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“I said spit and polish!” I protest.
“Even better,” Beastman says suggestively, looking at my hands.
“No, no, no. Not literal spit! I’m not spitting all over his–” I gesture toward Beastman’s crotch.
“Hey, Mal. You know how it goes. You’re a pro. You do whatever it takes to make Beastman perform at peak,” Spatula explains, voice going low and dangerous.
“That’s not a peak,” I say. “That’s Mount Everest.”
“Any tape residue left on the tip?” he asks Beastman.
“Tape?” I gasp.
“I have to tape it to my leg when I wear jeans,” Beastman explains. “Sometimes it messes with the close-up shots.”
“Do people comment on that? I mean, are viewers of porn really looking that closely?” I blurt out.
“Of course! We get tons of fan mail and reviews.”
“Reviews? People review porn movies?” I’m imagining Yelp pages for that.
“Sure. All the time. Holds us to higher standards.”
Spatula abruptly hands me a small bottle of Goo Gone. “Here. Get rid of the sticky stuff on Beastman’s tip.” He shakes it, impatient.
I don’t touch it.
“I thought the point was for him to produce sticky stuff.”
“Only for the money shot.”
“He… has sex with money? Does he wrap it around his shaft? How does that work?”
Beastman laughs. “She’s funny. It’s like she’s never watched our stuff.”
“I–” Sudden shyness overwhelms me. I haven’t watched their stuff. I haven’t watched any stuff. I joke about YouPorn, but it’s not like I use it. If I want to get off on something, it’s an audiobook of a favorite romance novel. No worries about ass to mouth, no sudden choking.
No unexpected scat play.
An audiobook is dependable. Aural sex is the best.
When you’re single, at least.
Or, maybe, when you’re me.
Unreality has a funny way of announcing itself when your entire way of viewing the world melts into a gooey pile of chaos. All the carefully spread layers of life, each in its place and held apart from the others by psychological forces so mysterious they’re almost magic, converge into one big mess.
I have become a Snickers bar left on a car dashboard in July.
“Hey, hey, hold on there,” Beastman objects, pointing to the bottle Spatula shoves in my hand. “That shit stings like a mofo. I’m not letting her put that on me. Last time you had to CGI out the red burn spots!”
“Only on close ups,” Spatula retorts, minimizing poor Beastman’s protests.
“This is a pornography movie set!” I shout. It’s obvious, I know, but I have to say it. Have to. It’s like that moment when someone trips and you shout, “Careful!” afterward.
I mean, what’s the point? What’s done is done. Your words aren’t going to make a difference.
But you do it anyhow.
