King of the Perverts (2 page)

Interlude 1

The Divorce

You may ask yourself, how am I in this situation?

Why am I holed up in a shitty motel with drunk college chicks, asking to them to pee on me? Sharing a squalid room with a cameraman who is borderline gorilla? Standing on the second floor walkway of a shitty motel, washing bodily fluids off myself with a bucket of water?

Am I some sort of sick fuck who gets off on weirdo sex shit like
that
?

I want to say no to that, but it’s really complicated. Like life is complicated. Like marriage is complicated. Nothing is cut and dry, black and white, even if I wish it to be so. Everything is shades of brown like a shit the morning after a drinking binge. It all depends on what you consumed the night before that determines what color of shit you’ll be cleaning up the next day.

So this really starts much earlier, as all stories like this tend to. Mine really begins about seven years ago, when I got married.

It goes like this:

Dennis was your pretty regular, average kind of guy. Not real tall, but not real short either. Decent looking, but in a somewhat non-descript way. He would actually have made a pretty good criminal because he was the kind of guy that, if witnesses were asked to describe him to the police sketch artist, they’d furrow their brow and chew their lower lip and struggle to describe him with any specificity. Dennis was just there, in a very non-threatening sort of way, like discount store corn chips. They weren’t Fritos, but they were sort of
like
Fritos, just lacking in things like, you know, flavor and texture. That was Dennis, the human equivalent of dollar store snack foods.

Mr. Average.

Dennis was not particularly smart, but he was smart enough. He graduated high school. He attempted college. He tried for a little while. He probably could have been something more if he ever applied himself like his dad had tried to convince him to do, whatever the fuck applying oneself really means. Dennis guessed the definition depended on the person uttering such a vague phrase. It wasn’t that Dennis didn’t want to learn, he just never really cared to do more than was absolutely necessary. He lacked ambition. He had no goals, aside from trying not to embarrass himself or his parents by flunking out or getting in trouble or standing apart from the crowd in any way whatsoever.

Once he got to college, he didn’t really know what he was going to do next. No surprise he didn’t last very long.

Enter Carrie. Dennis liked Carrie right away and it turned out she liked the hell out of him, too. They went from first date to moving in together pretty quickly, within a few months. Dennis stopped going to class and got a job because now, all of a sudden, he had things like bills. That sucked. Dennis hated bills. He never really had many of them until he moved in with Carrie.

But Dennis didn’t look at it that way. He was happy. He fell in love with her. He even admitted he had fallen in love with her from the first night they were together. He was never much for fairytale romance shit but I guess you could look at it like that. Carrie always did. That’s probably why it went so bad so fast.

Because, as Dennis liked to try and explain to his naïve bride, “real fucking life” was most definitely not a fairytale. He did his best not to term it in such a way. At least, not at first. Once the shit began rolling downhill, though, it changed.

Dennis supposed he was as much to blame for it going bad as Carrie was. He tried to tell himself that. But no matter the amount of self-loathing, regardless of how hard he tried to convince the reflection in the mirror that holding onto hate was not healthy, he simply couldn’t get past the facts:

Carrie changed, not him.

Carrie wasn’t living in reality, he was.

Carrie fucked him over, and good.

They didn’t just fall out of love, they plunged headlong into hate, with a capital fucking H.

Dennis had dropped out of college to support them. Carrie never even bothered to get a job.

Dennis worked a second part-time job to keep up with the mounting debts. Carrie excelled at adding to that mountain.

Sex became a thing of the past, which only added to Dennis’s spiraling attitude toward his wife and their relationship. The only thing he could be thankful for was they had managed to avoid conception.

That’s the short and dirty version of things. Maybe I’ll get into it a little more in-depth later, but really, that’s all you need to know leading up to D-Day.

D-Day hit seven months ago, and it went something like this:

“Dennis, we need to talk.”

“Wow, what’s the special occasion?”

“Shut up and sit down.”

“I’d rather stand.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole?”

“What do you want to talk about? I’m going to be late for work.”

“Screw work, we have more important things to discuss.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury to just say, ‘Screw work.’ Someone has to make sure the repo men don’t come for the car again like they did last month. At some point you might understand the concept of work leading to money, which you use to pay your bills, and the more you spend the money on things that aren’t bills, the more you have to work to make more money to cover what you pissed away on
–
”

“I want a divorce.”

Silence.

Shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it still came as a slap in the face. I didn’t know why at first, but the more I thought about it later when I had nothing but the cold hand of loneliness to cuddle with on my brother’s couch, the more I figured it had to do with failure. I sure as hell didn’t want to be married anymore, but getting divorced made me feel like a failure. Quitting college didn’t because that was my choice. I controlled that decision. This, I had no control over. I should have brought it up first, but I didn’t. I was determined that at some point we would figure it out. We would get better at being adults and spouses. At being mature people. But we weren’t and we didn’t. We were just a couple of spoiled kids playing grown-ups. And now she was controlling what happened next and that just didn’t sit well with me.

“Fuck you, a divorce.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Fuck me? You better watch the words that come out of your mouth right now.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You bet your ass I am.”

“You can shove your threats up your ass. And we’re not getting divorced.”

Yes, I realize now how stupid that sounds. What can I say? I don’t handle change and upheaval well.

“You tell me to fuck off and shove it up my ass and then insist that we’re
not
getting a divorce? Are you shitting me?”

I didn’t respond only because I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t include words like fuck and shit and cunt. If I had responded, it would have been something equally stupid. But who speaks eloquently when their wife says she wants a divorce? I believe I deserve a little slack.

Unfortunately, we talked some more. As expected, I eventually said more dumb shit, but she was still in charge of the exchange, which just pissed me off even more. She had come ready, too. She slid the divorce papers across the table to me. Yes, I was still standing, and no, I did not take them. She even had little sticky arrows pointing to all the spots I was supposed to sign, like I couldn’t have figured it out myself.

I didn’t sign them. I left and went to work.

I got there late. I picked a bad day to show up late.

I got fired.

This was a bad time for me.

I didn’t see or talk to Carrie for a week. I went to stay at my brother’s house in Muncie, about two hours north of home. Changed my cell phone number. Hid from the world in a cocoon of self-pity. One day, my divorce papers showed up in my brother’s mailbox. I thought about burning them and then pissing on the ashes and sending them back to her, but I didn’t do that.

I signed them. I let them sit for almost a month, but eventually I did sign them. Once I had initialed the final spot and scribbled my autograph on the last line, I immediately wished I wouldn’t have waited so long. Putting pen to those papers and signing off on the failure of my marriage turned out to be the most liberating experience of my life. I instantly felt free. I felt like I could smile again. I didn’t smile, but at least I felt like I could, and that was big for me.

I also realized how childish and silly I was refusing to accept the reality of the situation and just get it over with, because it really was what both of us needed. I even felt better about her, thinking she was in the same bad situation as me, that she had been having the same feelings of depression and anxiety, feeling like an animal stuck in a cage. As soon as those papers were signed, I felt like I was on my way to becoming a new man, maybe the man I thought I would grow up to be. I had the opportunity to restart my life.

Then Carrie informed me that, oh by the way, in five months, she’d be giving birth to my baby.

The Alligator Fuckhouse Part 1

I’m dozing, the boredom of sitting in a motel in Muncie, Indiana, in the middle of a weekday with nothing but soap operas and talk shows to occupy my time finally winning the battle for my soul.

Then I’m suddenly not dozing. Mongo punches me in the shoulder. It’s a light pop to him, I’m sure, but the guy doesn’t seem to know his canned ham of a fist weighs roughly the equivalent of a cinder block when hurled through the air into my tender arm.

“Shit, dude, what the fuck?”

He shoves a laptop into my hands. “Message time.”

“OK, but maybe just gently tap me, or even just simply tell me. You don’t have to break my arm in the process.”

Mongo smiles his creepy Mongo smile. “Pussy.”

“Whatever.” I turn my attention to the laptop and click the Play button on the video player window open and waiting for me. It takes a minute to load and I rub my shoulder in time with the spinning circle on the video player showing me  it’s chugging away. When it’s ready, Peter Oh’Tool’s large, chiseled face fills up the screen.

“Congratulations, contestant, you’ve done it! You’ve achieved your first goal, the
golden shower
! Now you’re ready to move on and
tackle
your next challenge.”

Peter Oh’Tool makes stupid air quotes with his fingers when he says, ‘tackle’. I wonder why he does that but figure he’ll go on to explain, which he does.

“Your next challenge is…”

A pause, for dramatic effect, I suppose, then large block letters flash on the screen at the same time Peter Oh’Tool yells, “The
alligator fuckhouse
!”

The canned sound of studio audience applause crackles, overwhelming the laptop’s shitty little speakers. Once it finally dies down, Mr. Oh’Tool continues.

“This is one of my favorites. The
alligator fuckhouse
goes like this: while fucking your woman from behind, you bite her neck, flip onto your back in an alligator ‘death roll’ and continue to pleasure her while she flails and struggles to break free. Sounds simple enough, right? Maybe so, but in reality, this maneuver is much more complicated if you plan on doing it correctly. Let’s refer to this clip from my 2001 classic,
Creature from Slut Lagoon
,
for a proper demonstration.”

The screen fades out and is replaced by a poor quality shot of Peter Oh’Tool, looking much younger and covered in weird, green body paint, perched astride some blond chick, plump with silicone and probably cocaine by the looks of her weathered face and dilated pupils. She’s screaming and feigning distress, and doing so quite poorly. I’m instantly embarrassed for both of them and start to sweat. This is really bad shit, even for low budget porn from a decade ago.

The camera zooms in on Oh’Tool, who is pumping said blond chick from behind, and we see just how truly awful his makeup is. I guess it’s supposed to make him look like some kind of swamp creature, come up from a Louisiana bog to fuck all the backwoods whores who wile away their days running around in cutoff shorts, cooking meth, and sucking random dicks. But he looks more like a geek at a comic convention dressed as Green Lantern than he does a monster.

The girl is giving it her best (read: worst) fake moan, and says in a screeching, abrasive attempt at a Southern accent, “Oh mah, you really are a monstah!”

Yeah, it’s that bad.

The camera tightens on Peter again and his upper lip curls in a snarl. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, bitch.”

With animal quickness, Peter bares white teeth encased in cheesy prop fangs, which look like they belong in a straight-to-VHS vampire flick from the ’80s rather than a swamp monster, and plunges into the babe’s neck.

This time, the girl’s scream sounds real, just like the look of surprise on her face. We get a tight shot of both of them and it’s pretty clear Peter Oh’Tool is not faking it here – he’s really biting this chick on the neck. The shot pulls back again and then we see Peter really go to work – he wraps his arms around the girl’s chest, pinning her arms to her sides. At the same time, he kicks his legs out and in front of her thighs and, in an impressive show of balance and dexterity, flips over on his back. His ankles are on top of her thighs, clamping down, and his muscular forearms pinch the girl’s midsection, pushing her wobbling, gravity-defying tits up toward her face.

The girl seriously looks scared for a second and begins to struggle, but she’s not going anywhere, and Peter Oh’Tool begins to thrust. Somehow, he’s managed to flip this girl over in one move and maintain their special connection, if you follow me. And now he’s hammering the hell out of her like a piston in an engine block. He’s moving so fast his dick becomes a blur. Her face changes from fear to ecstasy and it’s clear she’s still not acting. Peter Oh’Tool gnaws away at her neck, pounds away at her pussy and, within minutes, she begins to scream, no longer struggling like prey in the clutches of a predator. She writhes and undulates with Peter, bucking her hips in time with his, and comes hard and long. If she faked that orgasm, then she deserves an Oscar. Based on her previous display of acting, I can only deduce that it was real.

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the video pauses and Peter Oh’Tool appears in front of the screen again like a weatherman in front of a map. Mongo reaches out and pushes my chin up and my teeth clunk together.

Peter Oh’Tool smiles and says with a cocky, raised eyebrow, “This performance earned me my first ‘Fuck of the Year’ Woody at the AVNs. You can see why it’s called the alligator fuckhouse.”

The film rewinds and Peter turns to the side to show the action again, pointing out several key elements to the technique.

“First, it’s important not to give away your intentions. The key here is the element of surprise. When you bite her, try not to break the skin, but do it hard enough to scare the shit out of her. That sudden fear releases endorphins that will come in handy once you’ve flipped her over.”

The video plays in slow motion as the on-screen Oh’Tool moves into position. “Notice how I wrap my arms around her and don’t let her move. You can’t have her squirming out of position if you want to make this happen. Lock that shit up tight. Then, when you’ve got control of her, throw a leg in front of her thigh. That’s the key to executing the death roll without flopping out of her. If you think you can get both legs over and still keep your dick inside her pussy, go for it, but I wouldn’t recommend it for amateurs. Remember, I’m a trained professional.”

Cue a
‘
trained professional
’
wink and greasy smile. I fight back nausea as Peter plunges ahead. “When you got her on her back, she’ll buck around like a fish on dry land, so hold tight and plant your heels on her thighs. Once you’re there, it’s go time, baby.”

The video picks up again and we relive the magic of
‘
Harlot O’Hara’s
’
magical orgasm once more. Peter Oh’Tool begins to bump his hips in time with his on-screen self, clearly enjoying it all over again. Once it ends, he turns back to the camera and smiles.

“And there you have it. Now, go get ’em, gator!”