bLACK pORN
by
Roan Beechler

Intro #1: sIDE gLANCES

"Occasionally the sTAR screams for attention.
A guttural, sputtering yelp."



SUZ...

It was too hot. Too long. I was on my period. Bored.

Angel needed more base.

"She's already wearing an entire stick."

"I don't care, Suz, she's still running. Put it on to stay, I don't have time to move the lights." Rodg adjusted his beret for the seventh time in as many minutes to hide the burn scars snaking across his bald pate. Bad skin reaction to a heavy night of Quaaludes and epoxy discipline. Two weeks on a bLACK pORN set, and already a veteran. Guess he's got what it takes.

I apply the base.

Angel is non-responsive. This is a good thing for me. I don't like talking to these girls. Call it a defense mechanism. I'm jealous of their vacancy.

Revved and ready, base set for another take, she mounts the lights. High heels clack against the tile in the abandoned MORGUE SHACK we're shooting in. Subconsciously I run my tongue across her spine. Nothing sexual. I just find the thought interesting.

Rodg wheels his sTAR out on a push cart.

They make an interesting couple, Angel and the sTAR. She couldn't be more than seventeen. Fourteen more likely from the way she struggles to read the fat content on the label of her East LA Potato Beer. She and the sTAR have never met, and they share no words. How could they? I'll explain...

This is bLACK pORN. Different from its parents bLUE and gREY porn. bLUE means human. Different sex. Skin on skin contact. The most popular and heavily syndicated. gREY is also human. Skin on skin, but same sex. Popular, but not as heavily syndicated (although more and more premium slips are beginning to catch on). bLACK pORN is human, but only by half. Skin and byproduct contact. By nature of what it is...always different sex. Outlawed. Only available through bootleg syndication.

Very popular. Very lucrative.

I'll explain further...

The sTAR is a graft-corpse. In all bLACK pORN it is required that there be at least one graft-corpse in all couplings. What can I say, even the underground must have rules. Rodg's sTAR is of his own creation. To describe it would not do it justice, but I'll try. The skin, or outer husk, is animal. Most likely coyote, found in the hills. Dead or close to it. Only a piece of the tissue needs to be alive to generate the graft which takes about three days. Directors are responsible for their own graft-corpses. Rodg seems to have a knack for it. This is the third graft-corpse he's produced for this shoot. Like I said, he's got talent. He'll go far.

The rest of the sTAR below the husk is metal. Most likely aluminum because it's cheap and easy to recycle. From what I can tell, it looks like Rodg has grafted the coyote skin onto a vacuum.

Occasionally the sTAR screams for attention. A guttural, sputtering yelp. I ignore it. I'm only contracted for humans.

Hot. Bored. The camera rolls.

Slowly Angel begins to go down on the thing. I watch her spine. The movements of her neck. This girl won't last long. If AIDS doesn't get her, metal poisoning will.

I'm half out the door when her make-up begins to melt.


The walk back to my hotel in Silverlake is too far so I decide to stop at the ZERO for a drink. I rent a teat for a half an hour at the door, then search for just the right one inside. Find one dangling next to an Arab in the corner, and lock my lips around it for a long pull. I've perfected this motion, culled from long hours looking at photos from the fifties of women in malt shops. The Arab is attracted almost immediately. He buys me another half hour.

Aquinal drips coolly down my throat from the teat. I let the salty anti-depressant linger across the sides of my tongue. Fermenting in the heat from my mouth. My heart skips a beat, and the world spins away.

Hollywood. I'm one of it's creatures now. I stare down at the black mahogany bar, into a precious pool of aquinal that's dripped into a puddle near my left hand. Slight reflection from the overhead neon.

I'm still pretty, right? I'm sure the Arab thinks so, that's why he's continuing to try and make conversation with me. Convince me. Compliment my chestnut bob. My Irish nose and green eyes. Run your fingers down my legs and let me star.

I spin farther away.

Four years since I gave up trying to leave. Twenty two then, twenty six now. I've always felt this place was something of a mining town. You stay until you make your fortune, then get out like the NETWORKS did. They define our world now from their platforms in the ocean. The only thing they left behind for Hollywood was the pORN.

I paint that canvass with ruddy ultra-fair and crimson rouge. A finger point of blush for the nipples. Cherry lip gloss on the vagina.

I can barely stand to put make-up on myself anymore.

The Arab curses in a dialect I don't recognize at my side. A local Cowboy is trying to move in on his territory: me. I watch it all in the puddle of aquinal. The Cowboy is bigger. The Arab skulks away in a hail of spit.

The dragon vanquished. The maiden rescued.

My hero is missing an eye and the thumb on his right hand.


He fucks me from behind in the alley behind the ZERO. My leather skirt, hiked up to my breasts, bites into my ribs. The valiant Arab slayer doesn't bother with my underpants, just pulls them to the side.

I don't mention I'm on my period. He doesn't ask or seem to notice.

I place my mind back with Angel on the set. Is this how it feels when the graft-corpse takes her from behind? A cylindrical metal tool, unyielding and cold. Howling from a garbled coyote voice box that used to back prey up against dirt arroyos.

I find the conceit unbearable when he tries to take me in his arms for a hug afterwards. I looks up at the Cowboy's face. Good eye closed with satisfaction. Bad eye a punched in hole. Deep striation leading backwards into black.

Casually I dip my head, and slide off a stiletto pump.

He's unaware, obviously, of anything that I could be feeling. Like the graft-corpse...he's the sTAR. All other concerns are secondary.

I watch that good eye. The thin membrane covering it. Eyelashes sweeping down. It reminds me of a Venus fly trap I once saw that was bloated with its dinner. At the time I was six and horrified. I pried the plants jaws open, and released the captive fly inside. Watched it scurry away into the grass. The flies wings were gone. The plant had already digested them.

But it got away.

I don't wait for the Cowboy's eye to open. Don't want to see what's behind the membrane. With an upward swing, I dig my stiletto heel in.

A coyote howls in the hills.

The heel scrapes across bone, and immediately I'm drawn back to the MORGUE SHACK. Angel's heels clacking against the tile. The same sound. The Cowboy falls to his knees, reaching across the alley floor for something I can't see.

Neither can he anymore.

With a broken bottle I cut off his remaining thumb and keep it as a souvenir. As I exit the alley into the night, I imagine the Cowboy, blind and thumbless, trying to pull his pants back up unable to grip the sides.

Give a side-glance back. It's the first time I find him appealing.


The walk back to Silverlake is long, but I don't care right now.

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