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Subject: {ASSM} The Saga of Blanche, Past I
Date: Mon, 27 Mar 2000 07:10:05 -0500
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The Saga of Blanche, Part I
by
Frank Saynesberry
(I've said it before, and you didn't believe me: This story is for adults.
If you're younger than 18, or if explicit, graphic sex bothers you,
please don't read any farther. No kidding.)
* * * * * * * * * *
They always said that she had a little problem with mirrors.
That's normal. Basic human nature. We've all got a little bit of vanity,
right?
Right. Unless your name is Coyreen, and you're known throughout the world as
Coyreen, the Porno Queen, and suddenly your little problem has left a trail
of corpses from Mexicali to Malibu. That's when it becomes my business. I'm
a dick.
Detective, that is. Private. Oh, I'd been on the force once, years ago,
before Coyreen had even been born. (Come to think of it, that wasn't such a
long time ago!) But the job wasn't for me. Maybe I wasn't good enough to be
a cop; maybe I was too good. We parted amicably, the department and I, and a
lot of the old crew still works there. Once in a while, one of them tosses a
scrap my way.
Like they did on that mean, wet winter afternoon that seems so long ago......
I was sitting behind my desk in the tiny offices of Grimbros Investigations,
Inc., down on the corner of Figueroa and Broadway, when the phone sounded
off. Not expecting much, I pushed aside the Racing Form and picked it up on
the third ring. "Yeah?"
"Hey, Grimbros, 'zat you?" The voice was low, but friendly, and conjured up
a very familiar face behind a blue serge uniform. It didn't even
mispronounce my name (it's GRIM-broze, but most people say grim-BROSS). "You
know it is," I said noncommittally. "You got somethin' for me?"
There was a laugh. "Yeah, that's you, Grimbros," said the voice. "No good
afternoon, or how the Hell are ya, just straight to business. You're all
heart."
"No time for chatter," I grumbled, setting him up for an old joke. "Since I
left the force, I've had to work for a living."
A roar of laughter, quickly muted. "Fuck, Grimbros, I'm tryin' to be
inconspicuous, here. I'm right outside the squadroom. Okay, listen, it may
not be much, but I think you might find a willing client if you were to visit
a certain Miles O'Smiles. He keeps bugging us about, um, one of our
investigations, but shit, we've only got so much time...."
"Miles O'Smiles?" I repeated. "You mean that phony Englishman who does the
skin flicks? Used to be that Coyreen chick's manager?"
The voice grew tense. "No, tough guy, I'm referring to Miles O'Smiles, the
prominent entertainment tycoon and grieving widower who might just have some
paying work for a smart-assed acquaintance of mine."
"Oh, THAT Miles O'Smiles," I said. "Well, I'm sure he's got a lot to say,
now that his meal ticket's been canceled. Okay, my friend, thanks a lot."
"Remember now, dammit," the voice said, "any evidence of any crime - - - "
"Yeah, yeah," I interrupted, "you'll be the first to know. Hey, thanks. I'll
get back to you." I dropped the blower back in its cradle and reached for a
new pack of Luckies. Well, well, I mused, you never know. The little bitch
just got iced a week ago, and her pimp ... excuse me, her grieving widower
... was already crowding the boys downtown. This oughtta be interesting.....
In ninety minutes, or Ninety Fuckin' Minutes, Los Angeles Time, I was at the
O'Smiles residence in Palos Verdes Peninsula. Thirty minutes after that, I
had the story.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The coroner's report identified the famous little corpse as Coyreen O'Smiles,
but of course she didn't start out that way. When she got off the bus from
Ramp, Oklahoma, her name was Ruth Anne .... well, let's just say Ruth Anne.
Why cause any unnecessary embarrassment to the homefolks?
Like thousands of other young girls with stars in their eyes, but very few
brains in their heads, Ruth Anne had somehow managed to scrape together some
money for busfare; and one day, after Daddy had beaten and sodomized her a
little less tenderly than usual, she climbed up on the 'Hound and rode it all
the way to Sunset Boulevard. Unlike most of these girls, Ruth Anne would
succeed beyond her wildest dreams. Her sweet, stupid little toes first
touched down in Hollywood on her thirteenth birthday.
How'd she get into porn? The usual way: she was going about her business,
doing what was necessary to survive in the big city, and some enterprising
young man pointed a camera at her. It was as simple as that. Within a week,
she had done about a dozen 8-mm jerk-off loops, the kind you see in the
quarter slot machines. Three months after her arrival in Hollywood, she had
landed her first full-length feature, which would also become her name:
"Coyreen." Without The Artist Formerly Known as Ruth Anne, "Coyreen" would
have been another unremarkable direct-to-video release; with her, it became
bigger than "Deep Throat."
No, I didn't see it, not until recently. As he Grieving Widower was handing
me my first week's expense allowance, he also handed me a videocassette, and
said, "You'll never understand this case if you've never seen Coyreen."
He was right. I watched "Coyreen" that evening at home; within 24 hours I'd
purchased, or ordered, every video she'd ever made. I have never seen
anything like her, before or since.
Imagine a fresh, enthusiastic, laughing girl with a blonde shag hairdo, a
turned-up nose, and the bluest, clearest eyes you've seen. Then imagine this
same girl with full, heavy lips, so sensuous that she pouts even when she's
smiling. Finally, imagine this same girl at an even five feet tall, less
than a hundred pounds, and size 36 breasts (real, not fake). Got the
picture? Okay, this person is walking toward you, slowly unbuttoning and
unzipping her "schoolgirl" uniform, coming straight toward you (or the
camera), and she begins to literally drool with lust, a string of sparkling
saliva dangling from her lower tip to one of her huge, peach-colored nipples,
which are so large that they seem to encompass half the breasts. She's
coming closer, naked now, and you see her opening her clean-shaven little
pussy with the fingers of one hand, and reaching out for you (whoever you
are, man or woman) with the other......and as she begins to moan, and squeak,
and whimper with desire, you realize....she's only thirteen years old. And
only you can satisfy her. Oh, she might fuck or suck twenty men in a
60-minute film, but that's only because she hasn't found YOU yet: you're the
one she wants. She tells you so, every time she looks at the camera.
That was her secret: not the big tits or the tiny waist or even that
remarkable mouth; in Hollywood, those things are a dime a dozen. But Coyreen
could do anything, be anything, with either gender (and several species), and
when she rolled those eyes toward the camera, she was thinking only of you.
Well, that was half of her secret. The other half, as everyone in the world
now knows, is what gave her such unprecedented appeal: yes, when the movie
was made, she really was only thirteen. And in the fifty films that followed
in the next three years, she was still merely a young teenager. The most
poorly kept secret in America: they're working an underaged girl....and
getting away with it. A year after she arrived in Hollywood, she was the
subject of jokes and raucous comments everywhere from Oprah to
Letterman....and nobody ever prosecuted.
Are you old enough to remember the appeal of Marilyn Chambers, the "Ivory
Snow" girl who became the Ultimate Porn Goddess? Her secret was her
fresh-faced, healthy look: "hey, mister, I'm not a hooker or a junkie, and
I'd love to swallow your cum!" Well, imagine a 13-year-old Marilyn Chambers,
and you'll have an idea why Coyreen became the Porno Queen. When you saw a
Coyreen film, you knew you were getting the real thing: yes, that's a
13-year-old up there on the screen, with that guy's arm buried in her cunt
nearly to the elbow; yes, that's a 14-year-old being gang-fucked by
dildo-wearing lesbians; yes, that's a 15-year-old taking a dump in that older
woman's face. And they played it for all it was worth: in each film, Coyreen
played the part of an adolescent, or, even better, a child. And by the time
she was 18, she and her director, the aforementioned Miles O'Smiles, were the
proud (and rich) parents of twin baby girls. It seems that whenever little
Ruth Anne spread those creamy thighs, she produced.
She had it all. She was as famous as Linda Lovelace, Monica Lewinsky, and
Amy Fisher, all rolled into one. She had a husband (they were married in
Mexico, on her sixteenth birthday, after finishing production on the
blockbuster hit, "Fuck in Acapulco"); she had children; she even had her own
Webpage...plus about 200 "fan sites." She was Coyreen, and she wasn't even
out of her teens.
On the other hand...she wasn't getting any younger, either. And, although
pregnancy and childbirth were mere interruptions (she continued to make films
as late as her eighth month; her fans enjoyed seeing her pregnant), her
career began to slow down after she turned 18. Maybe they should have seen
it coming; maybe they did see it coming, but couldn't do anything about it.
Whatever the case, when Coyreen became "legal," half of her appeal
disappeared forever.
Millions of her fans remained loyal, of course, to them, she'd always be "our
little Coyreen." And her lawful wedded spouse, Miles O'Smiles, devoted most
(though not all) of his time to promoting her; in addition to everything
else, they were partners. But other fans began to look for fresher faces,
and younger (or less familiar) bodies. Yes, Coyreen had been the best, but
now she had done the unforgivable: she had become an adult.
She did not take these things well. Ever since she had been a young child,
people had lavished attention on her because of her beauty and her
youthfulness. She was still beautiful (although a bit worn around the ages),
but she couldn't be thirteen or sixteen forever, and she could sense what was
coming. She began drinking, hard; rumors of drug abuse were everywhere; and,
perhaps saddest of all, she began to fuck, or be fucked by, anyone who might
be interested. It was the only meaningful thing she knew how to do. Her cunt
had been her ticket to fame and fortune; but now, instead of being her
palace, it became her prison.
So she fucked, and was fucked; and she broke that poor bastard O'Smiles'
heart a thousand times, but he still loved her. As time went on, she became
less and less interested in the "family business," as they regarded their
little corner of the porn world; and there was Hell to pay when Miles had to
hire newer, fresher faces. Coyreen's jealousy was unreasoning and absolute.
But Miles was faithful, and he tried to help her through her difficult
passage into legal adulthood. He even ordered his technical staff to write a
special program, the so-called "mirror.exe" program, to greet and flatter her
whenever she went online to look at her Webpage and fan sites (which,
unfortunately, were dwindling in number). As soon as she logged on,
"mirror.exe" would dazzle her with a new, randomly selected slideshow of
images from her "greatest films," and "mirror.WAV" would kick in, with the
hundred-voice Watts Mass Choir singing "Who's the finest Queen you've
seen?/We all think it's Queen Coyreen!" And at first, this childish gimmick
worked (as, after all, Coyreen was still something of a child herself). It
looked like Coyreen was trying to achieve a kind of maturity, since she had
no other choice; she became a bit less selfish, a bit less jealous, and even
got around to fucking poor old Miles from time to time.
They should have known, though. Time doesn't stand still for anyone.
One morning (well, L.A. Time again; really afternoon), after waking up, using
the bathroom, and getting her first cup of coffee, Coyreen sat down at her
computer to run a Web-check for any recent references to herself that she
might have missed. (Miles' tech staff were trying to devise a Coyreen-Only
Search Engine, but it still had a few bugs.) Imagine her surprise when she
saw, not her beloved mirror.exe program, but merely the standard desktop!
Her brows furrowed; she felt a sudden, inexplicable chill. (She was stark
naked, of course, and the air-conditioner was very powerful, but she was used
to that; the chill, I repeat, was inexplicable.) She clicked the Start
button, then typed in "mirror.exe" and waited. Perhaps 45 seconds later, the
desktop disappeared, and mirror.exe began its slideshow....but very slowly.
The images crawled across the screen, becoming even slower, then stopped
altogether. The last image to be displayed was a particularly gooey cum-shot
from "Fuck in Acapulco;" not one of Coyreen's favorites; and then, finally,
a blank screen. And, to make matters worse, the thing was completely silent!
Where was the Watts Mass Choir?
"What the fuck!" Coyreen screamed. She angrily jabbed her finger into the
"Reset" button and waited. After the machine rebooted, there was no trace of
mirror.exe at all; merely a lowly cursor blinking mournfully in the corner of
the screen. Oh, shit, thought Coyreen, the fucker's in DOS mode! What the
fuck am I supposed to do now? She snorted and slapped her hand against the
side of the monitor. "What's wrong with you, motherfucker?" she screamed at
the computer. "Where are you? Where's my slideshow? Where are my pictures?
Where are my singers? Damn you to Hell, who's the finest Queen you've seen?"
Suddenly, the computer began to hum. Coyreen actually gasped when the screen
lit up: not in the familiar mirror.exe, or even the desktop, but merely a
shimmering, silvery-blue screen with three lines of bright red type, which
blinked on and off slowly. And here is what the type said:
mirror.exe/search
finestqueen
Please Wait
"Please wait?" howled Coyreen. "What in the fuck is going on around here?"
Then the screen blinked again.....
* * * * * * * * * *
NEXT:
MEET BLANCHE
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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