She isn’t wearing panties underneath her silk dress and she is already moist when I grab her between the legs. After she sucks me for a while, taking every inch of me, I turn her around and fuck her in the ass while she holds on to the safety bars in the stall, my knees starting to weaken on me. She screams in pleasure and bucks against me. With a handful of her hair, I bite on her neck, the veins in my neck pulsing so hard I fear they might bust. She doesn’t mind my hot, whiskey breath or even when I pull on her nipple and growl in her ear, calling her a gutter rat, a fucking trash bag, but I’m not sure why.
“Hey buddy, what the fuck? You passin a kidney stone in there?”
I don’t cum. Cynthia disappears. Dreadlocks and all.
“Fuck off,” I scream in my head.
My cock goes limp in my hand. After zipping up, I flush the toilet and spit on the linoleum. The spectator has a devious grin stitched across his rough face. Double chin, the beginnings of a wiry beard, flannel shirt, greasy hair. A regular blue collar patron fit for a stool in America’s greatest dive bar.
The mirror is missing on the wall. I don’t wash my hands. Old Crow Medicine Show plays on the jukebox. I pat my shirt pocket, one cig left. Order another shot of rye and a Budweiser because it’s going to be last call soon.
The rain is cold and unforgiving. I flip my collar up and run to my truck. The muffler coughs black exhaust before I pull on to the road headed toward the motel. After passing a diner, My stomach growls for a greasy burger, black coffee, accompanied by a six pack before passing out in front of the TV. The neon vacancy sign blinks Morse code in the distance.
I kill the engine and coast into an empty parking spot. My last Marlboro deteriorates to ashes and stub while Bobby Darin croons from the speakers. My windows have a purple tint from the nicotine. A napkin stares me down from the dashboard. Room 14 is scrawled on it with bad handwriting, an oil stain marking the corner of it.
Deep breath. My heart is going to explode out of my ribcage. After this, I’ll have enough to move out of that shithole trailer. Time to do the job, time to get it over with.
Any frat boy with a camera thinks they are a pornographer. At least while I’m in this business, I will raise the bar back to its former glory and beyond.
A jar of moonshine sits next to a lamp without a shade. The girl sprawled across the bed only wears a white rabbit mask. The camera is already rolling. A college age body appears from the bathroom with a snarling wolf mask on his face. The girl doesn’t flinch, and I have to squint to see if she is even breathing.
The director instructs the wolf without a trace of emotion in his voice. Beads of sweat form under my neck folds. I run my hands through my thinning hair and breath stale air. The room is a vacuum, threatening to suffocate me. The shine tempts me to drink it.
The camera operator’s erection shows through his thin cargo shorts. No noise except the slapping of flesh from the bed. I’d kill for a cigarette. My hand goes into a seizure, resting on my leg. I swallow hard and force my hand into a fist.
The girl, something isn’t right about her, she is too pale, too lanky, her hair: too red. The problem is she isn’t perfect. She isn’t movie star material. The problem is that no one will want to watch this skinny little thing on screen. The problem is, she isn’t Cynthia.
I stand up and start to leave when the director mouths silent words at me. With my hand I make a “hang loose” gesture and hold it to my face. He turns away and I leave. A Coke machine glows in the dark and I kick it until I’m out of breath and coughing phlegm. I drive to the diner three miles from the motel.
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