Something's Rotten In Chatsworth
Tyler Knight
I’m hopped up on Viagra tossing an Asian girl back and forth between me and “Malik” like we’re Joe Montana and Jerry fucking Rice. Chemically enhanced, my Skull is crunchy cereal caught in the screws from the Inquisition and I got tone in my ears from my own private emergency broadcast station, wailing just for me.
“Cut,” says Jackson, the director. “We got enough vag, lets get the anal.”
Great, ass spelunking.
Let me be clear. I’ve never been a fan of the sodomy arts. Sorry kiddies, but when you see me digging in a girl’s asshole, it’s all about the money. It’s just not my thing. My first time ever, personal or professional was with the amazing Lauren Phoenix. I was 30 years old and it was stellar. It all went to shit from there.
“Are you clean?” I ask the girl.
“Yeah, but lemme clean up a little bit more,” she says, and goes off set to the bathroom. She takes a box of baby wipes with her.
With no girl on the bed, I’m self conscious of laying next to another dude while we both stroke our cocks to keep the motor running in feminine absence. I stand up.
Jackson sits on the foot of the bed and says, “You’ve been doing a great job for us Tyler. You really stepped up these past few months.”
These guys shoot me so much, I clock four-thou a month from them alone.
“Thanks, man,” I say. “I may have an off day eventually but I’ll always give it my best.”
Malik, this studio’s contract kid, is on his back stroking his cock. He’s using two hands but it’s really a job for three. It’s fucking ridiculous, his dick is a baby’s arm holding an apple. Malik bust a freestyle rap about pussy and assholes.
“So,” I say, “I figure since I have a normal-sized dick I’ll warm Andrea up with me doing the first anal position.”
“Nah, man!” says Malik. “Lemme get that ass first while I’m still hard. You got a smaller dick so you don’t need as much to keep you going. Plus, It’s my series.”
Pulling rank. Nice.
“Sure,” I say. “Whatever.” It’s been an hour since I popped the first Viagra and it’s screaming through my system full force now.
Where this girl? This is fucking with my Viagra timing, let’s go!
For civilian purposes I took enough to be a Goddamn superstar all night, but for professional use, which is all I give a shit about, the clock is ticking.
“Okay, back! Let’s fuck!” Andrea says as she bounds onto the bed and into Malik’s arms. The go down in their own little giggling pile of youth like I’m not even there. It would be a real Kodak fucking moment if I didn’t have to go through the paces of ass-fuckery.
“Let’s shoot this fucking thing,” I say, and the kids stop their grab-assing.
“Action!” shouts Jackson, and back into the melee I go. I’m laying on my back, my dick in Andrea’s mouth while Malik is widening the guage of her asshole. The blowjob sucks, and in this case it’s not a good thing. Malik is slamming into her ass like a battering ram and each impact either scrapes my dick against Andrea’s teeth or knocks it out of her mouth entirely. It’s like getting blown by a blender on puree. I feel the drug’s window of efficacy closing and that’s a motherfucker ‘cuz I already took a near-lethal dose, my heart wants to leap the fuck out of my mouth and I’m getting a serious case of numb-dick.
Jesus Christ, not yet!
Malik is going DEFCON 4 slamming into the gates of her ass as if he’s a barbarian laying siege to Constantinople and my cock feels like it may as well belong to someone else.
“Switch,” says Jackson. Malik stops the assault and I position myself behind Andrea’s ass. It’s gaping, offering a clear shot of her pink innards but that’s the least of my concerns. On her rim, flecks of fecal matter that have the consistency of gruel and the color of bread gone bad. A scent…no, an unholy stench like slaughtered cows suspended in a vat of mayonnaise left to turn in the desert leaps out of her exposed cavity and slaps my face like a dame in a Bogart movie. The worst part of this is, the Viagra-and-exasperation cocktail has left me short of breath.
And my mouth is open. I snap my mouth shut and vacuum seal my lips, searching for the elusive adjective for the phantom of taste still lingering on my palate. It tastes surprisingly like fresh-picked strawberries! That’s if in some fucked-up parallel universe strawberries are dingleberries. Seriously man, I’m searching for some kind of real-life comparison ‘cuz “tastes like shit” ain’t gonna cut it. I suspect I could live two lifetimes and never succeed.
Good…GOD!
Jackson peeks over the top of the camera’s viewfinder. “Go ahead man, fuck ass. I’m rolling”
“I need a minute,” I say.
Malik and Andrea, giddy with porn-induced psychosis, continue their sport fucking while I kneel next to them, cold cock in my hand. Normally if I my dick goes down I just have to look at a girls ass and I’m dealt back in the hand but I’m taking a bad beat on the river because sewer cheeks has eliminated my last out.
Do NOT look at her ass. For the love of God!
So there I am, rubbing a brittle, dry-rotted eraser passing for my dick with the business end of her ass aimed right at me. I get off the bed and go into my mind.
Wank bank please don’t fail me now.
Within the time it takes microwave a bag of popcorn, an eternity in pornnoland when timed location fees are ticking away like a taxi meter, I managed to conjure up some depraved shit in my head to get me going.
I’m fucking Andrea’s ass, not looking down, mouth closed and taking sips of air from my nose because smell is the lesser of two evils.
Jackson is behind me holding the camera next to my head, shooting over my shoulder and down for the point-of-view/you-are-there shot. His dragon breath on my neck. He can tongue my ear if he chooses to but instead he whispers, “Give me some in-and-outs.”
What he wants is for me to pull my dick out of Andrea’s asshole entirely so he can zoom in and shoot the gape. My inner child screams:
NOOOO! Don’t! Fucking! Do! It!
Nothing good can come of this. Even if I was in a “normal” scene it’s a challenge because I’m fast becoming erection impaired, and I’m still thinking of the sloshing tempest I’m stirring up inside the girl’s bowels. I extract my penis, millimeter-by-millimeter, Jackson’s stubbly face over my shoulder making us some kind of fucked-up, two-headed porn chimera and I’m cresting the apex of a roller coaster mountain looking down. I pull the penile finger out of the dike…
…and nothing.
Whew!
I shove my cock back into her asshole and get a few strokes when Jackson exhales into my ear, “Do it again.”
My inner child throws a tantrum, my heart goes supernova and my field of vision is diminished to a speck. Could be from the adrenaline dump, could be from the side effects of the drug. Who the fuck cares? What difference does it make at this point? Again, I back my dick out of the asshole and…
…the barrel clicks on empty.
Inner child whimpers, “I *sniff* wanna go hoooome.”
Her sphincter puckers and protrudes like a toothless old man’s lips with a mouthful of Skoal. There is some seepage.
My inner child is in a fetal ball.
My dick is free falling. I stroke three or four times, not looking at the flecks of fecal matter on my shaft. I could point the leakage out to Jackson so the girl can clean up, but it’s camouflaged into my brown skin, and the last thing I want to do is stop the camera. I won’t ever get back anything resembling an erection for the rest of the 21’st century if we delay. What a fucked-up dilemma. I don’t want to quit but my options are grim. What the fuck do you think I do? I rub the shit-flakes into my dick, using it as lube. A python plays grab-twist-and-pull with my guts and there’s an acrid taste of bile in my mouth.
Don’t hurl you douche! Don’t do it!
So I play Enter the Asshole once again, but this time I have to death-grip the base of my shaft like a carnival balloon to milk enough bloodflow for penetration. Once again, fucking away with my undead dick, not penetrating past the sphincter and I’m so soft Jackson does not have to tell me to pull out. Andrea shits my pathetic nub of a cock out and I concede defeat. I’m still behind the girl in the line of fire when it happens. The aperture of her asshole snaps open and convulses like a heaving cat struggling with a hairball…and her hole is a water cannon. Well, fecal cannon to be accurate.
A human seltzer bottle, she gatling-guns crap, lettuce chunks, and more crap all over me and Jackson uses me as a human meat-shield.
It’s The Running of the Bowels! Malik leaps off the bed and across the room like he’s got the Force as Andrea scats on me like Ella Fitzgerald.
My inner child is sitting in a corner, arms wrapped around it’s knees. He says nothing.
“Okay, cut.” Jackson says. “You need a minute, Tyler?”
Is he fucking serious?
“No,” I say “I do not need a ‘minute’. It’s a wrap for me, I’m done for the day.”
“But you have to finish. This is only the first anal position for you and you have to fuck her ass to pop!”
Looking down on the mattress, I see dookie islands in a lake of shit. I know it’s trite but I’m knee deep in it. I dry heave, nearly blowing chunks, adding to the geography with a puke archipelago.
Enough!
I grab my pants and underwear.
Damn it, underwear will be ruined. It’s Versace.
“Jackson,” I say. “I can’t imagine anything that will get me hard again, let alone be able to fuck her ass to popshot.”
He sets his camera down but only after inspecting his delicate lens for flyaway spew. “Don’t be a baby, man. Be a professional…take a Viagra or something.”
My heart is no longer beating. It’s vibrating so fast it glows in my chest like E-fucking-T.
“If you don’t finish the scene it’s gonna jeopardize our business relationship,” he says.
I listen to my inner child, grab my shit and I go home.
Tyler Knight lives in Hollywood within walking distance of Charles Bukowski's old bungalow. He's a porn star and if you recognize him on the street please feel free to embarrass him. Especially when he's with his mom who after seven years has no idea what he does for a living. Right now Tyler is staring at a blank screen as he finishes up two books: a memoir about his tenure in porn and a novel where he gets to say all the things he legally can't in the memoir. His blog is www.tylerknight.com.