(Crumple)
“Dear Liz: Having a relationship within the porn industry is tough, isn’t it? Quick question: do you ever get bored with our sex life? I have to admit that sometimes I think I’m bored. Perhaps my problem is that I’m around so many other nude, oiled-up women each day. Maybe it’s just a bit too tempting for me. I mean, I love asses, Liz. Always have. Sometimes it’s hard to see all of the asses, and not try to ask if I might lick gently on one cheek? Just for one singular horny second? Hey. You know what? I swear this just occurred to me, but perhaps introducing another partner into our little gang of two might be invigorating for the both of us . . .”
(Crumple)
“It’s not that I like Slap Happy so much as I am fascinated by it. Do you see the difference? Can you allow for that kind of hairsplitting? Perhaps, in fact, I’m watching this videotape not so much for my own sexual pleasure, you see, as for the psychological edification. Each hateful scene teems with significant questions. For example: Did porno come first, creating the hatred? Or did hatred come first, legitimizing the porn?”
(Crumple)
“I feel things radiating off of you ... like disapproval. And I don’t like it. I don’t want to see myself reflected in your eyes. Lately, I’m feeling deviant. Our closeness is weirding me out. I’m a bit selfish. Alone time means a lot to me. This ain’t what love’s about...”
(Crumple)
“The more I work in the sex industry, the deeper I sink, the more and more convinced that I am—that we are—unearthing something valuable in the human collective unconscious. It is something deep, and ugly, and awful, but it is nonetheless there, and I want to know more about it. Slap Happy and the like are shitty, malevolent, ill-conceived films, yes: but they are confessional, too, and for that reason alone, they are in some small way valuable. With their unconsciously delivered paean of hate, aggression, and sexual hostility, they are clearing the air, showing us what is sick inside of us all, and what must be rectified before we can continue along a healing path. This might sound weird, Liz, but in a way, Brandon Iron is becoming a kind of hero of mine. I mean, not for the way he acts, but for the way he is comfortable in the disrepair of his own skin ...”
(Crumple)
You never saw someone as happy as Domeniko when he was sticking his curved, fist-thick, yellow-black cock through a hole in a pasteboard wall.
Niko laughed softly, with his boxer shorts around his ankles, the palm of his hand on his forehead, gasping, This is the shit! An Asian porn actress who didn’t have a name yet squatted on her knees on the other side of the gloryhole board, wearing jean shorts and a sweater pulled up over her tits. Rag Man filmed them with tireless concentration, with sweaty, old-man fascination. “Unbelievable,” he whispered. Reverent, caressingly, the fat man framed her tits. The back of his neck shone, greasy in the garage light.
I weaved my way out of the garage and trudged my way to the kitchen. I sighed sadly. This wasn’t my house anymore.
I rang Liz. “Sweetie?” I said. “Can I come-over?”
“Yeah,” Liz said, thoughtfully. “That’d be nice. Let’s make dinner.”
I pulled the Volvo out of the driveway, carefully backing away from the battalion of expensive cars that had congregated in our circular driveway. I waited for the security gate to open for me, then sped out down the hill, escaping.
When you left our place at twilight, the traffic was always a beast. The best you were gonna do was hop on Malibu Canyon Road and inch your way up through the hills, inch along like a good little guy, hoping you didn’t get too fucked and there were no major accidents and all the rubbernecks that came with them before you hit the 101 near Calabasas. I chugged along, trying to listen to National Public Radio, being a contributing member of society and all that crap. Before very long, I snapped it off impatiently.
When I got there, Liz wasn’t home yet, so I walked over to the liquor store and got us a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a two-liter Coke. I parked myself on her stoop. Cheap night at home. Maybe we’d make pasta and turn on the TV, then I’d smoke a couple of Parliament Menthols. Boy howdy.
“Hey, beautiful,” I said, when her Jaguar slowed and she got out of it. I kissed her on the cheek.
Hey, Sam.” She smiled, let her face relax, and she was beautiful, and suddenly it wasn’t so bad to be at her place anymore. I could think of worse places to be.
She showered and I got the pasta going. I poured myself a nice little drink and got one ready for her. Lisa was nowhere to be seen, and that was big points as far as I was concerned. It was hot in Liz’s little place, double hot in the kitchen, so I took off my shirt and looked at myself in the steel reflection of the oven. My face was distorted and my hair looked clownish. I sipped my J.D. and Coke while I stirred the pasta.
“So what’s new, baby?”
Liz smiled, looking tired. “DK wants to sell me.”
“Huh?”
“Bradley, the owner over at Deep Productions, needs a new production manager. And he wants me for the job.”
“Wow! That’s great! Isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess it’s okay,” said Liz. “He isn’t going to pay that much more than DK, but it would be a step up the ladder. The funny part of it is that DK doesn’t really want to let me go, but Bradley says he’ll pay him five thousand bucks if he gives me to him.”
“Sounds like horse trading when you put it that way.”
“Or slave trading.” Liz tested a strand of pasta, chewing it carefully. “I guess we deserve that.”
“Deep’s a pretty busy company,” I said. “More stress. You up to it?”
“Who cares,” Liz said flatly. “I can’t see doing this forever.”
“Yeah, me, too,” I said. Watching her carefully. “I can’t see doing this forever.”
We made our way around each other uneasily that night, like rat traps baited with poisoned cheese, ready to spring off at any one moment. I caught her regarding me, once, while we were watching some awful movie, but she whipped her head away immediately and stared at the screen, as if exposed.
When the movie finished, we went out on her patio to smoke. Something loomed over us, a dark shape in the sky, but neither of us could distinguish it.
“Warm out for this time of night.”
Liz nodded, watching the sky. .
“I’m hot-blooded,” I reminded her. “Warm means a lot to me.”
She said nothing. .
“Hey,” I said, touching her shoulder. “You wanna go inside?”
‘Yeah,” said Liz. “Let’s go to bed.”
In her bed we slid sexily over black sheets. A fan whirred over our naked bodies. The house was quiet. I traced the outline of some
roses on her tattooed forearm and kissed her temple, kissed her eyebrows. '
“You still mad at me?” I said.
“Never was mad at you,” Liz answered, looking down at her chest.
“Yeah, you were,” I said.
“I was just. . .” Liz folded her arms, and sat back. She covered her body with a pillow. It was amazing how much of her body she could cover with just one little pillow. “Well —I was worried. I don’t know why.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I said.
“Sam,” Liz said, and then she didn’t say much else for a little while. “I just ... I don’t know where this is heading. I don’t know where Гт heading.”
“We’re just hanging out,” I said. “Having fun. I mean, aren’t you having fun with me?”