Pop Kids (35 page)

“Hey. Wanna go see that 3-D horror movie?”

“Um … I don’t really feel like being at work tonight.” Sucking my sticky sweet fingers, hoping for 3-D activities within a room from which I wasn’t fired, I haphazardly suggest, ”How ‘bout we go watch a movie at my house?”

“Okay, sounds good.” Holly latches her lunchbox and stands. “We could stop by my place and get my
Planet Earth
DVDs. Or maybe we could watch
Donnie Darko
. I missed most of it last weekend. I’d be into seeing the director’s cut again.”

“Fabulous.” Thoroughly napkining the saliva and remaining glaze from my hands, I rise to button my coat. “Lynch’s version did have its merits. …” I offer Holly her hoodie. “But I prefer the original too.”

On the way home, just to make sure that some lost Extra (or Stella) isn’t disappointedly waiting in the WAMU lot, I have Holly drive by The Palace. As we pass Crystal Eyes, I see four tall tees creeping the cracked sidewalks.
Fuck
. I think these may be the same nasts from last weekend. But I can’t tell. These people all look the same to me.

“Can I help you guys find something?” Turning down “Killing an Arab,” I lean from the passenger window.

Holly picks at her brownie as we slowly roll up to the curb.

“Yeah…” Holding up his pants with one hand, the kid with a blunt behind each ear spits on the concrete then glares. “Are there more fags in this town or just you?”

“Oh yeah, tons.” I swish my wrist. “But all of us are only into straight guys so you boys should just go back home.”

As we speed away Holly laughs. Sparks cans hurl toward us and four middle fingers rise up into her review mirror.

Chapter 53

We made it. Having just barely escaped being force-fed candy corns, fun-sized Butterfingers, and Gina’s freshest Cherie Cherie selections, I shut my tear-sheet-covered door to lock us in with Moz, various models, and Leo Di. Apologizing for the motherly onslaught, I crawl onto my red comforter, grab my laptop, and lay down next to Holly. We enjoy about twenty-two minutes of a straight film. Then start making out.

I’d almost entirely lost interest in this delightful PG activity but with Holly kissing is anew—it feels taboo. I haven’t done this with anyone since the early days of The Premieres, since The Pink Room. It feels fabulous.

Slowly, I slide my hand up her worn grey, remixed D.A.R.E tee, struggling with my hesitancy. My parents are rooms away.
It’s fine.
Holly thrusts her tongue in my mouth. I squish unexplored boob in my hand.
Everything’s fine.
My co-star unbuckles my belt. Pulling her to her knees, I liberate her shirt and toss it to the ground. She falls back onto the bed. Her jagged, icy, asymmetrical a-line shatters across my black and white paparazzi pillows. She stares up at me in anticipation. Her black lace bra pleads to be set free. I straddle her, admiring her perfect face, her perfect body, and all her perfection. Then, envious of the pillowcase paps, I grab my phone from its charger.
“May I?”

Holly poses lusciously for the camera.
She’s a professional.

After presenting the stunning stills for her approval, I begin undressing. I loosen my tie, unbutton my shirt, and close myself over the surrendering angel. I brush back her luminous locks.

“Holly?” Kissing the delicate cucumber-scented spot behind her un-pierced lobe.

I romantically whisper, “Can you be quiet while we do it?”

“I want to make you happy Mike.” With meekness usually reserved for only Stella, she sighs. “But I don’t know if I can.”

“What?” I sit up, shocked to hear her question her natural ability. “Of course you can. I have no doubt. You can make me very happy.” I recklessly toss my shirt on the floor then realize I’ve been right about her all along
.

“It’s just that I—” Looking away like an actress in an enhanced reality TV drama, Holly pauses. Beyond our heavy breaths, the only sound to be heard comes from plates clinking in the kitchen.

I relieve her from having to make the awkward confession.

“Wait.” I hopefully ask, “Have you never … Have you only had sex with … toys?”

Clearly shocked by my insight, she laughs. “Um … well … basically. Yeah.” Struggling to choose her words, she’s looking at me like I have the answers.

She shouldn’t be embarrassed. She’s like a perfect ten amateur posing for nudes in a sea of silicon.

“I mean, I’ve fooled around with people … I guess…”

“Not even OJ?”

I knew it. She is pure: A virgin. She’s like a saint. She’s like Morrissey.

“Nope.” Looking up at me, she deliberately shakes her head. “Never gotten it … but I’m willing to give.” Sliding out from between my legs, she kneels up, throws her arms around my neck, and professes something that will haunt me for the rest of my sexual career. “Mike, I really like you. I wouldn’t want it to be anyone but you.”

For the first time, that old-timey song “It ‘Has’ to Be ‘Me’” starts playing. Sinatra is insisting that my acclaimed Producer be the first to go where no boy or girl or DJ or thirty-three year old casting agent has ever gone before.

“Fabulous.” I push her back down to the paps and passionately recommence our improvisation.

For all the Greats and Extras that I’ve worked with, I’ve never been as inspired as I am right now. I unhook Holly’s overflowing a-cups.
This was always meant to be
. I toss her bra into the surreal intimacy of my bedroom.
It feels like we’ve been typecast
. I cup bare side-boob and suck.
She must soak her nips in agave
. Reaching down, cautiously, as if trying to pet a strange cat, I delicately begin unbuttoning her fly.

“That’s it! Fucking killer!” In a director’s chair, backlight by studio cans, wearing silver lamé lingerie, Alvin films from the shadowy corner of my room. I suck in my cheeks. “Keep it slow, rom-com. Ease it in there.”

Shifting her hips, Holly assists, and together we slip her loaded pockets down past her knees. We kiss for an eternity. Almost one full minute of pure make-out seduction burns away before she places her hand on the top of my head and gently pushes.
The camera boy chants, “OJ, OJ, OJ…”

Like a cat cleaning traces of spilt soymilk, I descend. I lick her neck. Her collarbone. I explore the sweet succulence of her soft, neglected left nipple. She pushes me further. I taste my way down her smooth, un-trodden trail of happiness. Firmly pressing her immaculate skin, I slide my fingers over her soft belly, her waist, under the thin black strip of lace hugging her right hip,
Everything is coming up cucumbers.
I graze my lips a few r-rated inches below her belly button. She pushes me further. My heavy breath beats against the cotton barrier to her unplumbed sanctum. She trembles, hooks her panties, and tears them down.

I see Moz. And the sound of my old name cuts through the rhapsody.

“Michael!”

“Yeah Mom,” I yell back, totally annoyed.

“It’s awfully quiet in there! No babies please!”

Sinatra has silenced.

“I thought you wanted grandkids!” I protest, and Holly’s blissful expression changes to horror. Gesticulating wildly for her to stay put, I whisper, “It’s fine.”

Bucking me, she springs up to find her bra.

“Don’t be smart!” Gina Scolds from the kitchen.

“Mom, we’re watching a movie!” I stand to yell through the locked door. “…And I just had to pause the best part!”

My Producer, still fully prepared to start the scene, grazes the wood between Morrissey and Moss.

“Oh! Sorrrrry … do you kids want some fresh pumpkin pie? We’ve got cider…”

By the time I convince Gina that we have no interest in seasonal snacks, Holly’s standing next to me, completely dressed and ready to leave.

“Mike, I’m sorry.” My overdressed paramour whispers, “I thought I could, but I just can’t with your parents here. It’s weird.”

“Yeah, totally. I get it,” I take both of her hands. “We can finish this tomorrow. I promise my folks won’t be at The Palace.” I smile.

My Producer stares up at us, frowning.

“Actually, I don’t think I’m going to go tomorrow.”

“Why not?” I recoil.
My tummy hurts. I feel like Jesus kicked me in the nuts.

“I think I’m just gonna stay in, and lounge.” Her expectant, unearthly, dilated green eyes are disabling. She gently shrugs. “Maybe you can come over?”

She’s wants me to cancel another party. I’m bound by the female Morrissey’s gaze. I suppose I could. We could sneak into The Palace alone. Fulfill our destiny in Heaven. Maybe Al could shoot it. She half-smiles.
But what about my guests? My reputation?

“I wish I could.” Dropping her hands, I run mine through my hair. “But tomorrow … It’s gonna be huge. Bigger than
Dark Grey
,” I stammer. “And I mean … I’m the host. I just—.”

“I understand.” Holly wraps her arms around my waist and kisses me. “I really should go.”

Alone in my room after walking Holly to her car, I take off my pants, open my Mac, and pull up a dorm room solo. I fast forward through a strip tease. The small-boobed bleached-blonde spreads her thighs and suck-slickens a red silicone rod.
The soft voice of Old Blue Eyes is interrupted. Threats are being whispered. “We’re gonna out you and your party, fag.”
The college girl shoves the toy inside her and I immediately release my pent up joy. It flies wildly from my relieved Producer.
The hateful vows subside.
I wipe my misfire from the monitor, clear my history, plug in my phone, pocket square my production house, and then crawl into bed.

It has to be me
.

Chapter 54

The Fuck-it Premiere starts off well. In freshly washed Y-3 sweats, a Bickle-for-McQueen tie, a black Top Man suit coat, and a fantastic Massi mood, I greet our overwhelming turn out. Hot unfamiliar girls looking like flashers with flowers are coming to the corner planters and introducing themselves in between the whispered details of my almost perfect date. Lynch accepts a Germs sticker from an Extra wearing a black shoelace choker. She pins a
Bona Drag
button on my lapel. I light her cigarette. She licks me then vanishes in the smoke screen.

“Man, that’s crazy.” Peeling the waxy paper back, Lynch pats a white vinyl square onto the breast of his black hoodie. “It sucks that she didn’t come tonight. I would love to see you DV Holly. And I could have been her equally unforgettable number two. … I mean, if she really is a virgin and not just totally lying.”

“Yeah…” I glance over the drunken, raging lot to make sure that no one is listening. “I’m actually kinda glad that she stayed home. I’m really into checking out some of these new Extras.” I nod toward the hippie girls, twirling on the bank’s steps with Star. “And there’s only so much joy to spread around, you know?”

I can feel Lynch’s mutilated eyes staring holes through my flawless reasoning. I turn to face him.

“Dude.” He knowingly grins. ”You want Holly to yourself. You’re dying over her and that’s why you don’t even care that she
still
hasn’t gone off with any real activities! Fuck, you and Dustin should start a club.” He laughs,

“I just want to be first, man.” Calmly, I reposition my new Morrissey pin. On the other lapel, it will draw eyes to my good side.

“Did you propose yet?”

“C’mon man, someone’s gonna hear you!” I beg, fearing and hoping that Stella might still show up. It’s been a week since I’ve heard from her.

“Okay. But you do like her right?” He pops a Mento and smiles.

“Yeah.” Grabbing my phone, I hide my eyes in my overfull inbox. “I guess I do.”

I’m about to open a PM from someone named Moore when Lynch says, “Holy Fuck.” I look up. Chewing, he’s pointing to a hot blonde in a Hello Kitty raincoat. I take off my shades.

As if summoned back to the valley by my confession, Stella weaves through the late-night parking lot social and sputters to a wavering standstill in front of me.

“Hey kids! Miss me?”

She has on too much eyeliner. Her hair is chopped, straightened, and white.