“No. Of course not,” I said quickly. “I’ll give you some privacy. Let me get you a towel.”
She showered, trying to wash the hangover off her, scrubbing her underarms with an old bar of soap. I waited for her in the anteroom and handed her a gray towel with little strings fraying off it.
“I’m so tired” White Liz groaned, collapsing in my arms.
“Come here,” I said gently. “I know what you need.”
She plopped down on my futon, whoomp. “What.”
“Massage.” I palmed her tiny muscular back, karate-chopped her little buttocks and thighs and the bottom of her calves and soothed her cute little feet, wrung out her traps with my strong hands. I pushed the erectors off her spine, to the side to the side, avoiding excess friction over the kidneys, kneading her thighs, stretching her quads, using my index fingers as pointer probes to dig around in the swelling curves of her delts, even paying attention to her cervical spine and occipital ridge. It was terribly hot in my little apartment, and soon both of us were beaded with sweat, sweat under my eyes and in my ears and on the backs of my wrists, but I kept at her, caught up in the moment and in the momentum oAhe work. Only when my energy was finally and entirely spent did I collapse beside her.
“That was crazy.”
“Sorry,” I whispered.
“For what?” Liz murmured. “I meant, it was good.”
“No. It’s too hot in here. I’m sorry my place is such a shithole.”
“But I love it here,” she whispered, unexpectedly. “Really.”
Slowly, she turned her head to look at me. Her face was kind of mashed by the pillow and partially hidden, but I saw that she was smiling.
Despite being in a new relationship, and despite the fact that I was spending the majority of my waking professional hours watching other people getting nailed right in front of me while I filmed them for hours on end, masturbating was still something that I liked to do. Indulging in my own fantasy life, with the doors locked, in front of my own television, still retained its own attraction.
My porn tastes had evolved somewhat since the early, heady days of the Santa Cruz flea market. Like any connoisseur, I’d become less interested in your run-of-the-mill crapola. These days, I found that to get high, I needed something that pushed the envelope.
Though I’m ashamed to admit it, and even more loath to describe the contents therein, a videotape called Slap Happy was my porn of choice that summer. Due to my fascination with said tape (I watched it at least once every day for a while, which is absolutely remarkable for pornographic materials, which so frequently never receive even a single repeat viewing), a summation in these pages seems rather necessary to explain my burgeoning sexual preferences, and by extension, what happened next in my life. So here goes, and I’m going to choke through the guilt.
Slap Happy, 120 minutes in length and shot on videotape in the great tradition of gonzo, consisting of ten or so extraordinarily hardcore blowjob scenes ranging anywhere from six to fifteen minutes apiece, was a pornographic “movie” created in the year 2000 by a Canadian actor/director named Brandon Iron for the production company Extreme Associates. As described earlier, Extreme, owned by Rob Black, had made a name for itself from the moment of its inception in the late 1990s as the most disrespectful and wholly misanthropic video team in the United States of America. Their lines (among them Cock Smokers, Creampie Milkshakes, House of Whores, Fuck Pigs, Euro Cuntz, Anal Blitzkrieg, Ghetto Bitches, Oral Hygiene, Spare Parts, Asshole O-Mio, Cum Catchers, and, simply, Go Fuck Yourself) garnered huge fan support from mean old men who wanked at home alone; this was no “couples” audience. Dudes who were never going to have sex again loved Extreme’s movies. Thick with hate, chalky with self-loathing, people got destroyed in Extreme’s movies, and the directors laughed. Slap Happy only raised the bar.
The long and short of it (why put this off? sigh) was that Brandon’s chosen girls, many of whom were young and anonymous looking—they were not “names”—would start off giving Brandon a blowjob, but within ten or so seconds, their hair was getting pulled and I mean pulled; it was like he was trying to yank off their wigs. And their faces were getting slapped, we’re talking hard: crackl Then Brandon’s monstrous penis was jamming around in their throats like a mop handle. In several of the scenes, his penis functioned like a plunger in the depths of the actresses’ throats, and they would vomit a brown mixture all over his legs, and he would have to stop the tape. When enough footage had been filmed and enough mouth had been fucked as roughly as a pussy, he would take a moment and produce a washable marker from his backpack and pen one word across their foreheads, in red or blue. Sometimes it was SLUT; sometimes it was whore. Another option was cunt. It depended. Then he would take his huge, thick dick in his hand—it was so big that he couldn’t even put his whole hand around it—and he would wrench the foreskin up and down until he reached a climax, the video camera whirring on a tripod in a hotel room, and he’d masturbate onto their faces, usually aiming for their noses, and then he would use his giant dick, which was often still hard, to push his ejaculate into their mouths and, generally, the girl would swallow it.
I felt like a deviant watching Slap Happy, that much was for sure. But goddamn if it wasn’t fascinating. First, I was shocked that this was even legal. Iron filmed short interviews with all the girls beforehand, asking them to nod and agree that they were “into rough sex,” but it was so transparent they were doing it for the money and the attention, it was sad to see them lie. I mean, certainly it was possible that a handful of them were “kinky” like they said, and “adventurous,” but for the most part, these girls were only eighteen years old, and some of them were obvious little drug fiends, the kind that Extreme specialized in finding and turning upside down until gummy juices ran out of them. Some were runaways with infected eyebrow piercings and boyfriends waiting in the car for them to get the money, some were midlevel strippers at some terrible club where the patrons threw soiled dollar bills at them, and some were just plain unlucky, and fortune had conspired to put them into the shiftiest porno movie of all time. Iron astonished me in how open and unashamed he was with his rage. He wanted to slap someone—so he did it! (Was it that easy?) I was shocked at myself, at how my cock stood up on end and wanted to be alone with this tape while being touched.
I mean, I’m no beast. I still thought of myself as a happy-go-lucky, awkward kinda guy. That’s why it sort of surprised me: that I liked to see their faces distort, wrap around a huge cock, and then choke—the sound of it—the gurgling, the tears in their eyes. It was like they were getting hurt and humiliated, drooling thick spittle, and sometimes there was a look in their eyes: hate. Or with other girls, it was even worse than that—there was this kind of sad docility. Sometimes I’d look at a girl, and I’d be naked and masturbating, and in the peace of my bedroom, I’d consider the video screen, and I’d think, suddenly, She never had a chance. She just thinks she’s a shithole. She got dealt a bad hand, and now Slap Happy is getting made at her expense, and there are guys in basements all over Cleveland and Cincinnati and Auburn and Bakersfield slipping away from their wives after dinner with a quick gonna work on my lathe for a little while, hon, locking the door behind them, watching her slip deeper into a sad oblivion. Big, flat hand across her fucking face, whacked in the head with a left and then a right, jizzed on and throat-choked, falling over with whore scrawled in blue clown lipstick all over her dumbass rosy cheeks.
EIGHTEEN
It was evening and the house smelled like cheap lube. Timberlake and I sat around the postapocalyptic kitchen, spent from the day’s porno labors, too exhausted to move.