The line of mopes wraps around the warehouse. The line moves. I take a step. These men are not the chiseled studs with forearm-length penises of the porn A-list. They will never get the call to work in a scene for even a mid-tier studio. This is the bukkake line.
I’m in line just like these mopes are, but I used to be a model. Even my shirt, the sample I wore on the runway that the designer let me keep, is proof that I’m different.
Mopes lie. One mope brags about getting to fuck the girl for a solid minute before another mope tapped him on the shoulder to swap out. Another man describes performing in a one-on-one scene with a woman trapped by her own porn fame since her first movie, shot on actual film. “We had a connection!”
Mopes lying to each other about porn party invitations at nightclubs whose doormen would never let them past the velvet rope.
The line moves. I take a step.
Directors for other bukkake movies and gang bang scenes rove up and down the line handing out business cards. One director poaches talent for a gang bang scene with an overdue pregnant woman. His scenes resemble a school of swarming piranhas stripping a cow to its bones. The scene will shoot close enough to Northridge Hospital in case woman goes into labor.
The man in line front of me disappears into the building. I follow.
Inside the processing room, production assistants tag and pack the mopes like cattle. As my eyes adjust to the dark, one of the production assistants foists a ball point and a talent release form into my face. I unfold my HIV test print out from a pocket and offer it to the P.A., but he has already moved onto the next mope without as much as a glance at it. Next, I hold up my IDs next to my face, flanking m head on either side like mouse ears, and another P.A. takes a snapshot with a digital camera.
The line moves. Take a step.
I come to a closed door at the far end of the processing room where next P.A. commands everyone to be quiet in raspy whispers. Filming has started. Through the door, I hear it. Panting…Snorting…A kennel of dogs? The door opens. I enter.
Take a step.
Bright and disorienting set lights scream across the room from every direction except the floor and everyone’s breath hangs before them in the meat-locker crisp air, and the hairs on hirsute men’s legs and forearms spring erect. In this main room, the line has collapsed into a gathering of man asses. They sag. Some cheeks pinch together, wide at the top and pointed at the bottom like inverted triangles. Others hang down, flapping against the backs of legs. Hair covers some. Sores dot another. I strip, find an unoccupied spot on the floor for my clothes and then return the crowd.
The other men also stand naked except for one distinction. The all wear shoes.
The mob packs in deep. Even standing on toes, and then hopping up and down in place,it’s impossible todiscernits center. The soundsechoing from the center of the crowd resemble a stadium of open-mouthed teens smacking chewing gum.Squishy penisesslathered in lubricant and spittle jerked off in unison. The sound echoes off the walls, punctuated by the moaning of the men at the center of the mob. The sound of…gargling, then coughing and gagging.
Take a step.
The current moves me closer to the front. Still, nothing visible except the other men who have now filled in close around me. The mob squeezes the mopes through its mass.
Sentence fragments…Anarcoleptic female voice slurring phone-sex platitudes.
“…all over my tits…oh, yeah…”
Another woman’s voice says, “I’m sooo horny, papi!”
Take a step.
The forest of mopes ahead thins, and the men in this rank try to stroke their penises up to an erection, spitting in hands hand for lube. The air which has exited the lungs of strangers many times over and its sourness coats the back of my throat like second-hand smoke.
Take a step.
It’s best to look straight ahead to avoid looking down, lest you see that you’re stroking your penis mere millimeters from the ass in front of you…then come to the realization that there is someone playing stretch and release with his penis behind yours. His cabbage breath exhaling hot on the back of your neck. Is he looking down at your ass while he strokes?
Take a step.
The mob spits me out to its front. There they are. Two girls built like pagan fertility dolls, resting on their haunches, caked from head-to-toe in the multi-shaded come of every man who gave his offering before me. Drenched baby bibs tied to their necks with large, cheerful loops. Faces covered. Hair pasted flat against their skulls. I can distinguish them only by their breast size. The studio lights above them heat the jizz on their foreheads, exciting convection currents of swirling globs of spunk like a lava lamp. Both women’s breasts have space on the undersides where the semen has dried to a crust, crackling and splitting and flaking when skin expands or contracts.
Now, just a pair of mopes stand between me and the women. An amplified voice screeches through a megaphone, “You two! Snowball! Go! Go! Go!”
The two men take their steps.
A dripping slot parts just above the chin of the woman with the larger breasts. A mouth. She sucks man in front of her while the woman with the smaller breasts sucks off another. Gooey hands grasp at the men’s doughy asses for leverage as the girls shove their respective mope penises into their faces. The first man pumps into the face of the larger breasted woman and, after moment, convulses, howls and slathers his load into her mouth and onto her face. She swishes spooze around her mouth and teeth the way you’d rinse with Listerine. The second man shoots his load into the smaller breasted woman’s mouth. Both women gargle their ejaculate in unison as the men step away and into the crowd, which re-absorbs them. The smaller breasted woman leans over and places her head in larger breasted woman’s lap, and then and opens her mouth like a hungry baby bird. Large Breasts then purses her lips. Come mixed with spittle, phlegm, and yet more come drips from Large Breast’s mouth in long strings and into Small Breast’s mouth. Small Breasts sits up, kisses Large Breasts. The women pass the gob back and forth into each other’s mouths – the mixture growing like a snowball with each pass – all the while fingering themselves. The opaque liquid drizzles down their chins and onto their breasts and the floor.
Eyes, blood shot and buried in slime, open and missile lock in on me. The ejaculate queens beckon me over.
The megaphone shrieks, “Go!”
Take a step.
When my foot lands it squishes deep into what feels like warm hair conditioner. The foot sinks and the gelatine goo oozes hot between the toes. When I lift the foot the sticky floor doesn’t want to let it go. Now it’s understood why other the mopes kept their shoes on.
I stand in front of the girls, penis in hand. Bereft of an erection. Large Breasts scoops spilled seed from the abattoir’s kill floor and feeds it to Small Breasts, who sucks her friend’s fingers dry. She smiles at me, blowing come bubbles. My stomach flips inside out and my breathing recedes to shallow gasps and my bones feel as though they’re sucked out of my legs. I sway.
The megaphone shrieks, “Stop! Half-time show!”
The director’s minions – dressed in what appears to be rain coats and fly-fishing boots? – cattle prod their way through the crowd carrying an industrial strength blow dryer. The appliance roars to life and the minions glaze the women’s faces with the come, glazing them like pottery. Fresh-broiled spunk wafts into my nasal cavity. I look around the crowd at the other mopes and see the eyes with nothing behind them. Heavy breathing. Moaning, and the smack-smack-smack sound of wet penises flogged in unison.
Hyperventilating, I turn around to leave and push through the crowd. Greasy penises brush against my wrist and hips as I pass.
My pants are in hand but the realization hits that there’s not enough bus fare in the pockets to get me out of the San Fernando Valley. I take a step. Back into the crowd.
The moaning mass of flesh wraps itself around me once again. I step, wait, and step again until the single-celled organism excretes me out to the front once more.
There is only one woman now. Small Breasts. She rests upside down on the back of her neck and shoulders. Legs apart, speculum prying her vagina open. The mope ahead of me drops his load down the chasm.
A minion squirts watery lube into my hand from an industrial-sized drum. Eyes clinched shut, I think of that bank teller with the low-cut blouse who took my six-dollar deposit in loose change with a smile.
My eyes open. Her clamped-open vagina teems with mottled and bubbling spunk, occluded and overflowing like a truck stop toilet. Penis clutched in hand, my eyes roll back and both knees give. I come to in time to break the fall by placing a hand on the floor and into the tide pool of semen.
A wall next to the pile of clothes supports my weight. Semen stuck between the webbing of my fingers tightens into a crust as it dries.
After kicking away a pair of skid-marked underwear to find my socks, I decide to leave then where they lay. I’ve got one pant leg on before stopping to look at the dried sperm crusting on my feet. Can’t find my shirt…Scanning the back of the room, I spot it. A mope is using it as a jizz rag. I struggle to keep from weeping, and manage just long enough to put on shoes.
Take a step.
As I’m are leaving, a minion stops me.
“Don’t forget your cash.”
He hands me two twenties and a ten, and asks if I can come back to do another bukkake next week.