She was there, up on a pile of boxes, bent over it. Her tits needed repair, as her implants looked like two cantaloupes floating down and further away from her chest. She'd pay off new ones after today. She was thinking about her son, where he was. Rock Inches was behind her, a stack of red sweat and tribal tattoos, hamburger fists on both hips. Her ass had been pounded numb from his berserking thighs. His dick, this gnarled Andouille club he kept in his boxer briefs carved out anything that was sensate up inside her. She said unh unh as his Great Dane balls bupped the cardboard boxes and he twisted his mouth and pointed past her back up to god, winked under his wraparound shades.
Why were they in a convenience store stockroom? She was bent over 24 little bags of nacho chips, a stack of boxes with the same number, four boxes. Rock inches grabbed her hair and jerked her head back like he was going to cut her throat. She slowly worked out the number of bags. You can still count on Xanax, but the numbers could just be birds off, away, who cares, birds?
Suddenly Terry, the director said hold up. The light mounted to the camera that was positioned up between her legs had gone out. Rock stepped back, but didn't come all the way out of her. He was going to go smoke and eat some of those blue triangular things that made dick monsters while getting a handjob from the wispy boy assistant with wet lips who she didn't even think that they were paying. He said something about his new 'Stang.
Rock Inches was three in and it was like slipping on soap to her. She moved to put her weight on her right leg and his devlish, meaty eel skipped up and hit something up and shallow in her and suddenly she was on the swollen edge of something and she fell.
It was like vomiting everything bad and with it she was raised higher than she could tell, where noses bleed. Words would stretch infinitely back to earth. It was like gold and glee was cascading out of her and racking her hips. She made a sound like startled and like churning rage and then she was laughing. She said oaow oaow oaow, bellowed. Rock Inches stepped back, left two sweaty footprints behind her.
He said “What the fuck?” and thought to hit her. The director sent his girlfriend to go get the car in case she was dying, having a stroke or something.
She leaned on the nacho boxes and looked up. Her legs were shaking. No one had come doing porn. They had dry-dogged dicks onto saline balloons and made the girls fake purr while getting flagrantly fake head from fakier dykes with big, sharp nails. But no one had done that.
She remembered something like it from when she was a kid, balancing like a teeter-totter on the edge of the kitchen-island counter. Something someone had almost done before she had her baby. She felt like she made whatever had happened. Terry closed the set, sent everyone home. Rock Inches never did straight again. She got paid for two hours and never got hired again.
