Pop Kids (25 page)

I kill the lights, join the talent on the floor, and realize I’ve indeed made a big mistake. I should have just yelled, “Premiere Sex Scene. Take two. ACTION!”

It all explodes so quickly this time that I don’t even know who starts going for it first. With the Xmas lights low and Gershon high on the wall, everyone in Heaven immediately gets down to the dirty work. Though it’s not all business. Our grade school make-out sessions quickly graduate to adult activities, but we all take occasional pause to enjoy refreshments and shout out
Showgirls
quotes. This relaxed atmosphere should have forewarned me of the impermanence of my position but, right now, I’m feeling totally confident lying next to Lynch. He has Mia on top of him; I have Stella on top of me. The girls are doing it to us like they’re being filmed. It’s fabulous, until the brunettes start focusing on each other. Dismounting, Stella pulls her BFF in front of the screen to showcase their performance and suddenly our scenic ride is over.

“Woah!” Lynch motions to the living movie magic. “That’s pretty cool,”

Unable to ignore its rudeness, I point back at his accusatory Producer. “That’s pretty cool, too.”

We laugh, and I erection-prance over to the soundboard.

Standing socked and pant-less, I turn knobs and flick switches. “Lynch, C’mere!” I’m frantically trying to start my Sex Scene playlist but my slacking sound tech is too busy manually making up for Mia’s abandonment to help me. Hovering over Holly’s couch, he, Soufflé, and Prius are fully respecting the buzz bomb’s ‘both hands on yourself’ rule. Touched by her elegance, I’m transfixed. I can’t imagine why the DJs aren’t. As if in the midst of a gentlemanly competition they keep turning from her solo to sternly gaze into each other’s eyes.

“LYNCH come on man!” Having just tied a triple knot into an unruly bunch of chords, I pause my fidgeting. Confronting me from about two feet away, Volta’s ass is hoisted in the air as he and Cruz quietly 69 on the purple love seat. Their chinos are barely hanging onto their thighs. “
Culo
suave!” I compliment,

One of them makes a slurpy sound that I take to mean ‘thank you.’ Wondering if our own red headed siren is enjoying our party’s new triple-x-rating, I cue up La Roux.

Patting my brow with my pocket square, I check Surfers’ Paradise, then turn away from MK’s oral work on Leo to find that his sister, Star, sitting cross-legged on a pile of furry pillows in Heaven, has her head turned toward Ash. Propped up on her haunches, dressed like a stripper, the semi-conscious twin is feeling up the sea goddess as they kiss. I’m shocked. I was expecting to find Alvin victoriously exploring Star’s universe, but this is not happening. It’s not happening at all. He’s lying with his head in her lap and she’s petting him while sucking Ash’s tongue.

I don’t feel too bad for Al. Laid out with his jeans and eyes at half-mast, he is slowly massaging his Dogtown lord and staring emotionlessly at the buzzing gold between Holly’s legs. He looks serene.

As Alvin films his right hand, “Bulletproof … I Wish I Was” begins miraculously bouncing off the walls and I prepare for my glorious return to group activities. I pocket square my Producer, fold my coat, and confidently step out from behind the soundboard—only to find that Prius has beaten me to the next level. With the exception of the girls’ black thigh-highs, he, Mia, and Stella are completely naked, leaning in a row against the wall screen, heavily petting. The movie flashes across their flesh. The site is fabulous, even with Mr. Pigtails in the center of the Great sandwich. I can see his teeth glimmering from here. But his radiant presence shan’t discourage me.

Donny has made it very clear that he’s not selfish.

Driven, yet unsure how to insert myself, I erection-prance over to the playful threesome, and arrive just in time to see Mia reach around the DJ and guide him into Stella.

Now I don’t know what to do.

Lurking behind Mia, my Producer stands at awkward attention. She leans into Donny. I graze her gargantuan ass, but she doesn’t notice. She’s kissing the back of Prius’s neck and, I believe, doing something with his production house. Stella is jolting with his thrusts. Catching me watching, she rolls open her melting blues and turns back.

“Hey Baby!”

Her mouth gapes. She gasps, surprised, as if she’s just been stabbed. She clenches her teeth, bites her lip, then in an act of unparalleled humanitarianism, commands Mia, “Go for it girl. I know you want to.”

With vitamin-wild eyes and an almost malevolent sneer, Mia looks over her shoulder, snatches my Producer, and slips it inside herself.
Fabulous
. I cross my arms around her, grab boobs, pull her to me, and start feverishly kitty humping.

Gripping double D’s, bopping away, I’m admiring the giant buns mashing into my crotch when a hand slides atop mine. Donny, having spun my former co-star, is playing handsies with me. While still doing it to her, he caresses my fingers. “Hello my brother!” He smiles a huge GO SMiLE and I get freaked out. I can’t understand how his teeth are so perfect.
Moz, I forgot to use my whitener.

Looking down, I suck in my cheeks and we all hump on. I compare and contrast Mia’s internal physiology with her BFFs. She squeaks, and as I’ve begun considering where to release the impending joy, a fourth Filmgreat delays my happy ending.

“Excuse me sir.” He taps my shoulder. “May I cut in?”

“Hayyy Rock Star,” Mia boozily gushes. I immediately pull out.

I turn to gauge Lynch’s demeanor. His two thumbs up, erection, and open-mouthed smile reminds me of a Mastercard commercial: priceless.

“Certainly my good man!” Relieved that my co-host didn’t suddenly get weird and go all Alpha upon seeing his best friend banging his regular, I remove myself. “The scene is yours!”

Now a free agent, wavering like a half-stripped fifth wheel, I consider joining Stella and Prius. With his pigtails flying everywhere, he’s dripping sweat and grunting. She’s screaming to the catwalks about the diminutive size and reliable seal of her vagina.

I’m going to go freshen up and check in on Holly.

At the mini fridge, I douse and wipe myself down. I polish my teeth, fix my hair, and then cautiously approach the couch of the green-eyed enchantress. Having left behind some French dressing on the floor, Soufflé has gone to dress in Surfers’ Paradise. When I creep up, with my Pellegrino-primed Producer peeking out from the last button of my sweat soaked shirt, Holly is alone. Her head is thrown over the back of the candy couch. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open—barely. Her left hand is squeezing her right boob. She’s left on her black lace bra but her black jeans, remixed Smiths shirt, and black panties are balled up next to her on the couch. With her legs spread and her sock-less feet propped up on the plastic, she reclines while giving it her all.

Standing a few feet upstage, a lone voyeur, I watch her—dizzied by her magnificence until she senses my presence.

“Hey Mike.” Raising her head and showing me her chameleonic lavender eyes, she pauses her play. “Mind if I watch?”

“Oh…” Slightly embarrassed for having not known that it’s been working independently of my brain, I look down at my frantic hand. Like I’d just been caught trying to steal a VMA, I drop my hot Producer and politely return the question. “Do you mind if
I
watch?”

“Just don’t get any on me.” Raising the bullet, she presses a hidden golden button. Her vibe kicks harder. “And take off your shades.”

My eyes don’t leave her face. The beats of Crystal Castles throb. And she watches me. She raises her gaze from my hand, to my eyes, and back again. The sound in the room shifts. All I can hear is her buzzing toy and her rich groans. All else disappears into a homogenous euphony of indistinguishable ambient sex, until Holly shutters.

She finishes. It sounds like the Smiths. And her expression takes me with her.

Carefully I catch my warm joy in my clammy left hand then look down at my Union Jack socks. I’m considering using them to wipe off when the echoes of Britpop angels are suffocated.

“Hey Babe!” Stella is on all fours in Heaven, yelling over Deamau5. “Oh fuck, Donny, fuck yeah. … Come get in Score, I can handle it … shit, fuck fuck fuuuuck.”

From behind her, Prius seconds.

“Yeah, my brother!” He waves me over. “There’s room for one more.”

What I mistook for a white beret in Surfers’ Paradise was, in fact, my dear friend’s bleached hair. Lynch was dressing offstage. Now, he and his disheveled co-star are standing at the mini-fridge, re-hydrating. They left the scene that I left them in. And I wish they hadn’t: I wish it
were
my co-host’s Producer gagging Stella between her attempts to coerce me into being number four of four. But it’s not. It’s the pastry’s bread stick.

The man does not shave
.

“Come ON sexy. Fuck m—!”

Soufflé silences her. I shudder at the sight of it.

It’s fine.

“Come tag in my brother!”

Everything’s fine. I have a good excuse.

“Thanks guys, I’d love to!” Waving at the welcoming two-out-of-three, I present the joyful evidence dripping from my fingers. “But I’m done.”

Chapter 38

I need to shower again. I feel slimy. But The Palace is clean. It looks fabulous. Today I brought my arsenal: Lysol, Oxiclean, Comet, bleach, and apple cider vinegar. I vigorously scrubbed away all the sticky, gooey, musty remains, put a pair of plaid boxers in the new lost-and-found milk crate, and then arranged a hygiene station: stain sticks, sugar-free Altoids, Kleenex, baby wipes, paper towels, hand sanitizer. and Tom’s of Maine mouthwash. I’ve stacked the overstock behind the mini fridge, where I now stand grinning with pride for what I’ve achieved.

Contentedly, I sigh, redeposit a few rogue rainbow pills back into the Kitty head, and inhale the smell of overnight success. It’s caustic. My stage smells like a science project.
It’s fine.
I have an idea.

“Hay Babe!” Stella actually picks up the phone. “I can’t talk long. I’m waiting for a call from my casting agent friend.”

“Hey, okay.”
I’d sure like to meet this guy.
“Can you bring a bunch of your mom’s scented candles to the next party? I just cleaned up in here but I think the smell of the bleach is already giving me cancer.” I check the recycled Amazon recycling box to make sure we have enough empty bottles to use as vases. “I’m gonna ask everyone to bring fresh flowers too.”

“Oooh, Sexy! I like it!” Stella exclaims before playfully adding, “Maybe they’ll get you in the mood and you’ll actually give me what I want next time.”

Holding up an empty Patrón bottle, picturing it full of gladiola, I tense. She is calling me out on my hesitant gloppy hand-wave.

“Yeah, well you know, it’s hard for me to get turned-on when I’m looking at berets and pigtails.”

“Hey, at least they know what tits are for.” She jabs back, crudely referring to my risky business of improper fluid disposal at the Sex and San P. party.

“I thought you said that it was hotter that I did it … not on your tits.” Nervously, I defend my accidental internal joy release. My voice rises in pitch as my moths make for the Xmas lights. “You said it was hot! You said that you could take care of yourself—”

“Settle sexy. I’m just playing.” Stella laughs then purrs. “I like playing with you.”

“Hey. I’m done here, why don’t I skate over—”

“Oh, I think this is him.”

Her incoming call is inaudible.

“I’ve gotta go Baby. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hangs up.

As I begin to text her to tell her to bring my Joy Division shirt to school tomorrow, a message from Shane buzzes in.

“
Where are you buddy? Are you okay
?”

“You look fuckin’ terrible man.” Sitting in his office with the door open, my manager is eating out of a wooden bowl.

“Sorry I’m late Phil.” I put on my shades, fearing that he’s right.

My Ksubis are dusty, my black v-neck is sweaty, and my ankles are showing. Having resorted to using them to wipe up after Holly’s Smith’s song, I sent my socks out with Al’s laundry this morning.

“Mike, this is the second time in two weeks. Are you okay man? You look terrible. Here.” He offers me Kombucha.

“Oh. No. Thanks. I’m great.”
I’d be much better if you’d stop telling me how terrible I look
. “Sorry, I just lost track of time.”

“Well man, just don’t let it happen again.”