Pop Kids (22 page)

Holly jerks away and says, “Shit.” I follow her gaze toward the clubhouse. A flashlight is rapidly approaching our romance.
Shit.

Faster than we slid down, we bound up the hill. I grab my skate and my parka and snatch the towels from Holly.

We flee together. About twenty steps into our sprint, she turns to me.

“We should split up. They’ll never catch us.” Kissing her fingers, she presses them to my lips. “See ya in the seventies.” And dashes down the moonlit green.

I’ve been here long enough. My ass is still moist but the risk of detainment has surely passed. Blocks away from the golf course, ending my Jiffy Luber impression, I roll myself and my board out from under the old Dodge van. I dust my hands and inspect my shades for scratches before losing a sizeable portion of my mind over a dime-sized oil spot on my parka. I check my phone. I have no messages and it’s far too early to wrap such a trying, stained, un-kissed evening.

I’m going to clean.

Chapter 34

School starts tomorrow. I can’t believe it. There’s really no telling how the tribulations of senior life might get in the way of my party. Tonight could likely be the final Premiere. This may be my last chance to dress up before Winter Ball.

Standing in Joey’s mirror, I adjust my suit. I refold my black bandana five times then arrange it perfectly in my breast pocket. I remove and replace my shades until I’m certain that I look good in all lighting. For forty-five minutes, I perfect my hair then, snapping open my tubular secret weapon, put the finishing GO SMiLE touches on my teeth. I smile at the handsome boy in my mirror.

“How do I look?”

Warmed by her nudging approval of my casual footwear, I kiss Eddie then rush down to summer’s big ending.

Fashionably late and perfectly preened, I part the heavy curtains to find my own Studio 54 sizzling. Most of the trashed-out girls haven’t searched beyond American Apparel for their retro costumes but they all look hot. There is no absence of bare flesh tonight. Stella, wearing heart shaped glasses and a leopard print raincoat, is teetering on spray painted roller skates, drinking from a Solo cup, and talking to Holly. The vegan is shifting her gold lamé bootie shorts on green plastic while deconstructing Charlie Sheen quotes. Her black tube socks should be embroidered with a parental advisory warning. As I walk to my speech position, I glance signature side-boob peeking through Holly’s white tank top.
She is fabulous.

Leaning against the wall screen, I assess the turnout. The Prozens have glued awful moustaches to their faces. Star’s not here. Leo is smoking weed with MK in Surfers’ Paradise and …
oh no.

“Hey my brother, glad you could finally make it!” Wearing a Bert-and-Ernie-striped tank top, Donny welcomes me to my own party. “We’re about to start a new game over there.” Tossing up a bloated, fist-sized baggy of white, he over-palms it with a slap and smiles. “You should come!”

After handing me what appears to be a cigarette case, Prius joins Soufflé, Stella, and Mia at the PlayStation.

I can’t tell if they’re in costume but the DJs’ authentic seventies vibe is slightly compromised when they begin to chop and do lines off this decade’s latest advancement in home gaming technology. It’s a loathsome sight. But the coke is thematically appropriate and Donovan did just slip me a fully loaded, chrome GO SMiLE compact. I’m going to let their drug use and party-crashing slide. Stella leans over the console. Red satin and tight, deep cleavage makes it easy for me to ignore the pink straw. After powdering, she stands, wipes her nose, and waves at me. Donny’s pigtail dips into a rail. They all laugh. I check my face in my new compact then clap my hands.

“Welcome, my esteemed Filmgreats and un-invited Extras, to the Seventies Sex and San P. Premiere!”

Heaven is almost full. Cruz and Volta, both wearing huge butterfly collars, are kissing on their Love Seat. The rest of us have cozied ourselves together on the mattresses where, with the DJs’ encouragement, Stella is intent on telling me all about her reality show audition. She insists, “I know I’m perfect for the part!” Asks, “Isn’t it exciting?” Then puts her tongue in my mouth before I can answer. This cycle repeats itself several times, and every time she kisses me it’s both arousing and relieving. Finally, when Heather Graham starts stripping onscreen, she stops talking.

Wobbling up onto the stage, Stella peels off her spotted raincoat and throws it at me.

“Woooooh!” In red satin underwear, the revved up roller girl wildly laps the theatre twice, falls back next to me, and picks up where she left off. She tosses her feathered hair. “I know I’m perfect—”

I toss her coat and cut straight to the making out. This time our activities are escalating. Forgetting to stop and tell me yet again how much some guy named Blake loves her blog, Stella shoves her hand down my slacks. I begin gathering blankets in hopes of masking another OJ, and she breaks away to cheer on the antics of the fifteen-year-old with facial hair.

Upstage, in the projection, now wearing a gigantic white afro-wig, Alvin outdoes Dirk Diggler’s karate moves for his greatly pre-occupied audience. He punches, spin kicks, then front flips back into Heaven. Ninety-eight pounds of boy thuds next to Ash. He begins braiding her hair, and with her face mashed into a mondo sequined-disco-ass, she remains unconscious while Mia continues tugging. Feet away from the tranquilized twin, Lynch’s crusty eye diamond is hidden in the wrinkle of a tortured wince. In Mia’s clutches, he looks like he’s getting his Producer pierced. “Hang in there,” I supportively whisper. “A JO’s a JO!” He grimaces. Stella’s record starts skipping again.

“Isn’t it exciting?!” With my moths tickling my throat, I watch her, waiting, hoping that she will once again answer her own question with a tongue kiss. But I have no such luck. “Isn’t it, like, SO exciting?”

“Totally!” The two girls squeeze hands, as Holly agrees. “So exciting … so amazing … so—”

Unwittingly saving the sober, cobalt-eyed beauty from the amphetamine fed monologue, Prius tackles the talker and begins poke-tickling Stella’s words into squeals. The display is very reminiscent of a certain popular and troubling video-blog.
It’s fine.
Donny has left a very desirable opening in Heaven.

Carefully, I crawl toward Holly. When I pause to count the hickeys that MK has put on Leo’s ribs, Prius and Stella, giggling like kids on candy, bombard me. Using my pushup strength, I fend them off. I twist out of the DJ’s embrace. Heaven trembles. I grapple with Stella. Donny pins back my arms. I laugh. I squirm, inhaling the smoky pigtails whipping my face. I’m helpless. Stella unbuttons my un-tucked shirt. She pokes my ribs. She tortures me with tickles. She begins sucking my neck. And I stop laughing. With her amped hum electrifying me into charged submission, I pant, reaching out to test the structural integrity of her sleek bra. My hands have been freed.
I wonder where Donny went.
My co-star works her way under the fur.

Lying on my back, thanking Moz for answering my most recent prayers, I close my eyes and relax into my second Premiere OJ.

Small, satisfied sounds slurp beneath the blankets as I mouth the familiar
Boogie Nights
dialogue. “You know what?” Casually, I wag my finger at the sandbags, “I’m the biggest star here, man, that’s the way it is. I wanna fuck. It’s my big dick, so everybody get ready fucking now!”

Suddenly, the sounds of hardcore sex boom through the speakers. The Prozens giggle. I sit up to see what’s going on.

“OMG fucking hot! Woooo!” Mia yells.

Band FAIL! guffaws. Cruz exclaims, “Oh hells yes!”

An oversized image of Jenna Jameson, getting it doggy style from a tan brunette in satin gloves and a strap-on, has mysteriously replaced my chosen
film de la nuit
. Emerging from the covers, Stella looks down at me like a proud mother.

“Oh my god! Good choice Baby!” She admires the screen. “Aren’t Jenna’s necklaces gorgeous?”

Clearly, the artful executive decision to show porn was a good one, though sadly, I cannot claim the bold move. It is my wise, carefree co-host who we all must credit for doctoring the
Boogie Nights
disc.

I squeeze Lynch’s hand. He squeezes back, smiling with a slight nod of brotherhood. Not wanting to compromise our seemingly precarious position, we lay frozen, side-by-side, silently grinning as Mia shows him her appreciation and we enjoy our first simultaneous OJs.

Beneath the throws, my co-star giggles. His co-star giggles. And the skin flick sleazes on. Then everything changes. I can’t say for certain if it’s the magic of the porno, the power of us all being pressed together in Heaven, the red wine, the Colt 45, the Cuervo, the cocaine, the vitamin x, or the perfect combination of all these elements that we have to thank for the following moment of Flimgreat history. But what happens next is this: Everybody starts fucking. And my leading lady is the first to make the big move.

Stripping off our cover, Stella pulls her shiny panties to one side and mounts my excited Producer. Right here. Next to everyone else. In the middle of Heaven. Only partially out of fear that she’ll suddenly sober up and remove herself, I grab her hips. I trap her to me and as she contends for Best Leading Cowgirl she starts making sex sounds unlike any that I’ve ever heard IRL. It’s really cool.

Although initially surreal, this end-of-blockbuster-summer-sex-explosion quickly begins to feel familiar. I’ve seen enough group sex online to take cues from. And if the rest of my guests have somehow not spent their childhood exploiting the benefits of their pornography machines, they must either be naturals themselves or intuitively looking to Ms. Jameson to guide them—because no one here is the least bit inhibited.

Ecstatically, I pat Lynch’s shoulder and grin. Two thumbs up and a huge open-mouthed smile are shot my way as Mia slurps and Alvin hoists up to his knees to hobble next to his brother. His relatively sizeable Producer is jutting from a pair of orange boxers.

“Do me next!” Al’s wig is still in place and he’s now wearing Stella’s red plastic rimmed shades.

“Eww. Gross. No.” Mia pauses for a salacious breath. “You’re brothers!”

“That’s why it’s NOT gross! It’s, like, the exact same thing!”

Ignoring his persistent reasoning and the bowing saliva bridge from Mia’s mouth to the head of Lynch’s production, I return my hands and concentration to the girl on top of me. Continuing to agilely grind, Stella dexterously removes her roller skates. Their wheels rest against my shins. Her boobs bounce. Her mouth gapes. She touches herself. And I fully enjoy watching. Until like a wet-dream-gone-nightmare, our adult film turns into a spook show.

Arising over Stella’s shoulder, all fifties movie-monstery, my only fully naked guest leans in, starts lapping at her neck, and squeezes her satiny c-cups. I’m devastated.
Now I can’t see her boobs
. Keeping our rhythm, Stella turns, kisses Donny, and effortlessly spins into reverse cowgirl. During this smooth move, she neither breaks her lip-lock nor allows me to slip out of my reserved seating.
She is so talented.