“Billy!” he cried in frustration one afternoon, when he was shooting a wobbly-Timberlake-special, out on the grass in front of the house with Austin O’Reilly, a blonde with big bazooms who was supposedly going to law school when she wasn’t fucking black guys on camera for us. “What’s going on, man?”
“Hold it, hold it, hold it—just give me a second,” croaked Billy, grinning and blushing and sweating, his black skin glowing from the effort, the terrific strain of it. “I’m about to get my edge.”
“You are? Well goddammit, you coulda fooled me!” Timberlake played the French auteur well, slapping his head with his flat palm, waltzing around with that huge XL-1 camera teetering crazily in the wind and bumping dangerously against his thigh. “We only have so much time, Billy, before the sun moves! And then how are our shots gonna match? Tell me that, man!”
Timberlake made to advance toward Austin, who, naked with her belly button pierced, her high heels on, her skin tan and flawless, her stomach flat, her lips poutingly pink and her buttocks glistening and sugary, looked perfect, just wonderfully porno—and Timberlake swiped at her cunt savagely with his thumb and forefinger. She gasped. Paying no attention, Timberlake held up his dampened fingers, sniffing at them maniacally.
She’s losing her juices, dude! She’s dryin’ up at record speed! Come on! Come on!”
“Hold it,” said Billy, whacking furiously, his penis slowly gaining strength and thickness. “I. . . hold it... yo, I got that shit, man! I’m ready TO GO!”
“Action!” roared Timberlake. “Go, go, go! I need two straight minutes of doggy! Sledge, you’re in the mouth! Weed, behind her! Attaboy . . . now, flip her! Let’s see some riding action. Christ, move, okay? Okay, honey? Are you hearing me?”
Pitts and I watched him work, bemused, admiring his manic energy.
“Sledge, on the ground! You’re my anchor! Billy! How’s that wang workin’?”
“Like a champ! It’s hard as steel, bro!”
“It better be!”
We stood next to one another in the weak afternoon light, watching man after man insert his penis into a honey of a woman, watched her do her sex cries and her laugh, the whole thing. Austin looked somehow happy up there.
“Weed! Stand to the side! This is important—I can’t be focusing on your big hairy ass right now! For the love of Jake, cammmaon!
And even when Timberlake suggested the DP, the double penetration, the famous porn move with the degree of difficulty of a 9.8, the one that entailed one member going into her anus and the other into her vagina, filled up and stuffed, Austin O’Reilly kept on smiling, taking it good-naturedly, like a champ.
“Billy, I need you in that pussy, and pronto! Move out the way, move! I gotta ... I gotta . . . lemme wedge this camera . . . hold it. . . let me get my shot. . . you fuckers... all right. . . and steady now . . . Fueki Please! Oh my, that’s a beautiful sight, bootylicious sight—great wankin’day!”
I leaned against my car in the driveway, smiling, with my arms folded, watching this curious gaggle of humanity press up against one another. I watched them struggling and fucking and falling to the ground, apologizing and getting up to brush grass and dirt from their elbows and knees, then rising to the test again. I longed for a good strong drink. Something with ice cubes in it. Or maybe just a friend to talk to, someone who might understand. The Malibu sun was sliding down the hardscrabble hillside; the light was dying.
NINETEEN
White Liz hated being on top. She was so tiny and small. Her vaginal canal so shallow.
White Liz would whisper when we had sex, biting my ear, not the lobe but the hard cartilage. She was so beautiful, and her eyes were so pretty, though often there wasn’t always a lot of eye contact going on—mostly they were closed, her forehead wrinkled with concentration. Eye contact or even talking a little bit during the act might have been good for us; though on the other hand, I would also have found it a little scary. Liz was easy to fuck, that’s the main point: I was stronger and bigger than she was, and taking her wrists and pinning them to the bed was easy, and she would struggle to try to free her arms, and I wouldn’t let her, not even for a little bit, my body pressing her down, her knobby little knees, her small and exposed breasts. We were connected, linked by an unspoken bond, but sexually, something between us was bestiaclass="underline" captive and tormentor, a means to some menacing end. Afterward, we’d shower together, kiss, touch fingertips. But in the moment, no, we weren’t friends.
One night, soon after we’d made love, I was gently touching her body. I saw a dark spot on her thigh.
“Liz,” I said. “What have you got here?”
“What’s that, honey?” she said softly. She could fall asleep so fast after we had sex. I envied her for how quickly she fell into unconsciousness, how deeply she slept. It wasn’t always easy for me to sleep in the same bed with her, or with anyone.
“It looks like a ... bruise or something.”
“You probably hurt me, you animal.” She punched at me lightly, but missed. She was close to sleep.
“No, seriously. Baby. Wake up. You’ve got this thing on your thigh. Look at it.”
“Ugh,” said Liz. She sat up in bed. “Let me see.” Below the ridge of her ilium, on her outer thigh, there was indeed a dark, swollen mark, approximately half an inch in circumference. “What the hell is that?”
“I don’t know,” I said, scared. “But it’s not a bruise.”
“Christ,” Liz said. “It’s a ... spider bite.”
The next morning, a cheery fat man who looked like a black-haired Santa Claus appeared in our kitchen.
“Pleased ta meet ya!” he bellowed, intercepting me in the kitchen. He stuck out a fleshy hand for me to shake. “Name’s Rag Man! And you must be ...”
“No,” I grunted, my mouth all cotton, “you muss be mistaken.” And I pushed past him to drain my piss-filled boner.
Some minutes later, we met more cordially over coffee. Rag Man was fifty or so, like the legends had it, and he was from Pittsburgh, where the beer ran freely and Yinzers reigned supreme. He sported a comb-over hairdo, mom jeans, and comfortable shoes. A flabby belly hung over the waist of his jeans, and his feet turned all the way out. You could see the rounded insides of his heels as he waddled quickly from room to room, checking out each view from each separate large picture window, with increasing wonder.
“Fuck, I can’t believe this shiftin’ house! Sam, you guys have hit the mother lode up here! Sweet balls and mother of fuckl I guess all we need now are about two hot chicks apiece and about twelve black guys for a full-on gangbang! Ha ha hal”
Note the dedication. Even in fantasy, Rag Man could never allow himself the pleasure of a hot chick draining his balls. It had to be the balls of some black dude.
“Can’t wait to get my feet wet,” he confessed. “I’m gonna be shootin’ second camera, right behind you. That cool with you, dude?”
“Of course,” I said. Of course it wasn’t, but what the hell was I going to do?
“This is the culmination of a lifetime of hard work for me,” he said, suddenly confessional in the midmorning light. I retracted from his old-man breath; he came closer. “Lemme be honest with ya for a second. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d have the opportunity to check this kinda shit out in the flesh.”
“Mm,” I said, noncommittally.
“To put it plainly, I’m honored to be in your guyses company.” He stuck out his hand again. “Thank you, man. Thanks for including me.”
I groaned. This was even more awful than I had imagined. Now I couldn’t even hate the goddamn guy. He was too nice.
Rag Man moved his belongings into the orange-carpeted guest room on the first floor, the one that the talent had been using to take pregame shits and showers. ‘ I freaking love this freakin Jew guy!” crowed Rag Man, pointing to the small television screen in his room, where Larry David was running around nebbishy in his first season on HBO. “What a freakin dickheadl He stuffed raisins and produce into his face, delicious “California stuff, as he laughed loudly at hours of television: Sopranos, Dailv Show, Adult Swim. “My wife don’t let me watch this shit at home!” He smoked enormous bowls of powerful marijuana, but only at night. “Keepin’ my head fresh for the work ahead!” His long black socks dotted the hamper with old-man disease. I missed my sweet, solitary mansion, the firm fantasy boobs of my women.