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Julian St. Jox made contact with Veronica Light—a respectful, sportsmanlike sort of greeting—as he grabbed her breasts and hocks, testing them for firmness. Neither spoke. Neither smiled. St. Jox led her to the bed, where with little ado, he claimed his prize. And Veronica Light began screaming, just screaming, not like your normal moans and groans—more like electric animal madness:

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOhoooooooo!

WHOOOOie-HOOOO!

Jox, unperturbed, pinned her body to the cold, chafing mattress and pounded into her, getting his. WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO-HOOOOOO, and then Darren took over, and all of a sudden, as suddenly as she had begun, Veronica Light stopped screaming. In a lifeless sort of parody of porn passion, she said, completely deadeyed Dick, her eyes like two black, cast-iron skillets: “Give me some of that chocolate dick.”

“Give me that chocolate.”

“Give me that chocolate ... dick.” Dead as could be.

Then later, back to St. Jox, and again, the howling:

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOeehoooooooo!

I watched it, confused and slightly scared. Timberlake and I made eye contact and shared a tiny laugh for a second. Were we frightened or amused? I couldn’t tell, exactly. The windows were closed, our vast compound deserted and locked, no one to hear us.

SEVENTEEN

It was evening and hot with summer. Timberlake and I reclined at a picnic table on the back deck of the Reel Inn, our new favorite casual Pacific Coast Highway red-checked-tablecloth restaurant getaway, to which a man may retire after a long day of shooting hard-driving black porn. Having been porno millionaires for nearly an entire fortnight, we deserved a break.

“Terri is not happy,” Timberlake sighed, fork in hand, spearing his free-range white trout.

“What’s the problem?” Terri was his girlfriend, who was still up in Oakland, waiting for him.

“Oh, she’s convinced I’m gonna sleep with one of these girls,” Timberlake continued, staring at the space in front of him. “Paranoia.” He sighed again dramatically, then dipped his forkful of fish into a ceramic ramekin of sudsy tartar sauce, contemplating it, catlike and depressed. .

‘ Think she’s got anything there?”

I love her, dude,” Timberlake said. ‘ I think about her at night and I sympathize with what she’s going through. Oftentimes, I can’t believe that I’m putting her through this ordeal.”

I nodded, sipping from a plastic cup of water with lemon wedges. Around us, conversations buzzed. A couple who sat at the table to my left looked like they might be here on a date. The guy was in his early thirties, wore a fitted red baseball cap, and carried a couple extra pounds on his belly and man-tits.

"Look, T,” I said, as gently as I could. “You’re here now. You’re checking porn out. Trying it on for size. If you hate it, you could always quit.”

“What makes you think that I hate it?” Timberlake snapped, whipping his gaze from his fish to me. “It’s fucking hilarious. Only an idiot would hate this job. I love this job. I’m not quitting. Not for anything.”

“Okay, Jesus . . . you were talking about Terri, and I just thought. . . Don’t bite my head off.”

“I’m not biting anyone’s head off,” Timberlake said. “I’m talking about things You’re great to talk to.” Timberlake picked up a piece of steamed broccoli with his bare hand and looked underneath it suspiciously, as if checking for a fungus. But then suddenly, his mood shifted and he was jovial. “Ohmygod: Aurora Snow!”

“I know,” I grinned, pleased the storm had changed direction. “Incredible, right?”

“Splen-dacious, my good man!” Timberlake announced. He unleashed his crazy, loud laugh. “Splen-dacious!” Some of the people on the patio turned around to look at him. “She looked like a runway model. I was gonna come all over myself when she stepped through the door. Now listen,” he said, his voice lowering slightly, “what 1 don’t get is why you always get the hot girls and I always seem to shoot the dogs?”

“Just my good luck, I guess.” I shrugged, looking past him, inside, to the girl working the cash register. She was about twenty years old, maybe ten pounds overweight, but it sat right, brown hair streaked with blond, looking busy and sweating lightly with effort and kitchen heat. Behind her, dishes got washed loudly, and I watched her heavy tits go up and down against her tight, dirty T-shirt.

“Good luck my wide ass. You’re tilting the tables in your favor.

Admit that, at least.”

“I know this business,” I admitted. “I know the girls. I know which ones I want. But hey, man—you’ll get it. We’ve only been going for a couple of weeks. You’ll get the handle.”

“Why do you always say I’m gonna get it, I’ll catch the handle . . Timberlake whined. “Boy, you act like this job’s rocket science ...”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted him, “I think my fish is ready.” I scooted out from behind the pine picnic table to retrieve my tilapia, my topsiders slapping the wood of the deck, triumphantly sockless in new shoes, the pads of my toes gripping the new leather.

Two straight weeks in the Malibu sun had browned my skin. Wandering around the compound one evening, I had discovered a fitness room, set off from the main house, carpeted and equipped with its own Soloflex machine. Several times already I had visited the fitness room, working out as the spirit moved me, pumping iron, practicing a variety of yogic poses, as well as using the elliptical and the stationary bike. Or reverting back to the good of basics upon which you can never improve: pull-ups, push-ups, and crunches. My hair was growing, too, past the awkward stage, curling in ringlets around my head. I rubbed myself down with good shampoos, no longer content to just take a bar of soap to my head like I used to. Somehow, even my eyes looked good. They had never looked right to me before. Now, for the first time in my life, I felt people watching my eyes as I talked.

“Look,” I said, rejoining Timberlake at the picnic table, my plate balanced in my hand. “Just tell her, baby, my penis is way too small for these porn girls. Tell her they laugh when you pull it out.”

“That might be true,” Timberlake considered. “Ten of my dicks would fit inside one of Pumper’s.” He stared at me gravely.

“We’re dealing with monster dicks here,” I agreed, cutting into the breaded fish.

“Cartoon dicks,” Timber laughed. He and I never tired of talking about penises. We never tired about talking about enormous boobs, either. There were downsides to shooting porn with a friend: namely, you never talked about anything but porn.

“What do you have lined up for tomorrow?”

“I’m not shooting,” said Timberlake. “I’d like to, though. What about you, you shooting?”

“Nope. DK hasn’t called me back yet.”

“These agents are all the same,” Timber said. “World Modeling is holding out on me.”

“How about Reb’s?” I suggested.

“Reb’s is just skanks,” he said disdainfully. He sniffed at his fish.

“Reb’s has the ugly girls down pat,” I agreed.

“Sure,” said Timberlake.

“Veronica Light came from Reb’s,” I pointed out.

“Ohmygod,” Timber hollered. The guy wearing the red baseball cap turned, annoyed. Timberlake didn’t see him. “She digs your schvantz, dude!” He giggled. “You gotta get on that.”