“What?”
“What matters to you? When you’re not being a big time celebrity agent, what do you care about? You’ve been my agent for six years now and I know practically nothing about you.”
“What do you mean?”
Vera sighed, suddenly realizing how senseless the conversation was. Her agent was successful precisely because she was the way she was; she had become a wealthy woman through her ability to book her clients on shows like the one she had just proposed. It was idiotic to reprimand her agent for “fluffiness” when their mutual success depended on that so-called fluffiness.
Vera sighed again. “Never mind,” she said at last. Reconciled to her fate, she continued, “When is the show?”
“A week from Thursday. Can you make it?”
“Sure, I’ll be there.”
“Good,” she said, chipper again. “I’ll inform the show’s producer, then get back to you with the particulars. Have a good show.”
“Bye.” Vera hung up the phone, feeling slightly depressed. She missed Stacy. She thought about trying to reach her again, but knew that she had to walk over to the studio to get ready for the show. She went into the studio. Her wooly mammoth engineer was again behind the glass partition. As she sat down to begin the show, Vera felt nervous for the first time in a long while. She knew that her mindset was not right. She felt like a whore who was not in the mood to deal with her johns—if whores ever were in the mood. She was sure that she could “fake it,” but the entire proposition was loathsome. The show began. She answered calls. She allowed callers to make long, rambling statements. She encouraged them, in fact, so that the time would fly by. Whenever they asked her for advice she would say, “What do you think?” so that they would tell themselves what they wanted to hear. It was amazing how easily that worked. Her guest came on and she asked him the questions her producers had suggested. Mostly, she allowed callers to ask him questions. Vera tuned out most of it. After the guest segment, she answered more calls. In fact, everything was going smoothly until one of her typical whiny female callers came on, wanting to know if her boyfriend still loved her and what she could do to make sure. The woman sounded pathetic.
“How can I make him love me again?” the woman said, on the verge of tears.
Something snapped in Vera. “…When is the last time you had sex with him?”
“This morning—before he went to work.”
“Why did you have sex with him if you’re not sure he loves you? Were you even in the mood?”
“Well, he wanted to—”
Vera almost screamed! “Stop there,” she commanded. “You know what you need to do? You need to claim back your pussy!”
There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line; the wooly mammoth engineer looked up at her, attentive for once, his jaw hanging.
“Are you there?” Vera asked combatively.
“Y-yeah,” the woman stammered.
“You need to claim back your pussy,” she said again. “In fact, most of you women who call me up complaining about your men need to do that. Claim back your goddamn pussy. Men have misused it! In fact, the term ‘pussy’ has become an insult in our language. Men tell other men, ‘You’re a pussy!’ That’s their great insult to one another. You know what I say? I say let’s be pussies! Let’s claim back the power of the pussy! Say it with me now: Claim back your pussy!”—the woman on the phone mouthed the words inanely, still stunned—“Louder! Say it with me like you mean it—and that goes for all you women out there who want to call me up about your boyfriends and husbands. Claim back your pussy! Shout it with me now! Claim back your pussy!”—the woman on the phone finally seemed to be getting the hang of it; she was screaming it now—“That’s right! Scream it. Let that be your new mantra! Let the city rock with the sound and reality of it! Claim back your pussy! Claim back your pussy…!”
The woman chanting on the phone was like a screeching maniac now. Vera did not care. She was screaming the words herself. In her mind, it was thunderous—glorious! Her engineer stared at her as if he were in the process of having a stroke.
The show ended. Vera felt high. Dozens of women had called up after her rant, all of them screaming her chant. The switchboards were jammed. The station manager, a grandfatherly man in a bowtie, appeared in the engineer’s booth, staring at her in the same I’m-in-the-process-of-having-a-stroke way that her engineer had. She ignored them. Her callers were happy. They were energized in a way she had never seen them. She did not know if she was enlivened by that or terrified. She did not care. As soon as her show was over, she left the studio. The station manager looked like he wanted to talk to her, but she just left. She grabbed her bag and ran to the elevator. When she got outside, she was relieved. A side of her hoped that she would be fired—that the FCC would fine the station hundreds of thousands of dollars. She laughed at the prospect of it, in fact. She was free. She had been wanting to do something like that since she started the show.
In the cab, she remembered Stacy. She had turned off her cell phone during her show. She turned it on now, but there were no messages. She had told the cabbie to take her home, but she now told him to go to Stacy’s address. She was still concerned that she had not heard from Stacy all day, but then she remembered her rant on air. She remembered all those women chanting, “Claim back your pussy!” She laughed out loud, so that the cabbie looked back at her, concerned.
When she got to Stacy’s place, the kids were again outside the club. Vera got out of the cab—
“Oh my God, it’s her!”
Vera looked up in confusion to see two young women staring at her, jumping up and down in excitement. And then, “Claim back your pussy!” they began to chant; some other women, and some men that liked saying “pussy,” also took up the chant. In fact, the chant seemed to be infectious, because within seconds dozens of people were chanting it.
At first, Vera only stared at them confusedly, but then she nodded approvingly—like a queen might nod. The entire thing was preposterous, but to hell with it. Some of the women came up and shook her hand; she signed a couple of autographs…but then, she remembered Stacy. She left the excited crowd and moved on. She went to the apartment entrance. After she fished Stacy’s keys out of her bag, she opened the door and entered the building. As she walked up the stairs, she remembered how the boyfriend’s mother had been waiting on top of the staircase when she and Stacy entered. She wondered how the mother was doing….
At the door to the apartment, Vera stopped and listened, hoping to hear Stacy’s voice, but there was a moribund silence inside. She knocked, but was so on-edge that she did not realize that she had knocked feebly. She got out the keys again. As she put the key in the lock and turned it, her mind flashed with a hundred terrifying images of what she would see: Stacy and the boyfriend sprawled lifelessly on the ground from a murder-suicide, blood everywhere, faces frozen in horrified, twisted expressions… It was dark and silent in the apartment, but then she heard a moan. She turned to the left—toward the noise. The door that led to the living room was closed, but light emanated from beneath it. She approached the door, feeling numb inside—almost refusing to let her mind think.
She opened the door and gasped. Maybe twenty seconds passed before she realized what she was seeing. On the couch, two old couples where going at it, their pruny skin rippling with each thrust. Vera could only stare. They had to at least be in their seventies. One old lady had her legs thrown over one old codger’s shoulders. The other couple was doing it doggie-style. After a few moments of shock, Vera finally noticed Stacy and her boyfriend. They were running the video cameras, swooping in to get close-ups of ecstasy-drenched faces and penis-engorged vaginas. Everyone seemed engrossed in his or her work, and Vera just stood there, her head swimming. The smell of the old people’s sweat and sexual secretions made her feel slightly nauseous. However, that was when one of the old men cried out, spraying semen over the sagging tits of his partner. The other old man, not to be outdo
ne, screamed out as well, spraying his seed over the drooping ass of the other one. Vera did not know what the hell to do. She kept telling herself that decency demanded that she turn away, and yet there was something fascinating about the entire thing. She was not sure if it was arousing, but it was fascinating.
“Great job, everyone!” Stacy announced then, seeming pleased with everything. That’s when Stacy turned around and noticed Vera standing there.
“Hey, Vera!”
Vera jumped when Stacy said her name; Vera looked at her uneasily, as if Stacy had just caught her spying; the boyfriend waved at her, smiling. Stacy came over and hugged her. The old couples were all slumped on the couch, wheezing from their efforts. …But Stacy was smiling—and that smile told Vera that Stacy was fine. Everything Vera had feared was forgotten now, and she was overcome by a sense of relief. All at once, Vera laughed and whispered:
“So, this is what you do for a living?”
Stacy chuckled.
Presently, the boyfriend called to Stacy: “Do you know where the other battery pack is?” he said, gesturing to the camera.
“Yeah,” Stacy said. “I saw it in the bedroom. I’ll get it.”
Vera followed her, if only so that she would be able to get away from the porn set. She remembered how she had been unable to reach Stacy all day. “I was worried about you,” she started. “I left you a couple of messages.”
“Oh, I totally forgot. I usually turn off the phone during filming. I guess I forgot to turn it back on.”
“You could have still given me a call,” Vera maintained.
Stacy looked back at her and smiled. “I listened to your show tonight. That entire ‘Claim back your pussy’ thing is going to be huge.”
“Don’t remind me,” Vera said with a chuckle. She changed the subject: “How are your wrists?”
“No problems.”
“I see they don’t keep you from being a porn mogul,” she joked. But then, she remembered the porn scene again: “What the hell was all that about? There’s senior citizen porn now?”
“Of course—another one of my breakthroughs. Sex isn’t just for the young and healthy. I have an entire geriatric porn series.”
Vera’s face creased: “You’ve been shooting porn all day?”
“I went out to shop earlier, then was filming on and off since about six.”
“Those old people have been screwing since six?”
Stacy laughed. “I gave them a couple of breaks in between.”
“Damn, that Viagra stuff really works!”
They both laughed.
In the bedroom, Stacy started looking for the battery pack. She checked the dresser drawers.
Vera waited by the side, before noticing a copy of her book on the night-stand. It was 10 Steps to Find Out if Your Man is a Cheating Bastard. She smiled, walked over to the nightstand and picked it up.
“You’ve been reading my book?” Vera said, still smiling.
“Yeah, I was curious to see what bullshit you were selling to women.”
Vera smiled. “Did you learn anything useful?”
“Yeah,” she said sarcastically, “—you taught me how to fill three hundred pages with nonsense.”
They both laughed. Vera said, “You’re just jealous: writing a book full of nonsense is a difficult skill to master. The average writer lets her pride take over after a while, and finds herself trying to write something useful. It takes concentration and dedication to fill an entire book with nonsense.”
Stacy eyed her, impressed either by her frankness or her sarcastic wit. She sobered. “When is your next book coming out?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll write a book about our adventures.”
Stacy smiled. “What will you call it?”
Vera thought about it for a few seconds, before smiling brightly. “I have the perfect title: How to Kill Your Boyfriend (in Ten Easy Steps)!”
Stacy nodded approvingly, smiling. But then she frowned. “What’s with the ten steps?”
“It’s all marketing. The good how-to books always list the number of steps—so that the reader won’t be scared off by the prospect of having to think too much or work too hard. You never realized that?”
“I guess not,” she said thoughtfully.
“It’s all part of the modern American psyche,” Vera revealed. “We’ve come to believe that we should be able to do everything in ten steps or less. Love and happiness and financial security are all ten steps away for the modern American. If we can make cars more efficient, then why can’t we streamline our love lives? It’s the new industrial revolution. How-to books do for relationships what Henry Ford did for the automobile.”
“God,” Stacy said with a shudder, “—don’t tell me anymore.”
They smiled.
After Stacy found the battery pack, they headed back to the porn set/ living room. They were in the hallway when they heard a commotion in the living room. There was a loud thud, characteristic of a body hitting the ground. Vera looked at Stacy just in time to see her body go limp. Vera managed to grab her, but as she was not expecting the weight, they both fell to the ground. Vera looked at Stacy’s face: her eyes had rolled back in their sockets; her mouth was hanging open.
At that moment, Vera heard laughing coming from the living room. She yelled, “Help!” She waited about five seconds before yelling for help once more. Eventually, one of the old ladies came moseying down the hallway, a strange grin pasted on her face. She was still nude.
“Help me!” Vera screamed again, but the old woman’s strange grin was still there. She almost tripped, and giggled again. From the way the old woman’s eyes seemed unable to focus and stay open, it suddenly occurred to Vera that she was high. Seeing Stacy lying on the ground, the old woman giggled again.
“What’s her deal?” the woman asked, staring at Stacy. “Is she fucked up, too?” Here, she giggled again, before looking into the distance dreamily and declaring, “That was some righteous weed, man!”
Vera had been waiting for help, but seeing what she had to work with, she cursed under her breath. She was still on the ground, entangled in Stacy’s limbs. She disentangled herself, so that she could sit up and look at Stacy.
The old woman drawled, “We still got half a joint left. You look like you can use a few drags, to get your groove going.” She giggled again; and then, with a far-off expression in her eyes, she repeated, “That was some righteous weed, man!” She looked at Stacy again, giggling. “Stacy’s got the right idea, taking a nap.”
Vera exploded: “She’s not sleeping, you stupid old bitch—she passed out!”
“Huh?” the old woman moaned, no closer to comprehending. As Vera looked up at her, the old woman again swayed drunkenly, her sagging tits flopping against Vera’s head. Vera had a sudden impulse to beat the old woman up, but just then, there was more drunken laughter from the living room.
“What’s going on in there?” Vera asked.
“Oh,” she said absentmindedly, “—her boyfriend fell down, too. That was some righteous weed.”
When the old woman’s words had registered in Vera’s mind, she looked down at Stacy anxiously. “They both collapsed?” She felt Stacy’s neck. The pulse was there, and seemed strong enough—but of course, Vera was not a medical doctor. The old woman swayed low once more, so that her tits again bumped into Vera’s head. Vera gnashed her teeth to keep from going on an insane rampage and ripping the old woman’s throat out!
“Maybe you guys should take off,” Vera suggested. “Go home—I’ll take care of everything.”
“Take care of what?” the old woman said obliviously. She seemed on the verge of swaying again, and slapping her sagging tit into Vera’s head—
“Just go!” Vera screamed, losing patience. “Get the hell out of here—all of you!”
The old woman seemed wounded. She whined, “You’re killing my buzz, man.”
Vera leapt to her feet, about to strangle the old lady. “Your buzz?”
she screamed with an insane, murderous look in her eyes. “If you don’t get the hell out of here…!” Vera brandished a clenched fist, and the old lady’s eyes opened wide with sudden comprehension and fear. “Now!” Vera screamed, and the old woman nodded anxiously, turned on her heels clumsily, and fled back to the living room, her drooping ass swaying in a way that had Vera strangely engrossed for a moment. When the old woman was gone, Vera shook her head. She looked at Stacy again, trying to remember everything she could about treating someone who had fainted; at the same time, she panicked inside, wondering why Stacy and the boyfriend would collapse at the same time. It was while her mind was going on like this that Stacy began to regain consciousness.
“Stacy!” Vera whispered. Stacy opened her eyes, seeming confused and dazed. “Don’t try to get up,” Vera advised her. “Just lie there for a while.”
“What happened?”
“You fainted.”
“I fainted?” she said with a frown.
“Just relax for now. …Your boyfriend fainted, too.”
“My boyfriend?”
Just then, the old people appeared in the hallway. They all seemed grumpy now. The old lady must have told them all how Vera had killed her buzz. They were still nude, but had their clothes in their hands. There were some grumbles and evil looks as they began to file out of the door. The last person slammed the door. Vera was relieved that they were gone. She looked back at Stacy.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. …A little drained. I wonder why I fainted?”
“I don’t know.” She remembered the boyfriend. “…Wait here for a while. Let me go and check on your boyfriend.”
Vera jogged over to the living room/porn set. She gasped as soon as she saw him. He was staring blankly into space, and a mucus-laden froth was dribbling from his mouth.
“Oh my God!” She went to him and checked his pulse. As she put her hand to his neck, he blinked and seemed to regain consciousness. He frowned at her. She bent down, whispering, “Are you okay?”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Do you feel okay?”
How to Kill Your Boyfriend (in 10 Easy Steps) Page 21