Tyler Knight

I’m hopped up on Viagra tossing an Asian girl back and forth between me and Malik like we’re Joe Montana and Jerry fucking Rice. Chemically enhanced, my skull is crunchy cereal caught in the screws from the Inquisition and I got tone in my ears from my own private emergency broadcast station, wailing just for me.

We’re on a bed with white sheets in an all white, unfurnished room. The absent delineation from floor, to wall, to ceiling robs the eye of any sense of depth or focal point. This gives a vertigo inducing feel of the set tumbling into infinity. Three brown dots fucking in a sea of nothingness.

“Cut,” says Stan. Stan’s wearing an all white, velvet track suit. “We got enough vag, let’s get the anal.”

Great, ass spelunking. Let me be clear. I’ve never been a fan of the Sodomy Arts. Sorry kiddies, but when you see me digging in a girl’s asshole, it’s all about the money. It’s just not my thing.

“Are you clean?” I ask the girl.

The female talent’s preparation for an anal sex scene begins twenty-four hours before the she sets foot on set. This is when she stops eating. In a perfect situation, the girl has the discipline to fast for the entire day. If on the day of her scene there are pages of dialogue to shoot, the little darling may still have to wait around for an additional twelve hours before the filming of the sex actually starts.

Food catering, a.k.a. craft service, offers temptations. Because of expediency, craft service is almost always Mexican food. Or Chinese. And Starbucks, which could restore her food depleted energy levels.

A half hour before filming the anal sex, the girl takes an enema bottle and a box of baby wipes to clean out whatever residual matter may still be inside her colon. The amount of food material remaining depends on the individual’s digestive system. And her discipline. The starlet alternates between the enema and warm water. When she’s confident she’s clean, she chews a couple of Imodium tablets, slowing her bowels.

She says, “Yeah, but lemme tidy up a little bit more,” and goes off set, to the bathroom. She takes a box of baby wipes with her.

With no girl on the bed, I’m self conscious of laying next to another dude while we both stroke our cocks to keep the motor running in feminine absence. I stand up.

Stan sits on the foot of the bed and says, “You been doing an aight job for us, TK. You really stepped up these past coupla months.”

Business is spiraling down the toilet industry-wide thanks to piracy, torrent and the economy. These guys are taking care of me. I haven’t had money issues since I’ve signed the sex toy deal and performing contract with their studio, DVD Gangstas. As long as I perform well, I’m insulated from economic pain with guaranteed money. I remember what it’s like to be poor and I ain’t going back.

“Thanks, man,” I say. “I always give it my best.”

Malik is the new “it” kid. He’s on his back stroking his cock, using two hands but it’s really a job for three. It’s fucking ridiculous, his dick is a baby’s arm holding an apple. He’s half whitey, half peeps–peeps in the right place–and studios are killing themselves to shoot this kid. Malik bust a freestyle rap about pussy and rainbows.

“So,” I say, “I figure since I have a normal-sized dick I’ll warm Maite up with me doing the first anal position.”

“Nah, nigga,” says Malik. “Lemme tap that ass first while I’m still hard. You got a smaller dick so you don’t need as much to keep you going.

Pulling the size card. Nice.

“Sure,” I say. “Whatever.”

I’ve popped two, 100mg Viagras in the past hour. This is four times the doctor recommended dose. When I was a rookie, a chip of a pill get me up but after so many scenes, it’s diminishing returns. Even at best, Viagra only helps me for an hour, two tops, before it works against me. The drug is screaming through my system full force. For now.

Where this girl? This is fucking with my Viagra timing, let’s go!

“Okay, back! Let’s fuck!” Maite says as she bounds onto the bed and into Malik’s arms. They go down in their own little giggling pile of youth, and I’m as welcome as a speck of rat shit in your vanilla ice cream. It would be a real Kodak fucking moment if I didn’t have to go through the paces of ass-fuckery.

“Let’s shoot this fucking thing,” I say, and the kids stop their grab-assing.

“Action!” shouts Stan, and back into the melee I go. I’m laying on my back, my dick in Maite’s mouth while Malik is widening the gauge of her asshole. The blowjob sucks, and in this case it’s not a good thing. Malik is a battering ram and each impact either scrapes my dick against her teeth or knocks it out of her mouth entirely. I’m getting blown by a blender on puree. I feel the drug’s window of efficacy closing and that’s a motherfucker because my heart wants to leap the fuck out of my mouth and I’m getting a serious case of Viagra numb-dick.

Please, not yet!

Malik is going DEFCON 4 slamming into the gates of her ass as if he’s a barbarian laying siege against Constantinople.

“Switch,” says Stan.

Malik stops the assault and I position myself behind Maite’s ass. Her sphincter is open, red and raw. Her gaping O-ring is damn near blown out, offering a clear shot of her textured, pink innards that seem to go on forever. On her rim, flecks of fecal matter that have the consistency of gruel and the color of bread gone bad. A scent, no, an unholy stench of slaughtered cows suspended in a vat of mayonnaise left to turn in the desert leaps out of her exposed cavity and slaps my face like a dame in a Bogart movie. The worst part of this is, the Viagra-and-exasperation cocktail has left me short of breath.

And my mouth is open.

I snap my mouth shut and vacuum seal my lips, searching for the elusive adjective for the phantom of taste still lingering on my palate. It tastes surprisingly like fresh-picked strawberries. That’s if in some fucked-up parallel universe strawberries are dingleberries. Seriously man, I’m searching for some kind of comparison because “tastes like shit” ain’t gonna cut it.

Stan peeks over the top of the camera’s viewfinder. “Go ahead, nigga. Fuck ass. I’m rolling camera.”

“I need a minute,” I say.

Malik and Maite, giddy with porn-induced psychosis, continue their sport fucking while I kneel next to them, cold cock in my hand. Normally if I my dick goes down I just have to look at a girl’s ass and I’m dealt back in the hand but I’m taking a bad beat on the river because sewer cheeks has eliminated my last out. Looking at her ass is not an option.

I’m rubbing a brittle, dry-rotted eraser passing for my dick with the business end of her ass, seen through peripheral vision, aimed at me. I get off the bed and go into my mind.

Within the time it takes to microwave a bag of popcorn, an eternity in pornnoland when timed location fees are ticking away like a taxi meter, I manage to conjure up some depraved shit from my wank-bank to get me going.

I’m fucking the girl’s ass, not looking down, mouth closed and taking sips of air from my nose because smell is the lesser of two evils.

Stan is behind me holding the camera next to my head, shooting over my shoulder and down for the point-of-view/you-are-there shot. His dragon breath blows hot on my neck, tickling the hairs on my nape.

He can tongue my ear if he chooses to but instead he whispers, “Gimmie some in-and-outs, nigga.”

What he wants is for me to pull my dick out of the girl’s asshole entirely so he can zoom in and shoot the gape.

My inner child screams, “NOOOO! Don’t fucking do it!”

Even if I was in a “normal” scene it’s a challenge because I’m fast becoming erection impaired, and I’m still thinking of the sloshing tempest I’m stirring up inside the girl’s bowels.

I extract my penis, millimeter-by-millimeter; Stan’s stubbly face over my shoulder is making us some kind of fucked-up, two-headed porn chimera; I’m cresting the apex of a roller coaster mountain looking down.

I pull the penile finger out of the dike–

–and nothing.

I shove my cock back into her asshole and get a few strokes when Stan whispers voice-of-God style into my ear, “Do it again.”

My inner child throws a tantrum, my heart goes supernova and my field of vision diminishes to a speck. Could be from the adrenaline dump, could be from the side effects of the Viagra. Who the fuck cares? What difference does it make at this point?

Again, I back my dick out of the asshole and–

–the barrel clicks on empty.

Inner child whimpers, “I, *sniff* wanna go hoooome.”

I look down. Her sphincter puckers and protrudes like a toothless old man’s lips with a mouthful of Skoal. There is some seepage.

My inner child is in a fetal ball.

My dick is free-falling. I stroke three or four times, not looking at the flecks of fecal matter on my shrinking shaft. I could point the leakage out to Stan so the girl can clean up, but it’s camouflaged into my ghetto-brown skin, and the last thing I want to do is stop the camera. I won’t ever get back anything resembling an erection for the rest of the 21st century if we delay. What a fucked-up dilemma. I don’t want to quit but my options are grim. What the fuck do you think I do? I rub the shit-flakes into my dick, using it as lube. A python plays grab, twist, and pull with my guts, and there’s an acrid bite of bile in my mouth, singeing the back of my throat.

I settle my gut and play Enter the Asshole once again. This time I have to death-grip the base of my shaft like a carnival balloon to milk enough blood flow for penetration. Once again, fucking away with my flatlined dick, not penetrating past the sphincter and I’m so soft Stan does not have to tell me to pull out. Maite shits my pathetic nub of a cock out and I concede defeat.

I’m still behind the girl, in the line of fire, when it happens. The aperture of her asshole snaps open, convulses and puckers like a heaving cat struggling with a hairball…and her hole is a water cannon. Well, fecal cannon to be accurate.

She gatling-guns feces, cabbage chunks, lo mein broccoli bits, sesame sprinkled shit, and more kung-pao crap–all held together my a matrix of translucent, Starbucks-brown globs onto me. Stan uses me as a human meat-shield.

It’s The Running of the Bowels. Malik leaps off the bed and across the room as if he’s got the Force, as the girl scats on me like Ella Fitzgerald.

The room is no longer all white. Nothing unshielded in her asshole’s line of fire will even be the same. Starting from the nexus of her dripping sphincter, and radiating outward is a wet, sloppy, brown Cone of Death.

I hyper-ventilate, and I may as well be huffing a colostomy bag. The fetid air is seasoned with intestinal spices; its taste coats thick and heavy on the back of my throat.

My inner child is sitting in a corner, arms wrapped around its knees, rocking back and forth. He says nothing.

“Okay, cut.” Stan says. Not a drop on his white track suit. “You need a minute, my man?”

Is he fucking serious?

I take a moment to control my breathing. I say,“No,I do not need a ‘minute’. It’s a wrap for me, I’m done for the day.”

“But you gotta finish. This is only the first anal position for you, and you gotta fuck her ass to pop, dog.”

The mattress has dookie islands bobbing in a lake of hot shit. I know it’s trite but I’m knee deep in it. My stomach folds itself inside out. Dry heaving fits. I nearly blow chunks, adding to the geography with a puke archipelago.

Enough!
I grab my pants and my soon to be ruined Versace underwear.

“Stan,” I say. “I can’t imagine anything that will get me hard again, let alone be able to fuck her ass to get off for a popshot.”

He inspects his delicate camera lens for flyaway spew, then sets his camera down. “Don’t be a punk, man. You’re a professional, take a Viagra or something.”

My heart is no longer beating. It’s vibrating so fast it glows in my chest like E-fucking-T.

“If you don’t finish the scene”, he says, “it’s gonna jeopardize your business relationship with the studio.”

Malik snatches Maite, throws her on her the floor, and turns himself into a man-blanket, fucking away.

The girl, on her back, has unlit vacancy signs where her eyes once were. Apparently, this was as good for her as it was for me. Seasoned porn whores develop an ability to check out at will. Kind of like the lizard I saw on the Discovery Channel that flips onto its back and plays dead until danger passes. Hard to tell if she’s even breathing. I follow her flat gaze up. A brown string of goo hangs from the ceiling the way drool dangles from a Doberman’s mouth. It stretches past the point of plausibility, then it stretches some more. It drips.

I say, “What are you insinuating?”

It takes many baby wipes to clean myself off. Getting everything out of my pubic hair is a motherfucker. I scrub.

Stan says, “I think it’s clear. You’re under contract with the studio. DVD Gangstas is putting cash-money on your black ass.” He looks at Malik, masturbating with Maite’s body. You can almost see a bit of her soul escape from her open mouth with each savage thrust. “I don’t have to tell you a contract star is a competitive, performance based privilege. There’s a hundred niggas that want you slot, and they all got bigger dicks than you.”

I say, “Stan, pills don’t work for me anymore.” I pass my tongue over my dry, cracked lips. It snags like a cotton ball over sandpaper. “They’re all side effects, no benefits.”

Stan says, “Malik, you know any fools that can get here right quick?”

Malik hops up. His cock glistens gold and wet, like an Oscar. Maite is mind melding with the ceiling stalactite.

Malik says, “Lemme help a nigga out.”

The kid goes over to his backpack. He’s got a leather shaving kit in his hand when he returns. He unzips it, opens it, and shows me a syringe and a vial inside. Caverject.

Thanks to science, a paraplegic man can once again have an erection, giving his woman hours of sexual ecstasy, by stabbing a needle in his cock to inject a gritty embalming fluid. In pornnoland, it’s what all the cool twenty-something kids are doing.

“You can use some of this, but I only got one needle. I used it earlier, but I’m clean. You saw my HIV test.”

There is blood suspended in the barrel.

Blood flow whooshing in the capillaries of my tympanum reverb a hellacious thrum in my brain. It’s all I can do not to take the syringe from that shaving kit and pop my ear drums.

Stan says, “Sheeit. Lemme holla at my nigga, 2Coc Shakur. I like how he gets down.” He has his iPhone in hand, and his thumbs are a blur as he fires off a text.

I’m walking past a sidewalk cafe on Sunset Blvd. People leave food untouched on their plates so that passers-by can admire what they’re not eating. The cafe patrons, not the passers, that is. Food as a fashion accessories; meals to be thrown out, ordered because they’re chic this week. I finger the change in my pocket. A dime short for a McDonald’s 99 cent Big Mac on special. One burger. My ever rove the sidewalk for loose change.

The heel of my hand squeegees stinging sweat from my eyes. I say, “Give me the goddamn syringe.”

Malik hands me the vial and the needle.

“How much?” I say.

He says, “Two micrograms. Just inject the needle right in the side of your dick. That’ll get you hard for an hour or two.”

I plunge the needle into the vial and pull back on the plunger, drawing clear liquid.

“In the tissue,” he says “not the vein.”

There’s a needle in my hand and it’s aimed at my cock.

My hands don’t want to be steady. My tongue sticks out of my mouth as if it can soak moisture out of the air. Juicy, blood cells squeeze behind my eyeballs, pushing them out of my Goddamn skull. My pulse throttles in my fingertips.

I swallow and say, “And my highschool guidance counselor said I’d end up with a job working with my hands.”

A push of the plunger squirts the excess fluid from the needle tip so the dose window says just over 2 mcgs. The fluid in the barrel is not clear. Because of Malik’s residual blood, it’s pink. I take my cock in my left hand, pulling it to the side. It stretches like chewed gum.

Stan says, “Tick-tock, nigga.”

I close my eyes, exhale, and–

*GO!-GO!-GO!-GO!*

Stan’s iPhone goes supernova meltdown at the exact moment iStab with a downward, jabbing motion into my penis.

*-THWUMP-BOOM-THWUMP!
“WHEN I PULL OUT UP FRONT, YOU SEE THE BENZ ON DUBS,
WHEN I ROLL 20 DEEP, IT’S 20 KNIVES IN DA CLUB,
NIGGAS HEARD–”

Stan says, “Yo, 2coc! What’s crackin, nigga? Ha-ha, naw, false alarm. We got this under control. I had to regulate on a muthufucka–”

I yell, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

Stan hangs up and looks at my dick. “Oh, snap!”

“What, Goddamn it? What?”

Stan snickers and says, “You hit the vein, nigga.”

Stan is on the edge of laughter as he looks at Malik. Malik laughs. Stan laughs, too. They laugh together.

My hand is wet. Warm blood, mine, is spurting around the needle tip. My hand falls away from my dick in slow motion like a feather. The other hand is still holding the syringe, which is still stabbed into my penis. The needle is now the only thing holding it up. The hair-thin needle tip bends under the weight of my unsupported cock, pulling on the vein it is stabbed into under my skin. Malik leaps forward and holds my dick before the metal tip can snap off and flow through my vein, fucking my shit up all along the way as it returns to my heart, probably shredding it. My breathing comes shallow. My knees take a personal day, and the floor comes up at me hard and fast. I come to on the way down and half sit, half collapse.

Malik says, “Don’t press the plunger! You infiltrated the vein!”

My voice sounds to me as if it’s coming from across the room. “Okay.”

Malik says, “Chill, dog. Happened to me before this scene.” He guides my hand, still holding the syringe, out of my cock. “Just put pressure on it.”

My eyes scan the room for something to fix on but they’re stuck in infinite loop. There’s a dull, twisting sensation in my gut.

Voices talking.

Maite is standing in front of me, lips moving. Behind her, Stan and Malik doubled over in laughter.

She’s got ice wrapped in a paper towel. She applies some of the ice to my penis. The paper blots my blood, and grows Rorschach-red. The girl takes a cube and pushes it past my dry lips. The ice melts cool on my tongue. I control my breathing. My heart rate slows. My field of vision expands, and space-time returns to normal.

“Thank you,” I say.

“No,” she feeds me more ice, “I’m really sorry for the mess. Thank you.”

“For what?” I say.

Stan and Malik go to the other side of the bed for freestyle rap session. Stan’s verses have creative ways of referring to me as a porn mope, fuck up. This degenerates into a pop locking, break dance battle. Malik “eats” Stan’s head.

The girl says, “I mean, thank you for finishing the scene. Stan’s your friend and all, but I’m two months behind on rent and I’m almost out of diapers for my daughter. If I don’t get this check, I’m fucked.”

“He’s not my friend.”
———–

The second attempt, I accept help. Me holding the dick still, Malik doing the injecting. There is a sharp bite as the needle tip pushes against my skin until the epidermis gives way. Greedy cock-flesh wraps itself around metal. The needle coasts in crisp and cool. Malik presses the plunger, and withdraws it.

Maite says, “I’ll help him out.”

She gets on her knees and kneads. Within a few moments, it feels like I’ve shot my God-rod up with ball bearings and crackling Pop Rocks; my cock stretches my skin to the edge of painful, at the same time sealing the bleeding wounds at the injection sites shut.

Stan flips the mattress over to the good side. There’s a piss stain on it that looks like a two-headed donkey leaping through a ring of fire. Stan covers it with a blanket. Malik, Maite, and I hop on. I re-insert inside Maite’s asshole.
———–

Within minutes of the last position and pop shot, I’m sitting in my new SVT Cobra, paid for with contract money. I’ve got no savings.

End.

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Tagged: Fiction, Short Story