Tyler Knight

“I have a booking for you tomorrow. Two scenes one movie,” she says. “The Director wants to know if you’re okay with violence and horror mixed with the sex.”

I’m sitting at my computer desk, a cup of green tea warming one hand, cell phone in the other. “Horror porn?” I ask.

“Yeah, like simulated violence but the sex would of course be real,” she says.

“Why would I have a problem with that, Cindi? I’ve shot or beat-up countless people in flicks over the years.”

“I know but he made a special point to ask two things. Who our best actor is, and is he open-minded?”

What the hell does “open-minded” mean? It’s porn for Christ sake.

“Sure,” I say. “Whatever.”

“Okay, consider yourself booked then. I’ll send the email with your call time location and wardrobe info tonight.”

“Thanks.”

———

“Top-Shelf Talent.”

“Cindi, please. It’s Tyler.”

I’m scanning my email inbox for the third time in case I-

“Hey handsome, whats up?”

“Hey, Cindi,” I say. “That email you sent yesterday didn’t have a script attached.”

“Yeah, I called the director after we hung up and he said you’d get it on set.”

“K. Thanks, I’m heading over to the set now then.

———

The home’s interior is decorated in a way that suggests the owners became scratch-off ticket instant millionaires and have only recently escaped the weight of poverty. Second-hand looking furniture, sofa wrapped in plastic, pool table with side-by-side stand-up Space Invaders and Ms. Pac-Man machines. The coffee table looks like it was tooled with a chain-saw and a rock. On the far wall, a plasma TV that’s wider than I am tall, accessorized with a Wii, a PS3, and an X-box 360. Watching over all this, a velvet Jesus painting.

Lumbering towards me, a man whose stature suggests he grew up next to a nuclear power plant. Skittles-colored body-builder pants billowing with each step as if he’s some kind of African genie. He’s got on a too-small t-shirt with the “look at me, I’m a douche” v-neck that exposes his pecs.

The man thunders closer. His face is chipped-onyx, slick with sweat that gives it a look of high-gloss polish. When he stops in front of me and extends his hand, I don’t know if he want’s to shake mine, or curl me. I have to look up at a 45 degree angle to meet his eyes.

“Hi, I’m Frank,” he says. “You must be Tyler.” He takes my hand in his and squeezes. In my mind’s ear, the sound of wet celery snapping.

Easy there, killer! Chill the fuck out!

“Yep, I’m Tyler. Nice to meet you.”

Frank’s head is between me and a bank of recessed ceiling lights. From my angle looking up, it’s like looking into an eclipse. He shoves some papers at me. “Here’s the releases and whatnot. The script for both scenes is there too. Look it over when you get a chance. It’s not too challenging.”

Frank stomps off and I find space on the floor to sit. The paperwork is the boilerplate release and proof-of-age bullshit. Then there is the script.

Is this a joke?

The script is one page, two paragraphs, divided by “Scene One” and “Scene Two.” I read the first scene description…

What! The! Fuck!?

Then the second scene. Midway through the first sentence, I stop reading.

This can’t be right!

I read the script again, searching for a hidden message. There isn’t one.

Okay, it’s just make believe. This guy paid my agent in advance, I’m a professional, it’s not up to me to make judgements about the content. God knows, I live in a glass house.

Still…

———

My face is pressed against the sliding glass door, hands cupped around my eyes to cut the glare. I look inside. She is there.

A chesnut-haired girl with her back turned to me is stretching. She’s got bubblegum-flavored short-shorts that said “fuck it” to trying to cover her entire ass, the crease of where her cheek meets leg visible. She parts her legs and leans over each one to get a full stretch. No underwear. She turns to profile and shows off tits; like Jello shrink-wrapped in skin and bursting out of the baby-doll t-shirt. Jiggly-girl, oblivious to me because of the iPod plugged into her head, bounces off some jumping jacks.

There is a mist of dew on the glass from my breath, I wipe it with my sleeve to unobscure my view. She bounces. Young. Firm. Juicy. I slide the door open, not concerned with being heard, and let myself in.

She doesn’t see me at first. Not until it’s too late anyway. To her, I just materialized out of thin-fucking-air to the soundtrack of Blink 182. It takes her a moment to realize what this is. Recognition melts to horror across her pretty face. She runs, I chase. She trips, I grab. She rolls from her belly to her back in attempt to fend me off, kicking with her sock-clad feet and scratching up at my face but it’s futile. I’m too big.

She continues to struggle so I give her a back-hand slap to settle her down. With a fistful of hair, I drag Bubble-Butt Barbie to the sofa, scoop her up and dump her. Those juicy tits strain her shirt and there is enough space between the warp and weft of each thread that I can see her skin beneath. I rip it open. She screams. I smile.

The girl is no longer struggling so the fun-factor is on the wane. I lace my hands around her neck, and squeeze. She claws at my hand for the time it takes to tie my shoes, her hand goes limp and her pupils focus on the Infinity.

There’s the taste of salt on my tongue as I suckle her fist-sized areolae. I unzip my pants and take out my cock. No one is more surprised than I that it’s ripping out of its skin, looking like a shellacked table-leg. Sliding down her body, I shove my nose in her camel-toe and take deep inhalations of expired fear. Next, I rub myself on her cleft.

She stirs, moans and her eyes come back from the void. I wrap her iPod cord around her neck and finish the job.

“Cut!”

The girl springs up, as alive as she was when she stepped off the makeup chair before we started. She giggles. I stare at the floor.

Frank says, “Fuckin a’, that was inspiring, Tyler! You are an amazing actor, I didn’t think you had it in you!”

Great. I’m a homicidal necrophiliac. Awesome. File that under shit I learn about myself I wish I never knew.

My armpits are drenching my t-shirt. “I’m full of surprises.” I break my gaze with the floor and look at my costar. “You okay, Stephanie?”

She is pouting, and under different circumstances, it would be cute. “Yeah, I’m fine. Frank, why didn’t you let him stick it in me? That was hot!”

What?

Frank says, “No can do, honey. Snuff, or even portraying snuff is no bueno. My viewers will be disappointed though. They are the ones that submit these scenarios, and I film them custom just for them.”

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Yeah, thousands of people all over the world. It’s a hell of a niche. Not my taste but hey, it paid for my BMW so what the fuck do I care. 90% of the shit the fans suggest ain’t even close to legal, though. There are some sick bastards out there.”

My erection is still going strong.
Yeah.

“Okay,” Frank says. “Next scene!”

———

The sofa. Scene of the crime for my last transgression. This time, I’m dressed like a teenager fucking with the PS3 controller. The girl walks in.

This one looks like a cartoon character that let a box of ACME Dynamite explode in her face. Skin blacker than mine, hair going every-which-way. Her body is insane though. It’s like a group of teenaged boys watched the movie Wierd Science and made their own babe machine. They pressed all the right buttons to make the tits and the ass but went upstairs to answer the door for the pizza man, leaving the contraption to map out the face for itself.

She says, “I’m so glad Mommy and daddy left us alone! You’re the best little brother A girl could ever hope for!”

This is all fucking kinds of wrong.

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

Big sister straddles my lap. “I always get soooo jealous when you fuck your dates in Mommy and Daddy’s bed. I think about all the naughty things you’re doing and it makes my little pussy sooo wet.” She is grinding.

I look across the room to Velvet Jesus. I’ll get no help there. “Your not going to tell on me, are you?” I mumble.

Sis slides off the sofa and kneels in front of me. “Oh no, brother. I would never do that! If we make a deal that is.”

I can’t do this! Christ, business is slow and I only did four scenes in the past month. Do I really want to turn down the cash and piss off my agent?

She unzips my pants and takes out my dick. This time, I’m soft as marshmallows.

All I have to do is just sit here and lay back. That’s it.

“Gee, sister. I dunno…this is sooo naughty! What if Mommy and Daddy find out?” I say.

She is stroking me. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” And takes me into her mouth.

I purse my lips together, shut my eyes and exhale.

I’m standing in line to make a withdrawl from my mental wank-bank. I add extra zeroes and big-titted, dumb blondes on the withdrawal slip under “sum”.
Her lips are vacuum-sealing my shaft and her tongue whorls around.

Still flipping through my mental images. Girls I’ve fucked in the past or met while out and about.

Not this one…bad attitude and too needy. Not her, boyfriend likes to watch. Oh wait, what about this gir-

The room dissolves away and there is no sofa, and no Velvet Jesus. Only my imaginary VIVID contract girl Savana Samson’s mouth and my cock.

I don’t last long.

“Cut! Excellent, we got it.”

———

The car. Upshifting onto the 101 freeway with a series of *click*s, I put the accelerator through the floor.

Pink shorts. Meaty ass. Tits. Hands on her neck. Heart slamming against my sternum like a vice cop kicking down a meth-lab door.

My pants grow tight and uncomfortable, I reach inside to adjust. Disgusted with myself.

I am not thinking about the wet mouth with the hot breath and the soft tongue on my crotch.

And failing at it.

What am I?

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Tagged: Creative Memoir