Tyler Knight

Fractionally this side of lucid, I lock my knees to stay my swaying. My bodyweight suggests the soft shag carpet beneath my shoes to rise toward me as the Earth soothes me slack with its gravity.

I stand off-camera, away from the shot in progress and behind the man shooting the weighty Sony, whom squats in front of the supple, suede sofa; my co-stars are screwing–the slapping sound of sloppy sex.

Each lethargic lap of the slow-swinging ceiling fan’s blades lulls me with a lisping breeze that’s not enough to sweep me over by itself, but with its seductive droning soliloquy the combined effect is a lethal lullaby.

I should see Amanda tonight. We could snuggle.

The other male talent, Lance looks like he just came from of a Motel 6, drum & bass coke binge with Gary Busey. He and Goth-girl are already going at it where the scene left off before the camera cut and Gangsta-Pornstar was 86’d.

The scheme is to start from where they stopped with me stepping onto set for rest of the scene. The footage of Gangsta-Pornstar will be edited out as if he never existed. The director is filming three minutes of run-time of the other two before I enter the scene so the editor’s job will be easier. I sit on the carpet and settle.

She taught me the Spanish word for floor is suélo…

A silent, over-the-shoulder wave from the director is my the sixty-second signal.

…which sounds similar to sueño, meaning dream.

I’m sitting on the floor as I slide off my slacks; I’m half-way through the second leg when–

—
Crickets.

A stream sparkles, slipping through sequoias. Its surface shimmies a slivered moon.

Glowing sprites dance upstream; a gentle nudge behind my knees sits me on a floating toadstool.

The mushroom follows the will-o’-wisps over the running water. I dip a toe, it drags cool. Creatures peek through trees.

The canopy opens. More stars than space. Waterfall. Nymphs slashing.

Puck spins sonnets.
—
The motion of the director’s hand is my reverie back to reality, my mind sketches in the objects around me one by one and reminds me how I got here sitting with pants half-off, dick in hand. I kick the pants away, stand, and stumble into the sex with the deftness of a reanimated corpse on roofies.

Lance and Goth-Girl clear my spot on the sofa. I collapse on the couch; it pulls me into its deep. Pfizer’s finest sloshing through my system. Goth girl straddles me, spit on her hand, and drips stalactites of sparkling saliva onto my cock. I’m a spectator, watching. She rubs my head on her slit–soft–and slides herself down on me.

Insertion. Penis plunges into vagina, a syringe in reverse. My mind snaps alert!

Goth-girl exhales, spraying an aerosol of hot spittle on my cheek. Sour meth-breath. One hand grabs her hip, the other coils a fist-full of drenched hair. She coos. I grip. My fingernails find their purchase into her scalp and I yank her head back with a snap and hammer up into her.

Lance towers over us standing on the couch and shoves his prick into the girl’s O-shaped mouth. Bouncing. Tits slapping together in my face. A taste of dew trickles its glistening trail down her tit, across areola, curving the erect nipple then straight down again until it hangs on the under-slope; when my next upstroke flings it from its perch it falls salty into my open mouth.

Lance dismounts the couch, backhand strokes his dick as though his aim is to rip it off then positions himself behind the girl. Double penetration time. Because I’m on the bottom my job’s to anchor. I stop thrusting into the girl and I pull her down onto me so that her tits squish flush upon my sweat-slicked chest. I’m still in her vagina, her asshole is angled–ready for Lance to penetrate.

He spreads her cheeks, pushes at her sphincter–it gives with a thuk–and he’s past the o-ring and into her rectum. The added weight of him and the girl on top of me steals my air mid-breath, and sags the sofa like the wallet thin, piss-sponge of a mattress I slept on in the LA Mission two nights past. Her vagina is tighter as he penetrates and there’s a sensation on the underside of my vagina-sheathed dick like my penis is a tube of toothpaste and Lance’s cock is a marble-hard rolling pin forcing my mass upwards to the nozzle of my head. I steal sips of air. The standard amount of footage needed per position: three minutes. I count.

2:57

He starts slow. When lance finds his angle and rhythm I join the tandem-fuck action with the enthusiasm of mashing both dicks together and rolling on one condom. The two-finger width of girl-flesh and taint between us is compressed to the point of being moot. Each gliding pass of his dick pumping in her asshole feels as though I’m getting worked by a hardwood massage roller–shutting my eyes with an imagination like mine is worse so I stare at a greasy hand smudge on the wall that resembles a sketched turkey with a severed head.

The assistant director stoops low and gets in close with the c-light–short for cunt light in porn speak–broiling my balls. The heat sizzles right up to the edge of discomfort, crosses into into pain, then backs off to tolerable and stops, telling me he’s moved in and backed out to find his range.

2:42

Lance is looking over the girl’s shoulder–and is searching for eye contact? With me!

What the fuck!

He’s determined to marry our eyes. My head’s range of motion is restricted, wherever I turn he’s always in my field of vision. His gaze sears into my face. The weirdness of avoiding looking at someone with nowhere else to look.

My eyes and his eyes dart about, climbing and diving in a dogfight for the ages. Me avoiding, him chasing; both of us fucking away at the girl-meat between us. My disadvantage is too great, he gets missile lock.

In his eyes I see Mr. Baines, the eight-fingered highschool janitor that hung out after the gymnastics meet and walked up to little Jayleen Stewart before security took him away.

A warm bed of my own. Clean socks. My own shower.
2:09

Lance’s jaw is slack, his tongue looks like it’s breaded in flour and it’s draped out the corner of his mouth.

I’m inside a vagina. This is totally natural.

1:58

He crashes against Goth-girls ass in waves. I hold fast, rowing my dinghy against the following sea. My job as the dp’s anchor is stabilizing the girl and rooting her in place. If she moves, one or both of us pops out of our respective meat-holes.

Vaginae are good. It’s just me and her. Alone.

Lance is not looking at me as much as he’s looking through me. His eyes seem to focus at a point on the other side of my skull. I imagine what movies are playing inside his. My clenched jaw powders my molars to tooth dust.

Fucking. Just like God intended.

1:43

It’s not Goth-girl’s job to fuck, it’s to receive. My arms coil around her waist, my hands fix into a wrestler’s Gable grip. The pace quickens. Dueling pistons in alternate in-and-out action. I can’t see the director, he’s crouched down feeding his hungry camera lens a cock-Mc Muff’in-cock sandwich.

Goth-girl’s pussy is sooo good with the added tightness of something in her asshole at the same time.

—
Okay, so I gotta mix this Jim Beam stuff with the Coca Cola like Daddy does.

How much of each though? I shoulda paid attention better. Might as well pour an equal amount of both.

That was kinda sweet for a second but now it’s worse than Listerine. Shit! Why did I swallow, it burns! It’s just sitting there in my throat and in my gut.
—
1:30

Lance gets lazy with maintaining the optimal angle to avoid ball-to-ball clearance and the director’s sight line, I feel the first hint of scrotal heat on my privates. The proximity alert juxtaposed with the super snug cooze milking my dick and spinning my world are–conflicting. Lance hammers harder, he moans, the girl is slipping and I double my grip. The hair of his ball tickles the nape of my dick where my cock and sac meet. My natural reflex is to cringe. My flinch and Lance’s anal ramming pops me out of the vagina and my dick is a balloon with a slow leak.

Bobby Fischer’s hand comes out of exile and slaps the scene-clock stopped.

I say “Can I get a minute, I need to get my edge back?”

Partly because the words are spoken on a third of a breath, partly because I’m flustered it comes out as a whisper. I’m insta-pissed at myself as the words leave my mouth for sounding so fucking so weak.

The director says, “Fine, but we need to get an additional 30 seconds of runtime for the editors because you verbally asked to stop.”

“As opposed to semaphore?”

“Yes, actually. If you need a break, signal when the camera isn’t on you.”

“Noted.” I say to the flesh pile, “Get off me. I can’t breath,” and to the director again, “Why an extra 30 seconds?”

It’s now that I notice the room is fetid and the faint rattle of the police helicopter.

He says, “Because now I have to look at where we left off through the viewfinder and cue it back a good ten seconds to overlap your voice. On top of that, I have to give the editor some extra footage to work with so he has a margin of error.”

“Oh.”

“When we start again,” he says, “you guys have to give me the same pace so that it matches.”

I step out from under the intense lights that are triangulated on the couch. As soon as I do my sweat dries cool on my back.

I say, “Lance, chill out with that nonsense. That was some creepy shit.”

Lance says, “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, man.”

Is he for real?

“The staring into my eyes and the ball-on-ball touchery! Not cool.”

Lance scoffs. “If that bothers you then you shouldn’t be doing porn.”

I say, “Incidental rubbing is to be expected but you were digging it.”

“Hey,” Lance says to the director, “his negativity is messin’ with my mojo.”

Did he just tell on me like a little bitch?

“Let it go,” the director says. “Both of you.”

I’m standing next to a coffee table that’s been pushed aside to make room for the lights. There’s an ice-cooler filled with sodas and waters next to the table, and a box sitting on the table. I reach into the box first. The rape kit–the ubiquitous plastic box on porn sets that has lube, douche, enemas, condoms that never see the outside of a wrapper and baby-wipes. I grab the lube from the rape kit and stroke my dick back up.

Once I’m hard I plunge the same hand into the cold, sloshing icewater of the cooler, hold it there for a moment, then free a dripping bottle of water–chug it–and chase it with another. The third bottle has a hunk of ice in it which slaps against the inside of the plastic as I turn it horizontal. I hold it on the blue veins criss-crossing the underside of my forearm until they recede.

I take a Tyler moment with the waterbottle on the back of my neck. It’s good.

Money.

“Okay,” I say as I walk back on the hot side of the lights, “let get this fucker done.”

2:00

Same position. I’m holding the girl steady, lance lowers and enters her once again except this time something is different. It’s much hotter on the backside of my dick, far tighter inside her cunt too. The compression is right on my Spot, my eyes roll half-lidded back in my head and I’m rounding the corner from inhaling to exhaling my own primal emote–then I feel the slither of the back-stroke and an instant understanding flashes by me.

No, he can’t be in the same–

“I’LL KILL YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!”

—
They all scatter but I pounce on Lance and tackle him faster than a NSA supercomputer calculates 100 digits of Pi. My fingernails dig in his eyesockets, my teeth clamp down on his ear and my mouth fills with warm syrup that tastes like old pennies. I lash my head to the side with an upward twist at the end.

The sound of wet jeans ripping.

Lance wails, voids his bladder and flails his arms like there are amps going through him.

The jagged back edge of his ear leaves him looking like a Keebler elf.

I chew and spit. Ear bits bound together by a matrix of saliva pellet his face like a shotgun blast.

Lance swallows, and his undulating Adam’s apple reminds me of our dicks wrestling for space in the same pussy. Cuspids dig into throat, I clamp down, something important cracks.

He gurgles. I laugh.

I’m Apophis the Destroyer, my teeth need more flesh. I see his cock twinge in my peripheral vision.
—
Lance says, “Why you gettin’ all hostile n’ stuff, man? It was an accident.”

I don’t bother with my socks and underwear, pulling on only my pants and shoes.

“Let him go,” the director says to Lance. “Are you two available tomorrow so we can finish this?”

Shirt now on, I heft the sea bag over my shoulder, leave the room and go through the kitchen, past the table with the red plastic cups and the sink with the dishes piling up and out under the star-less night sky of the city. I walk.

The police helicopter buzzes in the distance. Its searchlight a white spec.

Goddamn-motherfucking-FAGGOT!

The residential neighborhood gives way to a street with shopping centers.

There’s a phantom sensation of him sliding on me, like the phenomenon amputees report about still “feeling” severed limbs.

I still need two scenes. Three really with what I spent on the taxi and the Viagra.

The chopper rattles closer.

Okay, so yeah it felt alright–but before I knew what was going on–so FUCKING WHAT! That’s just biology. Nerves doing what there supposed to do. Sending signals of pleasure and pain to my brain. It’s got nothing to do with who I am.

The ‘copter makes thundering sweeps over the neighborhood I just left a few streets over. Amanda answers after a few rings.

“Hey.”

I plug my ear with a finger as the police cruisers wail past me and toward the ghetto bird.

“Hey.”

It’s hard to breath, my eyes sting and my vision blurs and I tilt my head back as headlights from passing cars find my face, hang there, and move on.

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Tagged: Creative Memoir