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, [...]
Archive for July, 2009
The Orgy
Posted By Tyler Knight on July 31st, 2009
My hand clasps the warehouse door, I pause for a moment to pray.
Head lowered, breathing slowed. Sun, warming my nape. Hint of a smile on my face, I open the door and enter Alpha Man’s reception area.
My eyes need a moment to adjust to the lower light level. I hear the voices before the faces fill in. Asian girls of every shape skin tone color, and size are lounging around the sofas. One dark skinned girl with waist-length black hair is dressed in a bright floral print dress, and a crown of flowers on her head. Some girls are dressed in sweats, some dressed in designer fashion. Yet another is in cut-offs showing her long golden thighs. All of them are evaluating their options.
Today’s scene is an orgy. For these events, girls typically have a limitation to the number of boys they will fuck within the scene unless more money is offered.
Among those girls, are a hand-full of young black men fighting for position. Though the pussy is guaranteed, boys preen and seduce; each kid doing his best to show why he’s the most desirable mate. This is the only time in porn history where you will get a bunch of young black guys to operate away from CPT (Colored People Time). I can say this: I’m black, and it is true. They are all early. I’m late.
Someone notices me standing at the door and the seduction, pathos, and fuck-brokering stops. Twenty-eight eyeballs burn into a singular point. Me. Some girls smile. Others play stoic but their body language betrays them. The Flower Girl flat out stares at me, mouth open. The boys grumble, suck their teeth and sigh. One kid takes his preening rituals up a few notches and struts between me and the girls, talking loud. In his expensive Borealis-blue track suit, he resembles a chortling peacock on the make.
Alpha Man, the director, bursts into the reception area from the office proper to coordinate who will be working with whom, and how many partners each girl will work with. The girls point to me. All of them. Obviously, all girls on me can not possibly work out for an orgy. Negotiations, barters, begging and ultimatums ensue from all parties as I hide in a corner making myself invisible.
For the disruption my presence is causing, Alpha Man is probably contemplating choking me out, and dumping my groggy ass in his warehouse while they drive to the location without me. He shoots me a look that can cut steel, and I suppress the impulse to run for the door.
After a while this studio’s contract pornstar and master negotiator, Mitch Adams, strides in from the warehouse. I have never been so happy to see another male talent. The man’s baritone voice is hypnotic, and even I am nearly convinced that I am the least desirable male talent to work with in the room. Boys sitting on the sidelines like 5th graders picked last for kick ball are now popular. All is forgiven as Mitch coordinates the “Fuck Flow Chart” (this is written down with colored dry erase markers on a white board) to everyone’s satisfaction.
The Crucible
I’m standing in the eye of the Orgy. Wet sounds of sixty nines, and blow jobs ricochet about the walls all around me. On my little sex island, Aveena Lee, and Nautica Thorn are both on their knees slurping away on my cock, as if to establish who the best is. The orgy is only 5 minutes old and I am dying, trying not to come. If you come too soon, you will be fired on the spot and your reputation as a professional male talent will be ruined. My eyes rove the room in an attempt to divert my attention from what is happening to me.
Everything looks surreal under the bright Keno Flo lights, washing reality in a garish, cartoon flavoring. Colors, are punched up. Edges sharpened. Sweat glistens.
One Asian girl (named Asia) is double fisting another guy’s whale cock, as it flips to and fro in her hands. It’s like an x-rated anime with a girl wrestling a tentacle.
Below me, the swap-sucking continues. One girl would be gracious enough to hold my dick in place while the other girl assaults it. Nautica then stands to kiss me leaving Aveena on her knees to attend to my dick, solo. Lazy arms draped across my shoulders. Me cupping a firm, young ass. Space-Time distorted, I drift in the moment.
I guide Nautica down on the floor and fuck her where she lay, turning myself into a man-blanket only to be chided by a camera man that “I cant see shit! Open up for the camera.”
“SWITCH!”, screams Alpha Man from behind another camera.
The game of musical cocks begins as the girls all make the mad dash to their next fuck partner. I see a Korean girl, Lisa, who insisted on sticking with only two guys, including me, look at me with pleading eyes from across the blur of bodies dashing between us. Before I can react, a tiny hand with alarming strength tugs at my arm, dragging me away. I give Lisa a “sorry” shrug as I am pushed down into the sofa. The reality is I probably would not have fucked her anyway because I had her before in another scene. Old pussy.
I’m looking up to a pair of brown eyes peeking out at me from behind cascade of sweat drenched hair. The familiar warmth of another snug vagina encircles my penis.
I sit there while she bounces up and down on my dick, getting off several times. A few girls nearby our spot in the orgy stop to watch as this kid from orgasm after orgasm. “You go girl! get you some!” from one of the other girls. Occasionally, I actually fuck her back, but the reason I ‘m conservative with the fucking is the girl has a death grip pussy. If I fuck her back and I pop, I’m done for the day.
Moans, more akin to a zombie invasion than a fuck-fest, fill the air from all corners of the room, punctuated with staccato squeals. The girl on top of me, humping away. This kid is killing me. Everything in me is telling me to come in her but I fight what is natural. My focus changed to: it’s really hot under these fucking lights, and I’m sweating. Wet slapping sounds of bodies crashing into each other surround me.
My balls are twitching. Not yet.
“SWITCH!”
Thank you, Jesus!
Before I can move, another girl lowers her hot muff onto my dick. Mercifully, she is not anywhere near as snug. However–
What the hell is my dick bumping into deep in her pussy?
Reading the question mark on my face this girl says, “Oh…I’m on my period. Is the sponge bothering you?”
“Not at all.” I’m just happy to get a break in the action.
Another couple takes a spot next to us in the exact same cowgirl position. Two pistons, side by side, in hypnotic up and down action.
Keeping myself busy, I grab a breast dangling in front of me.
Damn. Fake.
I suppress the desire to laugh, as I recall a conversation earlier in the waiting room:
“Wow your tits look amazing. Are they real?”
“Of course they are real!!”
“SWITCH!”
Still on my back, this time stretched across the same sofa. Random Number One is smothering me with her ass on my face. She and Random Girl Number Two are licking my cock, as I have front row seats to beautiful meat curtains framing bubble gum pink. Can’t see who is doing what but you can feel that they have two distinct styles. Nubs of a thousand taste buds up one side of my shaft, all the while cushy lips down the other.
Balls say, “Can we come now?”
“No!”
“Sonoavabitch!”, from somewhere across the tempest. Somebody has come too soon. There is always one. Arguing erupts.
“I’m OK! Gimmie a minute to recover!”
“Get the fuck off of my set, you goddamn mope!”
Better him than me.
“SWITCH!”
The “Fuck Flow Chart” had been ignored, so this time it’s Tyler’s choice. I want Aveena. A rival turns to my quarry.
Fuck-THAT!
I sprint, balls flapping and cock swinging, across the room and tackle a giggling Aveena Lee! I bend her over.
The entire time we are locked in doggy style she is shit talking. Taunting me while we sprint-fuck at the upper limits of my Viagrad-up heart.
“Fuck me damn it!”
“I am!”
My lungs burn as they fight to exchange stale air for fresh.
“Harder! Fuck me like you mean it!. C’mon, give it to me! Give-me-your-cock!”
The smell, once only on the periphery of my consciousness now takes it’s place front and center of my senses. A unique bouquet of pheromones, assholes, balls, sweat, and pussy–all baked under the Kino Flo lights. Strangely, this does not bother me in the least. Inebriated by the musky aroma of animal lust, I want to beat my chest and howl.
The Tourettes afflicted Aveena say, “Yeah motherfucker, that’s my spot–no don’t slow down you idiot! Ugh,you suck at fucking!”
Aveena gives no quarter, flexing her Kegels and she will pop me if I am not vigilant. We’ve locked into this position for a good 20 minuted now, ignoring the calls for “Switch!” Same nerves on my dick being stimulated over, and over. Her pussy is heating to the friction.
She coos, “There there, it’s ok.”
Somebody call “Switch!”
Aveena talking shit, does not give me he option of zoning my mind out. Each time I am on the verge of coming, I attempt to compartmentalize my environment and what is happening to me. Each time, Aveena finds me and drags me back to the Orgy. No escape.
I’m a professional! I can not let this girl make me pop too soon. I made it this far!
I’m a trapped animal. Chemicals bathe my brain mix of lust, and fear. Fear that if she does pop me I will be humiliated like the kid that got fired earlier. Reputation in this business is everything and a fuck up this early in my career will cost me my livelihood. I make an error of looking down. Her heart shaped ass is wrapped in golden skin. Sweat beads skip and bounce, sliding into a pool on her lower back. There is a tan line shaped like a golden “T”; the top of the t spreads out across her hips and the stem plunges down into the crevasse. I see my hands gripped around her hips. Fingers digging into her flesh. I drift.
Dear God, I’m gonna cu-
“CUT!”
Teetering on the edge of bliss, I withdraw myself from Aveena with great care, but she reaches back and claws my side, fighting me like a snarling hyena on a bone. I’m free.
It’s pop shot time. The girls all kneel side by side. The boys file behind one another to one-by-one jerk off into the starlets’s faces. Mutli-colored cum from a half dozen men drips down the girl’s faces.
And that would be me, last in line, standing in front of the kneeling, cum drenched women. Torquing my dick. Unable to come.
This is almost funny.
The pop shots are for all intents timed. Timed in the sense that the director’s dream is to get every pop shot off within seconds of each other. Timed also in the sense that I know they are running out of tape. This pressure is not conducive to getting off.
It is cruel being a man sometimes. Being a male porn star is worse. Having to save my one shot for when it is most convenient for someone else. I know there is nothing erotic about stroking off to girls drenched in other men’s cum. So I choose to not see them. I shut my eyes.
Stroke-stroke-stroke-stroke…
Sounds of snowballing–cum swapping between the girls–enter my ears. I know from experience that I have to keep my eyes shut at all costs.
Snowballing is when the male talent comes into one girls mouth and the come is passed down the line to the next girl, then the next, then the next. The last girl lets the collective come and drool from all the girls before her drip and dribble into her her mouth.
My job, as the last guy to come, is “The icing on the cake”. I stand over the last girl, whom is drenched in come, and glaze her face with my load. The last guy is seldom picked. It’s punishment for the man that takes too long to pop. You control your fate. Don’t wanna be the last guy, then come early.
An unseen girl talking to another girl, “Mmmm. Lemme lick that cum off your chin!”
Shut the fuck up!
stroke-stroke-stroke…
Swishing sounds. Cum gargling–
Almost there–
stroke-stroke…
I turn within my mind to find my groove;
bouncing.
sweet cotton candy, and
that stubborn dew
drop trickling down the glass
of lemonade.
I release. Two hours of non-stop fucking. I hate pussy.
Aftermath
As soon as the last pop is delivered, Alpha takes his hand held camera, and asks the girls to rate each guy, and how he fucked her.
The mini feuds that I was oblivious to during the orgy surface, as some boys rate a two. The kid that came too soon got a zero.
Mitch, whom all the girls love gets an average of a nine, and I get an eight. Can’t please everybody.
Gathering my clothes, I am approached by Sponge Girl.
She says, “Can you help me get the sponge out of my pussy? It’s stuck.”
No, you stupid whore. I just want to go home.
“Sure, let’s go to the bathroom.”
I am on my knees, neck twisted askew, while I pry this snatch open with one hand and fish for the sponge with the other hand. Sponge girl is sobbing. After exhausting every possible combination of fingers and angles, I am convinced this girls vagina is an Event Horizon for which no foreign matter will ever escape.
Crying her lungs out, she says, “I don’t want to get toxic shock. You have to get it out!!”
Sweat dripping from my brow to the floor. My neck is twisted at an angle as if to see inside her dark cavern, which I can’t. I dig back into her vagina, this time getting a finger on the elusive sponge.
“Is that a makeup sponge you put in your pussy?”
Sobbing, “Yeah.”
Christ. I should just leave you here to die.
After 10 minutes it comes out in a red gooey mess. She dashes out of the bathroom without as much as a “Thank you”, leaving her period sponge in my hand.
Sigh. Being a male porn star is so glamorous.
The house seems empty. Talent is headed to Alpha’s office to get the pay checks. I find an empty dark bed room and attempt something I’ve always wanted to try. It has been said that Ron Jeremy could suck his own dick. Using a wall for support, I flip my legs over my head. I stick out my tongue.
Damn! Just a 1/2 inch more–
Just then, the lights come on with a “FLICK!”
The bedroom floods with light, and from my upside down point of view I see pornstars that still have some fuck left in them enter. Other naked people that I had no idea were even in the room are scurrying under furniture like roaches.
And then there’s me. Asshole in the air. Trying to suck my own cock.
Posted in Creative Memoir
HIV Cluster-Fuck Of '04
Posted By Tyler Knight on July 30th, 2009
There have been two HIV outbreaks since 2004. That I know of. The last one as recent as June 2009. The only reason anyone even knows about the HIV positive people in the talent pool was because an anonymous source came forward on a porn gossip site. The testing center, whose sole fucking purpose of existing is to test and report outbreaks to the industry, hid the infected from us. The test center director said, “It’s really not a big deal.”
Why did they hide it? OSHA and other gov’t agencies are suing them for the debacle of 2004. So they (testing center) let the outbreak of 2009 go unreported, potentially allowing HIV exposed people to continue fucking away with impunity. One HIV positive person can work with five others in a week. Those five each work with five people. You get the idea. It’s an exponential affect.
The Clusterfuck of 2004
In the Spring of 2004, Darren James went to Brazil to shoot porn for TT Boys company, Evasive Angles (company named for TT’s passion for boxing incidentally). If one were to go to Brazil or Thailand as talent one could earn $10,000 in 2 weeks. I am not going to speculate as to how Darren got infected, but it is established that he did get infected while in Brazil.
Darren is the kind of guy that took his STD test twice monthly as I understood it, when industry practice only called for monthly testing. It just so happened that within the week he came back from his trip to Brazil he worked with a lot of girls. Those girls in turn worked with guys and girls who worked with even more people. It was an exponential effect. There were probably 150 scenes shot every day in the valley at the time so all this happened within the space of a week.
DJ went in weeks early for his std test (thank God) as he usually does, and when the lab gave him a “detected” result the entire industry went on lock down. The next step was to find all the people who were directly exposed to DJ. Of those, a few girls tested positive. Both of those girls had “current” tests and if not for Darren testing early those girls and Darren could have infected even more people.
When I heard about this outbreak I failed to fully grasp the scope of the situation. It seemed that I was so far removed from it. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Within the span of an hour my phone was blowing up with calls–people telling me that I had in fact been exposed when one of the girls identity was revealed. Of those girls that tested positive, I had vaginal intercourse with one of them. The fact that she had a current test meant fuck-all. I was officially moved to “first generation exposure” and was immediately put on quarantine.
The first thing I did was tell my girl friend. Then I tracked down every girl I worked with within that week and called them all. The response I got from the girls on the other end of the phone ranged from denial, to shooting the messenger, to gratitude Mostly derision.
I was only 32 at the time and if in fact I did test positive I knew I could never train martial arts ever again, fight, spar, or make love to a woman. It was the prospect of infecting my girl friend, whom was not in any way involved with the adult industry and did nothing to put herself in the way of this except to love me no matter what. That killed me. Joke all you want but after facing those grim prospects I would have been ecstatic to get something like Herpes, or Chlamydia instead. So I put myself and my girl friend through a battery of HIV tests that the industry uses.
The quarantine list grew to if I recall, damn near 100 people from first generation like me to fourth generation. There was a flow chart posted on the net and every day people would look to see if their name would appear on it. Young people searching for their name on a list for exposure. A death list.
The entire industry was shut down. News crews came out it. People were hounding Darren for interviews so he had to flee town. I can not imagine what it must have been like for him. Whatever choices he made to put himself in that situation I had and still have empathy for the man. If you ever met him you’d love the guy instantly. His positive attitude and warmth was amazing.
Risks in the abstract suddenly became real. In the past I’ve had a 9mm put to my head and a shot gun aimed at my chest (at the same time) by other people looking for a reason to kill me. This was worse. I thought of the life insurance policy I took out not 5 months earlier and considered suicide as a fleeting thought before a positive HIV diagnosis, so that my girl friend would get a payout.
I’m not soliciting sympathy as I’ve made my bed, and it would be grossly undeserved. It’s an offering into my state of mind at the time. Regardless of what I felt about myself for putting my girl friend through this I kept up a stalwart front so she didn’t not see the fear. Having her scared served no purpose.
Eventually after a period of say, a month the fourth generation people were cleared fro the “Q” list, followed by the third generation. After taking more tests than I can remember I was cleared too. I still did not go back to work right away. Those two months taking a battery of tests were the longest of my entire life. Being the geek that I am (probably the detachment of denial) my thoughts wandered to of all things game theory and odds. Even if my odds for contracting HIV from vaginal sex with a woman were mathematically infinitesimal, the smallest of odds were of no comfort. Statistics have no memory. Every sexual event with an infected person is a fresh “roll of the dice”. A fresh chance to get infected. I had a lot of time to evaluate my life.
Although I obviously came out of my self imposed seclusion to work again, my perspective on a lot of things has been changed forever. I’ve seen the worst in humanity. Avarice over human life.
During that time frame of the industry wide shutdown some studios and performers still opted to keep shooting. Like i the outbreak was some abstract event going on in some far away land that had no bearing on their reality. Some fourth generation people on the quarantine list were still working under aliases, or forged tests.
And some studios and directors filmed them. They just didn’t give a fuck.
Talent that was not on the “Q” list sometimes price gouged the studios for 2-3 times their rate. For a period, some studios in self righteous afterthought and full of shit putting on airs lectured on how safety protocols need to be improved. They called for a town hall meeting open to all the industry. Reality was the meeting was publicity bullshit, full of self dick suckery and circle jerking made only for the “cool kids”, posturing for the press and accomplishing absolutely fuck-all. The big decisions? No scenes where male talent comes in a girls asshole, and the industry went condom only.
Posted in Creative Memoir
First Day in Porn
Posted By Tyler Knight on July 30th, 2009
This was back when VCA was in the business of making big budget features, before Larry Flynt bought them out. Basically, it was a restaurant scene with me, the contract girl Chloe, the crew of 2 dozen people (grips, boom mike guy, two camera men, director, and video tech behind monitors, the “c-light” guy whose job is to hover a light near the “action” to make sure its well lit), AND a dozen civilian (non porn) extras sitting at various tables for atmosphere surrounding Chloe and me. Not what I expected!
At that point, aside from girlfriends, and my mom, the only others Ive been naked in front of was my doctor, and God. I’m not going to lie, I was scared shittless. A lot of us here fight, or have fought MMA, so you’ll know all about the adrenaline dump you get just before you gotta throw down. I’m the guy that runs to the bathroom a million times, while listening to my iPod, trying to calm down. Everyone has a different way of dealing with it. Point is….
Imagine yourself trying to get an erection with the adrenaline dump. Lol, talk about performance anxiety.
Hell
I’m dressed as a waiter, waiting off camera for my cue, sweaty palms, cotton mouth in full effect, murdering myself with viciously negative inner monologue, and doubt…
“What if I’m too small and she laughs…what if I pop to soon, what if I forget my lines, what if the extras laugh, what the hell does “open up for the camera” mean, shit, a table? How the hell is that going to work? I’m 200 lbs, Ill snap it., SHIT… that’s Randy fuckin’ Spears! I cant compare to him! Is Randy looking at me? That’s kinda weird!…WHAT IF I CANT GET IT UP!”
Chloe is at her table, delivering dialogue to another girl, who after a short exchange, gets up, and leaves the table.That’s my cue! The PA gives me the nod, so I walk over to the table.
DEAD MAN WALKING.
As soon as I step under the lights, I noticed the temp is easily 20 degrees warmer. I truly was in hell after all!
I deliver my dialogue at Mach 5 staring at my shoes. Apparently that was good enough (hey, its porn after all) because the next thing I know, she is undoing my pants, and reveals….
Mr. Softee!
The next 20 minutes seemed like a year that would never end. So after stroking it long enough to get semi hard (humiliating in front of civilians that prolly thought I was a tool, and rightfully so.), when the cameras were off I weakly said I was ready. As soon as the cameras were back on, I wilted again. This repeated 3 times, and even if there were fluffers (thing of the past), it wouldn’t have mattered… I had a hot girl right in front of me. Each time, I could tell the crew was getting more and more pissed.
This was not hell, it was…
Purgatory
So the director, who has seen it all hands me a stack of magazines, told me to go off set away from everyone else, jerk off, and come back when I’m ready. “I can do that. Ive jerked off a million times.” I said to myself. When I come back to set, I was convinced I would be ready.
So I flip thru the selection of magazines…”Juggs”, “Black Tail”.. I go with “Jugs”.
3 (Three, III) strokes into working up my wood…I POP IN MY HAND! I wanted the Earth to swallow me up! I was FUCKED!
Option a) Man up, go on set, and fess up, and own up to me blowing the days shooting.
Option b) Calculate the trajectory so that if I jump out the 2nd floor bathroom window and roll on impact, would I be ok.
Hmmm.
My ID’s were in the production managers pocket on set, and I was wearing a shirt, and no pants (on set as well). Running around Downtown LA with a shirt and no pants is only cute if you are named Winnie the Pooh.
I went back and faced the music…
Posted in Creative Memoir
Typical Rejection letter, pt. 1
Posted By Tyler Knight on July 29th, 2009
This is slightly doctored 
Name had been blocked out because I am not a total dick.
| From: | Deena XXXXXXXXXX <deenaXXXXXXXXXX@gmail.com> |
|
|
|
| To: | tyler@xxxxxxxxxxx.com |
| Cc: | |
| Date: | Tuesday, July 28, 2009 07:52 am |
| Subject: | Re: Submission from Tyler Knight |
Dear Tyler:
Thank you for submitting your work to “Doom Vagina”. Unfortunately, the work you have sent does not meet our editorial needs at this time because you say “cock-sucker” 6,723 times in just four short stories. However, we appreciate your consideration. We wish you the best of luck placing your stories, and poems elsewhere.
Sincerely,
Deena ##########
(P.S. Your poems suck)
Posted in Q & A
Area 51
Posted By Tyler Knight on July 25th, 2009
7:30pm.
I kill the engine outside nondescript warehouse in the middle of fucking nowhere, in the high desert.
Opening the door, I am greeted by almost absolute blackness that envelops me.
I make my way through the maze, and am face to face with a few Japanese kids in their early to mid 20′s. I say “Hello, I’m Tyler….where is Yoshi please?”.
Blank stares.
In my shitty rudimentary Japanese “Watasha-wa Tyler…genki des-ka”. That brings about smiles, and happy faces, and I am escorted to an office area and meet the photographer/translator.
I fill out the paperwork, and hours drift by as I wait to do my scene. I kill time talking to the translator about Sakuraba, who is the second coming of Jesus in Japan.
Another few hours drift by…and I’m still waiting. I notice that I can see my breath, even though I am indoors. The thermometer on the side of the warehouse wall reads 47 degrees at 1 am.
This is gonna suck.
I start some Silat djurus (think katas or forms), wander around a bit, reach into my bag, and pop some almonds in my mouth.
4am.
A young guy hand gestures to me that it’s time to go. I steal a glance at the thermometer. It’s a balmy 42 degrees. And I am fucking tired.
I follow this kid into the bowels of the building.
As we leave the office to the warehouse proper, I see an island of light floating in the sea of black…that light being the set designed to look like an examining room.
Christ on a stick….this looks like Area 51.
I more than half expect to see engineers in clean suits reverse engineering a crashed spaceship, with a dissected alien on a gurney.
Am I going to be dressed in an alien costume? Japanese are big on tentacle porn.
I should be so lucky. I am handed a hospital gown clearly not intended for a big American. Commando style…my bare ass open in the back, exposed to the frigid desert air.
My co-star is a stunning angel. Ridiculously innocent looking, petite, and demure.
Everyone is polite as the translator tells me the gist of the script (written entirely in Kanji). I decide that it is best to just keep my mouth shut. So I lay on the gurney (I am a patient with an undisclosed affliction) and my Innocent Angel asks me in poorly pronounced, but insanely cute English if I am ready for my sponge bath.
WTF!!!! It’s 42 fucking degrees!!!!!! Are you people insane! Go fuck yourselves, I’m outta here!
“Hai…domo-arigato” I politely reply.
So now I am soaking wet, in the desert morning. I can see my breath.
-I start to shiver.
Fuck this, I’ve had enough. I put her hand on my tentacle, as she gasps as if to say “Oh MY!” playing the innocent act, but I ain’t having any of it. It’s on bitch!
The scene in full pace…her brown eyes punctuated by dime sized pupils at the height of her arousal. We kiss deeply.
Innocent Angel’s panting sprays a mist of breath in the crisp air.
-I am really getting cold.
Polite Japanese men of various job descriptions orbit the gurney, filming, lighting, and snapping stills. I am flat on my back as naughty little AZN girl wrestles the hentai cock.
-My legs start to shiver. I place my hands on them to stay them.
The director makes the universal sign for blow job,…pop shot time, and she obeys.
She is working my wood like a beaver on speed. The crew seems transfixed my this little angel in mortal combat, hell bent on sending the Kraken to the watery abyss from which it came.
I do my best to control my breathing, and think warm thoughts.
Breathe in 4 seconds….hold 4 seconds….breathe out 4 seconds.
-It’s out of my hands. I shake convulsively.
There is no way the camera doesn’t see this. I draw my limbs as close to my core as possible, and place my hands on my legs to stop the shaking. Futile. I am soaking wet.
At this point I realise that basic biology is going against me, and if I loose my wood, it’s gone for good.
I zone out the biting cold. I zone out the crew. I put all my focus on eight inches of my body…willing the blood to flow where I need it.
Time to make a withdrawal from the wank bank. I don’t have time to fuck around…I immediately go straight to thoughts of my girlfriend purring to me in Spanish that “… well I’ll keep that little gem to myself.
Pop shot.
The director says excitedly (as translated by his minion) “Wow, you are an AMAZING actor…your an ANIMAL!”
I return his deep bow replying “Yes, I know.”
Shower is cold water. Fuck that.
Another minion counts out a crisp stack of new Benjamins into my palm…
Domo arigato motherfucker.
Deep bows exchanged with the director-San, and I say “Oats Caress Ha-ma’!” (Nice working with you).
5:12 am.
I go to fire up the Mustang, and I am greeted with the sound of a lawnmower wheezing with asthma.
YOU FUCKING WHORE! START!
I pop the hood with my cell phone clinched in my teeth to illuminate…corroded ports on my battery. I scrape the smegma with my keys, and fire the V8 up. She roars to live.
Clicking through gears with my short throw shifter, I assault the freeway.
Outside the left window the desert mountains surrender the fight as they no longer hold back the grey of dawn .
Clouds are under lit pink.
“Stairway to Heaven” reaches its crescendo…Robert Plant wailing:
“And as we wind on down the road
Our shadows taller than our sooooul.
There walks a lady we all know
Who shines white light and wants to sho-o-o-w
How evrything still turns to gold.
And if you listen very hard
The tune will come to you at last.
When all are one and one is all
To be a rock and not to rooooll.”
-I am falling asleep.
You can make it!
I pull into the driveway, kill the engine, wash the scent of Anime cunt away.
I tell myself I will awake in time to get my ass beat by the boys at Legends MMA…
Yeah, right.
Posted in Creative Memoir