With no greater grasp of what makes me sexually unique than I had on the day I discovered the virtues of Vaseline, I’m to have my manhood molded for mass production. Too late for seller’s remorse. I signed the contract and the cashed check is in a dozen different pockets now.
I’m staring out the passenger-side window of Stan Trial’s SUV, paying as much attention to my self-absorbed fellow Angelenos as they pay attention to me. A sea of concrete, steel, and humanity playing hurry-up-and wait on the freeway in our rolling isolation booths.
Stan, the wunderkind director for the porn studio, DVD Gang, shoots porn like he’s filming at a skate board spot swarming with security guards. Watching the sex scenes he’s shot, I often wonder what the fuck I just saw. And I’m in them. He’s been on the phone since we left the studio, playing verbal grab-ass with a porn girl who is chic-this-week. Fine by me. We snake our way through the West Valley freeway on the way to the Premiere Exotic Novelties, Inc. factory. Apparently they are the biggest manufacturer of sex toys in the world. I’d never heard of them until that meeting.
When DVD Gang’s president pitched the idea of an exclusive performing contract with the studio and a signature deal with his friends sex-toy company, PENI, it was all I could do to keep the bubbly-swigging-gangsta-rapper inside of me tasered the fuck down while I pulled on the stoic mask. Calm on the outside, I worked out some reasonable concessions. Inside, I was a ten-year-old stuck in a traffic jam with a full bladder; I couldn’t stuff those crispy checks into my rib-exposed bank account fast enough. Bitches and money; the ultimate swindle. Right?
I ride along the freeway the way a prisoner would savor his last spoon of icecream. Only now, a month after the deal has been inked, do the consequences weigh on me. How do I feel about a rubber facsimiles of my cock with a half-life of herpes? What would the world look like with ten thousand of my dick doppelgangers in it? Shit, the most thought I’ve given to the still nebulous process of casting my cock was the mention of a fluffer to keep me hard. My imagination speculates what this boner-bobbing beauty looks like. And who’s providing the girl, can’t remember — the studio or PENI?
We prowl down the freeway exit ramp, coasting to a stop at the signal. A wide hipped Mexican woman extends a leathery hand holding plastic baggies of produce at my window. The banana’s browning skin tells me the meat inside has turned to mushy, black sugar. I crack the window enough to slip a ten-spot through but not enough to let the med-fly-and-smog flavored fruit in. She snatches the cash and throws back rapid-fire grief. I’ve got a talent for insulting women without trying. In the side mirror, cars behind us don’t even acknowledge the fruit lady’s existence. She can’t give her product away.
Who the hell would buy these things anyway? Pretty girls can’t have much use for a rubber penis. They always have dozens of real cocks on call. Unless they just want the dick without having to deal with the dick. Gay guys? Sure, I guess, although personally I’d rather think about that one-in-a-thousand co-eds soon to be fucking me by proxy.
And what of the other uses for it? Door stopper? A toilet snake to unplug a stubborn clog. Mount it on a car antenna; when driving fast it undulates in the wind? Perhaps drill a hole in the base and mount it on a finger for the big game like one of those big foam “# 1” hands. Maybe it’ll be used for good, like a self-defense club, and a granny will beat off a mugger…okay, poor choice of words.
The deal memo says the dongs will be mechanized and battery-powered. What if those robo-cocks go Mary Shelley and all ten thousand veiny bastards vibrate themselves off the shelves and out of the drawers and go on a pilgrimage to seek me out, filling my front yard like, well, Woodstock? Would the mob have a leader, and if so, can it talk? What do I say to it in that awkward moment, How’s it hanging? Knowing my luck they’ll go Roy Baty on me and push my eyeballs into my skull when I don’t have any answers for the questions I would ask if I was them. Imagine the TMZ van pulling up to my house to capture the moment of the porn star bludgeoned to death by clones of his own cock.
We turn onto a major boulevard where the single-family ranch homes and the pink-stucco apartment buildings dissolve to warehouses and business parks.
“I dunno why they picked you for a sex toy.” Stan looks like a Hollywood screenwriter that hasn’t sold a script since Chariots of Fire. He’s off the phone, scraping his Suburban between two parked compacts and still has coordination to toss a shrapnel-edged truth-grenade my way. “You ain’t packin like Ron Jeremy, Lexington steel, or Shawn Michaels.” He knows how to put a gimp in my swagger with the skill of an ex-wife.
He’s right, this is insanity! I’m making a fool of myself! Unless Lex loans me a few links, I’m gonna make a run for it as soon as we stop.
I don’t. Instead, I stand in the parking lot evaluating the PENI complex. No sign to distinguish it from it’s neighboring office buildings and warehouses. Could be a auto-supply firm. Could be a covert DARPA weapons test lab.
Exactly.
At the door, I close my eyes. The sound of passing traffic. My stoic mask on again, my hand grabs the handle. The door doesn’t want to give with obvious level of tug so I increase my effort. Airlock breached, cool air whooshes past my ears.
I enter.
Continued…
Tagged: Creative Memoir
