Something’s Rotten in Chatsworth

SOMETHING’S ROTTEN IN CHATSWORTH

 

 

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 from the Inquisition 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 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 girl may still have to wait around for an additional half day before the filming of the sex actually starts. This is because dialogue is always filmed before the sex scene to preserve the girl’s hair and makeup.

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 delivered to set, which could restore her food depleted energy levels. Today is no different.

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 which slow her bowels.

Our girl 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 Elusive Scoundrels, dog. You really stepped up these past couple of 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 Elusive Scoundrels 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 the girl 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.

“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’s this girl? This is fucking with my Viagra timing…let’s go!

“Okay, back! Let’s fuck!” she 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 lying on my back, my dick in her mouth while Malik widens the gauge of her asshole with his dick. The blowjob sucks, and in this case this 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-numbed dick.

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

“Switch,” says Jackson.

Malik stops the assault and I position myself behind the girl’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 the girl, giddy with porn-induced psychosis, continue their sport fucking while I kneel next to them with my cold cock in 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 my peripheral vision, aimed at me. I get off the bed and go into my mind.

Within the time it takes to microwave a bag of popcorn, an eternity in pornnoland when timed location fees tick away like a taxi meter, I manage to conjure up some shit from my mental 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 positions himself behind me, holding the camera next to my head and 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.

He whispers, “Gimmie some in-and-outs.”

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, Don’t do it! Even if I was in a “normal” scene it’s a challenge because I’m fast becoming erection impaired, and I can’t get the sloshing tempest I’m stirring up inside the girl’s bowels out of my head.

I extract my penis and Jackson’s stubbly face over my shoulder is making us some kind of fucked-up two-headed porn chimera and I’m cresting the apex of a roller coaster 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 Jackson 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 freefalls. 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 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 that singes the back of my throat.

I settle my gut and enter her 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 flat lined dick, not penetrating past the sphincter, and I’m so soft Stan does not have to tell me to pull out. She 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 and 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-mien broccoli bits, sesame-sprinkled shit, and kung-pao crap (all held together by a matrix of translucent, Starbucks-steeped globs) onto me. Jackson 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 ever be the same.  Starting from the nexus of her dripping sphincter and radiating outward is a wet, sloppy, Cone of Death.

I hyperventilate, which, considering the circumstances, 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.

“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.”

Fuck her ass to pop…Is he fucking insane?

The mattress has dookie islands bobbing in a lake of hot shit. Fits of dry heaving overwhelm me, and I nearly blow chunks, adding to the geography with a puke archipelago. My penis curls up and out of the way for safe storage like a butterfly’s proboscis.

“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 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 the girl and 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 girl’s live body. I imagine a bit of her soul escaping from her slacked-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. A clear sign for the onset of heat exhaustion. The

ice chest by the door beckons to me. It has a lid, so its contents shouldn’t be contaminated. I grab my clothes and stumble to the ice chest and rip it open…No ice….A half-empty Snapple and a room temperature can of Colt 45.

I make it down the hall to the bathroom and into the shower, and turn the knob to cold. You can almost hear the spray of water sizzle and pop off my skin. I lift my head and open my mouth.

 

END.