Angry White Male

by Steven Travers

  Part of it was New York bias against a West Coast athlete, which made no sense to Stan.

  "Man," he told them, "this guy was the biggest thing in New York for years and his greatest moments, even for the Dodgers, have been in New York. Don't you remember the time he literally made Yankee fans cheer him at the Stadium? He did the same thing at Shea. He's not a West Coast athlete! He's a friggin' world figure. Besides, the last I checked, L.A. was the second biggest city in America, the L.A. Basin's got what, 13 million people there? Do you realize what kind of a media market that is?"

  "Mr. Taylor," one female editor with clipped hair and a mean face told him, "Boswell has a nasty, negative reputation. We're not anxious to do business with him. We're talking about a very significant investment, and we want to know that Boswell will cooperate, not just 'blow us off,' as he is wont to do. You've had time to be with him, I recognize who you are and you're writing skills are excellent, but in order for this book, a sports book, to sell, people are going to have to feel that it has the ring of truth to it, and the only way that happens is they see Boswell doing a book tour. Until we know he will do that, we can’t say yes. He’s neither committed to that yet, nor even signed a contract with you."

  "Look," Stan tried to resurrect the situation, but he knew the fight was lost. "I've approached this guy in the middle of a pennant race. He's on the road half the time. He's chasing the two greatest records in sports history, for God's sake, and you want him to drop his life to give me this. It's not going to happen. You have to take me at my word, that I know this man. I grew up with him. I've played the game, I understand the way these dudes think. When the time comes, he'll cooperate. He'll give me the stories, the anecdotes I need. He'll do all the interview shows. Trust me. But you've got to wait until after the World Series, because he's going to be playing in it until the end of October."

  "With all due respect," said mean face, "I think you believe what you are saying. But we've dealt with many celebrities, movie stars, politicians, all of these kinds of people. They either are cooperative or they're not. If they're going to cooperate to have a book written, they want to do it. You sound like you're fronting for your Mr. Boswell. Explaining and apologizing for him. I'd prefer to have him come here, or call himself, and assure us personally that he will be able to do all we require. Look, I know how good he is, and what a big story this record is. If he breaks the record, we'll consider it, but for now we have to decline."

  Walking out of the last publishing house, Stan looked at Lon.

  "Dog men and their mean women," he told his agent. "Let's get drunk."

  The messenger was Stan. He was the one who had all but promised a deal with a publisher, and it was he who had “failed” in this endeavor.

  "I just back back from New York," Stan told Matt Hobli. "They want to wait to see if he breaks the home run records. They want to know Billy will cooperate a hundred percent."

  "Hey," said Matt, "when Billy commits to something, he gives it a hunnerd 'n' ten percent."

  "Hey," said Stan, "I know that. You know that, but these New York bow tie types, these Radcliff lesbos, shit man, they don't know that."

  "You said you could get a deal," said Matt, "but I don't see anything I can take to Billy."

  “Don’t I look like the fuckin’ asshole,” Stan said, imitating Jack Nicholson in "A Few Good Men". He was between a rock and a hard place. Stan had a friend who ran a public relations firm. When he heard about the failure to secure an offer, he offered to put Stan in touch with a friend of his.

  "Hey man," said the PR man, "you're mistake was going to New York with that Lon Robertson guy. He's a second-rate agent, man. You need gravitas. Lon Robertson is not gravitas. I got the guy for you."

  Sidney Bertelstein was a high-powered agent at the The William Morris Agency in New York who specialized in “collaborations,” and felt the project was “a slam dunk.” Stan had been dissatisfied with Robertson anyway. He had not done much for his screenwriting career, and was not a literary agent in the book genre, anyway.

  Bertelstein felt that everything was in place: Hot subject matter and a big time celebrity in the middle of his greatest period of fame. Now Stan had the representation of one of the biggest names in the game. Two things were lacking, though. Boswell would not sign a contract tying himself to Stan until he had an offer from a publisher, and Bertelstein was repping Stan “on the come,” as they say. In other words, he did not sign a contract with Stan making him his official agent. It was all wait-and-see, as in wait and see if the publishers come through.

  Bonds had been helpful to Stan when he saw him at Dodger Stadium, and his 2001 exploits were obviously easy to recount. The key to everything was whether he would break the record. The publishers told Bertelstein that if he did that, an offer might be pending. Stan sweated the end of the season out. He continued to go to Dodger Stadium, but Billy no longer was giving him the smiling, "Hey, dude," greetings. He also saw Larry Wishborn there. Stan's back was up when he saw that son of a bitch; the way he had felt cornered, and got in Wayne Fingers' face; beaned Rico; fought back in junior high. He would bide his time, but Larry Wishborn would rue the day he messed with Stan Taylor.

  Stan received the letter postmarked Las Vegas again, with his name and address typed, but there was no return address. This time it came to the house he shared with Michelle, instead of his office at the L.A. Times. It was the same letter, a copy. What the heck was going on here? Whoever was sending him this stuff apparently did not realize that Stan already knew what his girlfriend had been doing. Furthermore, he did not care. He loved Michelle. He wanted her. He wanted to marry her and have kids with her. So what if she was a porn star? So what if she had been a high-priced "fantasy girl?" She loved him. This was true love, which is a rare thing. He had been faithful to her, not an easy trick. He was a good-looking guy. He had made good money and had opportunities. He was not a jealous guy. He was a Christian but not a prude or a Puritan. Okay, his attraction to a woman like Michelle was a flaw, but he never said he was perfect. He wanted to be happy, to grow old with somebody who cared about him. She did care about him. He did not want to be lonely. He was lucky and that was that.

  Stan had no idea who the hell sent this letter to him. He suspected it was not a P.I., but rather some girl who knew Michelle, and knew that she was planning to marry Stan. In his gut, he knew he that marriage to her would be tricky, and not just because of the danger of her "secret" becoming publicly exposed. The contradictions of Michelle - the loving girl who called Kaitlyn her “daughter” and was so sweet to his parents - vs. the slutty porn star, were things Stan thought he could deal with.

 

  Michelle was not really bi-sexual. Growing up in Tahoe, she had never really thought about being with other girls. It was not as putrid a prospect as it is to your average straight, homophobic boy. It was just that she was not attracted to women. But when she entered the porn business, things changed. The others girls were all so hot and sexy that even Michelle was attracted to them. It was hard at first, but eventually she agreed to do "girl-girl" scenes. Michelle's bread-and-butter was nasty hetero sex, the kind of extreme, explicit, anything-goes stuff that had come to be called "gonzo" porn. She had approached Vivid about becoming one of their contract girls. She had the looks to be a Vivid girl. Vivid girls were almost mainstream, legitimate stars. Their picture hung on a billboard on Sunset Boulevard. Almost legit. They told Michelle they did not think she was going to be a Vivid girl because the choices she made in the beginning of her adult career had led her to such extreme movies. The Vivid girls had a softer, more feminine image. Their clientele were supposed to be couples. Michelle's fan base had come to expect her to do the most outrageous stuff, and she had fulfilled their expectations for a few years, until she quit doing sex on film. But she had done scenes with girls, and she liked it.

  Michelle had a friend named Ashton Gear. Ashton was a beautiful, tanned, busty brunette. She had been a huge porn
star in the early 1990s, and like Michelle she had stopped making adult movies after a while. She was a smart, charismatic girl and wanted to become a mainstream actress. She made a few appearances on TV shows, but like Ginger Lynn and Traci Lords, Ashton was not able to overcome the stigma of her porn career. She returned in the late '90s, just like Ginger had done. Michelle and Ashton were close friends, and they enjoyed having sex with each other. Ashton had worked as a "fantasy girl" for the same agency that Michelle was with, and they had teamed up on men several times.

  From the beginning, Michelle had told Stan that she had girlfriends that she would be willing to bring into their bedroom. Stan had never told her that he had fulfilled just about fantasy that a man could have long before she came along. Michelle thought that he had lived a sheltered life and had no idea how wild Stan's "ancient lunatic" period had been. He had gotten most of his yah-yahs out of his system, and did not like the idea of making it with another woman in front of Michelle.

  "You know, baby," he told her, "I bet you know a lot of sexy models that you could bring to me, and I appreciate it, but I love you. I just want you. If we start swinging and bringing other people in, and that kind of thing, I think we're playing with fire."

  Michelle kissed him.

  "You just tell me if you ever want to do it," she told him. "I want to be your fantasy. I don't ever want you going someplace else to find what I can provide you. Anything, anything at all. I'm game."

  I bet you are, thought Stan. Then Michelle brought Ashton home with her. Kaitlyn was staying at her grandparents.

  "Stan," she said, "this is Ashton. She did some lingerie shoots with me."

  Stan immediately recognized her. He had jacked off watching her before.

  I can't believe Michelle brought this chick around, Stan thought to himself. Does she really think I don't know who this girl is?

  Ashton had, indeed, been a major star, but Stan had played himself so innocently that Michelle thought he knew nothing about porn stars.

  "Hi Ashton," said Stan.

  "I've heard a lot about you," said Ashton.

  "Really?" said Stan, smiling. "Like what?"

  "Like you've not quite experienced everything life has to offer," she replied,

  Ashton just looked at Michelle and they smiled.

  Christ give me strength, thought Stan.

  Christ had higher priorities than Stan Taylor's sex life. Stan was a disciplined guy in most areas of his life. Sex was not necessarily one of them.

  That night, he took Michelle and Ashton to the Rainbow on Sunset. The Rainbow was still a well-known hangout for rockers, groupies, strippers and porn stars. Surely Michelle and Ashton would be recognized there. Stan half hoped they would be. Maybe Michelle wanted to be, too. Maybe they had both been living a lie for two long, and it was time to get everything on the table. Stan thought that if Michelle believed they could go to the Rainbow without her porn persona becoming known to him, then it must be because Stan could easily be fooled. Indeed, several people recognized them as porn stars. The girls brushed it off. Stan pretended not to notice.

  How naive do they really think I am? was Stan's oft-repeated refrain. Everybody partied pretty heavily. Stan drank Long Island Ice Teas, a specialty at the 'bow. After a while, nobody really cared much if in the crowded, loud rocker atmosphere some guy came up to Michelle and said something like, "Hey, Ashley Michelle, you're my favorite porn chick, how come you retired?" Alcohol will have that effect.

  When they got home, everybody was drunk. Michelle had worn a 1960s style pink halter and hip-hugging tights. Ashton was in a black leather ensemble. Stan stared at Ashton. God, she looked good. Michelle cornered Stan, drunk.

  “Ashton wants to suck your cock and balls while you fuck me,” she said.

  This seemed like quite an offer for Stan. He still clung to the idea that she was to be his wife, and maybe the mother of his future child.

  “Baby,” he told her, “believe me, it’s not that I wouldn’t want to do that, but I love you and I don’t want anything to come between us, no matter how good it feels for a single night.”

  “But baby,” she cooed, “it’s okay with me. You can cum on my face, and she’ll lick it off. I know how much you love that. This is for you, your fantasy.”

  Stan had a hard-on for the ages, but he turned down the offer.

  "Michelle," he said, "Ashton is awesome. I’m not perfect, but if you and I are gonna be a couple, if we're gonna have a family, this is the kind of thing that can bring us down. This takes us on a road that…I don’t know where it takes us."

  Michelle just stared at Stan, then walked over to Ashton.

  "Stan doesn't wanna do it," she told her.

  "He what?" asked Ashton, as if she had been told that Stan wanted to stick his hand down the garbage disposal and turn it on. In her entire life, no man had ever turned down sex with her.

  "Hey Stan," she yelled drunkenly. "Are you gay or something'?"

  "Ashton," pleaded Michelle.

  "Listen, Ashton," said Stan. "I know you're into all this ménage stuff. I don't care. Shit, you'd be amazed at how much I like it. I've done a lot more than you think."

  "You got to be queer," said Ashton.

  "I may be a lot of things," said Stan, "but being queer definitely ain't one of 'em."

  Stan just turned and headed to bed so he could sleep off this very weird night.

  In the morning, Stan stumbled out of bed in his underwear. He made it to the kitchen, grabbed a cup of coffee, went out to the driveway, and picked up the paper. Then he came inside and walked into the front room, where he read the morning paper every day. Ashton was sitting on the sofa, wearing a black thong and bra. She was painting her toenails.

  "Oh, shit," said Stan.

  "Hi, Stan," Ashton said breezily.

  "Morning," said Stan.

  Stan just ignored her. At least he tried to. In between reading the paper, he glanced at Ashton. What a fox! She smiled at him.

  "It's okay to look," she said.

  "I'm not so sure about that," he replied.

  A couple of days later, Ashton was still staying with them.

  "Honey," Michelle said to Stan. "I have to fly to Miami for four days. Is it okay for Ashton to stay at the house."

  "What?" said Stan.

  "You're not gonna say no, are you?" said Michelle.

  "Michelle," said Stan, "I know she's your friend, but I don't think Ashton's the kind of girl someone leaves with her fiancée for four days."

  "You said you didn't want to do anything with her," said Michelle. "I trust you."

  "What about Kaitlyn?" asked Stan. "I'm supposed to get her tonight. She's gonna wonder who this sex vixen is."

  "Oh Stan," said Michelle, "Ashton won't be wearing her bikini when Kaitlyn's here. Tell her she's my friend from modeling, which she is."

  "Whatever," said Stan.

  He knew this was not a good idea. Michelle was leaving him alone with a porn star who had already offered herself to him. Stan figured his daughter's presence would be a good factor in dissuading Ashton from any hankie-panky. When Michelle left, Stan called his mom.

  "Hi, Mom," he said. "I was wondering if I could come get Kaitlyn."

  "Oh, Stan," said Shirley, "I was just going to call you. We're going to visit the Olsen's in San Diego and bring Kaitlyn. I hope you don't mind."

  "Oh, Mom," said Stan, "I really wanted to see her. Do you have to?"

  "Stan," said Shirley, "the Olsen's haven't seen Kaitlyn since she was a baby. She's excited to go. You can do without her, let her grandparents spend some time with her."

  Without Kaitlyn, Stan decided to go to Gold's Gym.

  "Want to work out?" he said to Ashton.

  "Sure," she said.

  Stan drove her to the gym. She wore a little blue sports bra and tight shorts that basically rode up her butt. When they got to the gym, everybody was in awe of her.

  "Man," said one sports trainer wh
o had seen Stan with Michelle, "I gotta hand it to you, bro, you know how to pick 'em."

  "You have no idea," said Stan.

  Ashley got on the Stairmaster and when the sweat mixed with her tanned skin, Stan's unit was as hard as blue tungsten steel. He still had a hard-on when they drove home, and Ashton noticed it.

  At home, Stan went to take a shower. He turned on the water and soaped up. He stroked himself and had a tremendous erection. He began to masturbate, figuring if he ejaculated he would lose the edge and be able to ride out the storm until Michelle returned. He closed his eyes and started to stroke. He imagined it was Ashton's face inches away from his woodie. Then the sliding glass door opened and Ashton walked in the shower naked.

  "Oh no," said Stan.

  "God damn that's a nice cock," said Ashton. "Michelle wasn't kidding."

  "Oh, come on," said Stan.

  "Stan," Ashton said, "I saw how hard you were in the car. A man with a cock that hard deserves to be taken care of."

  Ashton entered and got wet, rubbing her breasts against Stan. She grabbed his erection and got on her knees. Stan had lost all resistance. He was actually quite proud that he had lasted this long. Ashton turned him around and stuck her face in his ass. She used her hands to spread his ass cheeks wide, and stuck her tongue right up Stan's anus, rimming him. She licked his ass, the area between his ass and his testicles, and then managed to pull his balls and cock back into her mouth from behind. Then she let his cock go and with her hand stroked him while working his ass with her tongue. Then she turned him around and deep throated him. Then she got up.

  "Get on you knees," she commanded.

  "Stick your tongue up my asshole," she commanded. Stan did just that. He licked her ass and her pussy. Then he stood up and stuck his erect unit into her moist vagina. As they were screwing, Ashton looked into his eyes.

  "You better have a big load for me," she said, "because I want your cum on my face. I wanted it two nights ago and it's overdue."

  "Oh, God," is all Stan could mutter.

  They screwed in the shower. They screwed in the bathroom drying off. They screwed while Stan carried Ashton to the bedroom, still impaled on his cock. Ashton pulled some sexy lingerie out of her bag and continued to say nasty things to Stan. She put on a little dance show for him while he lay on the bed and stroked up. Then they made love for another hour until finally Ashton said, "I wanna taste you, now."

  She lay down and Stan got on top. He stuck his balls in her mouth and she sucked them while Stan stroked himself. Then he aimed his cock at her face and enormous streamers of jizz shot all over Ashton's lips, mouth, cheek, nose, eyes, eyebrows, and lips. Just when it seemed that Stan had shot all the semen he had, he shot more. It kept cumming and cumming, coating and bathing Ashton. It was absolutely unreal. The Pope would not have had the willpower to resist such an experience.

  Then Stan collapsed.

  "God almighty," he said, "you were bound and determined to get that, weren't you?"

  "No man says no to me," she said. "I had to keep my record intact."

  "You are aware that I wanted to stay faithful to Michelle," said Stan.

  "Oh well," is all Ashton said. Stan stared at Ashton. She was an amazingly beautiful woman. Her looks and sex appeal had rendered him hopelessly unable to fend off her advances. But why had she come on to him? Just because she could? Stan sensed something about Ashton, something about most really beautiful women. The more exceptional a woman's looks, he reasoned, the uglier her soul. It was some kind of cosmic trade-off. The really good people were the “ugly” ones; the disabled, the retarded, the poor, infirm, sick, deformed. The poor and the needy. Maybe they were the ones who had to carry the burden of good in society. Great-looking people did not seem to realize that they were given this "gift," this great attribute that everybody wants yet few possess, but they only had it for a short time. As youth fades so goes the physical looks, and then what? Then these Beautiful People are left to live with themselves. A girl like Ashton Gear had traded on her looks all her life, for money and an easy passage. She lived well and had enjoyable sex with other good-looking people. How hard could that be? She had never paid any real price. What about Michelle? Stan reasoned that she was different. She did what she did out of love for her father, but was she really that different? She had been born with physical attributes of great magnitude, she knew it, and she too had traded on it for a life of, of what? Instead of working like regular people, she had lived a life of glamour and sex for money.

  No, inside the most Beautiful People, men as well as women, were the ugliest hearts. The prettier a person was, the harder they had to work to get in God's good graces. These were the Narcissists who moved through life without really caring for anybody else. In fact, maybe it was even more sinister than that. Maybe the devil really did offer people, people he knew were wavering, a special deal. Why are some people so lucky? Why are some actors, models, rock stars, athletes, politicians and businessmen so successful, so rich and famous? Was it luck, circumstance, hard work?

  Hard work? Stan worked as hard as anybody, and he kept getting his head kicked in. Maybe some top people in Hollywood had made a deal with Satan. Maybe once the deal was sealed they lost memory of having made the deal. Of course, if you know your soul belong to the devil when you die, you might not enjoy the Hollywood party scene quite as much. So these people went about their soulless business, spouting non-sensical banalities about liberal political causes they were not in any way qualified to talk about. Stan saw them on "Politically Incorrect" with Bill Maher and the "Rosie O'Donnell Show", blathering on about the rain forest and starving children. As if starving children were hungry because too many rich Americans make money, and not because they lived under a despotic dictator who stole their U.N. food shipments.

  There was Julia Roberts saying that "Republican comes after 'rhinoceros' and before 'repugnant' in the dictionary." What a Dumbellionite, was Stan's assessment. She's good looking and was believable as a streetwalker, so this makes her a political analyst? Or Alec Baldwin going on some talk show and urging the American people to stone Henry Hyde to death because he had chaired the impeachment hearings of President Clinton.

  Jane Fonda, Ted Danson, Whoopi Goldberg. The list went on and on. People blessed with looks (well, maybe not Whoopi) who got the big breaks, and now they were huge movie stars. Why? Was it a deal with dark forces that put these clowns on the world's stage, while the good Christians, Jews, and Muslims - the folks who played by the rules and paid their taxes - raised their families in anonymity? Stan thought of himself as one of those "good Christians," but was he really? His life had veered too often into the realm of self-absorption and obsession with glamorous hedonism, and it had been by design. Stan knew it was people like himself, families like the Taylor's, who had the real duty to society. It was called noblesse oblige, the "noble obligation." With all the gifts and advantages that a guy like Stan had, he was supposed to make a difference, and to do the work of good. Poor people might be those most loved by God, but He asked people like Stan Taylor to do the heavy lifting. To make good policies. To see to it that honest policies and laws are handed down. To be charitable with their time and money.

  God forgive me, Stan prayed.

  Ashton and Stan maintained an uneasy awareness of each other until Michelle came back a few days later. Michelle kissed Stan. Then Ashton left. Stan had to go to Dodger Stadium to work on the Boswell book project. When he came home, his suitcase was sitting in front of the house with his clothes in it.

  “So you just think you can fuck my friend behind my back and get away with it?” she asked the stunned Stan.

  "She told you, huh?" asked Stan.

  "Yeah," sneered Michelle.

  "Did she say she came into the shower?" asked Stan.

  "Who cares?" said Michelle. "The point is, I can't leave you for a few days without you fucking one of my best friends."

  "This was a set up, wasn't it?" asked Stan.<
br />
  "Maybe it was," said Michelle. "I needed to know if I could trust the man I was going to marry."

  "So it was okay for me to fuck her with you," said Stan, "but not without you."

  "That was different," Michelle. "This was behind my back."

  Ashton had been left there to entice him, with instructions to tell Michelle whether Stan had remained faithful or not. That was that. Stan begged and pleaded, but Michelle would not have him back.

  "Hey Michelle," said Stan. "I know who you are."

  Michelle stared at him.

  "You must think I'm pretty stupid," said Stan. "I guess I have nobody to blame, I acted the fool. The rich boy from P.V., the son of privilege. Hey, I know who Ashton Gear is. She did porn flicks with Peter North. You think I never seen a porno before, don'tcha? Baby I discovered you through porn. 'Ashley's Facial Cumshot Gangbang Fantasy'. Thought I didn't know. Nici's Girls. Fantasy girl escort, five thousand bucks a night. You think I fell for the line you could pay for your lifestyle on a bikini model's pay? You think I didn't know what you were doing when you went to 'work' on the 'road.' I know everything. I suppose you've got a few secrets, but I know most everything there is. Man, you know how many times I jacked off watching other guys in porns fuck you? You were the hottest chick around and did my favorite things. I loved that shit, Ashley Michelle. And you know what? I don't care. I told myself I found real love. I told myself I was lucky, so if you were a porn girl and an escort and been with other men, so the fuck what? You know? So what? I'm not perfect. I knew. I loved you - I love you anyway!"

  Michelle stared at Stan. She could not believe what she was hearing. He had known all along. Stan revealing this to her could go one of two ways. It could make her see things differently and accept him back, or it could enrage her.

  It enraged her.

  "Get out," she said. "Get out. Liar. You're a liar. You lied to me all along."

  "I lied to you!" said Stan. "What a joke. You did some real lying, if you want to ask me. Telling' me you're shooting a lingerie catalogue or whatever. I'd pick up the porn trades and read all about you. When you quit, I found you on the Internet. You were on Howard Stern, but oh, 'Stan don't watch Howard Stern.' I partied with Howard Stern. Some asshole in Vegas's been trying to blackmail me or something. Shit, like I need that. I let you live what you had to do, to pay for your father. I didn't judge you, but it looks like you got a lot of judgment for me."

  "Get out," said Michelle, and she started to cry. "Just leave."

  The upshot was that she could have sex with hundreds, maybe thousands of guys, as an adult film star and a prostitute, while he was not allowed a single slip-up. In the back of his mind, however, he knew it was for the better. He knew that marriage to a porn star was not a good idea. There were too many implications, too many possible pitfalls. He did not mind the effect it would have on him. He could handle it. But he had his parents and the Taylor family name to think about. He had his sweet little daughter to consider. What would he say to her if she ever found out that her step-mom was a porn star?

  Stan left.