughter, or stepsiblings succumbing to their hormonal desires.  So long as the “step” pre-fix is made painfully clear just about anything is fair game.  Sometimes it is silly and light-hearted and sometimes it can hit a little to close to home and teeter on the bounds of uneasiness. 

I can certainly see the allure in this topic; it’s the taboo nature of the whole thing that turns people one. It’s sexy to be bad. 

Speaking of bad, allow me to walk you through the play by play of a scene.  We’ll call it, a day in the life of an Evil Stepson.   

I Recently I shot a scene for the company “Evil Empire.”  This was a first for me.  I knew about Evil Empire long before I dove into porn.  Their content is simply the dirtiest and raunchiest material around.  In my opinion Evil Empire is synonymous with wholesome and quality smut.  So, needless to say I wanted to make a good first impression. 

I performed under the direction of “Darla Vendetta”.  Darla is one of the most powerful and most influential female entities in porn today, and that’s not speculation, its documented, it’s a fact.  Darla is a performer turned director turned producer. 

Her and I met about two years ago on a set where she played the attractive and promiscuous best friend to my character’s dear mother.  Naturally one thing lead to another and Darla succumbed to her lustful urges.  She took advantage of her best friend’s sweet and naïve son, that is, me. 

This time around Darla played maestro and acted as the puppeteer to my meat-marionette.

My co-star was a miss “Nina Knives.”  Nina is a tall, caramel toned, leggy blonde with big fate tits, luscious lips, long gaudy nails, and a head full of extensions.  In other words, she’s a whore. 

The plot: I possess a sick and depraved fascination with my step mother the whore. 

I lurk from a distance and hungrily watch her sunbathe by the pool.  I sneak up behind her and caress her shoulders, taking a big savoring whiff of her hair and perfume.  These small occurrences compound and eventually culminate in me surprising my step mom in the shower and joining her while I am fully clothed in the uniform for my presumably overpriced private school.  Before she has a moment to question my motives I grab her by the hair, forcefully press our bodies together and stick my probing tongue into her mouth and down her throat.  I grope her tight body and worship her voluptuous tits.  Soon she relents and allows her body to relax and give in to temptation.

She has wanted this almost as bad as I have. 

Fully clothed and drenched in the shower I eat out my stepmother’s pussy and asshole from behind.  I stand up, whip out my cock and make her gag on it while the hot water beats down upon her face, causing her whore makeup to run in a gloriously gothic fashion.  I then bend her over and fuck her doggy style.  Soon I lead her out of the shower, strip whatever remaining clothes I still have on, and we continue materializing our pseudo-incestuous lust on the tile floor in front of the deep spa tub and the flaming wood burning stove. 

She gets on her knees and sucks me off as she rubs her clits, then I spin her around and fuck her in an up-and-over doggy style position.  Then I toss her on her back and eat her cunt before fucking her in missionary.  She then blows me and I straddle her and fuck her big fake tits.  Next she bounces up and down on my throbbing cock in reverse cowgirl, and then I haul her onto her side and fuck her in spoon before pulling out and spraying a massive load of creamy white pearls all over her whore face.  We then exchange some witty banter about this tryst being our dirty little secret and that my father must never ever find out.  Cut. Print. 

We cleaned up, we got paid, and we drove away. 

We both return to our respective lives never to see each other again, or maybe we will, who knows.  Porn is a very tight-knit community, after all.  Everybody is having sex with everybody just like one big happy twisted fucking family.  

Banana Milkshakes.

Banana Milkshakes

I shoot a scene for the company No Acceptance.  I am paired with newcomer, Kimberly Taylor.  Kimberly is a cute little bubblegum blonde who apparently holds degrees in both business management and physical therapy. She fucks like a champ. I would assert we had ourselves a very satisfying afternoon.  Shortly Thereafter Kimberly and I begin hooking up privately. 

Besides her bubbly personality Kimberly also comes complete with obedient, subservient tendencies due to her being, “raised by a man,” as she boasts. The only thing that sets her apart from a teeny-bopping daddy’s-girl is her vast array of tattoos. She has an entire sleeve up her right arm, which connects to a leopard tattoo at her collarbone and then continues down her breast and her ribcage, turning into flowers as it reaches her pelvis. She says she accomplished this feat in only two sittings at 8-10 hours per.  That’s a lot of pain to experience all at once. She must have a high tolerance.

During sex I slap her face, as I tend to do with most girls I fuck privately. Naturally she loves it. We finish in spoon and I pull out to shoot cum all over her abdomen and her tits, to which she replies something in the vain of, you should have let me finish you in my mouth. God, I love that attitude.  She also tells me that was her first time being slapped during sex; I kind of find that hard to believe.

Kimberly recounts a funny story regarding a scene she shot earlier in the week.  She participated in a double blowjob with her good friend and fellow porno starlet, Cali Cumz.  Apparently the scene focused on puke, so Kimberly and Cali both chug big banana milkshakes moments before the scene begins. Then they force one another to puke said banana milkshakes all over the guy’s dick and then they slurp it up and spit it into each other’s mouths like absolute gutter trash.

This girl definitely has some darkness in her.  She is not nearly as innocent as she appears…

The Stranger.

The Stranger.

Johnny and I are standing in line for the bar at The Surly Goat praying the sexy brunette bartender in the daisy dukes notices us. 

Suddenly a hand grabs my shoulder.  Delirious, I turn around and I see a girl, a normal, average, run of the mill girl.  I have never seen this girl before but I already know she is nothing special. 

Without warning she presses her face against mine and starts kissing me.  I reluctantly reciprocate.  There is no passion between us.  Her lips are dry.  No Tongue is utilized.  Between smacks I utter,

    “I.”

Smooch.

    “Don’t.”

Smooch.

    “Know.”

Smooch.

    “You.”

She quickly pulls away and disappears back into the crowd.  I turn back to Johnny and mumble, “That was weird.”

* * *

Why did she do that?  I cannot rack my brain around it.  Why did this random individual grab me and start kissing me?  Did she mistake me for someone else?  Did she recognize me?  Maybe I didn’t recognize her?  Was it a dare?  It was a girl, right?  Admittedly I was approaching blackout status, so anything is possible.  I guess stranger things have happened. 

I wonder if she remembers what she did.  I wonder is she is now chatting with her friends, incredulous by her brazen behavior…

She wanted him and with confidence she glided toward the most beautiful man she had ever seen.  Their lips locked and she was overcome with emotion, her body was pulsating with energy.  She could not believe what she had just done.  She pulled away in amazement, longing to share a look at the man she so tenaciously claimed, but he was disinterested.  He quickly turned back to his friend; oblivious to the amount of courage it took this poor girl.  And so, on this night her heart was broken…  

Or maybe it was a sick and twisted game; a bet to find the most pathetic and ugly guy at the bar and kiss him in public.  Probably make the little guy’s night; shit, probably make his entire week.  He’ll probably waste time retelling the stupid story of how some girl made out with him at the bar, exaggerating and glorifying the story with each passing telling.  Soon the normal girl becomes a butterscotch blonde and the kiss evolves into a public finger blasting. 

The dream of the dweebs: go to a bar and be an anti-social, loser, curmudgeon, misfit, but still get the hot babe at the end of the night. 

And yet another possibility is that she doesn’t even remember; an act so insignificant in the grand scheme of life that it probably is best to just forget the whole thing. 

Still, I dwell on the mundane and the asinine.  The wackness of life.  All of my concerns are petty and selfish.  I swear I have good intentions.  The inadvertent narcissist.  But, hey, I made out with a random chick at one of my favorite bars, so all things considered, it was a pretty good night.

The Double Header.

The Double Header.

Monroe and I have never officially “worked” together but we’ve passed by one another in the hallways, so to speak, and we have shared short dialogue on set, so one could say we are acquaintances. I think she is beyond sexy; Her tight little body is alluring and her teeny-bopper bubblegum demeanour drives me absolutely crazy.  I have been dying to fuck her ever since the first day we met…and she knows this fact all too well. 

Monroe asks if I would like to be her stunt cock for an amateur POV boy/girl scene she has been contracted to shoot for a private client and like the eager little scat monkey that I am I jump at the opportunity.  The weekend approaches and she asks me to come to her apartment on Saturday so we may shoot our content. 

This weekend just happens to be the weekend of July 4th, so naturally we both celebrate by getting shit-faced respectively.  I attend a banging house party in Westwood complete with a large swimming pool, Jacuzzi, and a slip-n-slide, which, is only utilized by my band of flying monkeys and myself.  Typical.

At this party I notice many of the other attendees are shooting videos and taking photos as my friends and I make the pool and the slip-n-slide our bitch.  In these moments I realize my jolly band of pirates and I are not the types to live on the wall or hide behind our designer clothes to protect our “image” when surrounded by strangers.  No, we express ourselves, assert our dominance, and reign over the meek.  We relish the challenge and we live for experience.  We are transparent.  We live by the motto, if we ain’t writing something worth reading we better be doing something worth writing.  That was Friday night.

Come Saturday morning Monroe texts me and tells me, “When my hangover is gone you can come over.”  No big deal, I guess.  So, I wait.  Hours pass and I text Monroe to see what time it’s looking like but to no avail, she doesn’t respond.  Whatever. 

It’s soon 5pm and I decide there is no sense in waiting on her anymore so I make other plans.  I text my friend Becky Bolt and see what she is up to tonight.  Becky is of perfect stature, she has dirty blonde hair and her skin is caramel in color.  She has a tongue ring.  Like myself she is a twenty-something transplant to Los Angeles.  She is originally from North Carolina and like most southern belles she has a tremendous sexual appetite and enjoys playing a subservient slut. 

Becky and I previously met on a “Mile Long” set where we had ourselves a rather enjoyable afternoon fucking on camera under the hot California sun, and then a few short nights later we rendezvous at a house party and share a beautiful moment where we pass a cigar and Hemmingway a bottle of wine as we flirt and commiserate and gaze toward the bright lights of the night sky. 

Becky responds to my text and She begins telling me how much pent up aggression she currently possesses and how badly she needs to have the brat dominated out of her.  I tell her I can be of service and we make plans to spend the evening with one-another. 

7pm and I am eating dinner with my gang at our local Lemonade.  I am eating a side of Orecchiette with mozzarella and grape tomatoes, a side of Israeli Couscous, a side of white truffle Mac-N-Cheese, and to drink I have a watermelon and rosemary lemonade.  Pretty standard LA fare.

7:15pm and I receive a text from Monroe, which reads, “How’s 8 looking?”  Ah, I get it; I really was supposed to be waiting around all day for this chick, as if I don’t have anything better to do.  Actually, I don’t.  I have been drooling over this girl for months, and I spent the better half of today edging myself to guarantee a volcanic eruption of cum in which for her to later bathe.

That being said, I have just now made new arrangements with Becky.  My options here are binary, either I choose to spend time with one lucky lady and ultimately ditch the unfortunate loser, or attempt one of the greatest dating feats known to mankind: The Double Header. 

The plan is simple.  I am going to finish my meal, drive into the valley, dick and dash Monroe, drive into North-Hollywood, pick up Becky, bring her to my house, and violate her in the confines of my bedroom... 

* * *

I drive all the way into Woodland Hills where I meet Monroe at her apartment.  We exchange pleasantries and I play with her dogs for a moment.  I excuse myself and take a piss. I notice she has an unusually large collection of rubber duckies placed around the perimeter of her bathtub.  Strange fetish, I suppose. Upon my return she offers me a bottle of water and invites me upstairs to her bedroom. 

I ask her how exactly she would like to shoot this content and she slips off her sweatpants, picks up her I-Phone and tells me her client wants the video to start with her getting her ass eating out while being pressed up against the wall, so she assumes the position and I drop to my knees and worship her like a hungry dog.

I then stand up, put her onto her knees, unsheathe my sword and she slobbers all over my cock, passing the camera off to me to shoot the blowjob from my perspective.

I then press her back up against the wall and fuck her doggy-style.  After my cock is drenched she drops down to her knees and politely cleans off her pussy juices. 

I then throw her onto her back and pound her on the floor in missionary, passing the camera back and forth in the process. 

After a couple short minutes she crawls away and up to her bed where I join her and gag her with my cock once more before turning her around and maneuvering her ass to the edge of the bed, lowering her pussy and matching it to the height of my pulsating cock.  We fuck again in doggy-style and then I climb onto the bed, put Monroe onto her side, match our bodies together, and fuck her in spoon before she begs me to pull out and spray a load all over her stomach and tits, which she receives in spades due in part to my afternoon regimen. 

She cuts the camera.  We clean up and talk for a minute.  She tells me she is from Detroit and has been living in LA and working in porn for four years.   She promises to treat me to dinner sometime for taking the time out of my busy schedule to come over and fuck her.  We exchange goodbyes and she shows me the door…

 * * *

I jump in my car and race into No-Ho to pick up Becky who has been killing time drinking in a local bar neighboring her apartment complex.  I arrive outside “The Federal,” call Becky, and have her meet me in the adjacent alleyway.  She emerges and while walking towards me I take note of how especially sexy she looks tonight.  She is wearing diamond-studded high-heels, a shimmering and skintight pair of black elastic hot pants, and a black lace crop-top.  We drive back to my house and as per usual Becky does most of the talking.  She is a girl who really loves hearing the sound of her own voice.

We arrive at my apartment and quickly relegate ourselves to my bedroom where we sit on my patio and I watch her smoke a cigarette.  I feign interest as she incessantly babbles about the woes of being her.  We return back to my bedroom and lie on my bed as she continues on about how much she hates it when guys have wood troubles on set and how much she dislikes performing anal sex and how much food she hasn’t eaten all week and how confused she is by her ex-boyfriend and how one minute they are in love and the next they hate each others guts.  This sounds all too familiar and I don’t want to hear it anymore. 

I remember why she is here.  She came to get this annoying attitude of hers fucked right out of her bratty little holes.  I tell her these conversations are irritating me and I want her to stop.  Immediately after, I roll her onto her stomach; straddle her back, and being caressing her from behind, tugging at her hair and cupping her throat.  I slap her on the back between her shoulder blades and she lets out a sigh of relief.  She finds comfort in the pain.  In the pain all of her worries disappear and she forgets the pretty troubles of life.  In the pain she feels alive. 

I wrap my hand around her throat and begin choking her as I bend her back toward me ultimately resting her forehead on my lips so I may stare into her eyes as I squeeze the life out of her.  I let go of her throat and before she can catch her breath I slap her across the face – shocking her senses.  She gasps and pants and I grab the lot of her hair and pull her face back towards me, this time matching her lips to mine and we kiss and suck face and slobber all over one another like sick and rabid animals. 

I then drag her to the floor and make her kneel in front of my full-length closet mirror.  I pull out my cock and grip her hair – keeping her hungry mouth out of reach from my visibly throbbing cock.  I jerk it a few times before I thrust it into her open mouth and face fuck her as I force her to watch her slutty actions in the reflection. 

I bend her over my bed and fuck her sopping pussy doggy-style as I stick both of my hands inside her mouth and fishhook her, pulling all of her weight onto my fuck sword. 

I lie on the floor and she rides me in cowgirl.  Then we move back to the bed and continue fucking while transitioning through a plethora of different missionary positions. 

Nearing critical mass I drag her back to the mirror and jerk myself to a colossal load which I spew all over it.  I keep her head just out of reach until I am completely drained, then I smear her face all over the dripping spunk and force her to lick the glass clean. 

Afterward, we recollect and go downstairs to smoke a bowl and watch Minority Report.  Later, we return upstairs and sleep  peacefully in the arms of one another. 

 * * *

Tonight I had a goal.  I set out to achieve it and I emerged victorious. I drove directly from one apartment to the other.  I didn’t change my clothes, I didn’t brush my teeth, I didn’t shower, and I didn’t even mouthwash.  On this night I pulled a beautiful double-header and am now officially a gross piece of shit.  

On The Road

On The Road.

I accompany my friend Bernie on his daily five-mile morning bike ride from little Armenia to the Grove for work.  En route we stop at a red light at the intersection of June and Melrose.  A man is standing on the sidewalk with his little daughter in his arms.  He calls out, “Hey, can you please help us?  My daughter dropped her ball in the street.”  He points to the median and we turn around to spot a small plush Dodgers baseball resting on the double yellow lines adjacent to a growing line of cars.  The opposing cross-light counter is dwindling indicating an imminent change of light so we act without thinking.  The light becomes green; I toss my bike over my shoulder and run to the middle of the road, grab the plush baseball and run to the sidewalk before an onslaught of cars pass. 

The man and is standing on the opposite side of the street from us so we patiently wait for the lights to yet again switch before we cross and return the ball, at which point the man cheerfully declares, “Look baby girl, he found your ball, God sent you an angel to return your ball.”  He expresses his gratitude once again before the light changes and we continue biking, leaving behind the thankful man and the little girl with her plush Dodgers baseball.   

Bernie heads into work and I continue biking to a local Jewish diner where I sit alone at the bar and order Corned beef hash and a side of fruit and cottage cheese. 

While Sipping coffee I reflect; the man actually referred to me as an angel.  In my lifetime only my mother has ever called me an angel and even then it was only during my young and pure adolescence.  Sure, this experience may in fact be trivial in the grand scheme of life, but I realize this event would have never occurred had I slept in an extra thirty minutes or had my supposed scene today not been cancelled.  I don’t know if I necessarily believe in fate but I most certainly believe that things tend to happen for a reason.  Today I did a good deed, I put forth positive energy into the world, and I made a child smile.  I was rewarded with a divine compliment and a new story to tell, not to mention it’s a Sunday, so that has to account for something, right? 

Later, My friend Hank invites me to accompany him on an extended bike ride along the coast of Huntington Beach and up toward Marina Del Ray. 

We plan to begin our journey Monday morning at 10am but have to make adjustments due to unforeseen scheduling conflicts, that is, I meet a new friend and this wonderful young lady is kind enough to spend the evening and sleepover.  In the morning I have to drive her home, well, back to her respective model house in the armpit of the valley, but for all intents and purposes, home.  This leads to Hank and I getting a slow start to the day and we end up leaving towards the shores at 1pm. 

We alter our plan accordingly.  I bike to his apartment in Hollywood but forget to pack my lights; together we bike back to my apartment and while there I realize I have some uneaten edibles so we both eat 10mg chocolate cookies.  Then we begin our sixteen-mile back-road trek using Bernie’s exact route to bring us through West Hollywood and further to the Santa Monica Pier all in mid-day traffic.  Needless to say we have our work cut out for us. 

Upon reaching the sand we ride leisurely along the bike path taking in the near setting sun before getting a table at a respectable restaurant where we can have an indulgent meal.  We settle on Barney’s Beanery in the promenade so we can have a couple beers and watch the first quarter of the Eagles game while eating Reuben sandwiches and Mac N’ Cheese bites. 

After, we are homeward bound.  We decide to alter the route back in favor of a more direct approach.  Biking Wilshire is akin to riding alongside the shoulder of a gridlocked highway; we are weaving in and out of four lanes of standstill traffic.  We turn left onto Veteran and it then I discover my headlight has burned out; meanwhile Veteran turns out to be a three-mile long pothole ridden hill cast in complete darkness. 

We turn right on Sunset.  West of Beverly Hills Sunset Boulevard becomes a Hot Wheels racetrack.  We fight and pedal like beasts up and down winding roads and unrelenting inclines.  I can’t even see twenty feet in front of my face but I continue wrapping around the bends. 

Ten miles later and we find ourselves in the heart of the design district of West Hollywood with flooding memories of the previous year. 

Five miles to go and the rest is a cakewalk; I bike this neighborhood on an almost daily basis, in fact this is Bernie’s work route, from here on in the remainder of the journey is mere muscle memory. 

East on Beverly then north on Fairfax then east on Oakwood then north on Orange then east on Rosewood then north on June then east on Melrose then South on Wilcox then heading east on Clinton we come to an intersection where the adjacent street has a stop-sign but Clinton does not.  I am leading and as I pass through the intersection so does an oncoming van without turn signals.  In a split second I saw the blinding headlights turn into me and I heard Hank scream, “Yo!”  The van and I simultaneously slam our brakes – theirs creates an ear-piercing screech and mine sends my bike into a nose wheelie.  Then we kiss.  My front tire gingerly bounces against the van’s front bumper in a gloriously anti-climatic fashion.  Recollect, Deep breath, crisis averted.  The driver and I lock eyes – he is pleading, “Oh my god, I am so sorry!” In complete shock stare at him and utter, “You are so fucking lucky.”  Then we part ways.  The van disappears into the night and we continue biking; traffic resumes, business as usual.  Shortly thereafter Hank and I say our goodbyes and go our separate ways.  

I return home and recollect. I honestly can’t believe I survived tonight.  Head on collision aside, the second half of this trip was not meant to be biked, we were not supposed to be on these roads in the dark.  We should have quit and we should have submitted, but we didn’t, we kept pushing forward until there was no other option but to succeed and we preserved through it like men. 

I like to think on this night I looked death right in the face and with a shit-eating grin I commanded, “Suck my dick.”

Or maybe that’s just my arrogance, my human condition, and my hubris talking.  Maybe I am the one who is really fucking lucky and somebody was out there tonight watching over me, for whatever reason I can't even begin to imagine but you just never know...stranger things have happened.  

Jon Favreau Comes to Weho.

Jon Favreau Comes to Weho.

I am sitting stoned on my wooden fold out picnic table on the upstairs patio one afternoon reading, “Less Than Zero,” listening to Circa Survive radio on Spotify and observing the few pedestrians who walk past on the road beneath me. 

I watch an immaculate 1950’s white convertible Thunderbird pull up and idle in front of the apartment complex adjacent to my own.  From where I am sitting I have a near perfect view of the back half of the car. 

Driving is a man wearing a fitted white t-shirt, black wristwatch, and dark sunglasses – I can’t determine the respective brands but given the car he is driving I assume they aren’t cheap.  I notice the man clenching his jaw incessantly like he’s nervously chewing a big wad of gum; he can’t seem to sit still and he keeps checking his presumably expensive watch and his rear-view mirror.  He must be tense. 

I observe his passenger; a caramel skinned female with long curly brown hair also sporting dark sunglasses and a white top – I see spaghetti straps and I imagine her to be wearing a form fitting white sundress but, alas, I can’t see that far to confirm.  I can’t quite make out the details of her face but once again, given the quality of the car, I gather she is expensive as well. 

I return my gaze to the driver and observe his face or at least what details of it I can make.  I surmise he looks an awful lot like Corbin Bernsen, no, Jon Favreau.  I notice the Thunderbird’s license plate reads, “New York.”  I realize Jon Favreau is a New York Native now living in Los Angeles as one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, furthermore I am currently living in a rather affluent part of West Hollywood on the cusp of Beverly Hills; its not entirely improbable to imagine Jon Favreau driving through this neighborhood to perhaps drop off his “girlfriend,” or pick up a new friend, or meet a friend, or do just about anything.  The point is that it could happen and I think it is happening right here before my very eyes so I remain tuned in.  From my perched and elevated recon position I act as the hawk and watch them with strong intent. 

I see Jon Favreau’s mistress equip her cell phone, answer an incoming call, and exchange a short and unintelligible dialogue before promptly hanging up while simultaneously another car, a non-descript, nothing special, pseudo gold but more of a spicy brown mustard colored SUV, pull up and park maybe twenty feet behind the thunderbird.  Out of the mustard mobile walks an average white guy, mid-late thirties, pasty skin, slightly overweight, sporting presumably cheap sunglasses, a faded blue t-shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops.  The average white guy walks to Jon Favreau’s mistress’s side of the immaculate thunderbird and without making eye contact with one another they share a very simple exchange of greetings where I notice the average white guy reaching his hand into the car and along the interior side of the passenger door.  He quickly retracts his hand and without any exchange of goodbyes he walks back to his nothing-special mustard car and drives away.  Then Jon Favreau and his mistress peel out like outlaws and the Thunderbird effectively disappears from view.        

I excitedly run downstairs, wake up my roommate Johnny who is napping on the couch, and exclaim, “I just witnessed a drug deal!”  I recount the entire occurrence with great detail, highlighting the beauty of the immaculate Thunderbird, the driver’s uncanny likeness to Jon Favreau, and how this drug deal, while occurring on a backstreet of a rather prosperous neighborhood where every other car is a BMW and the average female resident is a certifiable dime piece, is the most blatant and stereotypical drug deal I could have ever witnessed. 

I then toast myself a bagel, slather it in cream cheese, take a big rip of weed from my steamroller, and return upstairs to my wooden fold out picnic table on the patio where I dive back into the dejected and disaffected lives of young Angelinos in Bret Easton Ellis’, “Less Than Zero.”

One Night Stand.

One Night Stand.

I attended a house party hosted by my friend’s friend; her name was Alexa.  

Alexa and I hit if off almost immediately.  In fact, less than five minutes after shaking hands with her, she took me into her bedroom to show me her proud but admittedly minimal dildo collection. 

One drink later, she was lamenting her disappointment the previous morning where she woke up a lover (one of many?) with a blowjob only to find him rather ungrateful and turned off by the notion.  She said he wasn’t “too happy” about it, whatever that meant.  Curious.  Perhaps she just wasn’t too apt in the oral department?   

Around 12:30 the party cleared out to continue drinking at a local sports bar.  My pals Johnny, Budd, and I followed suit.

At the bar,  Alexa and I played a game of air hockey because what respectable bar these days doesn’t have an in-house arcade.  The game was short and I emerged victorious.  Alexa sauntered over to my side of the table and crossed me to enter an adjacent photo-booth.  She sat inside of it, looked up toward me and softly asked, “Should we do it?”  I noticed a sign pinned on the outside of the booth and responded, “it’s out of order.”  

We shared a quiet laugh and she slowly stood and leaned (stumbled) toward me, I held my position and our bodies lightly touched, our faces came together and I raised my hand to caress her abdomen.  She leaned closer and we shared a slow and impromptu kiss.  

Sharing a first kiss while pressed against a broken down photo booth in the middle of an arcade on a Friday night.  I mean come on, that’s a ’90’s kid’s wet dream.    

We kissed and caressed one another for a few more seconds before Alexa stopped and mumbled something along the lines of, “This is a secret, no one can know,” as if we weren’t just making out in the middle of a bar surrounded by thirty of her party guests and close friends.  

Apparently the ungrateful gentlemen from her earlier story was more like her boyfriend, or as she referred to him, “somebody I am hooking up with.”  She said they weren’t dating, but “it’s serious.”  

Yeah, sure, it’s none of my business anyway.  I didn’t really want to make a big deal about it.  So with the alleged boyfriend in mind, I backed off and kept the kiss in my pocket as Alexa and I meandered about the bar, going our separate ways. 

Thirty minutes later I was sitting on a leather couch in between my friends Budd and Johnny.  To my left, Budd was playing the game with some cutie who I think earlier told me she was a lesbian.  To my right, Johnny was slack-jawed and swaying back and forth.  He was struggling to keep his eyes open--the tell-tale sign of a man who had exceeded his limit. 

Alexa resurfaced and challenged me to a rematch.  Longing for some more excitement, I quickly accepted her invitation and we excused ourselves from the boys.  

We walked back into the arcade.  As I walked over to the coin machine to exchange my cash for arcade tokens, I checked my wallet to find that I only had a ten dollar bill in my possession.  I contemplated.  That’s an awful lot of tokens, but, who knew, maybe we’d play a few games and make a little tournament out of it. In my mind, I declared, “fuck it,” and broke the ten dollar bill anyway. 

I returned to the table and the game began.  It didn’t take long for me to score twice on her.  

Abruptly, a hyperventilating Budd approached the table and through labored breaths he uttered, “We…have to leave…Johnny just got thrown out.”  Goddamnit.  

With nine dollars worth of arcade tokens shoved in the pockets of my skinny jeans, the three of us hurried outside to find an aloof Johnny wandering up and down the sidewalk completely oblivious to the events that just transpired.  

According to Budd, the sole eyewitness of the event, Johnny had been  falling asleep on the leather couch when a bouncer approached and told Johnny to either wake up or go home.  At this point the belligerent drunk felt compelled to throw his empty glass toward the bouncer where it thankfully missed, but instead hit the wall behind him and shattered into a million pieces.  

With prejudice, Johnny was immediately escorted outside to the gutter which was exactly where we currently found ourselves.

While waiting for a taxi, Alexa and I sat close to one another and continued our earlier flirtation.  She asked if she could come back to my place.  I said, “That’s cool.”  She said she liked me because I was “interesting,” whatever that meant.  

She then asked if it was cool if we slept together but she did not want to have sex with me.  Okay, I enjoyed her company enough and could respect her decision, I guess.  not to mention I tend to sleep much more peacefully when I have a partner by my side, so I was content with having a cuddle buddy for the night.   

“That’s cool,” I said.  

The taxi arrived.  Budd and I hoisted Johnny into the backseat.  Budd lived only a few blocks away from the bar, so we said our goodbyes.  As a trio, Johnny, Alexa, and I taxied back to my apartment.  Immediately upon arrival Johnny passed out on my couch.  

Alexa and I relocated to my bedroom.  Our flirtation naturally evolved into more kissing, which evolved into more caressing, which itself evolved into groping, which culminated in dry-humping.  

It was there we plateaued.  There we treaded water for about twenty minutes before we decided we were both tired and wanted to sleep.

I stripped down to my boxer-briefs.  Alexa decided to keep on the entirety of her outfit, which to me resembled a modern and form fitting mu-mu, but I would later learn this type of outfit to be called a Romper.  In either case,  She looked damn good in it, but I just couldn’t imagine what possessed her to wear it while she slept. 

We fell asleep in each other’s arms and awoke peacefully in the early morning.  Upon waking, Alexa and I momentarily continued our teenage rollicking.  

Eventually we (I) got dressed and together we went into the living room to find Johnny awake and sprawled on the couch reading Raymond Carver while the morning sun cascaded through the arched living room window.    

Johnny and I decided to walk to a nearby cafe to get a quick breakfast.  

Alexa said she was  going to hang back and order a taxi in a few minutes to take her home, but I told her the coffee shop was less than five minutes away and convinced her to hang out until we returned. 

Johnny and I took our walk.  We ordered black coffees and everything bagels with cream cheese.  Less than ten minutes later we returned to my place 

The second we walked through the door we realized something was amiss.  Alex was nowhere to be found.  She had left with no text, phone call, or even a little note left behind.  She simply disappeared without so much as a goodbye.  I didn’t even get her phone number.  

Now, I’ve had one-night stands in the past, and usually a clean-cut departure is ideal, but never before had I experienced such a blue-ball inducing one-night cuddle stand.  

I suppose they can’t all be home runs.

"Kiss Me Under The Water."

“Kiss Me Under the Water.”

I can pinpoint the exact moment I witnessed a woman use sex as a tool of manipulation. I was a small child, probably no older than ten years. This moment was a scene from the TV show Baywatch. The episode was titled, “If Looks Could Kill.”

On the screen I witnessed a couple having a romantic evening in a private swimming pool. While embracing one another, the woman seductively whispers, “Kiss me under the water.” The man eagerly obliges and proceeds to make-out with his love below the surface.

What occurred next has scarred me for life, in fact, it was the exact moment I knew sex was potentially dangerous and both men and women can and will use sex as an act of manipulation to get what they want.

While kissing, the woman covertly unsheathes a pair of handcuffs and proceeds to trap the man under water by latching his wrist to the bottom rung of the pool ladder. The woman then exits the pool and coldly watches the man panic and struggle for his life before ultimately succumbing to his inevitable death.

Watching this as a kid terrified me. This is one of the first instances where I see “love-making” displayed on television and it ends in a horrific death. To this day, this scene haunts me. I don’t know the specifics of their relationship – perhaps, you know, he was a bad man and he deserved what he got or maybe he was just an unlucky bastard after all.

Either way, fuck this woman in particular for being so manipulative and fuck her for scaring me half to death and disturbing me at such a tender age in my life.

Only The Wealthy Are Immaculate.

Only the Wealthy are Immaculate.

The Three were searching for hope. They were longing for a way out, a new beginning and a chance for a better life, but above all else, they were fighting  for freedom.

But with any reward comes risk, and in this game the stakes were high; a loss in the real world is just another excuse to find something new to pass the time with, but in here a loss could cost a man his life. To play this game once must be willing to pay the ultimate price.

Dupree Black called the room to attention. Dupree was a burly fellow, big and meaner than a rabid dog. His yellow jaundiced eyes cast a bleak scowl into the crowd and his midnight complexion strung uneasy tension across each man looking in his direction. Peering out far beyond any man he declared:

“The pit is for fighters only. Spectators leave now while you still can. All new fighters step forward and present yourselves.”

The Three emerged from the crowd of fellow freedom fighters, their skin intact and their nails clean; no bruises and no limps in their step. Their clothes were relatively clean and untattered, but everyone’s clothes in this town expressed at least a modicum of dirt. In poverty one find comfort living within a certain amount of filth. Only the wealthy are immaculate.

The Three approached the statuesque Dupree whose eyes never shifted as if he was staring at all three of them simultaneously and with equal intent.

“Gentlemen, from this point forward everything you’ve come to understand about life disappears along with your names, but don’t be afraid. You are not alone; you are one of many.”

Dupree signaled with his hands for the militia of the men to approach. Soon the crowd of fighters surrounded The Three where they assimilated into the horde. All individuality subsided and soon their faces were indiscernible from the rest.

Everyone eagerly stared upward toward the master. His yellow eyes gleamed and he flashed a smile of broken teeth to the adoring crowd.

“Gentlemen, tonight we make history. Let the games begin!”An electric charge surged through the masses; adrenaline pumped through every man’s heart and dripped off his tongue. The fighters were seething.

The ceremony ceased and they were hungry. They were starved for blood, for pain and suffering, all in the name of the greater common good. These men were not alone in their plight, they fought side by side with the likeminded; gang mentality superseded all.

Chanting to themselves and flexing every muscle in their bodies like hungry dogs, the fighters stood their positions in front of the giant titanium shutter doors ready for war.

Suddenly the doors burst open and sunlight flooded the eyes of the fighters momentarily blinding them and further fueling their collective rage. Like a hungry pack of wild banshees the fighters charged out of the gate spitting and cursing and screaming their way unto an unsuspecting world.

This city has had it coming for years. It’s about time a real fury came to clean this city of the filth and waste. This city will burn from the fire swelling within the hearts of these men. Nobody will be spared, the vagrant, the meek, the vile, the weak; all will suffer the same grotesque fate.

The fighters ferociously attacked the streets with the passion of one thousand dead souls. On this day those souls will finally receive retribution, these men will be the vessel for their message. This will be the day of reckoning.

Dupree watched as his creations pillaged and burned and scorned and raped and killed their way to freedom. He watched contended knowing this moment in time would never be forgotten. His men will sacrifice themselves for something much greater than they could possibly comprehend, Dupree’s legacy. He will be remembered forever and he will achieve the truest and most pure form of freedom. He will become immortalized.