TylerKnight.com

Dusk To Dawn

Tyler Knight — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 05:53:09 +0000

My cellphone’s glow illuminates the hall, and my free hand drags along a stucco wall whose Braille crumbles under my fingers. The light dies, a flick the volume button re-ignites the torch. Industrial debris crunches underfoot. My fingers lose contact with the wall when it terminates at an intersection, and I’m a kid in a crowd reaching for his mom’s hand that’s no longer there. I grope the wall out of the darkness once again, and follow its new direction down another hallway.

Ahead, voices echo, then a ice blue glow of another lithium-powered torch blazes. It bounces toward me. When our lights get to within conversation distance of each other, we stop. The voices say something to me in Japanese.

My light cuts out, then theirs. Black. We flick our buttons.

With a scrap of Japanese remembered from a long forgotten girl, I say, “Watashiwa Tyler. Genki desu-ka.”

Their expressions twist into Jack o’ lantern smiles, and they escort me through the corridors. They open a door for me, gesture me inside, then disappear down the hall.

My eyes adjust to a cinderblock walled room with a greasy lightbulb swinging from the ceiling.

A stale mildew scent. Windows, to high to see out of, with glass either broken or missing. The last shafts of daylight filter through, exciting the dust on a current of warm air. Couple of folding chairs. On one chair, a pizza box with heels and coagulating cheese. On the other chair sits a kid mangling the remains of a slice. He tosses the crust on the floor where it skips into a corner, and introduces himself as the translator. I fill out the forms, then he takes the paperwork and leaves.

I sit and wait.

After a contortion act I find a sleeping position in a metal chair. I’ve slept on worse. As I close my eyes my phone chirps an incoming text message. My brother…He’s accepted into medical school…his first choice. A glimpse of life shaped by different decisions. We began at the same start line…similar IQs and other raw materials. He took his ore and forged himself a scalpel. I made a straight razor.

The reality is, either can kill you. My last day working in a investment banking firm, Frank Garrison, a stock trader who’s been in the market since Nixon took us off the gold standard, went down to his car, came back with a baseball bat, and played t-ball with my skull as I laughed and cackled my last vestige of sanity away. Rewind five minutes earlier: he complained that he couldn’t read my handwriting on a trade ticket so I told him to ass-fuck his mother. Old people can be so pissy. When they pulled Frank off of me, I tossed my wallet and keys on my desk and walked around Beverly Hills with the clothes on my back: an Ermenegildo Zegna suit and a paper Burger King Crown. I spent that night sleeping in La Cienega Park…and the next night, and the next, and…

I text a congratulatory reply to my brother…no signal.

Through the windows, night replaced light. During winter in the high desert the temperature plummets with the sun, and I dressed for daytime. Wind whistles through the gap-toothed glass and the lightbulb sways. The hairs on my arms stand up so I pull my arms into my thrift shop t-shirt.

My breath plumes from my mouth and evaporates. No clock. I check my cellphone. It’s now tomorrow. I search this storage room. Racks of boxes filled with doorknobs…a jar of nails, screws and washers…a box of showerheads…nothing to seal up the windows.

I start some Silat djurus (think katas or forms) to keep warm until that evolves into all-out shadowboxing, which I regret because I’m sweating and when it evaporates it will steal my bodyheat.

A yawn pushes past my lips so I sit again, propping my feet on the second chair. The wind whistles a lullaby…

The door scrapes open and the translator tells me it’s time. I follow him into the bowels of the building.

A white dot of light beckons from end of the hallway. When we get to the end, the hall opens up to a vast, sprawling warehouse space. In the center, an island of light blazing in the sea of black. The set. It’s dressed to look like a hi-tech clean room or something you’d expect to see in Area 51. All that’s missing are engineers in clean suits reverse engineering a crashed spaceship, and a dissected alien on a gurney. The mildew scent of the storage room has been replaced with the tart citrus of industrial cleanser, which tears my eyes a bit. The all Japanese crew scurries about, scrubbing the set and working their chores. All of them in beanies and hoodies.

Am I going to be dressed in an alien costume? Japanese are big on tentacle porn. A tattoo-sleeved man, wearing surf shorts and a wife beater, jogs up to me. The translator introduces him as the director. We shake hands and exchange deep bows. By the time I rise from my bow the director is bouncing around the set from prop to prop like a sub atomic particle on meth, spiting out Japanese sentences Kalashnikov style while the translator struggles to keep up. Schroedinger’s Jap wants me to play a patient. Someone hands me a hospital gown, which I change into. I’m commando style with my bare ass open in the back. The translator tells me to hop up on a stainless steel gurney. It’s polished to a mirror finish. No paper. I think, thank God I’m not wet or my buttocks would stick to the metal. I curse to myself as I lie back. I’ll warm up when we get into the sex.

My co-star, a girl who’d get carded for ordering apple cider, enters wearing a candy striper’s uniform. The director yells, Action!, tears a rift in space-time, and steps through it. Sayonara.

Nurse recites her exposition in Japanese then switches to English phrases she must have practiced all day to get right. We talk (sort of) about the horrors of war (what war would have a black guy in a Japanese hospital?).

She helps me to sit up, unties my gown, and rubs my chest with frozen steaks she passes for hands.

Then, she asks, “Are you ready for, giggle, sponge bath?”

Her words hit me jagged and crisp like a bucket of chipped ice flung in my face.

I fight the urge to say, Go fuck yourself! Last time I said that to a co-worker, I dodged hickory wood.

“Hai. Domo-arigato,” I say.

Over and over, she squeezes the sponge over my body. Over and over, sheets of ice water crash onto my skin–the water cascades off my body and onto the metal, taking with it a piece of my spirit like a Bering Sea wave eroding an Aleutian shoreline.

When the shivering comes, it comes with violence.

Fuck this. Enough! I rip the sponge away her, rub her hands between mine, then and place one on my crotch. She gasps and squeals words I don’t understand. Could be genuine exasperation, could be her playing coy for the scene. The fuck if I care.

I rummage under her skirt and grab a fistful of muff. Her eyes are punctuated by dime-sized pupils. I smash my mouth onto hers. When we separate, she pants, spraying a mist of breath in the crisp air.

It’s on.

Men of various job descriptions orbit the gurney, filming, lighting, and snapping stills. I fall onto my back as naughty little AZN girl wrestles the hentai cock.

My legs quiver…I place my hands on them to stay them…The director phases back into existence, makes the universal sign for blow-job-to-pop shot, then returns to his state of everywhere and nowhere at the same time…The girl obeys and attacks my tentacle…The crew seems transfixed by this little girl in mortal combat, hell-bent on sending the Kraken to the watery abyss from which it came…Fuck the crew, focus! Control your breathing…Breathe in…hold…exhale…Breathe in…hold…exhale…You’re in a sauna…with some girl sucking your cock…

It’sss nnnot working…Goddamnit, I’m ccconvulsing….No way the camera doesn’t sssee this…Okay, draw your limbs as close to your core as pppossible…biology is working against you. Lose wood, it’s gone for good…kkkeep the blood flowing where you need it…there’s a girl sucking your cock…sucking your cccock…sucking your cock…it’s Amanda…lips…tongue…sucking your cock…sucking on your motherfucking cock…

Pop shot.

I blink; the director is there.

His lips fly, then he bows.

The translator translates, “You’re a jungle beast!”

I say, “Yes, I know,” and return the bow.

Directorsan counts out a crisp stack of Benjamins into my trembling palm.

I say, “Oats Caress Ha-ma.” (Nice working with you).

I come down hard from the rush. I yawn.

Outside, wind slaps at my face. Stars everywhere. When I fire up the Mustang, I’m 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 life. Clicking through gears with my short- throw shifter, I assault the freeway. Outside the window the desert mountains surrender the fight as they no longer hold back the grey of dawn. Clouds, underlit pink. I yawn. My eyes want to close…and I don’t remember how to get home…The car knows the way.

Gotta stay awake…I lower the windows….Wind blasts through, whipping up a vortex in the cockpit. Normally, this the part where I contemplate what all this shit means. Not today. I crank the radio full blast as the rising sun warms my face…and sing.

“Every time I look in the mirror

All these lines on my face getting clearer

The past is gone

It went by, like dusk to dawn

Isn’t that the way

Everybody’s got their dues in life to pay…”

Oneironaut At Wrest

Tyler Knight — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 05:48:56 +0000

The van loops lazy figure eights in the parking lot, tossing me side-to-side in its backseat, while the Swap and Spit Girls spit and swap my cock. My mind re-lives this morning’s fight with Amanda. The van flies into a curve too fast and teeth scrape my shaft, ripping me back into the Now, and I remember to moan the way you’re expected to when a redhead and a blonde are throwing a rainbow party in your lap. I’m not convincing.

The director says, “Cut.”

Thank Christ. Me, shooting smut in the back of a speeding van with two white girls–bald cunts, panties around their ankles–is a game of “Pin the Felony on the Negro” waiting to happen.

While the girls wipe their mouths and re-apply their lip gloss, Dana, the director, explains the rest of the scene will conclude in her compound.

Today’s scene is a reverse pickup. For the part we just filmed, I’m an Armani-clad executive out for a stroll when some girlies in a van skid to a stop next to me and fling open the door. Instead of baiting with a puppy, it’s hiked-up skirts and glistening pussies. I drop my briefcase, dive in, and the car screeches off.

Tracy, the redhead, sops up the puddle of da-glo drool in my lap with a paper towel while the blonde, whose name I forgot, tucks me back into my suit pants, but I stop her before a zipper mishap occurs.

Perfume, Amanda’s, coats the inside of my nose…probably from this morning. When I’m together, I call her. It rings and rings. No answer. I regret this morning…What I’d give for another chance to do it all over again…

I sit on the sofa. Dana sets up the lights and goes off somewhere. I hear Tracy and the blonde in the bathroom freshening their makeup, and then their pussies with douche. Right now is when I wash up and take a pre-scene piss, but I decide to wait until the girls are done. While I’m alone I call Amanda’s cell again…busy signal. I close my eyes…and the toilet flushes but I don’t hear clicking heels, so they’re not done…

…highschool bathroom…where I lost my virginity…Moonlight Sonata echoes off the tile…

I push open a stall. She is there.

The blonde girl who took my virginity…The gossip about her is, she only does things with black boys, but I don’t know why and nobody will explain it to me…She lifts her skirt and spreads her lips and pees on the floor…The stream splashes off the tile…Hot spraylets of salty piss pellet my lips. Steam rises from the floor, filling the bathroom.

Moans…

…I open my eyes to a stiff dick and the extreme urge to pee, so I run to Dana’s bathroom. Dream-like smoke fades from my consciousness as I laser-pee a hole through the back of the toilet. I’m rock hard, so this takes some gymnastics.

When I return to the set the girls are rubbing their pussies.

Dana says, “Action.”

…and I feel my bones sink into a sofa after the blonde gets up from riding me cowgirl, and my eyes follow Blondie’s ass as she walks away toward the edge of visibility.

Fading…

Fading, as Tracy lowers herself onto my rod and drapes her arms around my neck.

Tracy’s mouth shapes the words, I’m next, then blossoms into a smile. Hands from behind me pull my shoulders down…It’s Blondie. She straddles my face…

Blondie sits…

Darkness.

It’s after the scene and Tracy and I sit on a bed. I rub her shoulders. She turns and kisses me.

Would things be any easier with a girl who’s also in the business?… I mean, seriously, could you handle it if Amanda went off to suck some mope’s cock?…Coming home with dick on her breath every day to pay the bills?…And kissing me?…That flake of dried come on her ass that she missed in the shower?…Shit, how much better would your life look if you weren’t in the business?

Tracey bends over. I insert in her pussy.

What would your life look like if you never met Amanda?…There wouldn’t be one…She saved you too many times to count…Jesus, what are you doing? You’re such a piece of shit. Your entire life is a failure and your not smart enough to break the cycle…not man enough…put your .45 in your mouth and be done with it…Amanda’s life would look better, that’s for sure…But don’t do it at home…can’t let her find you…But…if you just disappear she’ll think you left her and that would only hurt her further…It’s never too late to be a better man, Erik…

Tracy comes. I roll off her, get dressed, and drive home.

Amanda should be back from work already but the house is dark and the only sound is the ticking of the kitchen clock. Still smell her perfume, though. I grab a bottled water from the fridge and sit on the bed and kick off my shoes. I strip down, lie back, and listen to time, the betrayer of lives, tick away from the kitchen…

…and I’m standing before a desk with a Newton’s cradle…those steel balls in constant conflict with one another, crashing time…

click-click-click–

Behind the desk hangs a mirror in a gilded frame. On the right side of the desk, a window with vertical blinds runs the length of the wall. The only light radiates through the blinds from the setting sun outside, which casts deep shadows, like long fingers reaching across the room.

A painting, also in a gilded frame, hangs on the wall to the left of the desk. It shows a man wearing medieval battle armor, mounted on a rearing horse with flaring nostrils. Skulls at its feet. Plumes of smoke swirl around in a crimson sky. A plaque on the frame’s bottom says, Gilles de Rais.

click-click-click–

Deep-pile carpet covers the floor that gives the sensation of sinking, slowing time with each step as I walk toward the desk.

A laptop on the desk. I walk around it to see its screen. There’s a video camera embedded into the laptop screen’s lip. The screen itself displays a document file. A contract. Scrolling down as I read, I learn the contract is an exclusive performing deal…Along with the performance contract is an agreement to have my body parts, specifically my genitals, cast and molded into sex toys…

My pulse quickens as I scroll down to the compensation section. click-click-click–

I read, my mouth dries and I have to re-read it to be sure the numbers are right. The cardboard I stuffed into my shoes as inserts to cover the holes in the soles are long since worn through, so I can fondle the soft carpet with my toes. I read my compensation again…and again. I’m on the edge of losing it, maybe even dancing, until I remember the camera in my face. I wipe my face and type my name on the space designated “signature” and click the “send” button, executing the contract.

The contract on the screen dissolves into a real-time image of me from the video camera’s point of view. The shadows cascading across my face from the window gives the appearance of bars. The combined effect of the seeing myself simultaneously in the screen in front of me, as well as reflected in the mirror behind me, renders the effect of two opposing mirrors angled in such a way that both the front and back of my head are cast into infinite regress. I swallow.

click-click-click–

Amanda’s perfume bottle sits on the desk. There’s a sensation…that whoever is on the other side of the video feed is no longer watching me…It’s as though their presence is in the room…with me.

Amanda’s voice calls me from somewhere…I stand. My feet trod in hushed footfalls across the carpet, and the world is shaking…

“…Papi, wake up.”

My bed. The kitchen clock ticks. Amanda, dressed for work, stands over me. Her hand waves something in front of my face.

She says, “Whose red hair is this?”

I take it from her. Tracey’s.

“I dunno…”

“How can you not know?”

I take my time sitting up and I rub my eyes to buy time.

“Jesus,” I say, “It’s from work. One of the girls–” I look out the window. Sunlight. “–yesterday?”

“Why are you yelling, Erik? Don’t yell at me. Never yell at me. People only yell when their guilty of something.”

“I’m not yelling, damnit. I’m just sick of these silly questions the first thing when I wake up, fucking up my mood for the day. You know damn well I go to work and–”

“How many times do I have to tell you to shower those putas off of you before you get into our bed? You smell like pussy, and you bring those…those bitches into my bed–”

“I’m sorry, okay. Christ, I sat down…and I must have fallen asleep, or…”

Amanda moves the water bottle and sits on the bed beside me. She says, “Remember, the exit date from porn is coming up.”

“I know.”

“When are you going to marry me?…Are you ever going to marry me?”

“I uh…I can’t…not while I still do porn…”

The silence. It’s a third person in the bedroom.

She says, “I already told you we can’t go on like this forever, Erik.”

She’s right. This isn’t fair to her…she deserves a lot better than me.

I say, “I know…”

“I trust you.”

…hands that look like mine knead woman’s flesh. It’s not Amanda’s…

“…yeah.”

“Well?”

“…Amanda–”

“Asshole!”

She cries. Heels click down the hall. Keys jingle. The front door slams. A car starts.

But I’m not really alone…her perfume lingers.

And that clock ticks.

I sit in bed wishing for a do-over, but I don’t know if that would do any good. I’ve been repeating the same mistakes, three girlfriends running. And I’m not any more clever today than I was yesterday…

I get dressed in my wardrobe for this morning’s scene, a suit, and I drive to the Valley.

I check my cellphone. It’s time, so I walk along the sidewalk. I can still hear Amanda crying in my ears, which makes me tear up, and when I wipe my nose I smell her perfume on my hand…I’m losing my girl and I’m working twice as hard for half the money I made the year before…Diminishing returns all around…Keep adding to that “Fuck You Fund” and move the fuck on….Screw that, you can turn around right now. Your car is right behind you. Get in it. Go–

A van skids to a stop next to me. The door swings open and a blonde and a redhead, skirts hiked-up, show me their pussies.

I drop my briefcase and I get in.

The door slams shut behind me.

The Woodpile

Tyler Knight — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 05:44:37 +0000

I shake the bottle. A Viagra tumbles into my fist. I pop the pill and crush it between my molars.

Jack, the director, looks like a Hollywood screenwriter who never sold a script. We stand knee-to-knee in a makeup room the size of a parking space. This close, I taste the menthols on his breath. The fluorescent lights from the bank of vanity mirrors settles on our skin like a layer of soot.

He says, “You strike me as a man who understands the value of money. He laughs and flops down onto the futon. A head taller than me when standing, he sinks between the fold of the mattress like a forgotten nickel. Jack stops laughing, looks at me and says, “We’re going to have April call you a ‘nigger’ during the scene!”

“…What?”

Jack says, “It’s not racist. It’s porn!”

I hear a muffled, woman’s voice from the other side of the closed door: “Do what you’re told, you purple-lipped beast! Obey me!” There is a loud smack and a man wails.

“Goodbye, Jack.” I grab my shaving kit from the counter and turn for the door.

“Wait!” He springs to his feet. “Where are you going? I’m paying cash!”

“There is no way I’m letting anyone call me a nigger.”

He says, “There’s a dozen guys I can call right now that’ll do it for half what I’m paying you.”

“So call them.”

He sighs. “Okay, fine. We won’t say ‘nigger’ in your scene, but how-a-bout–”

He pulls out a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and reads:

“–darkie…jigaboo…coon…spade…spook…jigaboo, ha-ha, I said that already–”

I take the doorknob and twist it.

“Wait!” He pulls a fold of one-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, peels one off and holds out in the space between us. “I’m sorry.”

Amanda and I are short this month’s rent. I snatch the cash from his hand and shove it in my pocket.

The woman on the other side of the door says, “Oh my God! The stereotype is true–you don’t eat pussy!”

Jack holds up a fist to give me a pound. “It’s all good, Playa!”

“Fuck off.”

“Sure, sure,” he says. “Go ahead and out the paperwork, and I’ll have a talk with her. There’s only one scene up before yours–April with Jim Crowe, which shouldn’t take long.”

Jack takes my IDs and my HIV test, then opens door a to leave–

“GET BACK HERE AND FUCK MY WHITE CUNT!”

Jack steps back in the room and slams the door shut behind him.

I hear her yelling from set, “NIGGER!”

I follow Jack through the warehouse. He has long strides and I have to trot to keep up with him. He tosses sentences back to me over his shoulder as we talk.

We pass several set build-outs. A doctor’s office with an examination table…a college dorm…

He says, “I already spoke to her, and she promised not to say anything offensive–”

We pass an executive’s office…a graffiti covered wall with a waist-high glory hole…

We stop at the set where April and Jim Crowe just shot their scene. A Jail. April is gone. Jim, behind bars, sits on bench. He looks wild-eyed and disheveled. He stands up and approaches the cage door when he sees us.

A rape kit sits on the floor. Jack picks it up and hands it to me, then slides the (unlocked) cell door open, releasing Jim. He pulls his fold of cash out and shoves some money into Jim’s hands and says, “Okay, here you go.”

Jim counts the money. He speaks. The deep, rumbling timbre of his voice sends my adrenal screaming. He says, “It’s a hundred dollars short.”

Jack says, “Do you think you gave a performance worthy of your full rate? Because–”

“Yeah, man, I did my job! I mean, it was kinda hard to concentrate on the pop shot with her beatin’ on me and all, but–”

“Immaterial. If a bukkake-line mope can come at will–”

Jim says, “My clothes are torn…ruined!”

“The budget for this movie is inflexible! Because of you I’ve got to pay overtime on location fees! Every extra dollar has to come from somewhere–”

I slide my hand into my pocket, where the c-note Jack gave me rests. I run my fingers over the paper’s crisp texture and caress its folds. Then I stuff it down deeper.

“–and the location owner doesn’t care why you struggled,” Jack says. “And neither do I. Time. Is. Money–”

“Yeah, but–”

“–and right now, you’re jeopardizing our business relationship by wasting more of it!”

Jim’s shoulders slump. He shuffles through the door. He never bothers to put his wad of cash in his pocket, so he drops a bill as he walks past us. Jack picks it up and pockets it.

“Ha-ha-ha…”

April sits on a schoolteacher’s desk, holding an eraser. Her legs dangle and swing over the edge. She looks like she dove into her mommy’s makeup box, then got bored with the game of dress-up and stopped somewhere in the lingerie drawer. The kid looks up at me with big Disney princess eyes, smiles, and opens her legs. The bald folds of her cunt peek through the sheer fabric of the panties.

She says, “Hello, mister.”

A blackboard looms behind the desk. Columns after column of chalk-scribbled writing say:

“I will not say nigger in this classroom.”

She hops off the desk, and skips to the board. Her butt wiggles as she erases “nigger” from each sentence.

My jaw clenches. Lava churns in my gut, but some of heat seeps down to my crotch. A desire…to grab her and rip her panties down…but to spank her bottom red, to spit on my cock and force my way inside her cunt. I look at Jack. Jack looks at me through the camera’s viewfinder. The camera’s greedy lens sucks my image through it, and splashes my pixilated ghost across his face as pale blue light.

I open my mouth to speak, but her hand tugs my chin so that my face is square with hers. She wraps her arms around my waist and pulls herself into me. We kiss.

Stephanie stops kissing me and the girls giggle and laugh and laugh… Eileen slides my backpack off my shoulders…All of us are in the house next door to Eileen’s house…Eileen told me that she had something that she wants to show me and I said okay and followed her and Stephanie and Krista into the house…The house is not finished being built and I wish I wore my jacket and my hat because there’s no wall on one side…Just some wood…The floor is cement…I’m sitting on it now…It’s cold…

Krista says, “It’s my turn!” but Eileen pushes Krista out her out of the way because Eileen is a lot bigger than Krista. She is bigger than I am too.

Eileen says, “Now we’re gonna play ‘Show us yours and we’ll show you ours.’”

“What do I hafta show?”

The girls giggle and laugh and Eileen says, “Your penis.”

“What’s a penis?”

“Stand up.”

I stand up.

“This.” She unzips my pants and pulls them down and then she pulls my underwear down too. She grabs my thing. “This is a penis.”

The other girls…They don’t giggle…I can see everyone’s breath in here but my face feels very hot.

Eileen tells the other girls to pull their pants down but Stephanie doesn’t. She leaves. Krista doesn’t pull her pants down either so Eileen grabs her but Krista gets away and she runs away too.

Eileen lifts up her skirt. No underwear.

I know I’m not supposed to look but I can’t help it…She has hair…A lot of hair.

“Have you ever seen a pussy before?”

I nod.

“Come here.”

My thing kinda hurts and I look down and I see that it’s standing straight up.

Eileen says, “Wanna touch mine?”

I look over at the front door of the house. It kinda feels like last week when I got in trouble for fighting and my teacher said she was gonna call my dad at dinnertime and when we’re sitting at the table and dad asks me why I’m not eating. I’m looking a the phone and hoping that it doesn’t ring…I shake my head no and Eileen gets mad and pulls her skirt down again…

Someone is coming. Krista’s mom walks in the house and Eileen starts crying and runs away past Krista’s mom. My pants are still down and I try to pull them up. My belly feel like it did when I went to sit down and Johnathan pulled my chair away.

She stops in front of me and I have to bend my neck to look up to see her face…Krista’s mom looks kinda like Cinderella…She has yellow hair like Krista and all the daddies in the neighborhood talk real sweet to her. Her perfume smells really nice.

SLAP!

My eyes are full of water and I see her all blurry.

She says, “You dirty goddamn pervert! I knew something like this this would happen the moment you niggers moved in. I’m telling Krista’s father, then I’m going to the police so we can get rid of you!”

They leave. I still feel her hand on my cheek.

I hate living out in the country. I hate my new school and the kids. What’s AJ is doing back in Philly? I wish he was here. He always stuck up for me. He stutters. I can’t stay here because the cops are coming.

I walk past my house and hide behind a station wagon…The lights are off and dad’s car is gone. It’s starting to rain. My clothes stick to me and I shiver, so I keep going. I know where I can hide.

Robert answers the door and we walk to his back yard and he opens the woodshed…I sit down on a pile of firewood…It smells like Christmas in here. He says he’ll be right back and leaves but he takes a very long time to come back…When he comes back he gives me a piece of cake. Sometimes Robert sits next to me at lunchtime when nobody else will.

I tell him what happened, and I tell him what Krista’s mom called me and he tells me what a pervert is. We eat some cake.

He asks if sometimes don’t I wish was white like everybody else?

There’s a safe…like in the cartoons…It’s tied to my heart and falling off of a cliff…

I say…Yeah.

Somebody bangs on the shed’s door.

My dad yells, “Get your ass out her, boy!”

I open the bathroom door. Jack is there.

He says, “Great job. April had to go but she wanted to tell you she had fun. We’re going to add you to our male talent rotation. What are you doing next Thursday?”

I grab my towel from the shower door, and pick up my shaving kit. The money earned from today is already spent, but Sun Tsu says when dealing from a position of weakness, feign strength.

I say, “I’d have to look at my schedule.”

We don’t speak as we walk though the warehouse. When we get to the front door, Jack hands me my money. Unlike Jim’s crumpled wad, he hands me my cash in crisp, neat bills. I count it. It’s all there.

I push the door open, pause, and turn to Jack. I say, “How many guys let you call them a nigger?”

He looks down at me and laughs. “All of them.”

Something’s Rotten In Chatsworth

Tyler Knight — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 05:42:55 +0000

I’m hopped up on Viagra tossing an Asian girl back and forth with Malik like we’re Joe Montana and Jerry fucking Rice. Chemically enhanced, my skull is crunchy cereal caught in a vice and I’ve got a tone in my ears from my own private emergency broadcast station, wailing just for me.

“Cut,” says Jackson. “We got enough vag, let’s get the anal.”

Great, ass spelunking. I’ve never been a fan of the Sodomy Arts. When you see me digging in a girl’s asshole, it’s all about the money.

“Are you clean?” I ask the girl.

The female talent’s preparation for an anal sex scene begins a day before the she sets foot on set. This is when she stops eating. In a perfect situation, the girl has the discipline to fast for the entire day. If on the day of her scene there are pages of dialogue to shoot, the gir may still have to wait around for an additional half day before the filming of the sex actually starts.

Food catering, a.k.a. craft service, offers temptations. Because of expediency, craft service is almost always fast food like Mexican. Or Chinese. Often there’s Starbucks on set, which could restore her food depleted energy levels. Today is no different.

A right before filming the anal sex, the girl takes an enema bottle and a box of baby wipes to clean out whatever residual matter may still be lurking inside her colon. The amount of food material remaining depends on the individual’s digestive system. And her discipline. The starlet alternates between the enema and warm water. When she’s confident she’s clean, she chews a couple of Imodium tablets, slowing her bowels.

She says, “Yeah, but lemme clean up a little bit more,” and goes off set to the bathroom, taking a box of baby wipes from the rape kit with her.

With no girl on the bed, I’m self conscious lying next to another dude while we both stroke our cocks to keep our motors running in feminine absence. I stand up.

Jackson, the director sits on the foot of the bed and says, “You been doing an aight job for us, dog. You really stepped up these past coupla months.”

DVD Gangstas reneged on my performing contract without paying me a cent, so I’ve moved on and am shooting for any studio that’ll use me as a hired gun. Business is spiraling down the toilet industry wide thanks to Internet piracy and torrent sites, and to a lesser degree, the economy. This studio is taking care of me on a per-scene basis, and they shoot me a lot. I perform well, I’m insulated from economic pain.

“Thanks, man,” I say. “I always give it my best.”

Malik is the new “it” kid. He’s on his back stroking his cock, using two hands but it’s really a job for three. His dick is a baby’s arm holding an apple. Malik busts a freestyle rap.

“So,” I say, “I figure since I have a normal-sized dick I’ll warm Maite up with me doing the first anal position.”

“Nah, nigga,” says Malik. “Lemme tap that ass first while I’m still hard. You got a smaller dick so you don’t need as much to keep you going.”

Pulling the size card. Nice.

“Sure,” I say. “Whatever.”

I’ve popped two, 100mg Viagras in the past hour. This is many times the doctor recommended dose. When I was a rookie, a chip of a pill could get me up but after so many scenes, it’s diminishing returns. Even at best Viagra only helps me for an hour, two at the most, before it works against me. The drug screams through my system full force. For now. Where this girl? This is fucking with my Viagra timing, let’s go!

“Okay, back! Let’s fuck!” Maite says, as she bounds onto the bed and into Malik’s arms. They fall down together in their own little laughing pile of youth, and I’m as welcome as a speck of rat shit in your vanilla ice cream.

“Let’s shoot this fucking thing,” I say, and the kids stop their grab-assing.

“Action!” shouts Jackson, and back into the melee I go. I’m laying on my back, my dick in Maite’s mouth while Malik is widening the gauge of her asshole. The blowjob sucks, and in this case it’s not a good thing. Malik is a battering ram and each impact either scrapes my dick against her teeth or knocks it out of her mouth entirely. I’m getting blown by a blender’s hungry blades on puree. I feel the drug’s window of efficacy closing and that’s a motherfucker because my heart wants to leap the fuck out of my mouth and I’m getting a serious case of Viagra-numb dick.

Malik is going DEFCON 4 slamming into the gates of her ass, he’s a barbarian laying siege.

“Switch,” says Jackson.

Malik stops the assault and I position myself behind Maite’s ass. Her sphincter is open, red and raw. Her gaping O-ring is damn near blown out, offering a clear shot of her textured, pink innards that seem to tumble on to Infinity. On her rim, flecks of fecal matter that have the consistency of gruel and the color of bread gone bad. A scent, no, an unholy stench of slaughtered cows suspended in a vat of mayonnaise left to turn in the desert leaps out of her exposed cavity and slaps my face like a dame in a Bogart movie. The worst part of this is, the Viagra-and-exasperation cocktail has left me short of breath. And my mouth is open.

I snap my mouth shut and vacuum seal my lips, but the phantom taste still lingers on my palate.

Jackson peeks over the top of the camera’s viewfinder. “Go ahead, nigga. Fuck ass. I’m rolling camera.”

“I need a minute,” I say.

Malik and Maite, giddy with porn-induced psychosis, continue their sport fucking while I kneel next to them, cold cock in my hand. Normally if my dick goes down I just have to look at a girl’s ass and I’m dealt back in the hand but I’m taking a bad beat on the river because sewer cheeks has eliminated my last out. Looking at her ass is not an option.

I’m rubbing a brittle, dry-rotted eraser passing for my dick with the business end of her ass, seen through peripheral vision, aimed at me. I get off the bed and go into my mind.

Within the time it takes microwave a bag of popcorn, an eternity in pornnoland when timed location fees are ticking away like a taxi meter, I manage to conjure up some depraved shit from my wank-bank to get me going.

I’m fucking the girl’s ass, not looking down, mouth closed and taking sips of air from my nose because smell is the lesser of two evils.

Jackson is behind me holding the camera next to my head, shooting over my shoulder and down for the point-of-view/you-are-there shot. His dragon breath blows hot on my neck. He can tongue my ear if he chooses to but instead he whispers, “Gimme some in-and-outs, nigga.”

What he wants is for me to pull my dick out of the girl’s asshole entirely so he can zoom in and shoot the gape. Every bit of common sense in me screams not to do it. Even if I was in a “normal” scene it’s a challenge because I’m fast becoming erection impaired, and I’m still thinking of the sloshing tempest I’m stirring up inside the girl’s bowels.

I extract my penis, millimeter-by-millimeter; Jackson’s stubbly face over my shoulder is making us some kind of fucked-up, two-headed porn chimera; I’m cresting the apex of a roller coaster mountain looking down. I pull the penile finger out of the dike–

–and nothing.

I shove my cock back into her asshole and get a few strokes when Stan whispers voice-of-God style into my ear, “Do it again.”

My heart goes supernova and my field of vision diminishes to a speck. Could be from the adrenaline dump, could be from the side effects of the Viagra. Who the fuck cares? What difference does it make at this point? Again, I back my dick out of the asshole and–

–the barrel clicks on empty.

I look down. Her sphincter puckers and protrudes like a toothless old man’s lips with a mouthful of Skoal. There is some seepage.

My dick free falls. I stroke three or four times, not looking at the flecks of fecal matter on my shrinking shaft. I could point the leakage out to Jackson so the girl can clean up, but it’s camouflaged into my skin, and the last thing I want to do is stop the camera. I won’t ever get back anything resembling an erection for the rest of the 21st century if we delay. I don’t want to quit but my options are grim. So, I rub the shit-flakes into my dick, using it as lube. A python plays grab, twist, and pull with my guts, and there’s an acrid bite of bile in my mouth, singeing the back of my throat.

I settle my gut and play Enter the Asshole once again. This time I have to death-grip the base of my shaft like a carnival balloon to milk enough blood flow for penetration. Once again, fucking away with my flatlined dick, not penetrating past the sphincter and I’m so soft Stan does not have to tell me to pull out. Maite shits my pathetic nub of a cock out and I concede defeat.

I’m still behind the girl, in the line of fire, when it happens. The aperture of her asshole snaps open, convulses and puckers like a heaving cat struggling with a hairball…and her hole is a water cannon. Well, fecal cannon to be accurate.

She gatling-guns feces, cabbage chunks, lo-mein broccoli bits, sesame-sprinkled shit, and more kung-pao crap–all held together by a matrix of translucent, Starbucks-steeped globs onto me. Stan uses me as a human shield.

It’s The Running of the Bowels. Malik leaps off the bed and across the room as the girl scats on me. Nothing unshielded in her asshole’s line of fire will even be the same. Starting from the nexus of her dripping sphincter, and radiating outward is a wet, sloppy, Cone of Death.

I hyper-ventilate, and I may as well be huffing a colostomy bag. The fetid air is seasoned with intestinal spices; its taste coats thick and heavy on the back of my throat.

My inner child is sitting in a corner, arms wrapped around its knees, rocking back and forth. He says nothing.

“Okay, cut!” Jackson says. Not a drop on his white track suit. “You need a minute, my man?”

I take a moment to control my breathing, but I can’t. I say, “No, I do not need a ‘minute’. It’s a wrap for me, I’m done for the day.”

“But you gotta finish. This is only the first anal position for you, and you gotta fuck her ass to pop, dog.”

The mattress has dookie islands bobbing in a lake of hot shit. My stomach folds itself inside out. Dry heaving fits. I nearly blow chunks, adding to the geography with a puke archipelago.

Enough!

I grab my pants and my soon-to-be-ruined underwear.

“Jackson,” I say, “I can’t imagine anything that will get me hard again, let alone be able to fuck her ass to get off for a pop shot!”

He inspects his delicate camera lens for flyaway spew, peels off what looks like a Corn Flake glued in place by yogurt, then sets his camera down. “Don’t be a punk, man. You’re a professional, take a Viagra or something.”

My heart is no longer beating. It’s vibrating so fast it glows in my chest like E-fucking-T.

“If you don’t finish the scene,” he says, “it’s gonna jeopardize our business relationship.”

Malik snatches Maite, throws her on the floor and fucks away.

Many seasoned porn whores develop an ability to check out at will. The girl, on her back, has unlit vacancy signs where her eyes once were. She reminds me of the lizard I saw on the Discovery Channel that flips onto its back and plays dead until danger passes. Hard to tell if she’s even breathing. Apparently, this was as good for her as it was for me. I follow her flat gaze upward. A string of goo hangs from the ceiling the way drool dangles from a Doberman’s mouth. It stretches past the point of plausibility, then it stretches some more. It drips.

I say to Jackson, “What are you insinuating?”

Jackson says, “I think it’s clear. This studio is putting cash-money on your black ass.” He looks at Malik, masturbating with Maite’s body. You can almost see a bit of her soul escape from her open mouth with each savage thrust. “I don’t have to tell you it’s competitive out there. There’s a gang of niggas that want your slot, and they all got bigger dicks than you.”

My pulse thrums in my eardrums and my mouth feels as though it’s full of hot sand. I want to say something but when I pass my tongue over my cracked lips it snags like a cotton ball dragged over sandpaper. My skin should be drenched with sweat but it’s dry. Signs for the onset of heat stroke.

I see the ice chest by the door. It has a lid, so its refreshing contents shouldn’t be contaminated. I drop my clothes, stumble to the ice chest and rip it open. No ice. Room temperature cans of Colt 45.

I make it down the hall to the bathroom and into the shower, and turn the knob to cold. The spray of water sizzles and pops off my skin. I lift my head and open my mouth.

Bukkake

Tyler Knight — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 05:53:47 +0000

The line of mopes wraps around the warehouse. 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 women in a scene for a mid-tier studio, and they know it. This is the bukkake line.

Sure, I’m in line just like these mopes are, but I’m different. I’ve done scenes for top-tier studios already. Christ, look at these guys, then look at me. I’m not like them. Even my shirt, the sample I modeled in a designer fashion show may be old but it’s a tangible link to what I’ve done. Proof of who I was. More than these mopes will ever accomplish in ten lifetimes.

Conversations include: a group scene where one mope brags about actually getting to fuck the girl for a solid minute before another mope tapped him on the shoulder to swap out; another man boasts of his one-on-one scene with a used up, twenty-year porn veteran, milf that he managed to not fuck up, which he proclaims, “We had a connection!”; to the porn parties they lie about being invited to.

The line moves. I take a step.

Directors for other bukkakes and group scenes (most not any better off than the mopes) rove up and down the bukkake line handing out business cards. One director poaches talent for a fifteen-on-one scene with a burly and pregnant woman that’s shooting down the street in an hour. The man front of me is swallowed by the building. I follow.

Inside the processing room we’re tagged and packed like cattle along an assembly line. I fill out the release and show my HIV/STD test to a production assistant that doesn’t even glance at it. Next, I hold my IDs next to my face and another P.A. takes a snapshot with a digital camera.

The line moves. I take a step.

The next P.A. keeps the beef line moving and into the killing floor. He tells me to be quiet as I enter because the filming has started. Through the doors I hear it. Panting. Snortling. Not unlike a kennel of English bulldogs. I enter the room.

Take a step.

The first thing you notice in the main room is: the line has congealed into a clump of man asses. They sag, and drag. Some pinch together, others hang down, flapping against the backs of legs. Hair covers some, puss drips from sores on another. Probably one hundred have packed in before you; you hurry to the side to strip your clothes to make room for the men that pile in behind you. The brightness of the lights is obscene and it’s cold like a meat locker–your breath hangs in the air in front of you, and the hairs on your legs and forearms stand erect. You pick an unoccupied spot on the floor for your clothes, and your bag, then walk to the crowd.

Take a step.

The other men are naked except for their shoes. The mob surrounding the girls (the rumor is there are actually two girls) has to be ten men deep because even though you’re taller than the average mope you can’t see the center. You hear, though. What you hear is squishy, wet, two-inch cocks jerking off in unison, like a thousand teens smacking chewing gum. With the sheer volume of men in the room the sound echoes off the walls. Punctuating this sound is the frequent moaning of your fellow man ass-mates at the front of the line as they dump their loads, followed by gargling.

Take a step.

Naked, you take your place in the pack, and no sooner than you do this does the trickle of new arrivals fill in around you; the group absorbs you into its mass. Inch by inch, the current moves you closer and closer to the front. Still, nothing is visible. Just the occasional cheap phone sex voices:

“Ooooohh yeah baaaaybeee. Gimmie that hot load, you stud!”
Another woman’s voice says, “Yeah, I’m soooo horny!”

Take a step.

Now you’re now at the middle ranks of the Man Ass Organism and are absorbed into it as yet more naked men pack in behind you. You’re trying to stroke your cock up to an erection with the only spit in your hand for lube, shoulder to hairy shoulder, surrounded by hundreds of strangers, and it’s harder and harder to breathe because there are no windows in this room and the used-up air that enters your mouth has exited the lungs of scores of other men. You taste the staleness.

Take a step.

When you are closer to what you think is the front, the odor invades your nose and there’s no way to escape it. Hygiene is not a big priority for some of these guys, but you’ve been around unwashed people before. No, that’s not it. It’s too acrid and burning to be just body odor. You look straight ahead because heaven forbid if you look down you see that you’re stroking your cock millimeters from some hairy, saggy ass. This gives you an acute awareness of the fact that there is some dude pulling his pud directly behind your ass at this very moment. His breath blows warm on your nape. Is he looking down at your cheeks as he strokes?

Take a step.

The Man Ass Organism spits you out to the front of the line the way an amoeba excretes waste through its membrane. There they are. Two girls, on their knees, caked from head-to-toe in the multi-shaded come of a hundred men. Drenched baby bibs are tied to their necks. Faces covered, you can distinguish them only by their breast size. The studio lights above them heat the jizz on their foreheads, creating swirling spunk currents the way a lava lamp would, solving the mystery of the stench. Both women’s breasts have space on the undersides where the semen dried to a crust–crackling, and splitting, and flaking when a tit moves.

Two men stand ahead of you in line. An unseen, megaphone amplified voice screeches over the ambient din, “You two! Snowball! Go, go, go!”

The two men take their steps.

A dripping slot opens just above Big Tits Girl’s chin that can only be a mouth. She sucks one man, and Small Tits Girl sucks off the other. Gooey hands grasp at the men’s doughy asses for leverage as the girls shove mope dicks into their faces. Big Tit’s man pumps her face and after ten seconds, convulses, howls, then 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 Small Tits Girl’s mouth. Both girls gargle their ejaculate in unison as the men step away and are re-absorbed into the crowd. Small Tits leans over, places her head in the Big Tits’s lap, and opens her mouth like a hungry baby bird. Big Tits then purses her lips. Come mixed with spittle, phlegm, and yet more come drips from Big Tit’s mouth in long strings, and into Small Tit’s mouth. Small Tits sits up, kisses Big Tits, and the women snowball the loads back and forth, fingering their pussies all the while. The opaque liquid, now well mixed, drizzles down their chins and onto their tits, and the floor. This is when you see for the first time that the girls are kneeling in a pool of semen and it’s clear why the other men are wearing shoes. You recall among the gossip in the line, one story was about some shoeless man at a previous bukkake that slipped and fell into the primordial ejaculate pool.

Eye-spots surrounded by semen lock in on you, and a soaked princess beckons you over. The megaphone screams, “Go!”

You take a step. When your foot lands, it squishes deep into what feels like warm hair conditioner. Your foot sinks and the gelatine goo oozes hot between your toes. When you lift your foot the sticky floor doesn’t want to let it go. You stand in front of the girls, cock in hand, no erection. The Big Tits Come Princess scoops spilled seed from the floor and feeds it to Small Tits Girl, whom sucks her friend’s finders dry. She smiles at you, blowing come-bubbles. Your stomach flips inside out, and your breathing comes shallow, and it feels as though your bones have been sucked out of your legs. You sway.

The megaphone shrieks, “Stop! Half-time show!”

The director’s minions–dressed in rain coats, hats, fly-fishing boots and gardening gloves–cattle prod their way through the crowd carrying industrial strength blow dryers. The appliances roar to life and the minions glaze the women’s faces with the come, glazing them like pottery. Fresh broiled spunk wafts into your nasal cavity. You look around and see the dead eyes of the Organism reflecting your feelings back at you; the Beast Of One Hundred Penises is looking through you to the girls, stroking away. Moaning and the sound of smack-smack-smack–

Enough!

You push your way through the Organism, not caring that you graze past someone’s loose genitals in your haste, which is good because as you rush, greasy penises brush against your wrist and your hips.

Once in the back, clear of the Organism, your body doubles over, resting your hands on your knees, sucking in air until the roof of your mouth tingles and your pulse throbs in your eardrums, and you get the tell-tale tunnel vision from hyperventilating.

Your pants are in your hands but you remember there’s not enough bus fare in the pockets to get you out of the Valley, let alone get something to eat, and you still have a week to go until you might get paid for the three-on-one you did last week–assuming the check clears. Your gut, heaving a moment ago, now bellows to be filled. You take a step. To the back of the Organism.

The moaning mass of flesh wraps itself around you once again. You step, wait, and step again until the Organism shits you out once more. There is only one Come Princess, now. She rests upside down on the back of her neck and shoulders. Legs open, speculum prying her vagina open. The guy ahead of you drops his load down the pried open vagina. You’re up.

A gas masked minion squirts cheap lube into your hand from an industrial sized drum. You close your eyes and go through your wank bank of images in your head to get you cock hard. You stroke, thinking of that sweet-smelling bank teller with the low-cut blouse who took your deposit, and this jars you from the fantasy because you remember that you have to give the inverted snatch in front of you her deposit. You keep stroking but your curiosity nags at you to peek, but you’re so close to coming and don’t want blow it, but your eyes have minds of their own. You peek. Her clamped open cunt is infinite, raw, and teeming with mottled, bubbling spunk. Still clutching your penis, your eyes roll back and the floor comes up on you hard and fast.

When your eyes open, you’re at the back of the crowd, next to the pile of clothes, semen stuck between the webbing of your fingers, a tightening feel of crust drying on the left side of your face and lips. You lick your lips and are rewarded with a bitter-salt taste on the tip of your tongue.

Your feet kick away a pair of skid-marked tighty whiteys to get to your socks, but fuck it, do you really want to put them on again? You’ve got one pant leg on when you stop and look to the dried sperm crusting on your feet. Your shirt, the one you got paid $1,500 to wear down the runway in Milan, is missing. Scanning the back of the room, you spot it. A mope is using it as a come rag. You struggle to control yourself from weeping and manage long enough to sling your bag over your shoulder and walk.

As you are leaving a minion stops you. He says, “Don’t forget your cash.”

He hands you fifty bucks, a baby wipe for your face, and a t-shirt that says:

“I Got Cummed On and Left For Dead In A Bukkake And All I Got Was This Stupid T-shirt.”

The minion says, “Can you come back to do the Gangsta-Land Come Slam next week? There will only be ten of you, you actually get to fuck the girl, and the pay is $150.”

At first you think he doesn’t know you’ve failed, but then you realize he doesn’t care. You’re walking corpse, there to make the set look full. As a mope, nothing you ever do will matter.