This is a freelance fiction story I wrote, using characters based in part on my novel, "Angry White Male".
When I was a little boy, growing up an only child in Palos Verdes Estates, California, my mother used to read to me every night before putting me to bed. I remember two things about the experience. First, Mom read books about dogs, and the dogs always died in the end, saving their masters from freezing in Alaska or something like that. Second, Mom usually wore her negligee when she read to me. Mom was a looker, and built like a brick house. That is when I became a breast man.
My father, Daniel Taylor, was a lawyer with a white shoe firm in downtown L.A. My family is a Who’s Who of American politics, law, journalism, Hollywood and sports. A lot is expected of a Taylor, and a lot was expected of Dad. My great-grandfather was a confidante of Teddy Roosevelt. His son helped bridge the gap between silent movies and “talkies.” He met a football player at the University of Southern California named Marion Morrison, and introduced him to Clara Bow, the “it girl” of the 1920s. Clara was a nymphomaniac, and enjoyed getting group sex with the Trojan football team. So you thought their fight song, “Conquest” was about beating Notre Dame? I do not think so. Marion Morrison changed his name to John Wayne.
Dad’s older brother was a high muckaty-muck in Republican politics, and Dad thought he wass heading in that direction, too. He was a helluva of a baseball player, but after injuries cut his career short, he went into the law and became a protégé of Richard Nixon. He was left behind when Nixon took off for Wall Street and later the Presidency. Dad should have been relieved that he was not one of the “unindicted co-conspirators” of Watergate, but instead he became bitter, as if his ship came and went without him.
So Dad put all his hopes on me. I took to baseball early and Dad lived his life vicariously through my successes on the diamond. But he was too enthusiastic, and my teammates, opponents, classmates, and the parents in the Palos Verdes baseball community did not appreciate his enthusiasm.
“Run, run, run, run, run, RUN YOU BASTARD RUN,” Dad would yell at some sixth grader rounding third and heading for home. For some reason, this did not go down well with the post-‘60s California parents in the stands. What a surprise! They were all reading “I’m OK, You’re OK”, but my dad was not OK as far as they were concerned.
As a consequence, I found that junior high school was a snake pit of adolescent hate. There was nothing laidback about the barbs I heard. The old man knew we were not very popular, but he could head off to his law office and afterwards, a few belts of Bourbon. Me? I had to listen to 13-year old jackals say stuff like “You’re old man sucks, Taylor,” and “Go suck your old man’s dick, Taylor,” and “Hey pussy boy, you’re a faggot,” and other pleasantries. I was pretty unsure of myself in a lot of ways, but I knew one thing for certain. I was no faggot!
I was tall and athletic, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Looking back at pictures, hey, I was a good-looking son of a gun. But being called a “faggot” in the schoolyard was not a recipe for success with the chicks. I was uncool, unpopular and singled out, which is the worst thing to be in junior high school. I came from a family of womanizers. Granddaddy had chased broads with the Duke and invented the modern gangbang. My father was a hit with women at USC. When my formative years came around and I was not fighting off girls with a stick, I was immediately suspect in his eyes.
Girls were this great mystery to me. It was as if they existed only to intimidate me. The last thing I thought girls wanted was to be with boys. There were a select few guys who were popular with females, but becoming an all-star big league baseball player was a far more realistic prospect than to ascend into that clique of popularity. I wanted a girlfriend in the worst way. Instead, all I found was repression and frustration. I fantasized about girls who were sexual, free and easy. They were fantasies because they did not exist for me in real life.
The one thing that saved me in junior high school and high school was baseball. I was good at it. I gained attention and notoriety. I went on to play at USC, and a few years of professional ball. But I never did very well with women. I always said the wrong thing. My jokes fell like dead weights. I had no rap.
My buddy Skoal and I went to the Pussycat Theatre in Santa Monica to watch “Deep Throat”. I was both repulsed and turned on by the site of Harry Reems’ semen drooling out of Linda Lovelace’s mouth. I started watching porn movies.
In my late teens, I was proselytized by a classmate who introduced me to the Lord Jesus Christ. Ever since then, everything I did came back to this. Questions of morality, sin and asking what the right thing really was.
Finally, I met a girl who seemed suitable. We hooked up and got married. It was nice to have sex on a regular basis for the first time. Unfortunately, she was about as exciting as a yeast infection, which she was always coming down with. It was not very long before I started watching x-rated movies on the sly. The likes of Seka, Ginger Lynn, Amber Lynn and Christy Canyon were much more exciting than my bitchy old lady. My Christian side told me I was committing a sin. My practical side told me that an affair with the VCR was better than cheating on my wife with a flesh-and-blood woman. Thankfully, the marriage did not work out. Neither did baseball. Like Dad, injuries cut short my promising career. I still had a lot to live up to, being a Taylor. Like my grandfather, who was a screenwriter, playwright, producer and director who named names during the McCarthy Era, I started writing for Hollywood. I was good at it.
I had a friend from USC baseball who got married, and I was invited to his bachelor party. There must have been 100 guys there. The “entertainment” was a porn chick by the name of Cumita. It was an apt nickname. This girl was a freak! She provided a full service bachelor party. Anybody who’s ever dealt with escort services knows what full service means. Cumita was very popular with the guys, but she was not exactly treated with respect. I befriended her and had a nice conversation. She turned out to be friendly and intelligent. Right then and there, I asked her on a date. She gave me her card and said sure.
A couple of weeks later I called and asked her to dinner. We set a date and she told me where she lived. There was still some doubt in the back of my mind how this “date” was to be interpreted. I had no intention of paying her for her services, but wondered whether she expected to treat the evening as business or pleasure. I decided to just go with it.
Cumita was not the best-looking girl in the adult film industry, but let me tell you something; in person, she was fine. She was half-white, half-Filipino, a petite thing with long, silky black hair. She knew how to fix herself up, with the make-up, the “slut red” lipstick, and outrageous lingerie under a leather mini-skirt, a halter-top exposing her tanned belly, smooth skin and perky breasts, all capped by high heeled stilettos.
My johnson immediately got angry, and I knew I was in for a night of fun. I had no idea! We went to dinner at a family place in Hermosa Beach, where I thought every man, woman and child knew who Cumita was. I drank until I did not care. Then we went to the Lighthouse on Pier Avenue, where a Zeppelin tribute band was in full jam. The place was crowded with hot rocker girls, including one tall, dark-haired lovely who kept making eye contact with Cumita. When Cumita asked me if I wanted to do a ménage a trios with her, I knew I was not in Kansas anymore.
What happened over the next few days matched all the fantasies I had had watching porn flicks to help forget my wife’s yeast infections. First the rocker girl came to bed with us. I got her and Cumita on all fours and took turns tonguing them from behind. Then they went to town on each other, alternately blowing me. In the end, I shot enough jizz to fill a bath tub all over Cumita’s face, and rocker girl licked it all off. Then she gargled with it, and spat it back in Cumita’s mouth. Cumita and rocker girl repeated this foul yet exquisite act several times. Wow!
I thought that was it. Oh, how wrong I was. The next day, after rocker girl was given a kiss good-bye, Cumita called her friend Anna, who was shooting a porn flick in Chatsworth. We drove out there just in time to see the “money shot.” Anna came over and greeted us with two loads of cum on her face. Par for the course in the porn world. We drove to her hotel room. Her husband was watching football. I had a conversation with the guy about the true red-dog blitz. It was just like any two suburban neighbors talkin’ ball over a picket fence, except that Anna and Cumita appeared in lingerie from the Touch of Romance catalogue, and you know what happened next.
After a couple hours swapping porn stars and screwing his wife hubby urged me on, I was drained and we drove back to Cumita’s condo. I figured I was done until nature took its course, which would take a week or so. Cumita would have none of it. She jumped my bones as soon as we got back, and to my surprise I performed my man-beastly duty. The next morning, I was ready to re-join the known world, but Cumita was already on the phone, calling all her slutty friends and bragging about my staying power.
“What’s up?” I asked her.
“We’re going to the Rainbow tonight,” she said. “There’s a party there.”
I did not know how much I had left. The whole thing was by now surreal. My date was going on 48 hours and Cumita had not presented me a bill. Christ, I was her boyfriend. I decided to go along with the ride.
The Rainbow, a historic watering hole on the Sunset Strip where Jim Morrison once drank and David Lee Roth still hangs out, is also a favorite haunt of strippers and porn stars. The fuck bunnies were out in force that night. Cumita regaled them with graphic descriptions of my staying power, and I found myself the object of the desires of four or five glamour girls. For the guy who could not a girl in high school, this was too good to be true.
In the end, we took Cumita’s friend Lana home with us. Tall, tanned and exotic, Lana had an insatiable appetite for sex. By dawn’s early light, I was having an out-of-body experience, and seriously questioned whether my soul could still be saved. Finally, Lana departed, and despite Cumita’s pleas to stick around, I made haste.
Of course, within a few days, I was desperate to come back and taste the forbidden fruit. I tried to tell my pastor about the experience, but the minute I opened my mouth I knew that was a mistake. Like he was going to understand. I weaseled out of that, but continued to go to church and meditate. I had no chance. The temptation of a sexy porn chick begging me to shoot my load on her was impossible for to overcome.
I am doing the work of Satan, I lamented.
I stayed in touch with Cumita over the next months. She moved out of town and I temporarily moved back to my parent’s house while the home I had bought was in escrow. I was almost back to “normal” when one night she called and said she was flying in to L.A. and wanted to spend the night with me.
Now, in this life we make some stupid decisions. As they say, some are made with the big head, and some are made with the little head. The question of having sex with Cumita was not the decision. The question was where to have sex with Cumita. The answer to that is obvious: IN A MOTEL. Do not ask me why this was not obvious at the time. Looking back, it seems incongruous that the $65 deterred me. Mainly, I just thought I could get away with it. My folks have a big house, and I figured I could spirit her in, do my business, and in the morning she needed to be driven to the airport for an early flight. That was the plan. Let us just say that Ike prepared for the Normandy Invasion better than I thought through my dangerous liaison with Cumita.
I picked her up at the airport, and driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, Cumita had her lips wrapped around Mr. Woodrow. Then we headed up the hill that is the Palos Verdes Peninsula.
“Wow,” she said, “you live in P.V.?”
“Uh, yeah baby,” I murmured.
We got to the house, and Cumita’s eyes popped out of her head. It is a gorgeous ranch-style home with a stunning view that stretches from downtown Los Angeles to the coastal South Bay Strand. Cumita was sizing the place up. I was sure she had a couple of gangbanger friends named Ramos and Raoul who she was planning to call and tell them she had a new place for them to rob.
“I’ll just fuck the guy while you steal his shit,” I pictured her saying to the imaginary criminals. This concern was replaced by my desire to maintain the fiction that the place was mine. I had not told her I lived with my parents. It was midnight and they would be asleep. We entered the house, and Cumita was talking. I whispered, as if my low tones made up for her Valley Girl squeals. The light was on in the front room, which was unusual. We entered, and sitting there was my father.
My dad never sits in the front room. He never had before, and never has since. He did that night. Why? I have to believe it was the work of God. My dad used to call me Stupidkid, a one-word appellation, when I was growing up, and he never really changed his overall impression of me. Ours is a love-hate relationship based on his judging me and my resenting him for it. He sees everything as right or wrong, with little room in between.
“Uh, Dad,” I mumbled.
“Who’s this?” he asked the way a CIA operative might ask, “How long have you worked for Osama?”
“Stan,” said Cumita, “what’s going on here?”
“Uh,” I said, “this is my dad. Dad, this is…”
Jesus, God, no. Cumita?
“I’m Nancy,” she said to my father. She had a real name, only I had never learned it.
“Uh,” I said, “Nancy needs a ride to the airport tomorrow and I said I’d drive her.”
“So what’s she doing here now?” inquired The Dan, who was now Central Casting’s prototype for the demanding prosecutor.
“Well,” I said, “she doesn’t have a place to stay, so, she’s gonna stay here, uh…”
It went on for a couple of excruciating minutes, until finally I managed to drag Nancy/Cumita downstairs. She was not impressed by the fact that I was living at my parent’s house, but my main preoccupation was now sex.
“Staaaaaan,” I heard The Dan shouting, sounding like an injured moose, from the top of the stairs.
That was all I needed to hear. I was done. The game was over. The jig was up.
“Yeah,” I replied, weakly, knowing my fate was sealed.
“Would you come up here, please?” The Dan said.
Like a condemned prisoner, I trudged out of the room and halfway up the stairs.
“Yeah,” I repeated.
The Dan’s face was about 47 feet long. His jowls normally curved downward, making him look like he was frowning even when he was not. Now his mouth was pursed into a dot. His eyes were narrowed, He was not happy.
“You’re not gonna sleep with that girl, are you?” The Dan asked me.
“I was thinkin’ about it,” I barely muttered.
“You can’t do that,” said The Dan. “I’ll make up the guest room for her, but she can’t sleep with you.”
I just looked at him. Then I heard my mom’s high-pitched voice.
“Staaaaan,” she said, “you can’t do it. It’s immoral.”
I had listened to my parents give me a ton of crap a million times. I had long ago learned to decipher their rhetoric, and concluded most of the time that they were full of hot air. They just liked to give me heat because they felt the need to give me heat. I was an easy, available target. I filled their need to complain about somebody.
This time, however, I knew I had nothin’ comin’. I was on the wrong side of the moral equation. There was nothing to say. I just folded my tail between my legs, turned around and went back in the room. Nancy was lying seductively on the bed, looking like a girl who was ready to worship every inch of what I had. I had to explain, as gently as possible, that my parents more or less realized that she was a complete floozy. Therefore she would have to find other lodging tonight, thank you.
Nancy could have started trouble, and that would have been baaaaad! She could have yelled and screamed. I imagined my father yelling, “Shirley, call the cops. Now!”
Instead, thank God instead, Nancy, sex hound that she was, said, “I understand.” She was terrific about it. I packed her up, spirited her to the car, and drove to a motel in El Segundo. I paid for her motel, which I should have done in the first place, and gave her money for the short cab ride to the airport the next day. I kissed her good bye.
“You’re not going, are you?” she said.
After all that she still wanted me. God bless her. I went to town on her for an hour. She finished me off in the usual manner, and I left. I was prepared for the worst, but to their lasting credit, Dan and Shirley never mentioned the incident again.
Unbelievably, Nancy called me a few days later.
“Hey, wanna go to the porn convention?” she asked me.
Like asking if I wanted to go to the Laker game.
“Sure,” I said.
So it was that I found myself in a car with four hot porn stars driving to Las Vegas. I heard all their “tricks of the trade” for five hours. The porn stars met at Bally’s bar the first night.
On the way to Vegas, I told the girls about “Once He Was An Angel”, a screenplay I wrote about an ex-baseball player named Bo Belinsky.
“There’ll be a lot of roles for cute girls,” I said. “I can use all four of you.”
The girls giggled as if Daryl F. Zanuck had just promised them stardom.
“Really?” they gushed.
What a bunch of Dumbellionites, I thought.
Aside from Cumita, there was Crystal Gold, Olivia and Heather Lee. Crystal was a statuesque blonde with a set of volleyballs for breasts. Olivia was an emaciated blonde with a set of volleyballs for breasts. Heather was a gorgeous Hispanic firebrand with a set of volleyballs for breasts.
At the Bally’s bar, I was amazed at all the talent. In my entire life I had never seen so many gorgeous women in one place. That night, I had sex with Nancy and Heather.
The next day, flush with another sterling performance, I was lying in bed when the phone rang in the hotel room. The girls were gone, since they had to be on the showroom floor early.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Is Nancy there?” said a female voice.
“No,” I said, “can I take a message?”
“Whose this?” said the girl.
“This is Stan,” I said.
“Steve Drake!” she gushed. “Ohh, I can’t wait to work with you.”
“Uh, I can’t wait to work with you, too,” I said, “but I said Stan, not Steve. Stan Taylor. Whose this?”
“This is Crystal,” she said.
“Ah, Crystal,” I said, “I rode here with you, Nancy, Olivia and Heather yesterday.”
Indeed, she had spent five hours in a car with me, but was so ditzy that it took two minutes for me to refresh her memory.
What a Dumbellionite, I thought.
Of course, she was a Dumbellionite with one of the finest racks in the Western world. Crystal was not quite sure what I was, a producer maybe. That meant she should be nice to me.
I invited her up to the room to talk about my script, “Once He Was An Angel”, figuring these porn girls were easily impressed. Crystal was. Half an hour later, she was in the room. I started talking about “Once He Was An Angel”, a legitimate script idea that I planned to get into Charlie Sheen’s hands. Crystal said she did not like Charlie because he treated her like a whore and a slut.
Treat you like a slutty whore? I thought. Naaaaaww.
Crystal did not understand that “Once He Was An Angel” was a real script. She must have thought it was a porn flick. What she thought, nobody knows. What this girl did not know could fill a void larger than all space. What is known is that she had my erect manhood in her mouth when Cumita walked in the door.
“Hi, honey,” I said, cheerfully. “I was just talking to Crystal here about my script.”
Having a blowjob performed on me when Cumita entered the room had not seemed unusual to me. Cumita was the same girl who had invited half the porn chicks in the San Fernando Valley to swing with us. She had shared me with Heather the night before. But logic does not figure with these girls. Cumita went ballistic.
“What about me?” she whined. “If Crystal’s gonna be in your movie, what about me? I thought I was gonna be in your movie.”
“You will,” I said, noticing that Crystal’s mouth was no longer wrapped around my woodie.
“Who told you you could fuck Crystal?” asked Cumita. “She won’t fuck you.”
“Well, she certainly has no problem blowing me,” I said.
“But she won’t fuck you,” said Cumita, as if this was some kind of important differential. She turned to Crystal.
“He won’t pay for my breasts,” she said.
“Asshole,” she said. She was now standing up and had shoved one melon-size breast back into her Summer dress.
“Who said anything about paying for your breasts?” I asked. “This is bizarre.”
“He lives at home with his parents,” said Cumita.
“Eeeeeuuuhh,” said Crystal.
“You never fucked Heather,” Cumita said to me accusingly.
“You mean Heather who I screwed in front of you last night?” I asked. “That Heather?”
“He said he was Steve Drake,” said Crystal.
“You don’t love me,” Cumita said to me. “You just wanna fuck my friends.”
“Ain’t talkin’ bout love,” I sang like David Lee Roth.
“I never should have believed you,” said Cumita.
“What’s love got to do with it,” I mangled Tina Turner.
“I can’t believe I didn’t charge you,” said Cumita.
“What in the wide, wide world of sports is goin’ on here?” I said in an excellent Slim Pickens imitation from “Blazing Saddles”.
“You owe me a thousand dollars,” said Crystal.
I stared at my watch.
“Gotta git gotta go,” I said, imitating Robert DeNiro in “Cape Fear”.
“Call Rocco,” Cumita said.
Crystal dialed a number.
“Rocco,” she said, “we’ve got problems with a mook.”
Who the fuck is Rocco? I thought. I was not about to find out.
The rest of the conversation contained no more intelligence or common sense than the first part. That was irrelevant to the fact that I got the boot and I did not want to find out who Rocco was. I doubted Rocco’s presence would be of any value to me. I called my former teammate Danny Ferrara, who lived in Vegas, and asked him to pick me up.
Dan came by, and I described the entire thing to him driving to his house. Dan thought it was hilarious. He was utterly titillated that I was such a stud with all these porn stars.
“You’re my hero,” he told me. Dan was married. Such thrills were unavailable to him, so he would have to live vicariously through me. I had never met his wife. Dan told her all the details of what I had told him. She was absolutely disgusted. I stayed there that night, and she looked at me as if I was a convicted rapist.
“Women don’t understand our primal urges,” Dan told me the next day on the way to the airport.
Back from Vegas, I was determined to try and get on the straight and narrow. That lasted about a month. Then I started going to strip clubs that featured touring porn stars. Using my intelligence and a learned sense of timing, I observed the girls of the sex industry. I learned their tricks, their habits, and their vulnerabilities. I came to the conclusion that the most attractive girls are the ones who can be picked up most easily, which goes against the common thinking of most men. I was able to tell, by observing habits, eye contact, and telltale signs, which girls are promiscuous, and which girls are in it just for money. I slyly moved from strip club to strip club, seeing which girls left by themselves, which ones had boyfriends, and which ones swung by bars near the clubs. I was able to talk my way into having sex with a variety of strippers and porn stars. These adventures led me into some dangerous situations, which I managed to scrape out of; sometimes cleanly, sometimes with a cost. I had come full circle, realizing that my view of women had been stilted. Perhaps because they seemed unattainable to me when I was younger, I had now reached out for a certain kind of fantasy girl, not a real person, but rather an object for my gratification. The conflict between good and evil raged in my mind. A thinking man, I rationalized, blamed and asked questions about why I was the way I was.
Then I watched a porn movie starring a gorgeous, stacked blonde who gets gangbanged by an army of studs. Vaulted into X-rated superstardom, the girl appeared as the "headline feature" at Bob’s Classy Lady. I went to see her, but she did not notice me. I followed her home by car and made my move when she went into a bar. Technically, I guess I stalked her. I found her to be down to Earth and easy to talk to. She talked about growing her great love for her father. She did not tell me she is a porn star, and I did not reveal that I know. Many of the pre-conceptions of such a girl were dispelled. A connection between us formed, and we fell in love.
Her real name is Michelle, and she lives in Hermosa Beach, California. I moved in with her. She is smart and loving, crazy about animals and children. My parents love her. I met her dad, who thinks his daughter is a swimsuit model. We get along famously.
Now, after a couple of years, we are still living this fiction. Every time I go out in public with Michelle, I am convinced everybody recognizes who she is. We have had a lot of close calls, but I play it dumb. I have kept her away from my friends because they might recognize her. I have been in hotel rooms with friends when her movies come on, and only through quick work have I switched channels and kept my secret.
Well, when you live with a beautiful woman for a few years, there is certain inevitability to it. The inevitability is that her old man has urged me to marry his daughter. My dad told me to “marry that girl.” Now Michelle has put the ultimatum to me: Marriage and children. I proposed, she accepted, and a date is set. She still thinks I do not know about her porno career. Can I marry a porn star? Can I have children with such a woman? Can I keep the secret?
Growing up, I always wanted beautiful, sexy fantasy girls. Now that I have one, I fear I have bit off more than I can chew. Be careful what you wish for.
Causes Steven Travers Supports
Conservative, Christian, USC, American patriotism