The line of mopes wraps around the warehouse hidden in the Valley’s North Hollywood. It moves, I take a step. These men are not the chiseled, two-hundred pound studs with eight-inch-plus penises of the A-list. They will never get the call to work with even passable looking woman in a scene for a mid-tier studio, [...]
You Are Viewing Creative Memoir
Avarice (part one)
Posted By Tyler Knight on April 15th, 2010
I’m under my cubicle, legs folded to my chest, plugging my right ear with a finger. The left ear’s got a head set on it, and is filled with sweet nothings like, “–you lied to me, asshole! Get me out of this, now–”
A sales assistant’s voice cuts across the white noise of trading floor and finds me in my warren. “Eric, you’ve got a call from Anne.”
I stand up in my cubicle. Without the noise canceling effects of three walls and a desktop-as-roof surrounding me, the din of fifty other conversations grows to a rumble. There is a sea of barking prairie dogs in shirtsleeves–ties askew–with their heads popping up and down from cubicles. Others are pacing the aisles, tethered their battle stations by headset cords.
The voice in my left ear says, “–ty-eight thousand dollars, you piece of shit? Because you better get it back–”
I mute the headset and shout back to the sales assistant. “Tell her to call me back. I’m trying to keep a whale from blowing up on me over the IVTC trade.”
“She says it’s an emergency.”
The series of lights on my phone are screaming supernova-red from incoming calls. My other clients. All of them. The tech IPO I put them in free-fell from thirty dollars a share, to where it closed for the day at twelve bucks.
“–come down there and ass-fuck you, you cocksucker–”
I hang up.
“What line is she on?”
“Take it in Herzikoff’s office,” the assistant says, “he’s in Vail.”
I take my venti Americano with me, my sixth of the day, and double-Dutch the tangle of headset cords across the floor.
The office door shuts behind me, sealing out the chaos with it. Silence. Inside, there’s a floor-to-ceiling window view of the Pacific. No plants. No pictures. Not even a filing cabinet. Only a smudge-free, glass-topped desk with a red leather chair. The desk has a client book, a PC, and a phone. The phone is ringing. I answer it without sitting.
“Yeah, what do you want.”
Anne is holding back from crying.
I say, “For fuck sake, what is it now?”
Outside, an eye-level plane draws a vapor trail lit fuschia by the late afternoon sun across the horizon.
She says, “Mike raped me.”
Continued…
Posted in Creative Memoir
Mettle, (Act III, Part 2)
Posted By Tyler Knight on February 25th, 2010
That’s me impersonating a shower mat at the tub’s floor, my limbs drawn tight, shower set to magma. Hospital tag on my wrist. I cough, shake, and cough some more. Droplets sizzle and steam against my nape; water plings with seething violence against the basin around me. A milky shampoo waterfall tumbles off my hair and before my eyes, feeding the river flowing between my feet; the flow diverges into quickening streams around a pastel starfish grip-sticker. I spit dead center on the starfish’s ten ring.
I stand with care into the denser, humid air and turn to face the nozzle. My hands brace the wall, straddling the showerhead. Head bent down, I hack my lungs inside out in back-arching fits; my diaphragm burns and my throat feels like I’ve gargled shurikens.
The coughing wave subsides, and that’s when I see it. The first white pubic hair. Lifting my balls and moving my dick from side to side reveals three more. Postcards from The End.
Death writes, “See your black ass soon.”
I pluck a hair.
Eventually, but not today.
It’ll take more concentration than I have to steady my hands enough shave my delicate parts for today’s scene, and the razor’s blade has rust. Fuck it, why tempt fate? I cut the water, towel myself and dress in the bathroom to take advantage of the warmth. I put my socks and shoes on with the skill of a nursery schooler.
The bedroom. Amanda is sleeping. Her mouth is naturally inclined to turn up at the corners, hinting of a smile, like she knows something I don’t. She usually does.
I’ve been spending the night at her spot since I came down with this fever. Her Idea. One day at her place carried over to a few. This is the first chance I have to sleep in a bed a few days in a row but I have to camp the couch instead lest I make her ill. I still haven’t unpacked that sea bag because–the fuck if I know why, really.
The fever wouldn’t break on its own after a few days so last night she put my ass in a taxi for the ER.
——–
No insurance. I wait among the knifed, the burned, and the left for dead whom changed their mind about dying and crawled into the ER waiting room. Brown faces speaking Spanish. People get seen, and afterwards, I see some of them leave. Many don’t. My number’s called over the PA.
——–
I’m pulling my underwear back on underneath the gown to salvage some dignity when she zips in like a hummingbird. Great skin. Firm calves. No ring.
I wonder how old she is
She says, “Take your underwear off.”
“Can you put on some Barry White, first?”
The doctor shakes her head–
She got the reference. She’s older than she looks.
–and turns her back, dashes to a counter and hovers there long enough to snap on latex gloves, then takes her stethoscope off of her neck while she quick-steps toward me.
“Don’t dump them on the floor,” She says, “place your clothes on the chair next to the examining table and hop up onto the paper.”
I walk backwards to the table, making sure to always keep the back of the gown from facing her. When I hop up onto the table I need all my strength. While in motion, there’s a sliver of a time where I may not make it up, but I don’t let on.
When I sit, I notice that though I don’t have an erection, I’m pitching a mini-tent because I’m full commando style under the gown.
If I fold my hands in my lap, will that call unwanted attention to it?
She puts the business end of the scope on my chest, then my back.
“Take deep breaths.”
I clear a lingering tickle in my throat. “You know, this gown isn’t my color, I’m a Winter.”
She glances at my pile of rubbish lumped on the chair. “I seriously doubt it matters. Stop talking. Breathe.”
Doc puts a disposable thermometer strip under my tongue, and steps out of the room. When she comes back she has a syringe sealed in plastic which she places on the counter.
That’s a big fucking needle.
She reads my temperature and tosses the strip in the trash then she takes a swab of my throat.
“How long have you been feeling ill?”
“I dunno, three days?” Four?”
“And you’re just now coming in?”
Christ, I hate needles.
“Yep.”
She looks at me for the first time and says, “That’s stupid, you have a fever of 103. I’ll be back with the results of this culture.”
She leaves. Again.
Chicks dig me.
I consider putting my underwear back on, but I doubt I’d make it back onto the table by myself.
needle.
I stay put.
No fucking way am I staying overnight and missing tomorrow’s scene.
I swing my legs, the paper rustles.
needle.
A woman like her probably get hit on all day. Must get tiring.
The doctor bursts back into the room, pushing a stainless steel cart. The top of the cart has all kinds of shit on it.
I say, “So, what’s up, Doc? Will I live?”
“Not if it’s up to you.”
I read her face for a sign of jest. Stoic.
That looks like a vial on the cart…
“What do I have?” I ask.
…can’t tell what that long thing is…but that’s some iodine…
Doc tells me I’ve got bacterial pneumonia, with a touch of strep tossed in for the kids at home. Swell.
…looks like we have some gauze pads…
She snatches the long thing off the cart. I see it well, now.
Oh snap! Look at the size of that mother!
She says, “Hop off the table, lift up your gown and bend over.”
NEEDLE!
“But Doc, we just met.”
“I don’t have time for games. There are many other people needing care.”
I say, “Aren’t you–NEEDLE!– supposed to distract me with a sock puppet?”
“Please. Act like an adult.”
Don’t be a little bitch in front of a girl. It’s just a–NEEDLE!!!
“This is gonna suck,” I say.
“Good. Next time you’ll seek medical help sooner.”
“What happened to,–NEEDLE!– ‘Do no further harm?’”
She swaps my ass-cheek.“Stop moving.”
“Can’t you just give me a pill?”
She sighs. “Let me do my–NEEDLE, NEEDLE, NEEDLE!”
I say, “I know, but–NEEDLE!”
“–NEEDLE NEEDLE NEEDLE NEEDLE!!–stop crying.”
My eyes dash to the door–my shoes by the chair–back to the door that seems impossibly far away.
Doc says, “Relax your buttocks!”
“I’m trying.”
On my back, looking up. Argyle, knee-socked legs straddling my head. Amanda standing over me in a skirt. White cotton panties. Cooing in Spanish. She sits….
I feel Doc wiping the injection site, slapping on a band-aid and then some tape.
“Get dressed.”
I walk over to the chair and balance myself against it as I pull on my boxer-briefs.
She writes something on a pad of paper. “The hospital pharmacy is closed for an hour, so I’m writing you a script. Fill it, and take all the medication until it’s finished, even if you feel better, and stay in bed.”
She furrows her brow as she give me orders. I’d love to obey other commands, but fuck staying in bed and loosing my slot.
I say, “Listen, Doc, I’m not normally such smart a–”
“Apology accepted. We all have our defense mechanisms.”
She pushes the cart to the door. “Sure. Are there any questions before I see the next patient?”
“Yeah, can I get a lollypop?”
She flashes a smile–white teeth–and it’s gone.
“You can get out.”
——–
I grab last night’s pants off the floor and dig out the contents of the pockets. The spare key, a crumpled prescription slip, my wallet. I stuff the wallet in my pocket, put the key on my ring and stuff that in my pocket too. I kiss Amanda’s forehead without waking her, glance at my bag sitting at the side of the bed and go out the door. Without it.
I know what your thinking. “That motherfucker is sick, he should be in bed like Doc said. I can’t believe he’s gonna go to work and possibly infect his costar anyway? How irresponsible!” Go all the way back and read this long-assed story again. It’s a zero-sum business and I’m far from home free, so you’re goddamn right I’m gonna get that paper. Either it’s me or the next guy who wants my slot. Fuck the next guy, that shit is mine.
It’s still dark outside but my call time is early and I don’t want to risk being late, fucking up my new spot in DVD Gang’s rotation because I miss a bus. That shit won’t fly in LA.
There’s a faint rattling in the distance; A ghetto bird is on the hunt, probing the dark for prey with its spotlight. I walk.
———-
The rising sun is ruthless. It shows the girl you convinced yourself was an eight in the darkness of da Club for the six she really is. Ho’s know this, and all around Los Angeles they slink away into the pre-dawn grey like vampires. East LA is a four–with the lights off–and come daybreak, bitch got nowhere to hide. After many bus changes to get to the barrio, I approach the set. An abandoned hospital that’s a dead ringer for the one I just wasted my entire night inside.
Vic Vermont, the cage-fighter turned pornstar is standing by the door. He watches my approach. Normally, I’d affect a non-threatening slouch, but with my illness shutting my sleep-deprived body down, it saves the trouble of acting.
I say, “Are you with the DVD Gang shoot?”
He looks at me, and his snake eyes are dice tumbling in their sockets with the numbers corresponding with “smite”, “answer the question”, “give a wedgie”, “answer the question then smite”.
C’mooon, seven!
He lifts his arm–I cringe–and he points into the dark mouth of the building. “No, I’m shooting for Red Assholes films. There’s a lotta different shoots going on inside the hospital today. The “Gang” people are on the third floor.”
I look up at the building that’s a football-field per floor.
Step away from the come line while your ahead.
“Thanks, I’ll find it.”
I enter. Each step I take more taxing than the one before it.
——–
Dana Divine greets me. “Tyler, I’ve heard good things about you!”
“Really?”
She gives me a hug. “You’re burning up, are you okay honey?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, Stan said you did well for him,” she says, “and the number of black male talent worth a damn can fit into my SUV, so I’m excited to have you here. Speaking of good, have you met Jack Hammer?”
She points to a dredlocked kid bursting out of a black wifebeater with a Punisher skull on it. He’s the Yin to Vic’s Yang.
I need to get on creatine.
He offers me his hand but I counter with my elbow. He looks at the elbow for a moment, shrugs, and bumps it with his.
Dana takes my copy of my HIV test and my ID’s. She says, “Alfred is shooting camera. I handle the ancillary issues. We’ve got two scenes before yours. I told him to push your call time back a few hours, but he never listens–”
Cold. Eyelids heavy.
I say, “You got a place I can lay down while I wait?”
“Yeah, there are some old hospital cots around the corner but I can’t speak to their cleanliness.”
“That’s okay. Don’t care.”
I’m almost at the corner before her words hit my ears. “I’ll come get you when we’re ready for you.”
The cot. I curl up. Shaking. Eyes shut.
——–
Voices passing room. Something about “lunch”. Someone’s jacket covering me. Eyes shut.
——–
Eyes open. Hair soaked.
Dana says, “Welcome back to the living.”
I stir, moan.
Dana says, “How much longer? Well, Alfred is shooting Jack Hammer’s scene right now so it wont be too much longer.”
Dana, smiley. Crinkly foil triangles.
She says, “I saved you some pizza. I wrapped them for you.”
I moan.
“Oh, okay. Well, it’ll be here if you change your mind later.”
Eyes shut.
——–
I awaken again, and right away I’m feeling better. Still weak and my tongue feels like a towel, but better. The light filtering through the dusty windows are back to the same greys as when I arrived this morning. When I look out the window I see most of the cars are different.
Let’s get some water.
All the same items are in the staging are but nobody’s there. Silent. I snatch a water from the ice chest and explore the hospital. Peeling paint. Office furniture and documents piled into corners. Medical equipment from the mid century. Freddy Krueger would love it here.
Voices.
I stalk down the hall, down a flight of stairs, following them to their source.
“…or hold my cock steady.”
“Why can’t you do this yourself? Don’t be such a pussy.”
I peek in the room. Two guys. One with his eyes shut and his pants down. The other, fully dressed, but kneeling and aiming a–needle!!–at the side of the first guys dick.
Walk away, Eric.
Too late, Needle Boy looks up. He says, “Hey, you. C’mere an gimmie a hand with this.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Cock Boy’s eyes are still squeezed shut.
I say, “You guys getting high or something?”
Needle Boy has a Boston accent. He says, “Nah, were caving.”
Don’t ask.
“What’s ‘caving’?”
“Caverject. I’m shooting his dick up to get him hard for my scene, yah know?” He clarifies, “I’m the director.” He turns back to the cock.
This time, Cock Boy speaks. “Look, if you’re not gonna help then don’t distract him, okay? Please, just leave!”
“Whatever.”
“Thank you.”
White boys.
——–
I return to the staging area. The sun goes down and the interior lights illuminate a patch of tiled floor every 15 feet. Porn ghosts from various shoots echo fuck-sounds throughout the empty building.
The shakes return. So does Dana. “Hey sweetie, were ready. Follow me to basement.”
——–
The basement looks like a set from a first-person shooter, zombie game. Industrial, damp and morose. Looking around, I see nothing obvious to fuck on. For that matter, where’s the girl? We stop next to a ladder.
A man twists his way through the pipes as he approaches me and Dana, swelling his lats like a cobra. I’m tempted to start a pose-down duel.
He says, “Wanda said you were taller.”
“I’m 6’7” when I stand on top of my cock.”
He stares.
Dana says, “Tyler, Alfred. Alfred, this is Tyler.”
I say, “Howdy,” and offer my elbow. Nothing.
He says, “I already shot the girl’s part of the intro leading up to the sex. I’m going to shoot yours now.”
“Okay, but I left my vibrator at home.”
More stares.
Dana says, “Why don’t you explain the scene to Tyler.”
“Yeah, right. Remember the video for Duran Duran’s ‘Hungry Like The Wolf’, where the girl is crawling through the muck in the jungle? That will be you. You’ll start over there–
He points to a console of switches 20 paces away.
“–then you make your way through the maze of pipes on your hands and knees–and this is very important–like there is a deep needing inside of you, but you don’t know what it is.”
“What is it that I need?”
“So anyway, you’ll make your way through here and up this ladder–”
With my eyes, I follow the ladder up until my head is at a 180° angle with the floor. I feel unseen eyes looking down at me.
“–to the top of this boiler tank where the girl is waiting for you. When you get there, she’ll flip you over–be careful, there’s no railing–and she’ll attack the cock. I cleaned off the dead roaches and most of rat shit, and I even laid out a blanket so it’s cool.”
He stares again.
Nigga, please! Are you out of your Goddamn mind?
I say, “Are you–”
Dana says, “Wanda says you called her every day for weeks until you got on the roster. Alfred, remember how much you worked for DVD gang when you were male talent?
——–
My knees are raw from countless takes crawling on cement for the intro. Shaking is worse. The intro is done. I stop twice while climbing the ladder. The “set” is a platform no bigger than the hood of a Prius. I crawl onto it next to the girl. Alfred is on the ladder filming.
Girl flips me, snatches my cock. Does things to me. Position after endless position. Finally, doggy. On my knees again. Maneuvering behind the girl. She backs up. I back up. We fuck. She backs up. I back up. My knee finds–
Nothing.
“Oh my God, he’s gonna fall!”
———
Men. I can totally feel this kid’s eyes moving over my body. I’m in a lab coat–not very sexy. What do I have to wear, a burka? And what’s with the boxers under the gown? Please, you’ve got nothing don’t see all day.
I say, “Take your underwear off.”
“Can you put on some Luther Vandross, first?”
Great, one of those. I’m too busy to deal with this nonsense. Oh no he didn’t! Where does this kid live, in the street?
“Don’t dump them on the floor,” I say, “place your clothes on the chair next to the examining table and hop up onto the paper.”
Oh my God, he almost fell! Don’t laugh!
With my stethoscope, I listen to his heart–
I say, “Take deep breaths.”
–then for fluid in his lungs.
Fluid, probably pnemon–ha-ha, is he pitching a tent? Wow, that’s a big boy.
I read his temperature. 103. Then I swab a culture from his throat.
dick.
“How long have you been feeling ill?”
Focus, Vicky. Act professional.
He says, “I dunno, three days?” Four?”
“And you’re just now coming in?”
dick.
“Yep.”
He’s cute, too bad he’s an idiot.
“That’s stupid,” I say, “you have a fever of 103.”
Still, I haven’t been fucked in a week.
Sitting there, he looks like a little boy that just got his feelings hurt.
I’ll make you feel better.
“I’ll be back with the results of this culture.”
———
Lab results say strep. Okay, put my professional face back on.
I return back into the room.
“What do I have?” he asks.
I tell him.
Why is he looking at my cart? Whatever.
I prepare the –dick– syringe for injection.
I say, “Hop off the table, lift up your gown and bend over.”
He says,“But Doc, we just met.”
Now that was funny.
He does, and I catch a glimpse of his –DICK!!
Look at the size of that mother!
He turns and lifts up his gown, showing me his butt.
Firm. Mama likes!
“This is gonna suck,” he says.
Don’t blow it, kiddo.
“Good. Next time you’ll seek medical help sooner.”
“What happened to, ‘Do no further harm?’”
I swab iodine on his cheek.“Stop moving.”
“Can’t you just give me a pill?”
*sigh* You blew it.
He squirms away from my needle.
Idiot! I would have fucked you.
I say, “Relax your buttocks!”
He sure got quiet all of the sudden. I wonder what he’s thinking.
I clean and dress the injection site on his tight butt, and bandage him up.
What a waste.
“Get dressed.”
Just write this guy’s script and get him out of here–why is he looking at me like that?
He says, “Listen, Doc, I’m not normally such smart a–”
Yes, you are.
“Apology accepted.” I say, “We all have our defense mechanisms.”
I head for the door. Lots of people to see before my shift ends. People that actually care if they live or die.
I say, “Are there any questions before I see the next patient?”
“Yeah, can I get a lollypop?”
If you knew how close you to getting some brown sugar…
——–
“He’s okay, Ranishia snagged him before he went over,” Alfred says, “Thank God, because I still need the pop shot from him.”
———
“Don’t stress, Tyler,” Dana says. “You’re sick. How you got hard again–especially within a half-hour of nearly falling two stories–to finish the scene is beyond me.”
We’re back at the staging area. This scene put me over for what I need to get my own place, but I have to smooth shit over with the Divines because Wanda will ask for a report. I’m not giving up my slot without a fight.
“Thanks, Dana. I’m not one to quit.”
Alfred says, “Yeah, well, you still took too long to pop and time is money. It’s your fault this production lagged and we went way over time today, so I’m docking your pay $100 to compensate for location fees.”
This motherfucker. I could point out his fucked-up time management skills but it’d be futile. Big picture, I still have enough for move in costs, and my DVD Gang slot is more important. Even if I prevent the theft of my $100, it’s a Pyrrhic victory.
Let it go.
——–
Amanda wakes me. “I filled your prescription, sit up. Open your mouth.”
She puts a pill in my mouth and gives me water. It’s still dark outside but I don’t remember how I got back.
Where’s the bag? My old shoes?
“I gave you the top two drawers,” She says, “and washed what was worth keeping.”
My Nabokov, Hammett, and Bukowski are piled up on her dresser. Well, our dresser now.
She says, “Tú eres mío.”
Amanda mounts me; her pussy is hot.
I drift.
——–
My cell wakes me. Sunlight. My stomach twists and grinds, telling me to put something in it.
I answer, “Hello.”
“Yo nigga, this is Stan.”
“Hey.”
“So I’ma come right to it,” he says, “Wanda got a report from the Divine’s this morning.”
“Yeah? That was fast.”
They’re gonna dump me. Great, I fail at porn. Well at least I have Amanda, and now the move-in money can last us until I get a real job telemarketing or something.
“TK,” Stan says, “We’d like to make you DVD Gang’s first ever male contract star. You gonna blow up nigga!”
I hang up, and I do not move. The tears want to come. I let them.
End.
Posted in Creative Memoir
Mettle (Act III, Part 1)
Posted By Tyler Knight on February 21st, 2010
Fuck Viagra. With Cialis, I can actually feel my dick and my heart isn’t threatening to spray the inside of my chest like a microwaved packet of ketchup.
The game of puff-puff-pass Judas and Mr. Darkus played with the kronik downstairs has melted into me and Judas playing fuck-fuck-pass with Lana. We’ve both taken our turns going biblical on her with savage impunity for the vaginal sex positions. There are only two anal sex positions in this scene and he’s already done the first one on Lana. My turn to fuck ass.
Judas steps off camera to clean his dick with a baby wipe from the rape kit. Lana rolls over onto her belly, props up on her elbows and rests her head in her hands.
Pussy drunk, when I step off the bed to grab a bottle of lube from the rape kit, it’s with all the grace of a newborn fawn discovering his legs. I hold the bottle of lube over Lana’s ass cheeks but I do not squeeze. Gravity does it’s work. The clear, sparkling oil oozes from the nozzle with the lethargy of tree sap. When the cold lube hits her skin she emotes a squeal pinched off by a cough, and the gelatinous lube piles upon itself like soft-serve ice cream before spreading out under its own weight; I write my name on her ass the way a kid would decorate a pancake with syrup. I feel my heart pulsing in the tip of my aching cock.
With my shaft, I slather the lube on her cheeks, then on her asshole with my tip; the viscous goo warms with the friction. Next, I take the excess fuck-oil on my hands and massage it into Lana’s supple cheeks. I take a Tyler moment to enjoy my handiwork.
The narcotic scent of fresh-churned, primo cunt hangs in the air like fresh-baked cookies and seeps up my nostrils doing all kinds of primal shit to my brain. To a pervasive perv like me it’s inebriating. I inhale deep and there’s a phantom taste of pussy on the back of my tongue.
A slap from my hand makes her juicy flesh jiggle and glint golden under the glaring lights.
Lana coughs and lays on her side, inviting me to lay behind her like spoons.
How does a girl that looks like this end up getting her ass bored out by two strangers in porn?
Right before I insert into her anus, I notice something odd. That voice that usually screams in my head when I’m unsure, afraid, or trying something new is silent. I wait something to go wrong, like locusts to come crashing through the bedroom window. Nothing happens.
Sometimes things do work out for me, I guess.
My tip pushes past her o-ring with a thuk, she grips me tight, and I take my first hit of ass. Ever. Not sure what I should have expected; it’s like pussy, but not. Tighter, but only at the entrance. Not bad, not great. Just different…sort of. While fucking away I forget I’m partaking in the sodomy arts and I say how great her pussy feels by mistake. My first anal position speeds by without incident and is over within a few hundred strokes.
Stan say, “OK, we gonna take the stills of the sex now, then do the pop shots.”
I forgot the bastard was even in the room.
Judas takes command and says, “Let’s work backwards–last anal position with Tyler then mine, then wipe our dicks off for vag and bj so we can fuck pussy to pop. Easier.”
Stan says, “Coo, coo. TK, just stay in the ass since you all up in it right now.”
“OK.”
The stills are being taken of me spooning Lana’s asshole, and I’m still pumping away.
“Tyler,” Stan says, “Stop fucking, yo. You gotta lemme take the stills.”
This is stupid. Holding fuck-poses for stills without actually stroking makes as much sense as trying to balance a biscuit on a puppy’s nose. It’s a digital camera. No film to waste. Why not increase the shutter speed and rip off shots like he’s shooting sports action?
The three of us talent go through all the positions for stills. Judas knows when to pump to keep the erection going between shots and when to freeze for the picture, changing up fuck faces, hitting each pose sharp. He’s the drag queen, Willi Ninja, fuck-voguing to house music in his head. I take notes.
Stan says, “Aight, who gonna pop first?”
Lana coughs.
Judas says, “Let Tyler go first, I can pop at will.”
“Yeah, I know how you get down, Judas,” Stan says, “TK, we gonna clear off the set so you can fuck to pop without a bunch of niggas starin at you ‘n shit. Holla when you feelin it, but give a nigga thirty seconds so I got time to turn the camera back on, aight?”
Say, “nigga” one more time, white boy…
“Yeah, sure.”
Even though Lana and I have been slam-fucking for the entire scene, now we may as well be first cousins sitting in church. We sit side by side on the bed, both of us staring straight ahead and out the window, looking but not seeing at the cityscape sprawling at our feet.
She’s the girl I picked up at the club to fuck and when I wake up she’s still there in there morning and we’ve got nothing to say to each other.
What would 50 Cent do?
My silly alter-ego turned off with the camera and I’ve got nothing to hide behind. Right now, I’m not that silly nom de guerre, Tyler Knight, just Eric, and being Eric has never been quite good enough with the ladies. No one is more amazed than I for the high quality pussy I’ve scored in spite of myself.
Lana makes the first move by stroking my cock. “I guess we better hurry, they’re paying location fee’s by the hour.”
“Yeah.”
I lean over to kiss her but she turns her head.
Smooth. Real smooth.
She says, “We should keep it professional. Besides, I have a cold.”
I take her by the chin and turn her head towards mine; she smiles at me–really smiles at me–and loose the power of speech. I’m doomed.
“You’re beautiful,” she says not much more than a whisper.
She looks into me and I into her and I feel fire going down my body like a shot of aged rye. We kiss.
I finally manage a, “Thank you.”
She strokes my cock as I finger her clit which is swelling under my fingers.
I say, “What the hell are you doing here?”
She smiles. “Same as you.”
Lana lays on her back and pulls me atop her. Kissing. Faces pull away. Eyes sync. I enter her. It feels right. Too right.
Helooo, asshole! You’re a professional, Eric. We’re both professionals and we’re here to do a job. YOU ARE AT WORK! This is a j-o-b and Amanda loves you! Chill.
Within a few strokes our pace speeds to a blur and I wrap a handful of her sweat-drenched, honey-flavored locks in my fist; my other hand cups her supple ass. Her pubic bone slams into mine with the fury fists trapped under ice. Her lips part to form an “O”, framing slick alabaster. Eyes exchange what words would ruin. Connected. One.
Our mouths touch again and stay that way, shattering the last vestige of pretence pornstars construct to keep it professional.
Biology pulls a “Surprise, motherfucker!” on me.
FUCK!
Lana’s face screws into a questioning look. “Did you just come in me?”
Lie!
“No.”
I look away and this time it’s her taking me by my chin. “Tyler?”
“Yeah. I’m really sorry.”
She furrows her brow. I feel like the time I got caught stealing sunglasses at the mall and security called my mom. Lana says, “Why did you lie?”
“I dunno.”
She chuckles. “It’s okay,” she says “I’m on birth control.”
Thank Christ, no porn nigglets.
I say, “I’m still screwed though. No way I can give a pop shot now.”
“Relax, you’re still hard. Call Stan back in, and when we set up the pop shot I’ll drop to my knees you’ll pretend you’re coming in my mouth. Leave the rest to me.”
“Thanks.”
———
I’m stroking my dick. Lana is on her knees in front of me. Judas is off to the side. Stan is rolling camera. I give a wail like I’m having the best orgasm ever felt by man or beast then I shove my cock in Lana’s mouth. When I pull out, she lets spittle dribble from the side of her mouth, and fuck me if it doesn’t look like cum. She smiles at me with her eyes and I do my best to keep from laughing. When I step back Judas steps forward to deliver his load.
“Cut, we got it,” says Stan.
Lana and I exchange complicit grins.
The three of us pose for the pop shot stills, and I hold a freeze-frame pose. I do my best to put on the, my-face-is-contorted-in-the-thralls-of-ecstasy, look but it comes across as my, I’m-taking-a-shit-but-the-log-is-too-big-for-my-asshole, face. Apparently this is good enough because Stan says, “Stills done.” and leaves to go downstairs. Judas follows him, Lana goes to take a shower. I sit on the bed, evaluating.
A place of my own.
A yawn pushes past my lips as I come down from the vagina high and I lay back.
———
“How do you think that went, Gee?”
I open my eyes.
He’s not looking for honesty. Don’t say shit about the pop shot.
“Well, Stan. It went well.”
He sits on the bed beside me. I’m still naked. I slide over to make more space between us.
“Yeah,” he says, “I was sure you’d find a way to fuck up, so I threw you in the scene with another guy that I knew could handle bidness in case you failed.”
I nod. “Sure.”
He says, “Didn’t know if you could do it–I had to protect the studio’s money. The pop shot was tricky–”
Fuck.
“–next time tell a nigga if you gonna nut in a ho’s mouth–but I caught it on tape. You did your thang though, homey. You did it.”
He bought it!
He offers his elbow. “Give a nigga a pound.”
I’ll let it slide, this time.
“You can pick up your check in a couple days from the office.”
He get’s up, walks out the door, and tosses, “I’ma have Wanda holla at you.” over his shoulder.
Lana comes out of the shower. The booty-short-and-fishnets whore uniform is gone. She’s back in her denim gardening bonnet and cargo shorts. She covers her mouth, coughs, and walks over to me.
“I’m Lisa.”
She extends her hand, I take it.
“Nice to meet you, Lisa. I’m Eric.” I kiss her hand.
We smile.
“You’re going to go very far in this business, Eric.”
———
“Tyler?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Wanda calling from DVD Gang.”
Wanda!
I sit up, “Hello, Wanda! Nice to finally talk to you! How’s it hanging?”
Jesus, “How’s it hanging?” You schmuck!
She says, “Your check is ready. The receptionist has it at her desk. Also, Stan said you didn’t blow it other day, so I’m letting 2Coc go and giving you his slot in the male talent rotation. Expect a call from our directors Dana and Alfred Divine tonight. You are working for them tomorrow.”
She hangs up.
“Thank you.”
Amanda, now awake, sits up too. Her bed is small but that’s okay. Beats that fucking train.
We speak in Spanish.
“Who was that, papi?”
I’m smiling so hard my goddamn face hurts. “DVD Gang,” I say, “I’m *cough* in the rotation!”
Continued…
Posted in Creative Memoir
Mettle (Act II, Part 2)
Posted By Tyler Knight on February 10th, 2010
The warming sun evaporates the dew on the car windows and works on the fog, but does fuck-all to the frost in my mind. Bag slung over my shoulder, I trudge up the steep residential neighborhood hillside toward the set.
I hear the Volvo before I see it. The Station wagon materializes one pixel at a time through the grey fog behind me, labors up the hill, and disintegrates as the mist reclaims it.
There’s the sound of a car door shutting ahead of me, and when I see the car again its driver is walking up the front stairs to the house. She’s easily as tall as I am, wearing cargo shorts and a wide brimmed gardening hat. She enters the home and shuts the door behind her.
When I get close to the Volvo, I see the “Kiss Me I’m Canadian” bumper sticker. I follow the girl up the stairs and to the shut front door of the hillside Mc Mansion. There’s a low thwump-boom-thwump, as though I’m standing outside a concert.
I open the door, and “In da Club” throttles my face; apparently, it’s vital that the entire goddamn neighborhood is enriched with the knowledge of 50’s preference for random fornication as opposed to meaningful intercourse.
Stan is inside the foyer, affecting a stooped-over pose and clutching his crotch through his baggy jeans like he’s about to pass a kidney stone. He shuffles toward me, one hand holding his pants up by his cock, the other arm bent with the elbow aimed at me. I bump elbows.
He looks at me, moves his lips, flaps his arms and moves in circles like a wounded quail on barbiturates. My fist wants to smash into his eye-ball but I catch myself. His lips stop moving and he looks at me. Waiting.
Well below the level of the music, I say, “Turn the fucking music down, you goddamn monkey.”
He blinks twice, smiles a smile that says, “I’m pretending to understand you”, pulls a remote from his pocket, and holds it across his body and over his shoulder the way a teen would turn off a car alarm.
This time, lips have audio. “How you livin, negro?” he asks, “You know what you here to do today?”
My hypothalamus is on stand-by mode because when I glance at his, “Fuck You, I’m Batman” t-shirt, the Life-Saver colored letters shift themselves into, “Fuck You, Black Man”.
I catch a few letters out of the air as they float up in front of my nose and arrange them into, “OK,” and, “I’ma cum.”
“Yeah, playa,” he says, “that’s how we do!”
Stan turns and wallows into the home. His pant cuffs drag on the marble floor. I follow, still on the wrong side of wakefulness.
“Thanks for the call last night, Stan.”
“No sweat, my man. Did I wake you?”
“Nope, I was in bed playing Xbox,” I lie, “it’s all good.”
“Coo, coo. The girl’s in the bathroom cleanin out her booty. Judas St. Lox is in the kitchen where the paperwork is at.”
I’ve only owned one TV for less than a month out of my entire adult life. Never watched much porn but even I know who Judas is. The man is a legend.
Stan continues, “It’ll be you an him with Lana Pierce. I’ma take the pretty-girl stills for the box-cover when she done cleaning up and changing before her makeup gets all fucked-up from fuckin, and we can get crak-a-lakin.”
“Sounds good.”
There is a distinct rumbling bass of two black men talking coming from deep in the house, punctuated by the staccato laugh of a young woman.
Stan says, “You done anal before, right?”
Never, you freaky bastard. That shit’s nasty, but I need the cash.
“Yep.”
“Aight, coo. Lemme handle some bidness an I’ll come get you in a hot-minute.”
What kind of people rent a home like this out to let strangers fuck on their furniture? They can’t need the money.
Stan says, “This is Ray Golden’s house, he owns Red Assholes Films but we gotta wrap this shit up before his kids get home from the school.”
He peels off to another part of the house and I continue straight. A overstuffed chaise lounge in the living room is calling me. I walk up to it, not sure of what I’m going to do until I’m in front of it. Its cushions are deep and I know if I sit my ass on it, the lounge won’t give it back without a fight so I stash the bag behind it, and follow the voices into the kitchen.
Judas is at the table sipping on a Hennessey. He passes a blunt to another instantly recognizable man wearing his trademark baseball cap, Mr. Darkus.
Darkus has a brunette girl sitting on his lap. She looks like she should be going door-to-door selling cookies. The only give away to her real age is the rape-whistle-neon bikini she’s got on. Well, that and the fact that she’s squirming on a large black man’s lap. And his cock is out. And she’s stroking it. I recognize her from the trade magazine as Assley Screw, the reigning Female Performer of the Year.
Judas see’s me, and Assley and Darkus turn to where he’s looking. The boys are all pussy-and-rainbows smiles.
The girl releases the jungle-cock, hops off Darkus’s lap, points her elbow at me and says, “Hi, I’m Assley.”
I remember where her hand was a moment ago and it’s right about now that I gain an appreciation for that porn handshake. I say hello and return the elbow bump.
She says, “Okay, I have to get to my next scene so I’ll see you guys later. It was great working with you again, Darkus.” She slips on some flip-flops, snatches some keys from the table and drags a travel bag by the handle. I watch her little walking ass churn under the glow-in-the-dark fabric as she walks past me and out of the kitchen.
They guys introduce themselves, and when I speak, “I’m Tyler”, comes out of my mouth in my nasal Mid-Atlantic accent and I want a do-over. My idle hands need to do something to keep busy, I snag a diet Red Bull from the ice-chest on the floor and join them at the table and they resume their conversation about phat Brazilian ass. I don’t talk. I nod and listen as they dish about, “So-and-so girl is a freak”, and “Those crazy white boys that shoot their dicks up with needles to get hard”, and “Did you film in Prague yet this year?”, and “Yo, Rex is working day and night. He clocked 27-gees last month. Nigga be straight ballin’!”; the words drifting in between the lazy game of puff-puff-pass with the silky cognac cooling the harsh smoke in their throats. I sip my sugar-free energy drink.
My lethargic brain is sloshing in a contact high that would fuck up Snoop, but the conversation is riveting and I don’t want to miss a single anecdote. My head’s on a slow swivel from Judas to Darkus, and not back to, rather all the way around to Judas again as I read their lips; the lip movement coming a full second before the words hit my eardrums. I let the kronik smoke-enriched baritone voices lull me into their world; an exotic lifestyle of travel, flash cars, bitches and money. I reflect upon my world; an exotic lifestyle of running after busses, and washing my scrotum with paper-towels in a McDonald’s bathroom sink.
Stan slithers into the kitchen holding a video camera. “Yo, we good-to-go, niggas. Let’s do this!”
Darkus says goodbye and how it was nice to meet me, and unlike most people in LA I believe he means it.
Judas and I follow Stan back to the foyer. He motions me to stop and we hang back a few paces.
Stan continues to the base of the steps. On the steps, a statuesque girl in black booty shorts with her juicy white ass cheeks tumbling the fuck out of the hem-line. The meaty cheeks are criss-crossed with wide-gauged, fishnet stockings that squeeze the holy hell out of the flesh, like two hams mashed up against a chain-linked fence.
Stan says, “Aight, so I’ma talk to Lana and we gonna go up the stairs and into the bedroom. TK, just hang back and do how Judas do, and you’ll be straight.”
“Okay.”
Judas unbuttons his shirt and slides of his pants and is standing in his underwear. I undress as well. Stan turns on his video camera and points it a Lana on the steps. They talk.
“Tell us your name.”
“I’m Lana Pierce.”
“And where you from, Lana?”
She sits, and the shorts strain against the puff of her pussy. “I’m from Canada.”
“Tell us why you’re here today?”
“I love it hard, deep and black in my ass,” she says, “I’m here to fuck.”
Naked, I rock back and forth on my bare heels. My hands clasp, unclasp, then search for pockets that don’t exist on my side.
Two scenes more. My own spot.
I fold my arms.
Stan says, “Stand up and let us see that phat white ass, girl.”
Judas takes my hand and presses something into it. I look and see a yellow pill.
He whispers into my ear, “Cialis. Works faster than Viagra.”
I pop it in my mouth.
Lana is on her hands and knees, bent over with her ass aimed at the camera as she looks over her shoulder. She pulls her booty-shorts to the side, plunges a finger in her steaming cunt with a sklisssh, pulls it out, and shows the camera. It sparkles. Judas spits in his hand and is stroking his elephant cock. My hands cup over my softie in an attempt to hide it.
Fuck, he’s already hard and I’m still soft. I can’t blow this.
Stan says, “We got two stiff black cocks for you today.”
Lana moans as she friggs her sloppy-wet cunt with three fingers now. She says, “Hurry up with that black cock! I’m a big girl, I need more cock than the average woman.” She rips the fishnets so that her muff is unobstructed.
Judas’s dick is all purple and veiny. Mine burrows into my abdomen.
Stan says, “Here you go, boo,” and hands her a vibrator. She turns it on.
The blue vibrator roars to life. Judas has pre cum. Lana’s cunt glistens. Stan goes in for a close-up as Lana attacks her clit. My cock is cold; I want to flee.
Judas speaks to me in a whisper, “First time doing anal?”
“um…yeah.”
He backhand strokes his cock; the vibrator is a muffled howl when it’s plunged into cooze; it rattles like a can of pissed-off bees on the out-stroke.
My pants are on the floor behind me. I can scoop up my bag on the way out and be down the street before–Oh for fuck sake, don’t be an idiot! Where are you going to go, huh? What the fuck are you going to do, you loser?
Judas smiles. “Relax, it will happen. Use your eyes. Hear her breath. Work with your body.”
Lana coos and places the sex-toy on her quivering meat-flaps. Her folds ripple and dance. The aroma of her pheromones reaches my nostrils.
Please, God. I feel bad for asking, but this has to happen.
Stan says, “Let’s go upstairs to the bedroom. I’m sure we can find you some black cock.”
Lana clicks off the vibrator, stands, and walks up the stairs. Hips swing, the fishnets threaten to snap, and ass-cheeks jiggle as she climbs the stairs. Lana is a woman, the girl in the gym was a child.
I feel a twinge. My cock climbs to room temperature.
Stan follows her up the steps, the camera’s lens a tongue-length from her wonderful flesh. Her ass warps the ebb and flow of space-time around it. Stan waves from over his shoulder without looking up from the viewfinder as he walks. Judas and I follow them up the stairs. I feel the tart snap of citrus in my jowls far sooner than I would with Viagra. My skin stretches tight.
Lana is kneeling doggy style on the bed. Stan backs away from the action and blends into the pattern of the wall paper like a ninja. Judas plays with his cock on her lips–her tongue flickers on the head–and he stuffs his cock in her mouth. The sound of slurping.
I take a lung-full of air, climb onto the bed, position myself behind her and with one hand, I grab her by a meaty hip that’s already slick with a sheen of sweat. Her flesh gives fractionally in my grasp and pushes back against my fingers. My other hand is just able to wrangle my dick and I imagine my skin separating like a wet paper bag. My tip rubs on her lips to scoop up some cunt-juice for lubrication.
I push past her lips; she gives a sharp inhalation; synapses overload; my mind snaps alert!
Continued…
Posted in Creative Memoir
Mettle (Act II, Part 1)
Posted By Tyler Knight on January 31st, 2010
The gym never closes. It’s pay-by-the-day and for a couple of bucks, I can lift weights, take a shower, read or nap in the sauna. I did this last night. Nobody fucks with me here.
Towel slung around my waist, I walk over to the locker, unlock the pad lock and pull out my cell phone. Time to get to business.
“Good morning, DVD Gang. How may I direct your call?”
My voice echoes off the tiled walls,“Wanda, please.”
“Oh, she walking in right now. This is Tyler…?” she asks.
Finally. Okay, get right to the point and don’t take no for an answer.
I sit on the lockeroom bench.
“Knight. Tyler Knight. Remind her that I was referred by Guido Cabron.”
“Hold please.”
The girl does not bother with placing her hand over the receiver. The intent is for me to hear everything.
“Wanda,” the receptionist says, “Tyler Knight is on the line for you. Again.”
There’s a sigh. A second woman’s voice says, “Tell him I’m in a meeting.”
Fuck this shit!
I hang up before the receptionist she can spin some bullshit lie and I reach inside the sea bag. I swap the towel for clothes, pull out a vhs cassette, dump the bag into the locker then slap my pad lock on it; I give the lock a couple sharp tugs head out of the men’s lockeroom into the gym proper.
The floor is covered in those black, interlocking mats that give underfoot with each spongy step in most places and beat-to-shit carpet in others. Dusty fluorescents flicker and hum. The equipment is old. Free-weights that don’t do the work for you. No yoga class or spinning.
The few people in the gym are here to work, not to be seen reading a strategically placed script while on the elliptical machine. The motion by the cardio machines gets my attention. That motion coming from the girl on the stairclimber.
Corn rows. Sports bra. No shirt overtop.
Rain-slicked asphalt for skin. Oily beads of sweat find themselves collateral damage in the billions of years long fight between gravity and friction. One drop caught in this tug of war, forms a velvety ball held together by surface tension until finally it’s ripped asunder by its own swelling weight. One half staying in place, the other now a quicksilver tear on a hellish tear, tumbling down the “v”-shaped swale of her lower-back, drawing a sparkling, jagged trail until the half-drop bumps into another, wresting this out of it’s place; the two beads form a large, rolling ball once again; its re-combined, juicy mass is heavy enough so that it streaks straight down and splashes into a salty stop at the waistband, darkening the fabric as it’s absorbed.
That saturated waistband stretches around a waist sculpted waist. The girl’s hips saunter wide, side-to-side, like a metronome ticking delicious tempo. Her tart, yellow shorts are stretched just below the tensile strength limit of where Lycra fibers snap apart.
Cheeks alternating; one swings inward and contracting with violence while the other swings out on the undulating hip–not relaxing–setting up for another great squeeze. Two terrier pups tussling in a pillowcase.
—
The ass draws me in. My arms want to reach out, one snaking around the girls waist, pulling her into me while the other hand squeezes her magnificent cheek. And they do.
I slap it, the smack chimes of a plucked tuning fork charging the air electric in my ear. Inside one beat of my hard-charging heart, the cheek gives two great jiggles that diminish into taught quivers then dissolve to rapid ripples of nothing. Sublime.
She squeals, and girl-voice ricochets inside my skull, flicks a switch in my brain that raises the gates, flooding my cock with blood. Time slams to a stop. Her giggles grabs my glands and my body teems with adrenaline and test.
I drop to my knees, plunge my nose into her crevasse, inhale and the heady bouquet sways me giddy.
My mouth is an overflowing trough of saliva but I do not swallow. The drool wants to run over onto my chin and it’s not a matter of me letting it as it is a case of me being rapt in the asses’s thrall. I’ve got a needing. It must be part of me. Now.
My teeth plunge into the succulent, yellow fruit. Her sex bursts crisp and sweet in my mou-
—
“What the hell are you doing?” she asks.
Oh shit!
I’m standing directly behind her, one hand in on the VHS cassette, the other outstretched–fingers curled inward–as if to pluck a succulent nectarine from a branch. She’s facing me now. Arms akimbo.
“Uh…you…I thought you were somebody else,” I say. I turn away and speed-walk to the door. She follows.
She says, “Hey come back! Lemme follow you around and see how you like it!”
She was cuter with her mouth shut.
Through the gym we go. I feel the heat of people’s eyes burning into my nape as she wails; I dash past the opposing-mirrored walls that reflect my hell in triplicate like a fun-house in purgatory. My pace increases to a trot and she matches me step-for-step. As we quicken she gets louder.
“Whas-a-matta, boo, you don’t like it when I creep up on you like this?”
I run. She runs.
“Yeah, I was looking at your ass!” I say, “What do you expect, dressed like that?”
Past the front desk with the dozing attendant that wakes up and asks “What the hell is going on?”, past the vending machine.
“Bull-shit!,” she says, “I heard you breathin like you was gonna grab me or somethin. Well, here I am and you runnin away! That’s all you got for me, boo?” she asks.
The front door. I push. It slaps open.
“Sorry, baby. I’m all stalk, no action.”
My feet devour steps two at a time.
Cars criss crossing in the street ahead. People all around. I stay on the sidewalk and dash up Labrea Avenue. When I hit Hollywood Blvd., I don’t hear her so I slow down and check to see if I’m being followed. I’m not.
Don’t wanna fuck around so I speed-walk to the Redline subway station, legs churning down two stories of stairs, double back to cram some coins and a wrinkled-to-hell dollar into the ticket machine and rip that motherfucker out of the metal mouth; I bound down the another set of stairs and thrust myself into a leg-scissoring leap through the open train door that takes a nip out of my ankle as it closes.
I snatch the pole out of the air and hook onto it–chest heaving, the passengers don’t look up– and find a seat then flop down into it, videotape clutched in hand. Just another guy who caught the train in time on the way to work.
The train burrows beneath the Cahuenga pass. I slouch.
—
DVD Gang’s warehouse is not the first time I’ve ever laid eyes a porn studio. Hell, I’ve lived two doors down from the mega-million dollar studio VELVET Video camouflaged as a quaint arts-and-crafts supply company. It was tucked deep in a residential neighborhood of single-family homes and I was never the wiser.
If you ever drive through LA’s Porn Valley passing all the buildings, you can play the game: Porn Studio, Not A Porn Studio. They range from the garish edifice wrapped in neon, taunting tourists from its perch right next to a family theme park; to the innocuous warehouses hidden away in business parks.
DVD Gang’s office building falls into the latter category. They are the studio in the high-end ethnic porn niche. Their quality rivals VELVET and as far as porn studios go they’re elite. One successful scene with them can ignite the rockets of my career.
I zig-zag across the parking lot, side-squeezing my way between the diagonally parked cars–soiling my khaki’s in the process as I rub past a near-dead Geo Metro–and close the distance to the warehouse’s front door; I wipe the schmutz with a sweat-slicked palm only to accomplish streaking a faint, “W”-on-a-stick shaped smear of chewy smog right-to-left across my crotch.
Teetering on the knife’s edge of restraint, I want to kick the shit out of that econo-box’s headlight. My body tenses but I calm myself, before I splinter-and-crush the videotape’s plastic casing in my hands, bursting it like crackling bubble wrap, strewing spools of magnetic ribbon to the wind; ribbons bouncing under cars and unraveling as I unravel. I cradle that fucking cassette like Prometheus with a Faberge fennel.
With the inside of my t-shirt, I manage to blend the Rorschach stain to being noticeable only if someone is staring right at my cock, but considering the nature of the business I’m about to enter this is of little solace.
—
“I’m sorry,” she says, “but Wanda doesn’t receive visits from male talent. Especially unannounced.”
By the way the receptionist is crossing her arms across her breasts throwing glances at the door to the inner office, I’m concerned that she pushed a silent alarm and goons will bust in any moment. A boy band is singing a tune of teen love on the radio behind her command station.
I say, “Calling on the phone to set up an appointment wasn’t very effective so here I am. Can you at least tell her I’m here?”
“I’m quite sure she won’t care.”
“Look, this is ridiculous. I didn’t walk past a burning bush that commanded me to come to DVD Gang. A good friend of Wanda’s referred me. Isn’t there someone here I can see.”
I watch her look at the tape in my hand, then I feel her eyes probing my crotch. She snickers.
“Sure,” she says, “why not?” She picks up the phone and presses a button. “Stan, come to the reception area please.” She replaces the phone back on its receiver.
“Stan is our contract director. He’s absolutely brilliant. A genius, really.”
I sit on the edge of a replica Barcelona chair. “Thank you.”
“Nothing personal, I’m doing my job,” she says.
“I understand.”
After a while the door bursts open. A white kid with a visor backwards and upside down on his head, t-shirt down to his knees, pants hanging off his ass, and bright blue sneakers on his feet limps out like he’s done number two in his pants.
He says, “What’s crack-a-lack-in, my nigga?” He bends his arm like a chicken wing and extends his elbow.
I walk over to him. “Uh, hi?”
His elbow is still pointed at me and I figure it out. I bump elbows with him.
I say, “I’m Tyler Knight. I’m looking to get on your roster of male talent.
“Yeah, that’s cool and all but most guys can’t fuck on camera under pressure.”
“I knew you’d say that. That’s why I brought this.” I hold up the tape.
“What’s this?”
“A recording.”
“Of?”
“Me, fucking?”
He says, “Who’s the girl in the scene?”
Who cares?
“I forget.”
Stan snatches the tape from my hand. “This is a professional scene? Not some bullshit with you setting a camera on a tripod and fucking a chickenhead ho from around the way?”
“Of course.”
“Aight. Let me check this out. I’ma be right back.” He goes back through the door he came from.
I pace, sit, and pace some more. Stan comes back, waving the tape.
He says, “That was some bullshit with you setting a camera on a tripod and fucking a chickenhead ho from around the way.”
“Yeah, how ‘bout that?”
He looks at the VHS tape and laughs. “It’s the 21st century, nigga.”
“Look,” I say. “Just give me a shot, man. I can fuck a goddamn cobra.”
“Get a talent info sheet from the receptionist and fill it out.” He turns for the door, opens it, and I get a glimpse of a cubicle bullpen filled buzzing with workers.
“So I’ll call you to see if you have anything going on?”
“Nah, man,” Stan says, “I’ll holler if I need you.”
The door closes behind him cutting off the noise of worker activity. I stand there a moment, looking at the door. When I turn around to the receptionist’s podium, there is a clipboard and pen. I fill the form out and leave the building.
I fucking blew it.
—
When I get back to the gym the management tells me I’m no longer welcome so I take a final shower, grab the bag and leave.
Sitting on the Hollywood Library steps, I call porn studios that advertise in the trade magazines. After three phone calls of grief and loathing hurled at me I stop calling.
It’s hard to understand why people in porn have such disdain for male talent when the male pornstar profession is essential to the product porn people’s livelihoods depend on.
—
Tonight I’ll sleep on the train. The Blue Line is cool if it’s raining or if there’s nowhere else to go. The chairs are metal sheets folded at 90°, covered with low-pile fabric designed to resist wear and stains rather than comfort and are absolutely not designed to be used longer than the 40 minute ride from Downtown Los Angeles to Long Beach. Because I have a monthly pass, I have unlimited rides. The plan is to stay on it all night as it makes its loop back and forth.
I don’t really sleep on the train in the truest sense because it goes right through the kill zone of South LA; what I do resembles torpor. With several stops in the belly of the beast, the train cars are patrolled by recently-weaned wolves on perpetual hunt for the weak, the alone and the unaware, and the stupid. God help you if you are caught unable to defend yourself because nobody else will.
I’m alone in this car. Today bleeds into tomorrow as the train rumbles onto a towering overpass. Outside my window, South Central sprawls below. The day’s events replay in my mind until it relaxes; my eyes shift focus from my profile reflected in the glass to the rows of sickly ecru street lights beyond. The ghetto is peaceful from this high up. Occasional greens and reds regulate the non existent traffic.
—
The horizon is aglow with pockets of orange stretching to infinity; fluffy black columns of death put a smoky lid on the boiling pot and choke out the stars. The homes and the businesses blaze once again with hope as kindling. I can’t hear the wailing–human or siren–this high up and from behind the train’s glass but I don’t need to. Pain is universal.
The minstrel show is playing itself out for me in my rolling balcony seat; the blacks and the latinos, and the Koreans with the rifles on rooftops play their parts to the critical acclaim of the media that gets close but not too close. Cops as ushers keep everything in contained and in play.
Emotions within that have been suppressed growing up in suburbia are stoked to a smolder. What I have inside is being articulated by others. Growing up in both worlds yet fitting in none, it is at once familiar and foreign, like sex with an ex girlfriend after a decade has passed. I want to get off at the next stop and go down there but if I did, what would I do? Would my hands choose to rend or mend?
When the city is razed and there is nothing left to burn, nothing will be changed except another layer of soot on top of singed dreams.
—
The train doors snap open and a fucked-up phoenix from the ashes pokes his head through. The youngster evaluates his odds and stalks off to the next car.
The cellie rings.
“Yeah.”
“Yo, TK, this is Stan at DVD Gang. Somebody just canceled on me. You wanna work tomorrow?”
Continued...
Posted in Creative Memoir