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A Little Bit Like Juliet

Veni, Vidi, Valium

 

Jack had left the front door open again, that always bothered her. He knew perfectly well that she got out of bed practically an hour after he did. She never went fully back to sleep once he'd woken up and started getting ready. She would hear him creep out of bed and cough, walk into the en-suite bathroom of their tiny little terraced house and the light would stab at her eyes. She'd give a low moan and turn around, wrapping her limbs under the covers in intricacies of semi-darkness.

 

He'd close the door enough to let a chink of light shine through the denseness of almost slumber. She would hear the shower start, the low hum of a tune he mumbled at himself, the brushing of his teeth, the running of the water and bulleted sound of a spit into the sink. She'd listen as the light came off, and sometimes in the grayness of the early hours she would make out his shape as he felt around for the right clothes and put them on.

 

She liked spying on him. There was a secret thrill to watching him dress. She also took delight in her annoyances. She would never admit this to herself or to anyone, but she enjoyed being disappointed by him. It gave her purpose, and power, above all it gave her some semblance of control amidst her daily drab.

 

For example, she failed to understand why he would take the supposed consideration to dress in the dark so as not to wake her, when there was a perfectly good light source in the bathroom, which he rudely reminded her of every morning. She could not complain, however, she was meant to be asleep and all of this was meant to be unknown to her.

 

The door was the greatest point of contention. He had taken to locking it after she gave a hysterical speech about how anyone could slip in and make their way all the way to the back of the house where the bedroom was while she slept and steal something, or rape her, or something equally terrible. He was genuinely sorry, his eyes on the floor, but soon after it continued. She had stopped telling him about it, in a way that gave her the constant satisfaction of having something to be angry at him for.

 

When they had arguments she used to bring it up, until one day he told her that maybe she should wake up earlier and do something with her day. She felt a flush of shame and, like a panicked child, she had turned a brilliant shade of beetroot and started sobbing on the sofa. He had looked at her with a coldness that ran right through her, and for a second she thought maybe she had finally given up all her power to him and almost regretted starting to cry.

 

But his face softened up and he sat to comfort her, there was a deep well of inner warmth to know she had been given the power again, and everything was back to normal.

 

Maybe leaving the door open was part of his rebellion, but she doubted it. There was something so quiet, so passive and laid back about him that she was sure he just genuinely forgot. Outside of herself, this repelled Juliet. She said as much when they bickered, or rather when she scolded him. Part of her was genuinely shocked at how nasty she could get, telling him how little of a man he was, how had she even considered marrying him was beyond her understanding.

 

Deeper inside she knew why, he was her whipping boy and he took it like a little bitch, and this made her feel endlessly god-like.

 

Juliet climbed from the double bed and, noticing that her robe was on the far side of the room, dragged the sheet from the mattress instead.  She draped the sheet over her body, like a toga.  She grinned at this. She was Juliet the Greek goddess. 

 

Yes, Greek mythology appealed to her.  There were no dog-headed deities among that pantheon.  No corpulent Buddha, six armed Kali or bleeding Christ.  They were beautiful Olympians with mastery over all aspects of the lives of those who worshiped at their altars.  She had even named her cat after one of the characters from these myths.  Though he was a graceful creature, he had been a clumsy kitten.  He was always falling from the back of the sofa or the bookcases, though he never stopped climbing.  This creature, who dared to face the heights no matter the fall, she had named Icarus.

 

He sensed that she was thinking of him.  Icarus, raised his head to observe her.  His sharp green eyes penetrated the half-light of the early morning bedroom.  Juliet didn't notice his gaze as she went her way out of the bedroom and down the long hallway of their home.  In the hallway, the early morning sun broke into the otherwise darkened house, motes of dust dancing in its honeyed brightness.   As she passed the guest rooms and the home office, she could see the elderly neighbor from across the street through a bedroom window. He was picking up the newspaper from his doorstep, still dressed in his bathrobe, un-cinched with a T-shirt and boxers underneath.  She found the old man disturbing with his fat round body and his skinny white legs.  He looked like a toad.  She thought his name was Kurtzman.  Either Melvin or Marvin or something like that.  Something in his appearance spoke of underlying perversion.  She'd always meant to look on the sex offender registry to see if she would find him there.  Was it simple laziness or fear of having this queasy feeling confirmed that had prevented her from following through?  Likely, it was both. 

 

She was passing the kitchen now, on her long journey from the bedroom to the living room. Outside a window on the far side of the kitchen, birds twittered, traffic hummed and from somewhere down the block came the growl of someone's lawnmower, intruding on her.  Halfway across the living room she was overcome by a sense of heavy dread. "Open a-freaking-gain", she exclaimed to herself.  She thought of her accusations about the front door.  "Someone could waltz right in and rape me in our bed!" she had shouted at Jack.  "The whole world could just come right in on me!"

 

She froze, glancing around the room, her feet cold on the hardwood floor, her pulse racing.  Her breath became short, coming in gasps.  Juliet listened.  A creek issued from the next room, maybe.  She might have imagined it.  She turned from the open door.  For a moment she had a crazy urge to run to it.  To race out into the light away from that awful, tiny creek she might have heard. 

 

Instead she walked into the study that adjoined their living room.  It was a tidy little room, curtained and full of books and shadows.  The room was empty.  Something soft brushed against her ankle. She stifled a scream.  Icarus' soft white body nuzzled against her naked calf, with his tail hoisted high like a flagpole.  Relief evaded her though.  The sense of wrongness had not yet left her when the phone rang.

 

The home phone sat on a cradle in the living room next to a potted plant on the small round table next to the sofa, mostly silent.  The home phone never rang and she and Jack had debated many times about getting rid of it since they both had cells.  The home phone seemed like an old fashioned trapping of a past life.  Still, they kept it in case of emergency, with its number programmed into both of their cells under the name "Home."

 

Juliet walked across the door-sized rectangle of morning that divided her living room and picked up the phone. 

 

"Hello?"

 

"Hello.  Is this Mrs. Jack Kramer?"  The voice was somehow generic, kind and terrifying all at once.  The voice was polite and official.  When this kind of voice made a call and opened with that kind of question, it was never good news.

 

"Yes, this is Juliet Kramer."  Her voice seemed hollow and distant.  It was as far removed from Juliet as this man on the other end of the line.

 

"Ma'am, I'm afraid there has been an accident.  I'm afraid your husband is dead."

 

Marvin Kurtzman had stopped reading his paper.  He was staring across the street at Juliet with a quiet, solemn look, as if he had heard what the man on the phone had said.  He pushed up the horn-rimmed glasses that had been sliding down his nose.  The sun seemed suddenly a hundred shades brighter.  The sound of the traffic and of the birds seemed louder.  The distant lawnmower seemed closer and closer, growing louder and louder as the brightness and the sound and the weight of the world crushed in through the open door.  Through the hole that Jack had left when he went to work that morning.

 

Much to her surprise, Juliet's voice came out as a whisper, while her heart screamed. "No! You must be wrong."

 

The agonizingly polite voice answered, "I'm very sorry to be the bearer of this news.  I will send a car to pick you up; if you would like.  We need you to come down to the station."

 

Juliet agreed numbly and sat the phone back in its antiquated cradle.  Why did they need her at the station?  Shouldn't she be going to the hospital?  The morgue?  Juliet sank down on the sofa.  As if he had heard the voice also, Icarus climbed onto her lap for comfort.  As she stroked his velvety fur, she tried to clear her mind. All that had been wonderful in their lives, as well as all that had been horrid, slipped in and out of focus in her mind's eye.  Almost as if she was watching a montage.

 

Jack and Juliet crossed paths the first time her freshman year of college.  English Lit.  He sat towards the back of the classroom; she in the front.  She felt his eyes on her everyday; and she took much pleasure in ignoring him.  She had always been the kind of girl who expected attention and in turn, returned none.  Indifferent to men who were not of her social status, Juliet relished Jack's obvious longing for her but would never stoop low enough to acknowledge it. At the end of the semester, the professor decided to use the class as a social experiment.  The term paper was to be collaboration; and the professor got to pick the collaborators.

 

Jack had never said, and she had never asked; but Juliet suspected that their pairing was more of Jack's doing, and less of the professor's.  If pressed, she would concede that Jack gained her respect for that.  Up to that time, she had regarded him as a mouse of a man. 

 

Knowing that she was obviously the superior of the two, Juliet insisted that their term paper would be focused on the history of the Amazon race in Greek mythology.  Jack eagerly accepted the terms, as if it were up to debate.  Juliet had strategically placed herself in the dominate role; for no other reason than to prove that she could.  Had she known that simple, egotistical move would shape her entire future, she may have reconsidered.

 

Once they started working together, Juliet began to see aspects of Jack that began to change her opinion of him.  First, she noticed the physical things: the green flecks in his brown eyes that lit up when he laughed, the way the sun could turn is hair from mousy brown to almost golden, the dimples when he smiled.  Then, she began to see that he did indeed have a personality, and even a little bit of a backbone.  He could be extremely funny and witty; as well as stubborn when she challenged his intelligence.  She knew that he was intellectually superior; but still she was hesitant to let it show.  If he sensed that he had the upper hand, in any aspect; where would that leave her? 

 

She tried to remember the exact moment when she fell in love with him.  Or if she ever really did.  His eagerness to please and impress extended well beyond the confines of the classroom and the term paper.  Jack was always doing, always giving.  When Juliet injured her ankle trying unsuccessfully to party in stilettos, Jack not only carried her books, but would carry her when needed.  He bought her numerous books on Greek mythology that seemed to be rare finds.  He never spoke of his devotion to her; but he didn't need to.  He needed her approval, her gratitude, anything he could get from her.  And she needed him to need her. 

 

It was amazing, and somewhat annoying that this would be the memory that flooded her mind now, at the end of Jack's life. Juliet squeezed her eyes for a moment, and willed herself back into control, summoning memories of Jack's slights and shortcomings over the years. She was still the one in control in this relationship, no matter how the circumstances had changed! As a matter of fact, why did she have to go down to the station? She was not to be summoned anywhere, least of all now, when her life has turned upside down. She was still the Goddess Juliet, damn it, and she was going to be treated accordingly. She picked up the phone and dialed.

 

After a minute of confusion on the other end, the person who had called Juliet a moment ago was brought to the phone. Juliet allowed herself to tap into the undercurrent of uncertainty and fear that was lying just beneath her calm and controlled exterior.

 

'I don't understand why I have to go anywhere! My husband is DEAD! If you have anything to ask me, anything to go over, you can do it here. I have no desire to be surrounded by uniforms and uncaring desk jockeys right now.' The cadence and speed of her voice made her appear ready to have a breakdown at any moment. It worked. The police agreed to send a detective over with the car and discuss the details in her own home, surrounded by her own things. Funny how swiftly the house that belonged to both of them became Juliet's House. As if she was expecting this.

 

As she waited for the police, Juliet bathed, dressed and straightened the house, accomplishing much more in the 45 minutes Jack had been dead than she had in an entire day he had been alive. Icarus followed her around, just an arms reach away, in case she needed comfort.

 

The doorbell rang, and Juliet answered. In the blood red powersuit she had purchased during one of her failed attempts and what Jack called 'getting a job like a normal person,' and the upswept hair, she looked more like a CEO than the grieving widow the detective had imagined.

 

'Thank you for coming here, I'm just not ready to face the world outside.' Juliet put a little break in her voice, helping her keep control of the situation.

 

'It's no problem, ma'am. We are so sorry for your loss. My name is Detective Anderson. Please understand that all of this is a formality and that the police department will do everything in our power to help you in this unimaginably difficult time.' Anderson's voice was soothing, but a bit robotic, as if he had given this speech one too many times.

 

'Please come in. Let me get you some coffee.' Juliet showed him into the kitchen, where the coffee Jack had made earlier still sat, warm in the carafe. After pouring them both a cup, Juliet sat down, closed her eyes, took a deep breath and said, 'Tell me everything.'

 

From the detective's story, it appeared as if Jack, either tired or distracted, had drifted into the oncoming lane, right in front of a semi. It was quick, and he had not suffered. Juliet listened intently, and stifled a few tears, real or manufactured even Juliet didn't know.

 

'There's really not much for you to do, Mrs. Kramer. Mr. Kramer's body is down at city morgue. There won't be an autopsy, so as soon as you have arrangements made, they can release the body. A few pieces of paper require your signature, but that can wait. Do you have any family or friends to call? You probably shouldn't be alone.'

 

Juliet composed herself. 'Thank you detective, but I'll be ok. I do have some calls to make and some people to inform, however. Please keep in touch and let me know if there is anything else I need to do.'

 

'Of course, ma'am.'

 

The detective was ushered out the door and once again, the house was quiet. Juliet sat on the sofa and just stared out at the world. Icarus jumped up on her lap, shedding white fur on her suit as he did so. Absentmindedly, she began to stroke his back.

 

As much as she despised Jack, she never wanted him to die. He was the perfect supplicant for the Goddess Juliet. How was she going to survive without worship? Would she fade away like the forgotten gods of the Greek Pantheon? The time for mourning was over. Juliet had the rest of her life to plan, and the prospects were looking grim.

 

Juliet's eyes snapped open with the sound of Jack's alarm clock.   She'd gotten into bed early, -mostly from the feeling of mental fatigue while processing Jack's death -but sleep didn't come until 4am and now here was Jack's alarm waking her at 6. While she'd remembered to shut off her own daily alarm, she'd never thought of his. It pissed her off that "he'd" woke her up after having the nerve to die and leave her on her own and in a financial lurch. She laid there for 20 minutes wide awake and angry before finally concluding sleep a futile effort.

 

Her robe was still on the far side of the room. As she made the reluctant effort to walk over and grab it she thought, "At least I know the freaking front door is shut." She put her robe on and examined herself in the cheval mirror in the corner. She liked what she saw and the abrupt thought that she could easily find another dumb ass, bitch like Jack to take care of her entered her mind from nowhere. She smiled to herself as she started out of the bedroom down the Labyrinth of hallway.

 

In the hall, her mind did a quick flip through her "to-do" list:    Funeral preparations (do they really sell pine boxes?), relatives to notify, calls to insurance companies, and goodwill to take all of Jack's stuff away.  As she passed the home office, Icarus was just starting a battle with the pull chain from the lamp on Jack's desk.  You could tell Jack's desk from hers easily. Hers was bigger. Hers had a nicer chair and was newer. Hers had a nicer computer –which she hardly used and hers was clutter free.  Jack kept all kind of knickknacks and "office toys" on his desk.

 

She laughed as Icarus turned Jack's lamp on. She thought, the damn cat was always smarter than Jack was anyway. She walked over to turn the light off, pausing afterwards for two scratches behind the cat's ears. Her eye landed on the picture of her and Jack that he kept on his desk.   Juliet looked at them and realized that based only on that picture, one would conclude they were a happy couple –over the moon in love. Looking into photo-Jack's eyes she thought, "The dumbass really did love me. Even despite the way I treated him."

 

Julia turned and left the office heading to the kitchen and some coffee, but absentmindedly found herself in the living room starting at the closed front door.   Ready to check if it were opened and go ballistic if it were. It was closed of course. She thought, "No Jack, no fuck ups" and realized as she said it, that she wiped a single tear from her left eye. Hating the moment of vulnerability she shrugged it off and spun on her heels to make some coffee.

 

            Juliet lifted her favorite Arizona coffee mug she had insisted on getting about a year ago. It had pictures of cactuses and foxes, but mostly just dirt hills scattered throughout. Like a forgotten child pulling at her pants, the smell of patchouli lingered amidst the rest of the cups, spoons, forks, knives and gave her hair a sudden flush of wind. Gnarled and pulsing, her throat didn't have the mercy to let her give a past due weep.

 

 The small white handle curved around her slender, long fingers, while the warmth of the wind pressed against her back, caressing her waist. Juliet turned expecting to see him, his amused look, she expected to hear an "I'm sorry" in the very least, but of all the objects behind her, his coffee mug was what shined. She remembered when he left it there…he was only about two minutes behind schedule, Juliet was sure he would have to just swallow the damn thing. He had brusquely slammed it down causing the brown liquid to spread itself around the bottom end of the mug and yelled out a "see ya later".

 

As she picked up the mug she swallowed it down whole, dripping dashes of coffee across her neck and robe. "Take a seat, Juliet" she said.

 

"Let's get comfortable with ourselves. Now, you know and I know, I was never really too fond of Jack and his lack of manners and general intelligence. A fucking puppet is what he was. 'Jack the Puppet' fit him best, don't you think? He only lived to please us and lately he had been lagging in that department, had he not? Juliet we are beautiful, my dear. Go ahead and set up the funeral, get Jack off the living world and put him under where he belonged from the beginning."

 

"I am, I was about to do that. It was only a matter of time, I just needed to step out of this robe and clean my disgusting skin." Juliet said.

 

"Well alright, hurry on up then. We need to find ourselves a new man, one who isn't as cowardly and pathetic as this fool."

 

 

She was revived when stepping into the morgue, with a beautiful brunette pouncing on 50 keys at a time as she typed on her computer. 

"Hello, welcome, will you please sign in here and here and here" the woman said as she circled X's across three sheets of paper filled with some type of agreement.

 

"Don't see why not" Juliet said as she slipped out a pen with a gold tip from her purse. "How long will it be? I have to be arranging a funeral in about an hour."

 

"I see, well, they shouldn't take all that long. Tell you what, looks like they just finished their last patient and they're coming back up here" she said, pointing to her computer screen. "I'll put you down as a call ahead"

 

"That'll work, thank you"

 

"You're welcome and here's this bracelet, place that around your wrist until you're leaving the premises."

 

"May I ask why?"

 

"Just policy, now please follow the orders and sit down"

 

It wasn't 10 minutes before "Kramer!" was yelled from the front by a rather small man in a long white coat.  As Juliet approached him, he held out his hand and shook hers with too big a grin for his face.

 

"My name is Julian Stockholm. I'll be guiding you towards your…?"

 

"Husband. Jack Kramer"

 

"Of course, it's going to be right this way, but may I ask why you insisted on coming to see him…here?"

 

"I just wanted to see what he looked like right after the accident"

 

 

 

Her guide looked at her for a moment then seemed to shrug off his own thoughts –as well he should.  "This way, ma'am", Julian murmured as he turned to lead her down the long hallway.  Juliet pivoted on her heel as she followed, staring at the back of his round head. 

 

As they moved farther down the cold cider block corridor, she continued to stare at that bobbing head in front of her.  The lanky brown hair lay flat against his head.  The short strands clumping at the back of his neck sticking out and across the collar of his wrinkled white coat, leaving a dark discoloration along the crease.

 

They continued to walk.  Passing blank colorless doors along the way.  She couldn't hear anything behind any of these doors.  Or in a cavernous hollow space around then either.  Just the shuffling of Julian's feet and the sliding of one heel along the cold hard cement and the spindly clicking of her over priced heels.

 

Shuffle.  Slide.  Click.  Click.  God, this just dragged on.

 

"Ah-hem.  Are we almost there?  This isn't something that I've been looking forward to, you know.  Something that I ever thought I would have to experience in this lifetime.  For God's sake, where the hell are we going?!?"

 

Julian paused for a moment and then continued his shuffling, sliding gate.  "Just a little further, ma'am.  My apologies for the delay.  I know that this can be a trying time."  What the hell did that mean?

 

And they continued to walk.  Juliet thinking about the back of Jack's head and how his frequent trips to the corner barber –a barber!- ensured that this hair never touched the back of his collars, let alone managed to discolor any of his shirts or coats.  Jack always seemed to pick his feet off of the actual ground when he walked too, now that she thought about it.

 

Why was she here?  Seeing Jack seemed imperative at the time, but now she just wasn't sure.  Where the hell was he?  How the hell did she get into this situation?  Looking back over the last month, she couldn't really see where a choice or a decision would have been made differently.  But then she wasn't one to question she own actions or behavior overly much.  Why was she even thinking about this at all?

 

Greasy haired Julian continued to lead her down the endless hallway while Juliet's pace started to slow.  The space between her and her guide growing with every step.  Unwillingly, flashes of her life with Jack popping into her head sporadically, following no path or reason.

 

Standing next to a cage door together looking at what would soon be their cat Icarus.  She had wanted to find a breeder and buy a show piece –a piece of art.  Jack had insisted on rescuing an animal from the local animal shelter.  With Jack ranting about all the unwanted and unloved animals already in the world and not wanting to reward fools creating more animals for profit alone, Juliet had sullenly stood there until finally just to shut him up she'd simply let it go.  And they had gotten Icarus out of that.

 

Discussing the purchase of a new car.  Not that they had actually needed one, it was more that she had wanted one.  Oh, her fury when Jack had refused to dip to deep into their savings.  Stubbornly insisting that blowing their nest egg –their emergency funds- on a want and not a need was both short sighted and foolish.  Oh, she did get her new car.  A boring, dependable sedan with no interesting icon or hood ornament worth noting.  She had accepted what she viewed as a piece offering, all the while cursing him and his hold on the household money.

 

Looking toward Julian, she realized that he had put even more distance from her.  Glancing down, she noted that her feet had stopped moving.  In a daze she whispered, "Oh, God.  What have I done?"

Call Me Gavin, The Revision

Call me Gavin. That’s not my real name, of course, but who in this business uses their real name? It’s all Mack Sweetwood and Virginia LaCour around here: names with just the right combination of glamour and sleaze. So, yeah, that’s me. Gavin Steel. One more slab of beef around the pool. One more coked up, glistening loser baring it all for the wet dreams of America.
It beats the shit out of law school.
I was waiting on set with Mike Hawk. Say that out loud a couple of times. Yeah. That’s right. He was real proud of that shit. Took him a week to come up with it. We had worked together four times. He was bright and funny and great to be around, even if he was a little pretentious sometimes. Plus, he sucked cock like he invented the fucking blow job. He was a great guy. I’m standing there with Mike and this red haired girl named, I think, Misty. The two of them were, I shit you not, going over their lines. It never fails to amuse me how seriously some of these guys would take themselves. I mean, it’s the set of Bi-Bi Love 2, not Gone with the Wind. But they insisted that they were actors and they kept trying to inject drama into their projects when the only thing that needed to be injected in those movies were plenty of saran wrapped cocks.
So, we’re standing there on this beautiful day, the sun shining in a perfect blue sky like a kid’s drawing. The place is littered with beautiful naked or barely dressed people, smearing lotion and oil on each other waiting for the climactic orgy sequence to begin that will wrap up this epic. Not one single person there could have predicted the horrors that were coming: A catastrophe that, to this day, leaves me weak and cold when I think of it. I’ve been in therapy for two years now, and I still have nightmares. The smell of burning flesh and hair and tanning oil haunt me.
Jesus.
Even now, as I close my eyes, I can still see Missy or Misty or Mitzy with her hair in flames, screaming in baby oil-fueled agony, her skin crisping up like pork rinds as flames lick over her. People jumped into the pool to escape the fire, most of them drowning each other in their panic. A slick of oil on top of the water allowed the fire to spread there too. Even the pool was a death trap. Talking about it now, everything floods back and I can see that gorgeous California day transforming into a sick, Hell on earth. I can still feel the agony of the flames on my arm, and yeah, I know how lucky I am that I didn’t get it worse. I didn’t end up dead like Misty and so many others. I didn’t end up pissing through a tube for the rest of my life like Mike Hawk.
Nobody ever knew who started that fire that day. Nobody knew how it happened. Just that once it ignited, it blew through that oiled up crowd in seconds. And now, three years later, I’m just beginning to understand it all. And I don’t think it was an accident. I mean, how could it be? Even though the police asked everyone whose skin wasn’t crispy, they couldn’t even catch a damn lead. Every time an Aqua Net-laminated, blue haired old lady goes to light her Benson & Hedges 100s, I break into a cold sweat.
Therapy doesn’t help, either, since my therapist wants me. Seriously, she does. Every time I sit on that couch, she sits across from me in her leather wing chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs, slow enough to give me a beaver shot; it just seems such a natural, fluid motion that I almost don’t even realize she’s doing it.
Yeah, I do.
Anyway, her blouse is always just tight enough that her nipples lift the fabric away from her breasts enough to let me know how cold it is in her office, or how hot she thinks I am. But, I digress. Therapy. What the hell do I think is going to happen? Suddenly, one day, I’ll wake up and be okay with watching my friends crisp up like the skin on a Thanksgiving turkey? Not fucking likely. And I told my therapist that, too. She said it takes time to get over a trauma like that. I don’t know… maybe.
In the meantime you just get on with the mundane aspects of life. Mundane? Me? Who's life once consisted of waking up next to a ridiculously hot and nubile body, a protein breakfast and five hour gym workout followed by hours and hours of doing what most of the world only fantasize about?
I mean, what more could you ask for? Days on end of every fucking wet dream ever conceived, and helping to create new ones. A world where nobody got old, where nobody had to wait until everyone left the bar and make do with whatever ugly easy bitch was left draped on a barstool. Where you could visit the doctor, catch a flight, take your car to get fixed or call in the plumber, and whatever licked your brain salaciously would instantly come into being. A world of pure Id.
People talk about how porn isn't real, how that's not real life, but it was mine. When the director screamed “Cut!” I stopped being the plumber, the doctor, the pilot but I started the true joy of myself. I became Gavin Steel, porn star.
A celebrity, an adoration, a godhood. People would sit in front of their screens and get off on my body, imagine themselves there with me. Even if you're a rampant slut you might help a hundred people cum, tops. In your lifetime. I was helping thousands of people cum daily.
Did I mention I got paid? A stupid amount of money, because my sex addiction turned into my work addiction, and when I hit the clubs or the DVD signings it became my narcissism, and when I took any eager fan home it became my prowess.
It was a perfect celebrity too, I could switch it on and off as I so chose. I'd like to see Madonna do that. If I went to the right places I was Gavin Steel, bow at my feet and...Worship. My. Cock. When I just felt like being a normal anonymous whatever I'd steer off somewhere else, and I was just some random hot guy doing his grocery shopping, or drinking coffee.
That gap started closing more and more though. I lost the grip on the mundane completely, what the hell did I want it for? I wanted to be Gavin Steel forever and ever, international stud, pinnacle of masculine beauty extraordinaire. The more movies I made the more I would get paid, the more award shows I could attend, the more I could leave behind of my perfection for when I was old and grey and eventually dead. I would not be forgotten. People would still get off on me, even when I was in the grave, and that's something very few people can say.
But for the moment I was still the best goddamn sexiest thing that ever slapped his cock on the whole planet.
Now suddenly, I was a survivor of the California Pool Orgy Barbecue. Yes, the media has a sense of humour. I think the next person who quips me with a hot dog joke is going to get punched in the face. It was a perverse irony, that my face had been plastered across international news, that my DVD sales had risen, and I could not. That fire killed Gavin Steel, because every time I thought of sex my penis would shrivel up and cry, for I could not get the taste of charred human flesh and burning lube out of my mouth.
I have to admit, I wasn’t in the best of moods before the shoot. First, this wasn’t my film. I was subbing for Donald DiDildo, who had come down with the clap. Second, my agent Rodney had met with the film company (Balls to the Walls Productions) earlier that day for contract negotiations. This was to be the thing that propelled me from star to Super Star: I was signing an exclusive with BTW, for the next two years, they would own my ass, literally. For that honor, I was to get a nice salary bump, approval of directors, scripts, co-stars…and a few under the table perks as well.
As I was leaving my apartment, Rodney called me.
‘Gavin, I’m sorry, but the deal is off. Our negotiations broke down this afternoon. ‘
‘What the fuck, Rodney? This was supposed to be a cakewalk! You told me there would be no problems! What the Hell happened?’
‘They aren’t thrilled with the idea of you switching to straight-only films. You’re the hottest Gay-For-Pay on the market. If you insist, I’ll go to bat for you, but it will weaken your negotiation stance. You won’t be able to command your usual salary.’
‘FUCK THAT RODNEY! I am GAVIN FUCKING STEEL! I am done being jerkoff material for those faggots, they have made enough money off of me. It’s time for me to call the shots. FIX THIS!’
‘Let me see what I can do, but you have to finish the current film today, it’s a sign of good faith.’
‘SON OF A BITCH! I am not doing ANOTHER FUCKING THING until you fix this.’
‘Gavin. Do the God Damned Flick or you won’t be in a position to negotiate your way out of a paper bag. The whole industry will turn its back on you for breach of contract. You won’t even be able to get a part on the Red Shoe Diaries.’
‘Fine.’
I slammed the phone down and sped off to the shoot, running every red light, blasting my stereo with the top down. I was still 20 minutes late.
The director made a bee line to me. ‘What the fuck, Gavin? We’ve been waiting on you to shoot.’
‘Don’t give me any fucking attitude, Larry. You need me for this film. Get me a fluffer and I will ready in 5.’
It ended up taking 2 fluffers and 20 minutes to get me ready. Usually, my personal life does not interfere with my work, but today, work was interfering in my life.
‘Dammit, Julio. Not so much with the teeth!’
‘Sorry, papi. Ju know how mush I like to service you.’ Julio’s accent was all fake, like his name. In reality he was Joseph Smith (I kid you not) from Utah. But he knew how much that turned me on.
As the filming progressed, all I could think about was how I was the one getting screwed by this company. I guess I let my displeasure show a little too much, mouthing off at everyone and telling anyone who would listen not to ever work for these people again. Larry finally called lunch. I didn’t even bother to shower. I threw on a bathrobe and sped off to the nutrition store for a power shake. I had two big 3-way scenes this afternoon, and I’ll be damned if Gavin Steel doesn’t give it his all.
I walked into the shop, barefoot, with just the white robe on. Of course, the counter help was some little faggot.
‘Oh my God. It’s Gavin Steel!!!!’
Here we go again.
‘Hey there, what’s your name?’ My professionalism tries to step in. Always keep the fans happy.
‘It’s Freddy. Don’t you remember me? We made out at a party about six months ago.’
‘Uh…sure I remember that. You were pretty hot. I just forgot your name, that’s all.’
Wrong. Thing. To. Say.
‘You can’t be bothered to remember my name??? You went on and on about how hot I was. You said you would take me to your place. You said I might be Personal Assistant material. We spent 2 hours together.’
Crap. That line works on everyone. How can I be expected to remember every guy I swap spit with? I mean it was six months ago.
‘Oh FREDDY. Yeah, I haven’t forgotten you. I’ve just been busy. Plus, I don’t know how much longer I am going to be doing this. I was really thinking of you. Would it be fair to hire you if I am gonna get out of the biz?’
‘FUCK YOU, GAVIN STEEL!! I have a fucking college degree in chemistry. Why do you think I am working in this stupid convenience store? I have been waiting for your call. I knew if I worked here, someday you would walk in and remember me. Then I could leave this shitty job and this shitty life behind. You FUCKING Owe Me!’
Man, I have to diffuse this, and quickly.
‘Freddy. I am so sorry. Listen, I’ve got to get back to the set, but why don’t we talk about this over coffee or something? Even if I leave the biz, I am sure I’ll still need a PA.’
‘But you can’t quit. You’re the hottest guy on screen. Let me show you how grateful I would be.’
‘Sorry, don’t have that kind of time. Gotta get back to the set. But I will give you a preview.’
I spread my robe open wide, so he could get a flash of The Real Steel.
‘Take a look, take a picture if you want. This may be the last time you see it. I am fucking done with this business.’
Aaand, here we go. Quiet on the set. Cue the music and fade the light. I mean seriously, did this little fucker actually think that his pimply ass actually had a chance? I’m Gavin Fucking Steel. Literally.
Okay, fine. He did have a chance. I like to be honest, with myself at least. Change my conversation with Larry and reschedule my 3-way for tomorrow. I’m a professional for Christ’s sake and no matter what I refused to sabotage myself. Sure I could have thrown him a bone (yeah that’s right), but I was not in the mood to coddle a star-struck fool, for fuck’s sake.
I closed my robe and turned my back on Mr. Fucking Too Excitable and headed to the back coolers to get my protein shake. There you go. My back plus excitable. What does that equal? I’d be lucky if I got 5 minutes. The little faggot.
I grabbed the shake out of the cooler and snatched an extra large bottle of water. I needed to hydrate. I never could get enough water on a shoot. Sure, the production company always provided well for us on set. But I could feel my tongue sticking to my gums.
On my way back up to the counter, I cracked opened the water and started to drink. I had honed my gulping skills at college parties with beer and funnels. I had made them into a craft over the years, being Gavin Steel. Not too hard, really. You just have to relax your jaw and get to the point that pressure on the back of your tongue and throat didn’t kick in your gag reflex.
Snagging a power bar I slapped my purchases on the counter in front of the goggle eyed fool staring at me awe struck. And I waited.
“So how much, buddy?” I snapped.
“Nothing man! On the house!”
And because I was who I was, I grabbed my stuff and walked out drinking my water. I guess it was a good thing the little bugger was working, now that I think about it. My wallet was tucked into the pocket in my jeans, hanging neatly on a hook in my trailer. Yeah, MY trailer. I wondered briefly if he was going to pay for my goods out of his own pocket. Made for a great story, I guess. I was in a crappy mood, but I didn’t want him to get fired. I made a mental note to go back to that store later and, I don’t know, be nice I guess.
Walking on set, I saw Mike chatting with Misty (Muffy? Miffy?) and headed towards them. That’s when I realized that they were actually running lines for the three way.
What’s to practice? “Ohhh” but with more feeling? Or how about “I’m not sure about this” with just the right mixture of tentative curiosity and slight wariness.
And then I heard a scream. I mean a real scream not a “work” scream.
All eyes shot towards the direction of the scream. From where I was standing, I saw three blondes and the token black guy in this movie standing near the hot tub -I only knew the black guy by his porn name, “Lincoln Logg”. Blonde #1 on my left was the screamer.
Like the rest of us on set, they were all naked. But another dude was standing with them -fully dressed in some raggedy ass looking threads. Dude was behind blonde #2, (Carissa? Clarista? Clytemnestra?) and from where I was, it looked like he was kissing her on the back of her head.
That was until I saw the blood.
Dude backed away from her, and as he did, I could see blood running out of the back of her head, flowing through her near-white platinum blond hair. The path of her spine was like a valley with a red river running through it. As the guy pulled away, I could see dripping arcs of gunk and goo hanging in the air between the blonde’s head and his mouth. I could see that he was chewing and I could see what looked like her brains sticking out of the fucking hole in her head.
Blonde #2 collapsed forward towards the other two blondes, who in a fucked up display, moved out of the way and ran off, letting her fall face-first towards the hot tub. Lincoln caught her and lowered her to a seated position against the hot tub wall -accidentally slapping her in the face with his 13-inch monster in the process. At the same time, he turned his bald head to face up towards dude to ask him what the fuck his problem was. Linc turned just in time to see teeth bite into his skull right above the eyes.
Fucking hell broke loose. Fake tits remained perfectly still as blondes ran in every direction trying to get away from whatever was happening. People were pushing and shoving each other to get out of either of the set’s two exits. The oil on their bodies allowed them to slip together into one tight spray tanned mass that once pushed together was hard to get apart. At the exit nearest the hot tub, a mass of people pushing together shifted to the left, knocking a fake ass looking tiki torch off its base and onto a pile of towels on the hot tub’s wooden deck.
At the other exit, more screaming started. The group of people who had plowed into the doorway and were now stuck, started yelling and the people I could see were squirming and slamming into each other. A dude in the back of the glob of people fell down backwards and got stepped on as they started trying to move backwards. As the doorway cleared, I could see that dude that had chomped on the blonde’s head had some friends. I could see them chewing too and noticed a couple of other people bleeding from the head. The story in the first doorway was the same.
The fire had spread quickly from the deck to the walls of the set and the walls of the building. At this point, we had a windowless wall on behind us on one side and a wall of fire and well, some god damned zombies on the 3 others. At the same time I saw Misty(?) slip on an oily spot and her catch her hair on fire as she landed on the hot tub deck, I noticed Linc chewing on the head of another blond. The blood from the wound on the side of her head was dripping all over her and Linc, flowing across his abs and then down and off the end of his cock onto a growing pool on the floor. While I tried to overcome the urge to throw up my lunch, I looked around and tried to figure out what the fuck to do next.
Flames were licking at my bare skin. My bronzed, flawless skin. I had to do something - but everywhere I looked, there was more chaos. Half of the cast and crew were engulfed in flames, and the ones who weren't, were being munched on by zombies. And then they, in turn, were becoming zombies. Mother-fucking zombies!! What the hell?!? How did my life suddenly become an '80s horror movie? Worse still, the kind you would've seen Rhonda Shear hosting on late-night TV. If I weren't scared out of my ever-lovin' mind, I'd have probably been doubled over in a fit of hysterical laughter.
As I snapped back to reality, I noticed the canvas tarp that had been covering the indoor pool. It was laying in the corner of the set, folded up and forgotten. So far it seemed unscathed by the fire and, even though it seemed like a long-shot, I figured that it was my best bet to survive this ordeal. Doing my best to dodge zombies and flaming porn stars, I ran over and started crawling under it - quickly unfolding as much as I needed to cover my body.
Peeking out just slightly from the canvas, I could see Tawny (Tanya? Tana?) chewing on the inner thigh of my buddy Harry Coxwell (yep, say that one out loud a few times too). As she happily feasted on the beefy stud, one of the crew-members fell on top of them, catching both Harry and Zombie-Tawny (Tina? Tyanna?) on fire.
I looked up from that scene, and realized that the original zombies - as well as many of the newly-created ones - were catching on fire, right alongside the siliconed bimbos, donkey-hung himbos and hapless crew-members.
The smell of burning human flesh and hair finally became too much for me, and I blacked out.
I have no idea how long I was unconscious, but when I came to, I realized I no longer heard any shouting or screaming. I was still under the protective cover of the canvas tarp, and as I rubbed my dry, stinging eyes, I tried to shake off the fogginess that was clouding my mind.
Cautiously, I peeked out from under the canvas again as I had earlier. Surveying the situation, I saw several police officers, firemen, paramedics and EMTs. They were tending to the scant few survivors and covering the bodies of the rest. It was a grisly scene, but I couldn't help chuckling when I saw our lispy little assistant director slumped, doggy-style, over the big, burly key grip. I have a sick sense of humor, what can I say?
As I snickered, my smoke-filled lungs caused me to rasp and cough, and I heard someone shout, "Hey, there's a survivor over there!"
Several men then rushed over and helped me out from under the tarp. Most of what happened directly after that is blur now, but as I was being examined by the paramedics, I remember the fire chief telling me that I was damn lucky to have survived pretty much physically unscathed. Apparently the canvas was flame retardant, but by all rights should not have been able to withstand the intensity of a fire of this magnitude.
I'm glad the fire chief thinks I'm lucky, but me and my traumatized dick sure don't feel that way.
I wake up in the hospital, feeling nothing but searing pain all over my body. Screaming out, the day nurse comes running in.
‘Shhh…it’s ok, we’ll get you some more morphine.’
‘How long have I been here?’
‘4 days. You’ve been in and out of consciousness.’
‘Why am I strapped down?’
‘The restraints are for your own safety. You tend to thrash around in your sleep. That’s not going to help the healing process, Honey.’
She injects morphine into my IV and I drift off. But the sleep is anything but restful, as I relive each horrifying moment: flames, smoke…zombies???!! Must be the drugs. Zombies aren’t real.
When I wake up, it’s dark outside. How long have I been out? Who knows? The pain has gone from unbearable to merely excruciating. I lay in the dark, trying to piece the events of the last few days together. Every time I think I have it, those stupid zombies come back into focus. Man, that must some good morphine. Zombies…It would be funny if I could laugh. The pain comes back in full force. I press the button for the night nurse.
A few minutes later, a figure enters the dark room and starts fiddling with machines and IV tubes. I can’t make out which nurse it is, it’s so dark in the room. After a couple of minutes, I do realize it’s a male nurse. First time since I have been here a male nurse has waited on me.
‘Nurse? When do I get to talk to a doctor? I don’t know how long I have been here, but I would like to know what’s going on and what happened. My memory is kinda flakey.’
‘Memory, flakey? What do you remember? I need to know so we can inform the doctor.’ Did that voice seem familiar? Maybe he had been in here before.
I began to spell out what I remembered. I hesitated to bring up zombies, but I decided it would be medically relevant if I was hallucinating.
‘Zombies? Well, that’s not exactly correct. I would use the term Deformed Clones, myself.’ The nurse turned on the light and in that instant I recognized him: Freddy, the Convenience Store Stalker.
He walked over to me and injected me with something. I tried to scream, but my face was paralyzed.
‘You see, Gavin we didn’t just ‘Swap Spit’ that night. I gave you the best head of your life. Although I am sure you use that line on everyone. Not one to swallow, I spit into the nearest empty cup. It was then that I got the idea to use that spunk to make my own Gavin Steel, to keep with me forever. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to swipe cash and various sundry materials from my store to help pay for this. Working part time as a sex line operator helped out a bit too.
Every day, I inched closer and closer to growing a clone. But something went wrong. No matter how I altered the procedure, the clone not only ended up rejecting its own flesh, but it Would Not Die. Even beheading them didn’t quite work. I would have a headless body writing around in my basement, with a detached head in the next room, screaming. Still I kept trying, all the while depleting my supply of Steel Spunk. The number of clones kept rising. They didn’t need to eat, so I kept them in a storage unit behind your studio.
When you came in the other day and couldn’t even remember my FUCKING NAME! I decided the world would be better off without another asshole of a porn star. As soon as you left, I went over to the storage unit and let my clones out. Turns out they do like to eat…human flesh. They tore up your pathetic little film shoot. I watched the whole thing, and in the process found the one thing that can kill my clones, Fire. Once they ignited that was that. End of story. So that worked out well, the evidence is all gone. And to top it all off, here you are, a burnt husk of a man, no longer useful to the profession you spent your whole life promoting. But don’t worry dear, I have use for you. Oh no not like that. Do you really think I would want to fuck a burnt up freak like you? Don’t make me laugh. No, I am going to keep you alive and harvest your DNA. You see, the DNA works best when the body it’s harvested is alive. And who knows? Maybe I can regenerate some skin and use the bits of you that aren’t horribly deformed. Then I can have my own Gavin, forever and forever.’ Freddy laughed.
I could not believe my ears, and here I was, completely powerless to do anything. I was going to spend the rest of my life a prisoner to some little kooky obsessed fan. Well, I had spent my life being wanted for my body.
‘Now, Gavin, I am going to induce a coma and cart you downstairs to the morgue. By the time you wake up, you’ll be in my basement…forever.’
As Freddy injected me sleep overtakes me. The last thing I remember is my room door opening.


I was sitting around the house feeling bad that Gavin was in the hospital, scarred for life because I had caught the clap. For days I waffled about going to visit him. For all I knew, he didn’t want to see me. I’m not sure I would have wanted to in his shoes. Finally, I decided I needed to see him for myself to make sure he was ok, and ask him to forgive me. I went to the nearest floral shop and got him a nice bouquet to brighten his room. Never let it be said that Don DiDildo wasn’t thoughtful.
It takes me a while to find his room, but when I do, I hear someone talking to him. I decided to wait in the hall. Don’t want to bother him with too many people at once. As I sit on the bench across from his door. I begin to listen to what is being said. Clones? Fire? Coma? What the fuck? Obviously, whoever this guy is, he’s a total whackjob. I burst open the door just in time to see the fuckwad inject something into Gavin. I grab him by the neck and throw him across the room. He lands against the wall with a sickening thud. The noise brings in the night nurse. She screams and calls security.

Six months later, I am released from the burn unit. I’ll never look like the porn star that I was, but I am healed and can pretty much function like a normal human being. The downtime gave me opportunity to take stock of where Gavin Steel should go from here. I can no longer be a performer, but I managed to get me a new agent, who scored me an even better deal with Balls to the Wall. Now, I have my own production unit, and I can direct and produce. It keeps me in the business, and I am still giving pleasure to thousands of viewers, just from behind the camera. I’d love to keep talking to you about this, but I am late for a production meeting for ‘Zombie Sluts Beach Party VI.’

Call Me Gavin

Call me Gavin. That’s not my real name, of course, but who in this business uses their real name? It’s all Mack Sweetwood and Virginia LaCour around here: names with just the right combination of glamour and sleaze. So, yeah, that’s me. Gavin Steel. One more slab of beef around the pool. One more coked up, glistening loser baring it all for the wet dreams of America.
It beats the shit out of law school.
I was waiting on set with Mike Hawk. Say that out loud a couple of times. Yeah. That’s right. He was real proud of that shit. Took him a week to come up with it. We had worked together four times. He was bright and funny and great to be around, even if he was a little pretentious sometimes. Plus, he sucked cock like he invented the fucking blow job. He was a great guy. I’m standing there with Mike and this red haired girl named, I think, Misty. The two of them were, I shit you not, going over their lines. It never fails to amuse me how seriously some of these guys would take themselves. I mean, it’s the set of Bi-Bi Love 2, not Gone with the Wind. But they insisted that they were actors and they kept trying to inject drama into their projects when the only thing that needed to be injected in those movies were plenty of saran wrapped cocks.
So, we’re standing there on this beautiful day, the sun shining in a perfect blue sky like a kid’s drawing. The place is littered with beautiful naked or barely dressed people, smearing lotion and oil on each other waiting for the climactic orgy sequence to begin that will wrap up this epic. Not one single person there could have predicted the horrors that were coming: A catastrophe that, to this day, leaves me weak and cold when I think of it. I’ve been in therapy for two years now, and I still have nightmares. The smell of burning flesh and hair and tanning oil haunt me.
Jesus.
Even now, as I close my eyes, I can still see Missy or Misty or Mitzy with her hair in flames, screaming in baby oil-fueled agony, her skin crisping up like pork rinds as flames lick over her. People jumped into the pool to escape the fire, most of them drowning each other in their panic. A slick of oil on top of the water allowed the fire to spread there too. Even the pool was a death trap. Talking about it now, everything floods back and I can see that gorgeous California day transforming into a sick, Hell on earth. I can still feel the agony of the flames on my arm, and yeah, I know how lucky I am that I didn’t get it worse. I didn’t end up dead like Misty and so many others. I didn’t end up pissing through a tube for the rest of my life like Mike Hawk.
Nobody ever knew who started that fire that day. Nobody knew how it happened. Just that once it ignited, it blew through that oiled up crowd in seconds. And now, three years later, I’m just beginning to understand it all. And I don’t think it was an accident. I mean, how could it be? Even though the police asked everyone whose skin wasn’t crispy, they couldn’t even catch a damn lead. Every time an Aqua Net-laminated, blue haired old lady goes to light her Benson & Hedges 100s, I break into a cold sweat.
Therapy doesn’t help, either, since my therapist wants me. Seriously, she does. Every time I sit on that couch, she sits across from me in her leather wing chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs, slow enough to give me a beaver shot; it just seems such a natural, fluid motion that I almost don’t even realize she’s doing it.
Yeah, I do.
Anyway, her blouse is always just tight enough that her nipples lift the fabric away from her breasts enough to let me know how cold it is in her office, or how hot she thinks I am. But, I digress. Therapy. What the hell do I think is going to happen? Suddenly, one day, I’ll wake up and be okay with watching my friends crisp up like the skin on a Thanksgiving turkey? Not fucking likely. And I told my therapist that, too. She said it takes time to get over a trauma like that. I don’t know… maybe.
In the meantime you just get on with the mundane aspects of life. Mundane? Me? Who's life once consisted of waking up next to a ridiculously hot and nubile body, a protein breakfast and five hour gym workout followed by hours and hours of doing what most of the world only fantasize about?
I mean, what more could you ask for? Days on end of every fucking wet dream ever conceived, and helping to create new ones. A world where nobody got old, where nobody had to wait until everyone left the bar and make do with whatever ugly easy bitch was left draped on a barstool. Where you could visit the doctor, catch a flight, take your car to get fixed or call in the plumber, and whatever licked your brain salaciously would instantly come into being. A world of pure Id.
People talk about how porn isn't real, how that's not real life, but it was mine. When the director screamed “Cut!” I stopped being the plumber, the doctor, the pilot but I started the true joy of myself. I became Gavin Steel, porn star.
A celebrity, an adoration, a godhood. People would sit in front of their screens and get off on my body, imagine themselves there with me. Even if you're a rampant slut you might help a hundred people cum, tops. In your lifetime. I was helping thousands of people cum daily.
Did I mention I got paid? A stupid amount of money, because my sex addiction turned into my work addiction, and when I hit the clubs or the DVD signings it became my narcissism, and when I took any eager fan home it became my prowess.
It was a perfect celebrity too, I could switch it on and off as I so chose. I'd like to see Madonna do that. If I went to the right places I was Gavin Steel, bow at my feet and...Worship. My. Cock. When I just felt like being a normal anonymous whatever I'd steer off somewhere else, and I was just some random hot guy doing his grocery shopping, or drinking coffee.
That gap started closing more and more though. I lost the grip on the mundane completely, what the hell did I want it for? I wanted to be Gavin Steel forever and ever, international stud, pinnacle of masculine beauty extraordinaire. The more movies I made the more I would get paid, the more award shows I could attend, the more I could leave behind of my perfection for when I was old and grey and eventually dead. I would not be forgotten. People would still get off on me, even when I was in the grave, and that's something very few people can say.
But for the moment I was still the best goddamn sexiest thing that ever slapped his cock on the whole planet.
Now suddenly, I was a survivor of the California Pool Orgy Barbecue. Yes, the media has a sense of humour. I think the next person who quips me with a hot dog joke is going to get punched in the face. It was a perverse irony, that my face had been plastered across international news, that my DVD sales had risen, and I could not. That fire killed Gavin Steel, because every time I thought of sex my penis would shrivel up and cry, for I could not get the taste of charred human flesh and burning lube out of my mouth.
I have to admit, I wasn’t in the best of moods before the shoot. My agent Rodney had met with the film company (Balls to the Walls Productions) earlier that day for contract negotiations. This was to be the thing that propelled me from star to Super Star: I was signing an exclusive with BTW, for the next two years, they would own my ass, literally. For that honor, I was to get a nice salary bump, approval of directors, scripts, co-stars…and a few under the table perks as well.
As I was leaving my apartment, Rodney called me.
‘Gavin, I’m sorry, but the deal is off. Our negotiations broke down this afternoon. ‘
‘What the fuck, Rodney? This was supposed to be a cakewalk! You told me there would be no problems! What the Hell happened?’
‘They aren’t thrilled with the idea of you switching to straight-only films. You’re the hottest Gay-For-Pay on the market. If you insist, I’ll go to bat for you, but it will weaken your negotiation stance. You won’t be able to command your usual salary.’
‘FUCK THAT RODNEY! I am GAVIN FUCKING STEEL! I am done being jerkoff material for those faggots, they have made enough money off of me. It’s time for me to call the shots. FIX THIS!’
‘Let me see what I can do, but you have to finish the current film today, it’s a sign of good faith.’
‘SON OF A BITCH! I am not doing ANOTHER FUCKING THING until you fix this.’
‘Gavin. Do the God Damned Flick or you won’t be in a position to negotiate your way out of a paper bag. The whole industry will turn its back on you for breach of contract. You won’t even be able to get a part on the Red Shoe Diaries.’
‘Fine.’
I slammed the phone down and sped off to the shoot, running every red light, blasting my stereo with the top down. I was still 20 minutes late.
The director made a bee line to me. ‘What the fuck, Gavin? We’ve been waiting on you to shoot.’
‘Don’t give me any fucking attitude, Larry. You need me for this film. Get me a fluffer and I will ready in 5.’
It ended up taking 2 fluffers and 20 minutes to get me ready. Usually, my personal life does not interfere with my work, but today, work was interfering in my life.
‘Dammit, Julio. Not so much with the teeth!’
‘Sorry, papi. Ju know how mush I like to service you.’ Julio’s accent was all fake, like his name. In reality he was John Smith (I kid you not) from Utah. But he knew how much that turned me on.
As the filming progressed, all I could think about was how I was the one getting screwed by this company. I guess I let my displeasure show a little too much, mouthing off at everyone and telling anyone who would listen not to ever work for these people again. Larry finally called lunch. I didn’t even bother to shower. I threw on a bathrobe and sped off to the nutrition store for a power shake. I had two big 3-way scenes this afternoon, and I’ll be damned if Gavin Steel doesn’t give it his all.
I walked into the shop, barefoot, with just the white robe on. Of course, the counter help was some little faggot.
‘Oh my God. It’s Gavin Steel!!!! I have all of your movies!! You are so fucking hot. Oh My God! You aren’t wearing anything under that are you? Could I just take a peek at the flesh, in the flesh?’
I spread my robe open wide, so he could get a flash of The Real Steel.
‘Take a look, take a picture if you want. This may be the last time you see it. I am fucking done with this business.’
Aaand, here we go. Quiet on the set. Cue the music and fade the light. I mean seriously, did this little fucker actually think that his pimply ass actually had a chance? I’m Gavin Fucking Steel. Literally.
Okay, fine. He did have a chance. I like to be honest, with myself at least. Change my conversation with Larry and reschedule my 3-way for tomorrow. I’m a professional for Christ’s sake and no matter what I refused to sabotage myself. Sure I could have thrown him a bone (yeah that’s right), but I was not in the mood to coddle a star-struck fool, for fuck’s sake.
I closed my robe and turned my back on Mr. Fucking Too Excitable and headed to the back coolers to get my protein shake. There you go. My back plus excitable. What does that equal? I’d be lucky if I got 5 minutes. The little faggot.
I grabbed the shake out of the cooler and snatched an extra large bottle of water. I needed to hydrate. I never could get enough water on a shoot. Sure, the production company always provided well for us on set. But I could feel my tongue sticking to my gums.
On my way back up to the counter, I cracked opened the water and started to drink. I had honed my gulping skills at college parties with beer and funnels. I had made them into a craft over the years, being Gavin Steel. Not too hard, really. You just have to relax your jaw and get to the point that pressure on the back of your tongue and throat didn’t kick in your gag reflex.
Snagging a power bar I slapped my purchases on the counter in front of the goggle eyed fool staring at me awe struck. And I waited.
“So how much, buddy?” I snapped.
“Man, I cannot believe that Gavin Steel is in my store. I can’t FUCKING believe that I just saw Gavin Fucking Steel’s cock!” He squealed as he continued to just stare at me. Well at the area below my belt.
“Hey, sure. That’s exciting. How much?”
“Nothing man! On the house!”
And because I was who I was, I grabbed my stuff and walked out drinking my water. I guess it was a good thing the little bugger was working, now that I think about it. My wallet was tucked into the pocket in my jeans, hanging neatly on a hook in my trailer. Yeah, MY trailer. I wondered briefly if he was going to pay for my goods out of his own pocket. Made for a great story, I guess. I was in a crappy mood, but I didn’t want him to get fired. I made a mental note to go back to that store later and, I don’t know, be nice I guess.
Walking on set, I saw Mike chatting with Misty (Muffy? Miffy?) and headed towards them. That’s when I realized that they were actually running lines for the three way.
What’s to practice? “Ohhh” but with more feeling? Or how about “I’m not sure about this” with just the right mixture of tentative curiosity and slight wariness.
And then I heard a scream. I mean a real scream not a “work” scream.
All eyes shot towards the direction of the scream. From where I was standing, I saw three blondes and the token black guy in this movie standing near the hot tub -I only knew the black guy by his porn name, “Lincoln Logg”. Blonde #1 on my left was the screamer.
Like the rest of us on set, they were all naked. But another dude was standing with them -fully dressed in some raggedy ass looking threads. Dude was behind blonde #2, (Carissa? Clarista? Clytemnestra?) and from where I was, it looked like he was kissing her on the back of her head.
That was until I saw the blood.
Dude backed away from her, and as he did, I could see blood running out of the back of her head, flowing through her near-white platinum blond hair. The path of her spine was like a valley with a red river running through it. As the guy pulled away, I could see dripping arcs of gunk and goo hanging in the air between the blonde’s head and his mouth. I could see that he was chewing and I could see what looked like her brains sticking out of the fucking hole in her head.
Blonde #2 collapsed forward towards the other two blondes, who in a fucked up display, moved out of the way and ran off, letting her fall face-first towards the hot tub. Lincoln caught her and lowered her to a seated position against the hot tub wall -accidentally slapping her in the face with his 13-inch monster in the process. At the same time, he turned his bald head to face up towards dude to ask him what the fuck his problem was. Linc turned just in time to see teeth bite into his skull right above the eyes.
Fucking hell broke loose. Fake tits remained perfectly still as blondes ran in every direction trying to get away from whatever was happening. People were pushing and shoving each other to get out of either of the set’s two exits. The oil on their bodies allowed them to slip together into one tight spray tanned mass that once pushed together was hard to get apart. At the exit nearest the hot tub, a mass of people pushing together shifted to the left, knocking a fake ass looking tiki torch off its base and onto a pile of towels on the hot tub’s wooden deck.
At the other exit, more screaming started. The group of people who had plowed into the doorway and were now stuck, started yelling and the people I could see were squirming and slamming into each other. A dude in the back of the glob of people fell down backwards and got stepped on as they started trying to move backwards. As the doorway cleared, I could see that dude that had chomped on the blonde’s head had some friends. I could see them chewing too and noticed a couple of other people bleeding from the head. The story in the first doorway was the same.
The fire had spread quickly from the deck to the walls of the set and the walls of the building. At this point, we had a windowless wall on behind us on one side and a wall of fire and well, some god damned zombies on the 3 others. At the same time I saw Misty(?) slip on an oily spot and her catch her hair on fire as she landed on the hot tub deck, I noticed Linc chewing on the head of another blond. The blood from the wound on the side of her head was dripping all over her and Linc, flowing across his abs and then down and off the end of his cock onto a growing pool on the floor. While I tried to overcome the urge to throw up my lunch, I looked around and tried to figure out what the fuck to do next.
Flames were licking at my bare skin. My bronzed, flawless skin. I had to do something - but everywhere I looked, there was more chaos. Half of the cast and crew were engulfed in flames, and the ones who weren't, were being munched on by zombies. And then they, in turn, were becoming zombies. Mother-fucking zombies!! What the hell?!? How did my life suddenly become an '80s horror movie? Worse still, the kind you would've seen Rhonda Shear hosting on late-night TV. If I weren't scared out of my ever-lovin' mind, I'd have probably been doubled over in a fit of hysterical laughter.
As I snapped back to reality, I noticed the canvas tarp that had been covering the indoor pool. It was laying in the corner of the set, folded up and forgotten. So far it seemed unscathed by the fire and, even though it seemed like a long-shot, I figured that it was my best bet to survive this ordeal. Doing my best to dodge zombies and flaming porn stars, I ran over and started crawling under it - quickly unfolding as much as I needed to cover my body.
Peeking out just slightly from the canvas, I could see Tawny (Tanya? Tana?) chewing on the inner thigh of my buddy Harry Coxwell (yep, say that one out loud a few times too). As she happily feasted on the beefy stud, one of the crew-members fell on top of them, catching both Harry and Zombie-Tawny (Tina? Tyanna?) on fire.
I looked up from that scene, and realized that the original zombies - as well as many of the newly-created ones - were catching on fire, right alongside the siliconed bimbos, donkey-hung himbos and hapless crew-members.
The smell of burning human flesh and hair finally became too much for me, and I blacked out.
I have no idea how long I was unconscious, but when I came to, I realized I no longer heard any shouting or screaming. I was still under the protective cover of the canvas tarp, and as I rubbed my dry, stinging eyes, I tried to shake off the fogginess that was clouding my mind.
Cautiously, I peeked out from under the canvas again as I had earlier. Surveying the situation, I saw several police officers, firemen, paramedics and EMTs. They were tending to the scant few survivors and covering the bodies of the rest. It was a grisly scene, but I couldn't help chuckling when I saw our lispy little assistant director slumped, doggy-style, over the big, burly key grip. I have a sick sense of humor, what can I say?
As I snickered, my smoke-filled lungs caused me to rasp and cough, and I heard someone shout, "Hey, there's a survivor over there!"
Several men then rushed over and helped me out from under the tarp. Most of what happened directly after that is blur now, but as I was being examined by the paramedics, I remember the fire chief telling me that I was damn lucky to have survived pretty much physically unscathed. Apparently the canvas was flame retardant, but by all rights should not have been able to withstand the intensity of a fire of this magnitude.
I'm glad the fire chief thinks I'm lucky, but me and my traumatized dick sure don't feel that way.

“So, doc, that’s how it plays out every night. As soon as my head hits the pillow, the nightmare starts all over again. Someone said it might be Post Traumatic Stress Disorder - from the fire. But what I don’t get is why the zombies? I mean, it was horrible enough…”
My voice trailed off. Dry mostly, but I also felt like I had been yammering on for hours. I could see the glazed over expression on Dr. Collins’ puffy, cupie doll face. As hideous as the man was, I felt it was the best medicine. Dr. Ms. Jump-My-Bones simply wasn’t getting the job done with all her subtle-as-a-sledgehammer pen sucking and boy, is it hot in here’s.
“Well, I suppose I would agree with that assessment. It is likely that you are suffering from PTSD.”
Figures.
“It’s not unusual to relive these tragic events through nightmares for months – even years – afterward. But the good news is that through therapy and some anti-anxiety medication, we can help you move on from this, move toward getting your old self back.”
Great, my old self. Cupie doll must have seen some passing cloud over the poker face I had been trying to uphold throughout the session. Hell, I’ve been wearing it for years.
“I take it Gavin Steel isn’t exactly the man you want to get back to, is he?”
I simply stared for a moment. Then my eyes flicked down to my shoe where I had been, for some minutes, fiddling with a frayed edge.
“I thought as much. And that brings me to that most troubling aspect of your dream: the zombies.”
Joy. What kind of psycho-babble would spew forth from that pursed little doll’s mouth?
“I would venture that the flesh-eating zombies represent your true feelings for a business that you know, deep down, is eating you alive. It is devouring your mind, your body, and your soul. It has even taken from you your own name. Hasn’t it, Gavin?”
Supercilious bastard.
“And I would wager that there is a dash of survivor’s guilt beneath that well-cultivated demeanor of nonchalance and devil-may-care. You feign narcissism to keep these walls up, these wall that protect you from those who would hurt you physically and emotionally. However, over the years in the business, your walls have worn down and you have come to resent and hate those with whom you work so… closely. You may have even thought to yourself: I wish they would just burn in hell. And when they do… Well… Nightmares.”
The man was good, I had to admit. He could talk the Pope into tricking his ass all over Rome.
I left cupie doll’s office around four, and simply drove to the beach. I wasn’t in the mood to face my demons – real or imagined. I wondered if the horror I witnessed would cling to me like the scent of charred bodies for the rest of my life. There I was, the terrified, limp-dicked sole survivor of the Poolside Porno Pyre, as the latest media installment of the story called it. I could feel myself losing touch with Gavin Steel and asked myself – only half-jokingly – what my real name was again. It was silly and stupid in that way when you can’t find your keys and they’re right in your pocket. It kinda freaked me out. Maybe cupie doll was on to something. Maybe I would give it a try.
As the sun submerged into the Pacific, the glow of the city cast a jaundiced wash across the sky. The beach-goers had long since fled and I found myself alone with the surf and the distant hum of traffic. To my right, some yards away, a quiet quartet sat around a fire making out. I found it somehow odd that the “free love” propagated by my business had found its way into normal America and that now you could regularly find Craigslist ads for dudes that wanted to double, triple, and quadruple tag-team some wanton cyber slut. The same guys who can’t shower near one another in the gym could, due to films like his, become aroused at the thought of sharing some stranger’s hole with half a dozen of his frat buddies.
Boy, were they really going at it, too. The campfire bunch, that is. I mean, it’s called “necking” dude, not canniba-
As the man lifted his head, an icy fear washed over me. Dangling from his clenched jaws was a ragged hunk of flesh. The bloody wound glistened in the flickering firelight. I wanted to scream. I wanted to close my eyes, to shake off this absurd delusion. But I was paralyzed.
At last, an anguished and altogether pitiful squeal escaped my throat.
Gulping down the last of his morsel, the man’s head snapped suddenly in my direction, as alert as an animal. He stared at me for a long moment, smiled with bloody teeth, and then hissed. The other three shot up, suddenly alert themselves.
Frightened, I pissed my pants. I told myself: get up, get up, GET UP!! But it seemed no use. My legs simply would not function. I just sat there in a puddle of wet sand, feeling it grow colder in the night air.
As the trio raced with a peculiar lope toward me, I somehow managed to will my wobbly legs into action. I ran down the beach toward the parking lot, toward the lights, toward people…. Away from this horrid nightmare.