Tyler Knight

The warming sun evaporates the dew on the car windows and works on the fog, but does fuck-all to the frost in my mind. Bag slung over my shoulder, I trudge up the steep residential neighborhood hillside toward the set.

I hear the Volvo before I see it. The Station wagon materializes one pixel at a time through the grey fog behind me, labors up the hill, and disintegrates as the mist reclaims it.

There’s the sound of a car door shutting ahead of me, and when I see the car again its driver is walking up the front stairs to the house. She’s easily as tall as I am, wearing cargo shorts and a wide brimmed gardening hat. She enters the home and shuts the door behind her.

When I get close to the Volvo, I see the “Kiss Me I’m Canadian” bumper sticker. I follow the girl up the stairs and to the shut front door of the hillside Mc Mansion. There’s a low thwump-boom-thwump, as though I’m standing outside a concert.

I open the door, and “In da Club” throttles my face; apparently, it’s vital that the entire goddamn neighborhood is enriched with the knowledge of 50’s preference for random fornication as opposed to meaningful intercourse.

Stan is inside the foyer, affecting a stooped-over pose and clutching his crotch through his baggy jeans like he’s about to pass a kidney stone. He shuffles toward me, one hand holding his pants up by his cock, the other arm bent with the elbow aimed at me. I bump elbows.

He looks at me, moves his lips, flaps his arms and moves in circles like a wounded quail on barbiturates. My fist wants to smash into his eye-ball but I catch myself. His lips stop moving and he looks at me. Waiting.

Well below the level of the music, I say, “Turn the fucking music down, you goddamn monkey.”

He blinks twice, smiles a smile that says, “I’m pretending to understand you”, pulls a remote from his pocket, and holds it across his body and over his shoulder the way a teen would turn off a car alarm.

This time, lips have audio. “How you livin, negro?” he asks, “You know what you here to do today?”

My hypothalamus is on stand-by mode because when I glance at his, “Fuck You, I’m Batman” t-shirt, the Life-Saver colored letters shift themselves into, “Fuck You, Black Man”.

I catch a few letters out of the air as they float up in front of my nose and arrange them into, “OK,” and, “I’ma cum.”

“Yeah, playa,” he says, “that’s how we do!”

Stan turns and wallows into the home. His pant cuffs drag on the marble floor. I follow, still on the wrong side of wakefulness.

“Thanks for the call last night, Stan.”

“No sweat, my man. Did I wake you?”

“Nope, I was in bed playing Xbox,” I lie, “it’s all good.”

“Coo, coo. The girl’s in the bathroom cleanin out her booty. Judas St. Lox is in the kitchen where the paperwork is at.”

I’ve only owned one TV for less than a month out of my entire adult life. Never watched much porn but even I know who Judas is. The man is a legend.

Stan continues, “It’ll be you an him with Lana Pierce. I’ma take the pretty-girl stills for the box-cover when she done cleaning up and changing before her makeup gets all fucked-up from fuckin, and we can get crak-a-lakin.”

“Sounds good.”

There is a distinct rumbling bass of two black men talking coming from deep in the house, punctuated by the staccato laugh of a young woman.

Stan says, “You done anal before, right?”

Never, you freaky bastard. That shit’s nasty, but I need the cash.

“Yep.”

“Aight, coo. Lemme handle some bidness an I’ll come get you in a hot-minute.”

What kind of people rent a home like this out to let strangers fuck on their furniture? They can’t need the money.

Stan says, “This is Ray Golden’s house, he owns Red Assholes Films but we gotta wrap this shit up before his kids get home from the school.”

He peels off to another part of the house and I continue straight. A overstuffed chaise lounge in the living room is calling me. I walk up to it, not sure of what I’m going to do until I’m in front of it. Its cushions are deep and I know if I sit my ass on it, the lounge won’t give it back without a fight so I stash the bag behind it, and follow the voices into the kitchen.

Judas is at the table sipping on a Hennessey. He passes a blunt to another instantly recognizable man wearing his trademark baseball cap, Mr. Darkus.

Darkus has a brunette girl sitting on his lap. She looks like she should be going door-to-door selling cookies. The only give away to her real age is the rape-whistle-neon bikini she’s got on. Well, that and the fact that she’s squirming on a large black man’s lap. And his cock is out. And she’s stroking it. I recognize her from the trade magazine as Assley Screw, the reigning Female Performer of the Year.

Judas see’s me, and Assley and Darkus turn to where he’s looking. The boys are all pussy-and-rainbows smiles.

The girl releases the jungle-cock, hops off Darkus’s lap, points her elbow at me and says, “Hi, I’m Assley.”

I remember where her hand was a moment ago and it’s right about now that I gain an appreciation for that porn handshake. I say hello and return the elbow bump.

She says, “Okay, I have to get to my next scene so I’ll see you guys later. It was great working with you again, Darkus.” She slips on some flip-flops, snatches some keys from the table and drags a travel bag by the handle. I watch her little walking ass churn under the glow-in-the-dark fabric as she walks past me and out of the kitchen.

They guys introduce themselves, and when I speak, “I’m Tyler”, comes out of my mouth in my nasal Mid-Atlantic accent and I want a do-over. My idle hands need to do something to keep busy, I snag a diet Red Bull from the ice-chest on the floor and join them at the table and they resume their conversation about phat Brazilian ass. I don’t talk. I nod and listen as they dish about, “So-and-so girl is a freak”, and “Those crazy white boys that shoot their dicks up with needles to get hard”, and “Did you film in Prague yet this year?”, and “Yo, Rex is working day and night. He clocked 27-gees last month. Nigga be straight ballin’!”; the words drifting in between the lazy game of puff-puff-pass with the silky cognac cooling the harsh smoke in their throats. I sip my sugar-free energy drink.

My lethargic brain is sloshing in a contact high that would fuck up Snoop, but the conversation is riveting and I don’t want to miss a single anecdote. My head’s on a slow swivel from Judas to Darkus, and not back to, rather all the way around to Judas again as I read their lips; the lip movement coming a full second before the words hit my eardrums. I let the kronik smoke-enriched baritone voices lull me into their world; an exotic lifestyle of travel, flash cars, bitches and money. I reflect upon my world; an exotic lifestyle of running after busses, and washing my scrotum with paper-towels in a McDonald’s bathroom sink.

Stan slithers into the kitchen holding a video camera. “Yo, we good-to-go, niggas. Let’s do this!”

Darkus says goodbye and how it was nice to meet me, and unlike most people in LA I believe he means it.

Judas and I follow Stan back to the foyer. He motions me to stop and we hang back a few paces.

Stan continues to the base of the steps. On the steps, a statuesque girl in black booty shorts with her juicy white ass cheeks tumbling the fuck out of the hem-line. The meaty cheeks are criss-crossed with wide-gauged, fishnet stockings that squeeze the holy hell out of the flesh, like two hams mashed up against a chain-linked fence.

Stan says, “Aight, so I’ma talk to Lana and we gonna go up the stairs and into the bedroom. TK, just hang back and do how Judas do, and you’ll be straight.”

“Okay.”

Judas unbuttons his shirt and slides of his pants and is standing in his underwear. I undress as well. Stan turns on his video camera and points it a Lana on the steps. They talk.

“Tell us your name.”

“I’m Lana Pierce.”

“And where you from, Lana?”

She sits, and the shorts strain against the puff of her pussy. “I’m from Canada.”

“Tell us why you’re here today?”

“I love it hard, deep and black in my ass,” she says, “I’m here to fuck.”

Naked, I rock back and forth on my bare heels. My hands clasp, unclasp, then search for pockets that don’t exist on my side.

Two scenes more. My own spot.

I fold my arms.

Stan says, “Stand up and let us see that phat white ass, girl.”

Judas takes my hand and presses something into it. I look and see a yellow pill.

He whispers into my ear, “Cialis. Works faster than Viagra.”

I pop it in my mouth.

Lana is on her hands and knees, bent over with her ass aimed at the camera as she looks over her shoulder. She pulls her booty-shorts to the side, plunges a finger in her steaming cunt with a sklisssh, pulls it out, and shows the camera. It sparkles. Judas spits in his hand and is stroking his elephant cock. My hands cup over my softie in an attempt to hide it.

Fuck, he’s already hard and I’m still soft. I can’t blow this.

Stan says, “We got two stiff black cocks for you today.”

Lana moans as she friggs her sloppy-wet cunt with three fingers now. She says, “Hurry up with that black cock! I’m a big girl, I need more cock than the average woman.” She rips the fishnets so that her muff is unobstructed.

Judas’s dick is all purple and veiny. Mine burrows into my abdomen.

Stan says, “Here you go, boo,” and hands her a vibrator. She turns it on.

The blue vibrator roars to life. Judas has pre cum. Lana’s cunt glistens. Stan goes in for a close-up as Lana attacks her clit. My cock is cold; I want to flee.

Judas speaks to me in a whisper, “First time doing anal?”

“um…yeah.”

He backhand strokes his cock; the vibrator is a muffled howl when it’s plunged into cooze; it rattles like a can of pissed-off bees on the out-stroke.

My pants are on the floor behind me. I can scoop up my bag on the way out and be down the street before–Oh for fuck sake, don’t be an idiot! Where are you going to go, huh? What the fuck are you going to do, you loser?

Judas smiles. “Relax, it will happen. Use your eyes. Hear her breath. Work with your body.”

Lana coos and places the sex-toy on her quivering meat-flaps. Her folds ripple and dance. The aroma of her pheromones reaches my nostrils.

Please, God. I feel bad for asking, but this has to happen.

Stan says, “Let’s go upstairs to the bedroom. I’m sure we can find you some black cock.”

Lana clicks off the vibrator, stands, and walks up the stairs. Hips swing, the fishnets threaten to snap, and ass-cheeks jiggle as she climbs the stairs. Lana is a woman, the girl in the gym was a child.

I feel a twinge. My cock climbs to room temperature.

Stan follows her up the steps, the camera’s lens a tongue-length from her wonderful flesh. Her ass warps the ebb and flow of space-time around it. Stan waves from over his shoulder without looking up from the viewfinder as he walks. Judas and I follow them up the stairs. I feel the tart snap of citrus in my jowls far sooner than I would with Viagra. My skin stretches tight.

Lana is kneeling doggy style on the bed. Stan backs away from the action and blends into the pattern of the wall paper like a ninja. Judas plays with his cock on her lips–her tongue flickers on the head–and he stuffs his cock in her mouth. The sound of slurping.

I take a lung-full of air, climb onto the bed, position myself behind her and with one hand, I grab her by a meaty hip that’s already slick with a sheen of sweat. Her flesh gives fractionally in my grasp and pushes back against my fingers. My other hand is just able to wrangle my dick and I imagine my skin separating like a wet paper bag. My tip rubs on her lips to scoop up some cunt-juice for lubrication.

I push past her lips; she gives a sharp inhalation; synapses overload; my mind snaps alert!

Continued…

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Tagged: Creative Memoir