Rag Man had offered a couple of general suggestions to me. (He disliked Timberlake straightaway and tried not to talk to him when he could avoid it. Timberlake felt the same way.) The main one being that I try a bit harder to make the scenes nastier. That was his word: nasty. And Pitts was right there with him, too: nasty. They loved to say it. Whisper it at night. Rub it into each other’s hair.
“Nasty sells, fellas.”
“Nasty is as nasty does.”
“Nasty’s what we do. It’s the quantity that we supply.”
“Hey what’s nastier than a whore gulpin’ down about twelve black guys? I don’t know, but if you know, then by all means, tell me!”
In a way, it was kind of nice to have someone telling me to be more amoral. That afternoon, I had arranged to shoot a five-man blowbang . . . quaint. My infantry consisted of Billy Banks, Brian Pumper, John E. Depth, Tony Eveready, and Domeniko, a high-yella fella gifted with an elephant’s schlong that looked nearly supernatural, jutting out as it did from his narrow, malnourished body. Niko was a former hip-hop artist and, to me, was rather glamorous, as glamorous as anyone who carried around a fifth of tequila in his sweatpants could be, anyway. His main point of pride was that he’d once opened for R&B sensation Babyface on some long-forgotten tour. (Maybe it was bullshit? I couldn’t tell.) In any case, he liked me, and I liked him, too. We gave each other Dap. And of course, there was Juliana. Seven years later, and I can still see her leaning over backward in a couch-chair, one of those square cushions with no arms on any side, to take what was coming to her. The skinny, twenty-two-year-old mother of one was blond, constitutionally cheery, Sacramento-born, naturally titted, and represented by Spie-gler. Her little body balanced on top of the chair, and her legs hung off it, and her neck hung off it, so she was upside down. They waited in line to use her mouth. I ordered the guys, spread your legs wide! and take your underwear off from around your thighs so I could scurry in with my expensive camera and huddle there, underneath their cock and balls. Brian Pumper fucked her upside-down white-girl mouth, and drool puddled back up into her nose and eyes. Rag Man hung back behind me, shooting second camera, calling my name, and getting more and more fired up as the scene went on.
You knew you could do this!
and
That’s a nasty little scenario, І сипа done better myself!
Tony Eveready was not opposed to being a malevolent sadist, either, and so after he felt Juliana had taken enough gulletizing, he dragged her by the hair out the bay window and hurled her stringy body onto the lawn and dragged her slowly down the set of brick steps, one brick step, two brick step, three brick step four, down to the pool, and he shoved her head into the green waters. Chlorinated sheets of pond water enveloped her blond head. She sputtered, choking, and Tone dunked her once again, his hand never leaving the back of her head where he’d clamped a death grip onto her hair and Billy Banks laughed his forced, sycophantic laugh—heh heh heh, that’s a white girl for you. I huffed with a pro’s impatience and shouldered past all of them to get a great shot that would lure subscribers to spend another month’s membership, and in the back of us all, separated out from this fart cloud of humanity, stood John E. Depth, looking stunned. His eyes were open wide and his mouth hung out. His monster cock was deflating in the hazy light of day.
“What in the hell are you people doing . . . ,” he began, but then the sound of—
‘N-n-n-n-nnnasty!” Rag Man trilled and then the fat man danced, turning from one out-turned instep to the other, snapping off a roll of photos, a deranged dervish, bobbling his TrX one-chip Canon Digital from one hand to the other, and from around his neck seizing his small and economical 530 pixel digital still Olympus ZR-90, popping flashbulbs in Juliana’s soaked, ruined, and crying face.
Stick that big ole dick up in her grill, dog ... came the chorus.
Lemme drop that dick all up in her head, dog . . . sang Dome-niko.
I’m going to Rodney King her! Brian Pumper promised.
Yeah, Tony Eveready exulted, beat that dick on her head like a baton.
Billy Banks and Domeniko and Pumper formed a ring around her, and I was inside the ring with Juliana. She fell to her knees inside a roiling circumference of flesh and I fell to my knees right there with her. Inside it was black and blue and all we felt was hot breath and dick heat. She sucked and through her soul I felt the absence of pain. Juliana was choking and laughing and searing in the sun, and Billy Banks, town crier, felt his penis wilting again so to assert his masculinity and poor personhood he took Juliana by the forehead, his hand covering her nose and eyes, and he pushed the back of her head, hitting me — Ow Billy! Ya Doofusl—and we all laughed and he blushed, and I elbowed Pumper out of the way rising to my feet and his penis smacked against John E. Depth’s thigh as he watched us all, unmoving and unrelieved, with a hollow pained look on his face. The clouds were parting and separating, pointing and laughing.
“That’s one hell of a frightening wound,” I said.
“Way to put it nicely, Sam,” Lisa said. “You really have a way with words.”
“And you really have a way with being an ungraceful host,” I said. “I’m here to entertain my girlfriend. So, if you’ll just leave us to our evening...” .
“I live here, cuntwad,” Lisa said, shooting me the bird and slamming the door to her room.
“Technically, you wouldn’t call a man cuntwad,” I explained worriedly to Liz, who was lying across me with her legs spread out over my thighs and looking very cute indeed in just her undies and a tiny white T-shirt.
“I know, honey,” said Liz sweetly. “Would you please get me a glass of milk? Or a beer?”
“Of course, darling. Which one do you want?”
“Just depends on which one we have,” said Liz. “Since I haven’t been able to drive, the fridge is kind of bare.”
“Lisa should get off her fat ass and go to the store for you,” I said.
“I’m broke!” came a muffled voice from the other room. “You know that, Liz!”
“Do you not have three dollars for a gallon of milk?” I said loudly. “Boy, what a letdown!” .
“You weren’t even going to come over till tomorrow night, asshole!” screamed Lisa. She pulled open the door furiously, her face tangled in rage. “Liz, you know I would have gone to the store for you if you needed it!”
“Go shave your chin, Lisa. Listen to what Satan’s telling you to do,” I said soothingly. “Liz is spoken for tonight.”
“Fuckhole,” hissed Lisa, slamming her door violently shut once again. All that slamming was going to blow this pasteboard house down. It really would.
“You don’t really refer to a man as a fuckhole, either, of course,” I said, looking at my girl for understanding and support.
“Sweetie? That beer? Or milk? Or whatever?”
“Right!” I said, leaping to my feet, running over to the fridge. The door was so light and so badly built with such crap metal, it took almost no energy to open it, and I pulled it too hard and its ridge smacked against the wall. “Sorry about that.” I scanned around the fridge door for its contents. “No beer.” I looked some more. “No milk, either. Pickles, if you want one.” I took out a pickle and bit into it.
'‘Kill me,” groaned Liz.
“No need to get bent out of shape. Because you know what is in here? A month-old Diet Sprite.”
‘Kill me,” repeated Liz. I joined her on the couch, resumed stroking her white little shins.
“Am I not so good to you?”
Liz nodded in assent, but it looked like her mind was elsewhere.
“Pay some attention to me!” I whined. “Listen. Douche Boy got a new car.”
“So what? I decided I hate him.”