by Barr, Jeff
"Yeah, right," Sugar said. She smiled crookedly at Christian, who smiled uncertainly back. Once upon a time, girls like her had intimidated him. The pretty, perfect girls in school, always so imperious and cold. He'd never found them attractive sexually, but revered them in the way you would an untrustworthy and possibly dangerous deity.
The Viagra began to thrum in his head, and with it a warm, thrusting hunger that stirred his belly. The thought of the night before, with all its chaos, danger, and sudden crashing violence, was enough to get his cock semi-hard. He loosened the tie on his robe and waited for everyone to take their places. The light from the accent lamps burned against the back of his neck.
The script had the actresses playing a couple of college girls (though dressed to look younger) studying in a bedroom, until one thing led to another, and they started kissing and touching each other. Then Christian, playing the role of Sugar's brother, would wander in. He would say a few flirty words, and get right down to fucking the brunette. Sugar would only watch and touch herself. Nothing too rough or crazy, mostly a vanilla fuck, with only a little spit and name-calling. No anal at all—both girls had that in their contract.
After a couple of false starts, when Sugar and Jynx started giggling and couldn't stop, they were almost ready for him. Christian bounced on his toes like a boxer warming up, slipping off his robe. Underneath he worse only a pair of cargo shorts.
He was supposed to play the part of a surfer boy, just off the beach, though he didn't really look the part any more—he was too skinny now. Fortunately in the porn world, no one would even notice his pasty skin and the hollow shadows under his eyes. Too many sleepless nights, haunted still by nightmares of Kansas and Nick. Meth or E kept him up all night dancing in the clubs—this city had so many he could visit a different one each night. He hadn't been to the same one twice. And the pills: glossy black, mournful blue, calm green. Any of them, when mixed with enough wine or vodka, would feather his brain with enough comfort to allow him a few hours of restless sleep. Until, with distressing predictability, he would awake panting and terrified, terrorized by the dreams. The nightmare was always the same. Katrina rising from her lonely murder on the gurney, her remaining staring eye as black and soulless as a shark's. She would rise and approach Christian, watching him with solemn and predatory hunger, and he would stand frozen with fear. Unable to catch a breath, let alone run. Her cold fingers would be reaching for him, about to touch, when his panicked breathing woke him.
Monty snapped his fingers under Christian's nose, and he blinked away his reverie. "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey. You're up, pretty boy." He cocked his head and appeared to be examining Christian's face. "And you better be up, too. My gaydar is lit up like a twink in a leather bar, honey." Christian looked at the girls, sitting on the massive bed, looking bored. Sugar was filing her nails, and the brunette stared into space, chewing gum like she was being paid by the chomp.
"And, action please." Monty stood back, arms crossed.
Christian stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Sugar's face. She smiled up at him, cooing as Jynx reached for his cock.
He grunted, feeling tension coil in his belly. He tried to fantasize that the girl in front of him was a delicate twink, like the kind from Thailand he'd seen online, or the pre-op sissy boys from Brazil. Jynx sucked him into her mouth, eyes tilted up to him with fake adoration. He pumped listlessly, ignoring Monty's hissed imprecations.
"Fucking show us some action, nancy-boy!" the director said. Christian started. Monty's voice had, for a second, sounded so much like Mik. And so close, as if he were standing directly behind him. He cut his eyes to a mirror, skin crawling. No one behind him, no Mik. He shook his head and began pumping in earnest, placing his hand on the back of Jynx's head, holding her down just long enough to make her gag. He smiled at the anger in her eyes.
"Hey, don't be an asshole," Sugar stage-whispered at him. "No rough shit."
He grinned at her, feeling a sudden rush of power. For a moment, he felt like he could just fuck and fuck, jack-hammering away until they cried for mercy. Then he would fuck the old faggot director, just for good measure. Sweat poured down his face and dripped into Jynx's face.
"Mm, why don't you fuck her on the bed, brother?" Sugar said, eyes flashing. Jynx coughed and scowled at him, even as she arranged herself on the bed. He grabbed her ankles and she guided him into her.
"Yes baby, yes." Even to Christian, their voices sounded pissed off. He looked down at the girls, at their smooth, well-fed skin, caressing each other, sneering up at him. Sudden anger stirred his guts, bubbling through him.
"Fuck her good, big brother, that's right," Sugar said. She sounded like she was ordering a hamburger from a particularly dense counter-jockey.
He grabbed Jynx by her pale white thighs until his fingers left red marks. In his eyes, her legs resembled uncooked cuts of chicken, juicy-plump and freshly plucked, and saliva squirted into his mouth. He hunched his hips forward, humping like a dog. She squealed feigned delight and surprise, but then she giggled, and he felt his rage jack up another notch. She was laughing at him—that much was obvious. Her piggy California face split in a wide white grin, giggling at him as if he were a joke.
He pushed the alien thoughts away. Apparently he had been drifting in his own daydreams—the director was already calling for the pop shot, and he panicked when he felt his erection starting to wilt.
Jynx bit her lip, playing for the camera, before kissing Sugar. He watched their tongues touch delicately, then reached down to wrap his hand around Jynx's throat. He squeezed, slowly, inexorably, At first, she only moaned deep in her throat, playing along, then she whimpered. Sugar brushed a hand over his, glaring at him, then tried to pull his hand loose, digging in with her nails.
"Go easy on her, brother," Sugar snarled, raking at his arm with her nails, trying and failing to make it look playful for the camera.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Monty hissed. "I said no rough stuff."
Christian's mind filled with images of Katrina. The fear in her eyes, the way it made her tighten around him, her panting, those delicate white puffs of air from her lungs in the cold air of the schoolhouse, the subtle creak of Skin's finger on the trigger. The delicious seconds before the moment of the blast, watching with memory's eyes as the light glinted from Skin's gun. Jynx struggled, trying to get her foot up between them to push him off.
"Goddammit, you're going to choke her out," The director staged-whispered from behind him. Christian barely heard. His arms were stiff as steel cables, holding her down while he fucked her into the bed. His balls slapped against her ass, her eyes beginning to roll back in her head. Her face darkened to red, and still he squeezed.
In his mind, Skin pressed the gun against Katrina's head, and when it went off, so did Christian. Brains and teeth flew. In his vision, he painted himself with the gore, smearing it over his mouth, over his cock. Heat bloomed in his belly, and his balls tightened. He pulled out and sprayed cum so far it hit the back of his hand around her throat, then the brunette's face, and then one glob launched itself straight into Sugar's eye. She flinched but held her composure, smiling as if showing her teeth was painful.
"Fuck!" Christian shouted, his mind filled with blood, the gore spouting from Katrina's head, the weeping red ruin of her face. The Californian sun streaming through the windows blinded him, but the visions overpowered even that.
Everyone in the room paused, the silence broken only by Christian's panting breath.
"Cut!" The director shouted. Before he had finished speaking, Sugar was up shrieking in Christian's face.
"You fucking prick! You signed the same paper we did, and you just pissed all over it." She turned to Monty. "I want you to make sure this faggot never works in this town again. He came in my fucking eye!" She scrubbed furiously at the corner of her eye with a tissue.
He opened his mouth to apologize, but she was already pulling Jynx into the bathroom with her. The door slammed behind them
.
"Sorry, man," Monty said, shrugging. "But that was kind of a dick move. Pardon the pun." He sighed, rubbing at his nose, perhaps in anticipation of another bump of coke. "I should be able to salvage something with a couple of cuts. Now, I can't have you back, you understand, but I'll put in a good word for you with someone else. Have you ever heard of Golden Eagle pictures?" Monty motioned for Christian to follow.
Christian, still dazed, followed him to another room to get paid.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The freaks were out tonight. They swarmed as soon as Sugar signed in and turned on her webcam. Friday was a real moneymaker, and even as shitty as she felt, Sugar could use the cash.
She had been feeling poorly for weeks; ever since that Midwestern douche-nozzle had pulled his little stunt on the set of College Hunnies 27. Her stomach hurt, her head hurt, even her nipples were sore. Worst of all, there was an incessant, burning itch in her eye, where his cum had landed. If she had actually fucked the guy, she would more than suspect a dose of the clap or gonorrhea, but she'd been tested, and she was clean. No such thing as too safe, she had told Jynx. The younger girl scoffed at Sugar's suggestion they get tested afterward. Jynx was satisfied with the computer-printed sheet declaring the stunt cock as STD-free. Monty had provided it, and he was known as a stickler.
For tonight's show, she decided on the 'no one likes me' act; in her current state, it would be easy. She mussed her hair and smeared her mascara just enough to show up on cam, but not enough to actually hurt her looks. The freaks were a dichotomy, both simple and complex in their wants and needs. If she overdid the sniffles and the mournful looks, they would sense the untruth and stay away. If she underplayed it, they would get bored and leave.
She had a long list of these performance pieces, tricks to maximize her income every session. The men were suckers, and one created an account every minute. A 'birthday party', where she downed shot after shot of water, poured from an old Grey Goose bottle; 'tipsy for tips' she called it. Then there was the 'raffle' where high tippers were entered into a draw to win a date. Sometimes the 'trip' would be to a vacation destination like Fiji or the Dominican, and sometimes it would be a plane ticket and a hotel room to her location (she listed it as Northern California). Not once had she ever gone through with the date. Most of them were too shy to actually meet her, and would take any excuse to back out of the trip. Any guys who showed even an inkling of going through with it, she would claim a family emergency and promise to reschedule. It wasn't hard; most of them were older, married men—even the ones that pretended to be hip DJs, or tattoo artists—and they only played the raffle for the idea of what could happen on a private date.
She logged in, scanned her inbox, adjusted the tissue box and made sure a few were scattered around her. She rubbed furiously at her lips with the back of her hand, making them puff up. She started her show.
After a few seconds, the guest list began filling with names. Private messages bubbled onto her screen.
bb, you have sexy tits!!
Loved you in Hump Day 3. That scene with Derek Hardmann was so hot
Do u escort? Where do u live? Can we meet?
She tried not to roll her eyes at the messages scrolling across her screen. Since her porn movies had started showing on the tube sites, the number of men in her chatroom had exploded; most of the newbies wanted her to enact their favorite scenes. She would of course—if they had the credits. If they asked her to piss in a bowl, she'd do that too, what the hell—some of the other girls would drink it (or pretend to), but Sugar would just take their money, fill the bowl, and tell them to fuck off. Some of them would threaten to report her to the site, but since it was against the rules in the first place, they wouldn't get far. Dear pornographers! One of your models urinated in a bowl but refused to drink it. I expect a full resolution, posthaste! Good day to you, sirs! The sites treated most of the models as fodder, but for someone who had some cachet in the skin trade, she had enough push-back to stick to her boundaries. A lot of the girls didn't have the same luxury.
BB, can I c ur cute feet?
Show me your cunt, please.
fukin bitch bitch fucj u hoor
I love you, you are the most beautiful girl on this site
"Fuck you, fuck you very much." She muttered through gritted teeth and managed not to roll her eyes, forcing a tearful smile, as one of the room's self-styled Lotharios told her she was 'too pretty to do porn for a living', and tipped her five bucks. It's going to be a long night, she thought.
Sugar pouted and pretended to tear up, moaning about her lack of real friends (the sub-text being that her viewers were her real friends; that brought her twenty dollars or so in sympathy tips, which she accepted while swiping away tears), and that she couldn't find a good, date-able man anywhere. That part, of course, was true: Los Angeles was a moral tar pit, attracting those whose ethical and intellectual paucity mirrored that of the city itself. The men (and women) here were as sweet and desirable on the outside as chocolate Easter bunnies, and just as hollow inside.
BRB ALL, GETTING TISSUES, SORRY, ROUGH DAY she typed. She moped off screen, and as soon as she was clear, gave her laptop the finger and hopped to the stereo to put on some music. Her fake depression was turning into a real melancholy, so she put on an old punk album to keep her energy up. She would have to pretend to bounce back from her sadness once the tokens reached an adequate level. The downside to the 'lonely-girl show', as she called it, was that she did tend to get a bit introspective. Maybe all of it was starting to get to her. She felt pressure building in her head. It was a feeling she had grown used to over the years; it had begun at the age of eight or so. A tightness at the back of her skull, a headache, and a rising urge to let off the pressure.
She sang along with her MP3 players, a song about a girl who's afraid of the world so she stays at home. She poured herself a Diet Coke and made a face at her reflection, mirrored in the steel surface of the fridge. She looked tired. Maybe it was time for a vacation. She had saved enough for a tit-job, which she could leverage later into more roles, but her B cups were still pulling good money for 'teen' porn. More than the steroidal, frightening tit-queens with their tanned, taut, basketball-sized breasts.
She didn't want to be off-cam for too long, but she needed a moment to herself, just to let off the pressure. She stole into the bathroom, and sat on the edge of the tub. She pinned up her hair, opened a drawer and brought out a rolled bundle of fabric. Unwinding it, she exposed razor blades, a lighter, and gauze pads. She flicked the lighter, fascinated as always by the licking orange tongues of flame. She held the razor to the fire. She held it, long past the point where the metal heated past discomfort and into the realm of pain. Her fingers sang with heat, the flesh growing red and tight.
She reached behind her neck and ran the blade across the top of her neck, where the blond hair ended and her skin began. A quick line of pain, thin as spider-silk, burned across her neck. Then another. The sting reached her brain and sent tingles through the back of her head, like someone running their fingers through her hair. The pleasure mixed with the sting of the cuts, sending bolts of
nostalgia
some unnamed sensation down her spine. She sighed with real feeling; years of cutting, and the feeling hadn't yet lessened. Other than this, she felt nothing other than boredom or a loose, unfocused depression and a feeling of time passing like the white lines of a highway. She blotted at the burning red lines with the gauze, drawing the blood up and out. She set aside the gauze, red side up, counting the number of lines. Never less than four; she liked round numbers, but of course odd ones would do, if there were enough of them. Tonight she didn't have time for more than six. Six clean cuts, six hisses of pain and release, six blotted lines on the white gauze.
A loud ping sounded from the computer in the living room. She sighed as she stashed away her cutting tools. She had set up a sound alert when one of her 'whales' entered her chatroom. She had a few; just enough to keep he
r busy without working too hard. Some girls had dozens. Whales spent lots of money on their favorite girls, and they were When she saw who it was, she smiled. HARDC71 was his screen name, and he was her biggest whale.
How's trix, T? he typed. She had, one night after he offered a shitload of tokens, confided that her real name was Tanya. He was not, under any circumstances, to share that name with anyone. It was only for him. Afterward, she had snickered at the eager, pathetic gratitude he felt at her lies. Tanya was a cat she dimly remembered having as a child; one day Tanya had crept out the door and never returned.
HARDC71 added an emoticon of a monkey waving hello. For some reason, most of the whales she knew used emoticons and animated GIFs more than most users; she figured it was the chatroom equivalent of a dayglo Hawaiian shirt at a barbecue: even if they didn't acknowledge the attention, they still wanted it. And speaking of wanting...
"Hey, baby!" she squealed. She waved at the camera like a teenybopper in the midst of an epileptic fit. These fuckers ate it up when you acted like the teenage heartthrobs they didn't get in high school. Sugar was of the opinion that most of them would go back to high school in a hot minute, if given the chance, and she was matter-of-fact glad that none of them worked as teachers.
HardC71 was a middle-aged, pot-bellied concrete company owner. He had barely any hair on his head, but plenty on his back.
Missed you, C, she typed. Been too long! She sent an emoticon featuring a smiling pair of lips pooching outward in a kissing motion.
Missed you too, dirty girl. You want to play today?
U know I do, baby.
She leaned out of frame a moment and stifled a yawn. Yawning, sneezing, coughing—or God forbid farting—in your room was guaranteed to drive the customers away in droves. They hated to be reminded that you were a real person who got sick, tired, or had human needs and feelings. They wanted a meat-puppet to play dress-up with, and switch off when they were done.