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Message-ID: <35768asstr$1016349004@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: nickurfe@yahoo.com (Nicholas Urfe)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 17 Mar 2002 02:03:18 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} giggling 3:3 [urfe] [new]
Date: Sun, 17 Mar 2002 02:10:04 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

.
                                                  ::

                                                  Giggling
                                                       3 of 3

                                                  ::

Whoever Roy's friend is, he's got a big house and bad taste. The
master bedroom is all white and black and chrome like the kitchen,
with mirrors and a king-sized duvet and ankle-deep shag, and a chrome
butler's stand holding an expensive rumpled Italian suit in ugly green
sharkskin. A giant painting over the bed looks like some deranged kid
scribbled all over it with chalk and crayons and left it out in the
rain. Cy Twombly, says Barbie. Honey cocks an eyebrow. Art criticism
is the last thing she expected. Barbie shrugs. Hey, she says, I read
Interview magazine. She tosses the cigarettes to Honey. The cold
feeling is sluicing through her nerves again. Why are you doing this?
What are you thinking?

We gonna fuck? says Barbie.

Honey shakes out a cigarette and lights it. Oh, God. It tastes good.
It's been too fucking long. She takes another drag on the cigarette,
and she can feel Barbie's eyes on her like lasers, the girl's finally
looking at her, not the floor, not her own navel, not the sky, but
another person, her, Honey Ryder. Blowing out the smoke, Honey locks
her own eyes cool and calm on Barbie's defiant gaze and reaches down,
undoing the belt to her robe. Shrugging it off her shoulders. Letting
it fall to the floor. Naked, she has power. Naked, she is strong.
Barbie blinks, and Honey, still cool, sits on the big soft bed and
smokes her bummed cigarette.

So you want to be a porn star, she says. Do something sexy.

What? says Barbie.

I shouldn't have to tell you, says Honey. Make me horny. Make me want
to fuck you. Make me come.

I knew it, says Barbie. You just want to get back into my pants.

Do you know who the fuck I am, little girl? I'm Honey fucking Ryder. I
own half my own production company and I make twelve hundred dollars a
day doing pieces of shit like this. One phone call from me and you'll
have a movie deal and if you impress me, I just might remember to make
it. Go along to get along. Give some head to get ahead. But do
something real soon here because I gotta tell you, babe: right now you
ain't doing nothing for me.

Make or break. Honey honestly has no idea what she wants to happen.
Barbie could just walk out of the room and she'd be fine, and maybe
the cold would just leak out of her and she could finish this fuck
flick and go home. Or Barbie could do what she's doing--look up from
staring a hole in the carpet with eyes suddenly sly and determined,
her mouth set just so, her Keds whispering through the shag as she
slowly struts up to Honey with an absurd sway to her hips. Honey
covers the impulse to laugh with another drag from the cigarette.
Barbie licks her lips, her eyes hooded with a girl's idea of what lust
must look like, and tilts her head, leaning forward to kiss Honey.
Honey turns aside at the last moment. Nope, she says, looking away. No
touching.

No touching? says Barbie, close, not backing away.

Porn's a visual medium, babe.

Not even a lapdance? says Barbie.

Honey cocks an eyebrow. You can give a lapdance?

Well, says Barbie. Let's see. She plants a knee on the bed on one side
of Honey's hips, plants the other knee on the other side, climbing
into Honey's lap as Honey lifts the cigarette out of the way. Barbie
grinds her crotch into Honey's and then rolls it back, swiveling in
and out in slow motion. Threads from her raggedy cut-off jeans tickle
Honey's skin. Barbie catches Honey's arm and starts to lean back and
Honey grabs her back with the hand that isn't holding the cigarette as
Barbie leans way, way back, her tight tee riding up to reveal her deep
dark navel, peekaboo, stretched out in an oval in her flat belly, taut
as a fucking drum. Honey's arm is full of girl. She's small but she's
not little, she's solid. She'll be in the gym a lot over the next few
years, eating breakfast bars and salads. Barbie pulls herself up
slowly, slowly, her back rippling in a perfect sultry wave, like
stacking one vertebra on top of another until last of all her head
rolls up, eyes shining, lips parted just so, and Honey lets her have a
kiss, one kiss, wet and soft. Barbie reaches out for the cigarette and
plucks it from Honey's hand, takes a deep long drag and blows the
smoke up at the painting. Well? she says, one hand still on Honey's
arm. How'm I doing?

Pretty shabby, says Honey. First thing you've got to do is come up
with a new name. But actually, before you even do that, you've got to
get rid of Scottie.

What, so I can hook up with you? Scottie's going to get me my first
flick. So I don't need your help.

Only thing Scottie's going to get is himself a meal ticket. He's
already got a reputation for losing wood. He's just this close to
being called a balsa boy and when that happens not even Roy Smolin
will return his calls. But he drags you to enough sets to fluff him,
some director says, hey, we can use her for Eighteen by Seconds III,
starts shooting next week--and he's got it made. He'll ride you till
you crash and burn, and then you're turning tricks in Studio City or
Reseda while he's moved on to another chippie. So cut him loose before
he gets his chance.

And you'll treat me so much better? I knew it. I knew you were a dyke.

You came on to me, remember? In the bathroom?

Barbie looks down and away. I told you. I like making people feel
good.

Well. I'm not feeling the least bit horny, you know.

Which is a lie: that warm, empty itch is back, clashing with the cold
and if Honey were to hold up her hand right now, it would tremble. Her
thighs are getting sticky and the heat she can feel coming off
Barbie's arousal through cotton and denim is only making things worse,
or better. But Barbie doesn't need to know any of that. Barbie grinds
out the cigarette on the black formica nightstand and unbuttons her
shorts, pop! and tugs on either side of the fly, pulling the zipper
down a little. Leaning back, biting her bottom lip in a
gee-I'm-gonna-do-this grin, she slips one hand flat along her belly
under the waistband of her underwear and sinks it into her crotch.
Rolling her hips again. Breathing in sharply through her nose. She's
smart enough to know she shouldn't fake it, shouldn't cheat it, not
here, not now, not so close. What she's really feeling is enough, and
it shows.

Now I'm starting to feel something, says Honey.

Barbie's grin really is amazing.

Why are you doing this? Why are you letting this girl do these things?
What are you thinking? What on earth do you want? Honey has no idea.
She wants--she wants to take Barbie home. Throw her in the shower. She
wants to soap her till she squeaks, scrub her till she smells of
talcum powder and citrus and sandalwood. She wants to wrap her naked
in thick white terry cloth and bundle her off to bed. She wants this
girl to fall asleep in her arms listening to Stars or Alpha and then
to lick her awake from head to toe and eat her out till she sees
fireworks. She wants to watch dumb old movies with Barbie's head on
her shoulder. She wants to kiss her on the balcony while rain falls in
the courtyard. She hasn't felt like this in a long time and it's
dangerous, and there's no way she can stop it now to save her life.

Barbie takes the hem of her baby tee in her hands and slowly peels it
up and off. Her hair bounces as it falls through the neck of the
shirt, and her tits bounce as she throws it across the room. Nice
tits, not perfectly round soup bowls like Honey's or Deedee's, but
drooping tear drops just the least bit pendulous with fat little
nipples the color of pale lips. One hand back in her pants, she plants
the other on Honey's chest, between those geometric tits, and pushes,
and Honey gratefully falls back. Hiking up on her knees, Barbie's
second hand joins the first, doing something seductive down there with
her fingers. She closes her eyes, humping gently to a slow beat only
she can hear. Your love, she's singing, in a small clear voice that's
mostly on-key, is better than chocolate, it's better than anything
else that I've tried. Your love is better than ice cream, and everyone
here knows how to cry--

She stops, dead. Her eyes flash open. Her hands pop out of her shorts
and she plants them on her hips akimbo. She cocks her head and looks
down at Honey and there's a lot there in her look: glee, trepidation,
a little defiance, that so-cool ironic gotcha, arousal. Not a little
arousal. Well? she says, breathing just heavily enough to disturb her
studied nonchalance. How'm I doing now?

Honey can't help it. She bursts into laughter, delighted gales of
laughter, great whooping gouts of laughter that toss back her head and
shake the bed and make her lungs ache. Barbie blinks, taken aback, her
mouth falling open, until Honey grabs her arms and pulls her down into
a voracious hug, kissing her between quakes of laughter, rolling her
over on her back and tugging her shorts over her hips and down her
legs, laughing, and Barbie, her grin cracking open to light up the
whole damn room, Barbie begins to giggle.

    ::

Ten minutes later it's serious indeed, Barbie crouched over Honey in a
tightly knotted 69, legs jackknifed and interlocked with arms, mouths
busy. Barbie's still wearing her Keds and her socks and even her white
cotton underwear covered in flowers. Honey's shoved them aside with
one hand so she can lick at Barbie's lips while two fingers sink in up
to the palm with practiced grace, careful with the nails, and Honey
can tell Barbie's about to come yet again and she does, groaning,
shivering, trembling, transfixed. She falls, shuddering, on her side,
away from Honey's mouth. Honey tries to follow, reaches for her, but
Barbie's scooting her hips away, mumbling no, no, it's your turn, it's
your turn, dammit. And Honey's hand falls away from the leg band of
Barbie's underwear and she lifts her legs, letting them fall open as
Barbie, still on her side, licks at Honey with her sideways tongue.
Her fingers are plucking around the edges of Honey's cunt, and her
nails thank God are short and bitten down, not glossy porn star claws,
and she's peeling Honey open so her tongue can slide in like a thin
elastic dick and it's cool and wet and delicious. And her fingers and
tongue together are building something marvelous, this hum that's
swelling in the back of Honey's head and Christ but it's stupid, it's
a dumb little quotidian epiphany, as her toes knot up and her calves
clench and the muscles in her thighs set like concrete, right, she's
thinking, as she realizes she doesn't care what her face looks like,
as her belly cramps and her back arches and she groans in spite of
herself, an ugly groan, right, she's thinking, right, this is why we
do this, this is the reason, as the tidal wave crashes out of her cunt
and sweeps everything away, all of it, a drowning roar of white noise
that finally starts to recede, slowly, so slowly, leaving her gasping
on a beach somewhere far away.

    ::

Okay. I'm starting to think you really have eaten pussy before.

And you said you weren't a dyke.

They're lying up by the massive white pillows, away from the large wet
spots soaked through Roy's friend's white king-sized duvet. Honey's
sprawled on her back, playing with Barbie's thick red hair. Barbie's
lying on her side, her head pillowed on Honey's shoulder, her leg
crooked up over Honey's legs, and she's finally naked, her shoes and
socks finally off, her underwear gone, and her wild and thick and
untamed pubic hair is pressed against Honey's hip.

I haven't come that hard in--a while, says Honey.

I thought, says Barbie, you were married.

Honey's face screws up. Babe, she says, thinking of Michael sitting on
the edge of the bed, jerking off over pictures of his latest client.
Of blowjobs in limos. Of the infamous quickie with Heidi at the
post-awards dinner last year, in the service corridor. Don't ever
marry your agent, she says.

Oh? says Barbie.

He's like a kid in a fucking candy shop. Literally.

So I should maybe not hook up with your production company?

Hey. He's a great agent. He's just a lousy--everything else. Honey
looks down at Barbie. I'm serious, you know. You say the word. You'll
get your flick. It doesn't have to be with me. I can set you up with
good people--Jack Zorn's Revolution X, the Orgy Grrls. Say the word.

Okay, says Barbie, not looking up. Okay.

They lie there, not moving, not speaking for a bit. It's so incredibly
relaxing. It's a comfortable bed, even if it is ugly and white. So
soft. Honey closes her eyes. Thinks about Deedee or Marvin or Scottie
or even Roy, God forbid, busting through that door to catch them here,
asleep. Realizes she doesn't care. Bring 'em on.

Barbie starts quivering against her and for a moment Honey thinks
she's crying, half sits up, alarmed, her heart thumping, what? What?
But Barbie's pointing to the wall at the foot of the bed, and she's
laughing almost soundlessly, little gasping giggles sputtering at the
back of her throat.

Somehow, in all that, they managed never to notice that the entire
wall at the foot of the bed was nothing but one big mirror.

Laughing, Honey waves at herself. The naked blond SoCal porn star with
her red-headed prot g e on someone else's fuckpalace bed waves right
back. God, she says. The height of taste.

Mary Contrary, says Barbie.

What?

Instead of Barbie. Mary Contrary.

I don't think so, says Honey. Too--smart. Porn names have to be real
dumb. Think of your audience.

Because Barbie's my real name. Barbara Sue Dickerson.

No way.

Yes!

 From Iowa or Indiana.

Illinois. Actually.

Well. Say hi to Juliet Schorstein from Cadillac, Michigan.

Barbie takes her hand. Hello, Juliet Schorstein, from Cadillac,
Michigan.

Please. Call me Julie. They start giggling again. But doors are being
slammed and footsteps and thumping and someone's yelling about
something. They both freeze, listening.

I don't think it's you--

I don't hear your name--

Thump. Thump. Well, get ready, goddammit. The fuck you think I'm
paying you for?

Shit, says Honey. It's Dixie. She finally showed. Honey sighs, sits
up, starts to crawl out of bed. I have to get back to work, she says.

Yeah, says Barbie. I should see if Scottie's done. Honey tosses Barbie
her tee shirt and she catches it and scrounges for her socks. Honey
slips into her robe and fishes around in her pocket for her cell
phone. Here, she says, plucking a business card from the pocket on the
side. Here.

Your card? says Barbie, holding her shorts.

Yeah. Call me.

Barbie takes the card.

And not just for business, either, okay? says Honey. Call me. I mean
it.

And there's that amazing grin again.

    ::

Dixie Bangs is maybe the only brunette ever to come out of Finland.
That's her mystique. Doesn't hurt that she's cute as a button, wears
her hair short and spiky and dyed even blacker than it is, has those
mysterious flat dark eyes and just enough of an accent to round off
her words like they were turned in a lathe. Sexy as all hell. She's
currently lying on her stomach on a blanket spread on the grass above
the pool, her arms folded under her, her knees hiked up a little and
her back arched so her bare butt sticks in the air at a good height
for Terry to catch a shot of Honey sliding a chrome dildo into her
ass. He's in close and tight to get what they call the pee and pee:
pimples and penetration.

And Dixie's cooing.

Ooo, she's saying, oh, ooo, that is soooo good.

Dixie, hon, says Honey, working another inch of chrome into the girl's
ass, they're not miking this for real. You don't have to sell it quite
so hard.

But it does feel good. Oooh.

Honey, who's just had the best fuck she's had in the past six months
courtesy of someone else's fluffer in a bedroom she's never going to
see again, whose thighs were still sticky with snail trails of come
and spit till she blotted them with her robe as Linus was checking the
light, because she hadn't had time to clean herself up, she'd barely
had time to fix her lipstick and hair--Honey, who's still feeling
loose and wobbly, her legs like noodles, her lungs like meringue, her
heart like some tiny furnace--Honey just shrugs. Her second giggle of
the day, this one with a, but she gets to slip the dildo into Dixie's
ass and not the other way round--since even though Dixie's an
up-and-comer, lots of buzz, no big breaks yet but she's already copped
the scalp a couple of times, still, Honey's got seniority. Age has its
advantages, she thinks, working the dildo in another gleaming inch.

You got coverage? says Roy. He doesn't seem to care his shadow's lying
across the blanket, standing there with Marvin beside him for all the
world like a couple of duffers trying to plot the lay of a golf ball
on the seventeenth hole.

Yeah, says Terry, backing up, I've got it. So Dixie hikes up her butt
even more, turning her head to face Terry, nibbling on her thumb as
Honey works the dildo with one hand and lays the other along Dixie's
belly, reaching back with a couple of fingers to spread the girl's
cunt open so she can go down on her. They hadn't even bothered with a
build for this scene. She has no idea how this will fit into whatever
sketchy storyline or theme Roy has planned and she officially doesn't
care. She isn't even too sure about what's going to happen next.
Probably Dixie will go down on her, close with a 69. Whatever. Dixie
tastes like suntan oil and smells like some artificial fruit. It's all
that lube leaking down from her ass. That tang there, maybe that's
what she really tastes like, a hint of salty musk under all the
chemicals. Honey's tongue feels tired and furry. She's remembering
Barbie's taste, rich and funky like some unknown ethnic food, her
smell like fresh bread in some weird way.

So she's distracted, which is maybe why she doesn't notice what's
going on until she hears Scottie's voice. Hey, you girls look like you
could use a hand. She jerks up her head from Dixie's cunt and there he
is, big as life, his six pack and his chiseled tits and his ropy arms
and his balding head red with sun and blood from the Viagra that's
kicking awake his erection like some sluggish zombie in his grey
athletic shorts.

You have got to be kidding me, says Honey.

Don't stop, Terry, says Roy. Don't stop. Honey. Honey, listen to me.
We're running out of time. I had to compress a couple of scenes. You
don't touch him. Okay? I am not breaking our deal. You do not touch
him. It's just a little variation on the 69th Street Bridge, okay? You
do Dixie, Dixie blows Scott. We all go home happy. Okay?

Honey's shaking her head, saying no, no way--

--when it hits her.

It's visceral, like a kick in the gut. The cold is back. It fills her
body like a tornado, spilling tendrils down her shivering arms and
legs, freezing her brain with the sudden, certain knowledge. It's in
Scottie's grin. It's in Roy's cocked eyebrow. It's in Marvin's puzzled
little smile. It was in Barbie's look. That very first look. Those big
brown eyes.

It's a set-up. The whole goddamn thing was a set-up, for this.

Roy is saying somewhere out there, we good? Honey? And she wants to
throw up, she wants to smash the camera, she wants to kick Roy and
Scottie and Marvin rolling down the hill, she--she doesn't want to do
anything to Barbie. No. Dixie's saying, you know, it's just sex. No.
It's like she's cut off from the world by a soft curtain of static, a
ghost channel on an old television set, and even her own thoughts are
turned way down and she has to listen hard to hear them. Losing her
temper would be enough. And Roy has the goods on her and Barbie to
make her life hell, now. She's fucked.

Honey? We good?

She's pretty sure she nods to that. Yeah, she hears her voice say,
somewhere far away. It's just sex. We're good.

Scottie loses his shorts and Dixie hikes up on her hands and starts to
lick his half-hard cock, and Honey wonders if Barbie fluffed him, you
know, for old time's sake.

    ::

It seems like it takes Scottie forever to come.

    ::

Honey goes back to licking out Dixie's cunt under the theory that she
won't see Scottie at all from there. But something, an image, gets
planted in her brain and grows there like some nasty weed and won't go
away. She sits up, leaves the dildo sticking out of Dixie's ass like a
banderilla in a bull, shoves a couple of fingers in Dixie's twat and
plants herself behind her like she's fucking the girl doggie-style.
Leans over so she can watch Scottie's thick, hairy fingers cup the
back of Dixie's head as he fucks her face. So she can watch his belly,
his thighs, gleaming with sweat.

    ::

God, it's taking Scottie forever to come.

    ::

Oh yeah, he's saying, oh yeah. Shit yeah. He's gonna blow. Dixie's
moaning around his cock as he pumps a couple more times.

It's a delicate operation, coming into someone's mouth for the benefit
of the camera. Takes two seasoned practitioners working at the height
of their craft, judging timing, intensity, arc, and velocity in a
split second, and even then you're going to make a mess. Scottie leans
back pulling out his cock as Dixie opens her mouth and then he's
coming in three long pumping ropy pulses that mostly splatter into her
mouth.

Yeah, Roy's saying, as Honey lays a hand on Dixie's shoulder. That
was... Honey's pulling on Dixie's shoulder, turning it a little as she
rolls onto her side by the girl, and Honey turns up her face so Dixie
can look down and without really thinking about it kiss Honey. And
Honey opens her mouth and Dixie opens hers and they're sharing
Scottie's slimy, tasteless load, vaguely salty, like medicated snot.
Honey pulls back, letting the honey kiss's trademark strand of come
dribble between their lips, and then for good measure she licks up a
shining spot from the corner of Dixie's mouth.

That was, uh, Roy's saying. At a loss for words.

Honey stands. Terry's right there, his mouth hanging open. The camera
had been tight on her and followed her up, instinctively.

She leans forward and spits a load of come on the lens.

Walking away from them all, naked, scrubbing her lips with the back of
her hand, she hears Roy's awestruck voice, my God, Terry, please tell
me you got that.

I got it, says Terry. Fuck.

    ::

There's an enormous crack in the bathroom mirror, and a crunched-up
shattered place where the cell phone hit. Honey's rinsed out her mouth
five times and still her teeth feel filmy, her tongue feels slimy. She
wants a cigarette. She wants a drink. She wants to be mind-numbingly
drunk. She doesn't ever want to hear the voice that says, hey, Honey?
You okay?

Get out, she says, looking up to see Barbie in the mirror, standing in
the doorway behind her. Her face flat, her eyes gone dark, hidden.
Honey remembers her pulling the fake-out with the lapdance, stopping
dead. How'm I doing?

Get out! she says again. Barbie blinks. I just, she starts to say. I
don't care! yells Honey spinning around to confront her for real.
Grabbing the door. You lied to me, she says, and she slams the door in
Barbie's face.

Honey? says Barbie. Julie?

Get out! screams Honey. She throws her ruined cell phone at the door.

    ::

She's calmer when Roy knocks. She's as ready for him as she will ever
be. Toilet seat down, she's sitting on it, her robe spread beneath
her. Naked, she is strong. Naked, she has power.

He sticks his head around the corner. Look, he says. I don't know what
possessed you out there, but this is gonna be huge. Okay? Word of
mouth is gonna double my sales alone, but if you play along--I mean,
I'm willing to cut you in for a taste. Strictly net, but...

I don't want it.

Honey. Babe. That's great, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but
think twice. You just broke your mystique out there, babe. We just
made the tape of the year out there!

It's bigger even than that, Roy. You just shot Honey Ryder's last fuck
scene. So. There. You've got your place in history. How's that?

Roy blinks.

How old is she, Roy? Sixteen? Seventeen?

Dixie? says Roy. Honey, are you--

Barbie, you fuck. How old is Barbie?

Roy frowns. Barbie's eighteen, Honey, he says.

Cut the shit. Yeah, I know you have to pretend that's what you think,
but you've also got to gloat and warn me that if I make any trouble,
queer this up for you at all, breathe funny, well, you've got somebody
waiting in the wings, ready to testify, certainly Your Honor, the
defendant knew she was underage. And engaged in carnal relations
anyway. Statutory rape.

You, uh, you fucked Barbie? says Roy.

Don't be an idiot!

And Roy turns and gently closes the door, then leans his bulk against
the wall, folding his arms over his absurd pink shirt. Honey. Listen
to me. I'm, well, I'm flattered you think I'm that Machiavellian.
Really. But if somebody's told you I treat my people like that,
setting them up like that, I want you to tell me who it is so I can
hunt them down and cut off their balls and shove 'em down their
fuckin' throat. Okay? I did not set you up to fuck Barbie or be fucked
or whatever you think has happened, okay? I did not let an underage
girl on my set. I've had enough trouble with cops. We really were
running out of time and I figured I could maybe sweet talk you into a
sort of king triad with Scottie and Dixie. Fuck, it was worth a shot.
But that honey kiss out there--babe, that hits the racks, your
Q-rating is going through the fucking roof. Now is absolutely the
worst time to quit. Hell, I'd be willing to broker something with
Mikey, get an absolute top-drawer guy, maybe Lance--

Shut up, Roy, says Honey.

Or maybe not, says Roy. Maybe not. Maybe later.

Honey feels dizzy, like if she doesn't brace her foot against the tub
she's going to topple off the toilet. And Barbie's really... she
starts to say.

Her birthday was, like, last week. Me and Scottie are talking to Jerry
Kepnick. She's got a shot at Eighteen by Seconds IV, starts shooting
next month. She's gonna be a hit with that jailbait stuff, you know.

She wants to laugh. She wants to yell something, anything. She wants
to burst into tears. She feels nothing but numb, and a little vertigo.
I thought they'd only made two of those damn things, is all she
manages to say.

    ::

Honey Ryder leaves the way she came in: face bare, hair mussed,
kicking the door open with one puffy-shoed foot, her big black bag
slung from one shoulder. Outside, a flash of white catches her eye on
the gravel path to the driveway, and she bends down, picks it up. It's
the torn corner of one of her business cards. There's another piece,
there, caught in the grass. And a third, under the tire of Marvin's
van.

    ::

Dixie Bangs drives a black VW Jetta that matches her black pleather
miniskirt, her black bandeau top, her black leather jacket, her black
Chuck Taylors All Stars. It's a brand new car and more powerful than
she's used to but she loves it anyway, loves the way it roars into the
courtyard of the condo she bought with the money from Topping Tushy II
and III. She climbs out feeling slinky and skanky, sexy and sleazy.
Slutty. Her legs still tremble from the rush of the engine.

Eric's sitting on her new denim couch eating some kind of puffed-up
chip from Japan and playing Twisted Metal on the Playstation. He
doesn't look up, doesn't say anything, just hammers away at the
touchpad with his thumbs.

You know you are getting jaded, says Dixie, if a porn star walks into
the room and you do nothing.

Oh, says Eric. Hey. Um. How was your day?

I did a quickie for Roy Smolin, she says. Fucked an over-the-hill porn
star for twenty minutes and a big beefy guy for an hour and Roy is
going to put my photo on the box for doing this.

Who? says Eric, who still hasn't looked up. Some murderous clown is
threatening him on the big flatscreen TV.

Who what? says Dixie, starting to get annoyed.

Who was the porn star?

Honey Ryder, says Dixie.

No shit? says Eric. You fucked Honey Ryder? Damn. She's hot. She like,
never fucks guys.

I, says Dixie, shucking out of her leather jacket, am going to take a
shower. If you are still here when I am finished, I shall call the
police.

What? says Eric. The fuck? Babe, I, uh...

Please do not take it personally, says Dixie. I just don't like you.
So go.

Where the fuck will I spend the night? says Eric.

That is not my problem, says Dixie, kicking off her Chuck Taylors.

She wanders back to the bathroom, where she strips off the bandeau and
the miniskirt. She never wears underwear after a shoot. It would
be--wrong. She'd have to burn it, she thinks. The smells never really
come out if they're rubbed into fabric like that.

The shower is hot and strong and long and by the time she gets out and
pads naked into the living room, Eric's gone. He left the TV on,
though. She sits, damp, on the denim couch, fishes the remote out from
between the cushions, goes surfing. She's restless. She draws her
heels up to the edge of the couch, flips past the Spice Channel, flips
back. There's a shot of Honey Ryder from a year ago, the AVN Awards.
She's smiling. Her hair is glossy and artfully tangled. She's wearing
a silvery mesh minidress that's practically hanging off her nipples
and she looks like a movie star. She's saying something about how much
she loves the industry, how it's, it's a clich , you know, but it
really is like one big family. Everybody loves everybody else.

God, says Dixie, to nobody in particular. I'm horny.

                                                  ::
                                                  
                                                  Giggling
                                                       3 of 3
                                                          --n.
                                                  ::
                                                  
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nickurfe/www/
http://www.ruthiesclub.com/
nickurfe@yahoo.com

This story may be freely circulated by anyone, anytime, anywhere.
Originally published at Ruthie's Club. Thanks to Ruthie for editing,
Garv for illustrating, and MichaelD for Reseda.

.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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