A short story written by Christian Tanner
Are you a thrill seeker? Are you an adrenaline junkie? Do you like to go to work, come home, and then relax? Who are you? What do you like to do in your free time? If you’re answering these question, then you’ve got it all wrong. Do not let people push you around – you need to get out and start asking other people some fucking question. Sometimes you have to quit being the question and instead be the damn answer. Question others. Question actions. Question government. Question religion. Question humanity. Answer it to yourself, who the fuck are you? I’ll tell you now, you won’t find yourself in here, but you’ll sure as hell be entertained, so listen up.
My name is Jeff, but my girlfriend Samantha, all I can say is fuckin’ A. She looks like the kind of woman you see on the cover of Vogue Magazine, where you assume there’s no way the woman is real. You’ll tell yourself those women don’t exist, but she was walking by my side in Wal-Mart. She doesn’t need to be Photoshopped because she doesn’t have any imperfections. Ass 10. Waist 10. Face 10. Even her long legs. Fucking 10. 10, I tell you. The hardest part about our relationship is walking through the god damn grocery store because everyone whips their heads around to check out my girl, like she’s some replica of Marilyn Monroe; Stop staring guys and girls, she’s just a girl.
Isle 7 was where it had begun. I was shuffling through the milk, 2%, 1%, non-fat, low fat, whatever, I didn’t fucking care, I only wanted a gallon of milk that wasn’t going to expire in two days. For Christ’s sake, it’s almost impossible now-a-days. I shoved a jug of 2% to the left and circled the gallon of milk behind it, trying to find the date.
A guy’s voice came from behind, “Damn, look at that ass.” All I could think was, great, another pig.
He made noises with his mouth like he was heftily chewing on a piece of tough steak, but he was acting like he was eating out her pussy. His hands stationed in front of his mouth while he signaled a diamond with his index fingers and thumbs.
The guy was with two of his friends, that put the total at three people. His friends said in hamony, “Ohhhhhhh,” while he continued acting like a fool, eating her pussy out and what have you.
Samantha spat, “Come on, baby. Don’t worry about those guys.”
I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed for not sticking up for Samantha, let alone myself. I wrote it off though, I put the milk in the cart and pushed the buggy to the next isle.
Isle 6, a completely different isle, yet the guys were not far behind, but they weren’t exactly following us. I could hear them in the other isle. I rustled through a number of thoughts about how to deal with the situation.
1.) Call the manager, tell him or her they’re harassing us, but I’m not a pussy.
2.) Politely ask them to shut the fuck up, yet again, I am not a pussy.
3.) Push down the entire shelf that was dividing the isles and hope that a random bottle breaks and slits their throats.
4.) Fight them. Yeah, fight them. All three of them. I’m not a pussy, I just have anxiety.
They turned the corner as if they could hear my thoughts that were crying for a fight. All three of them, one next to the other, next to the other. Arm, to arm, to arm. They were walking quickly, they kind of looked like robots. All of them lacked facial expression. Bone dry looks on their faces. I was in for one hell of a fight. As they got closer, they started dividing into 1,2,3, but they stayed close to each other.
The first guy, let’s call him an “Ohhh,” guy and the same goes for the second bitch, he was yelling “Ohhh,” too. That fucker I wanted was pussy footing in the third spot. The diamond pussy guy. The first fucker took a quick swing, going for the one hit knock-out haymaker. Luckily, I ducked out of the way and I landed a jaw-breaking blow while I was on my way up.
With my left hand, I palmed #2’s face and he grabbed my arm. Do you know those pillar things that stores hang stuff on like fire extinguishers and key pads? Yeah, I threw his head into that. The bastard. The bitch. I could not help myself, I let him get away with throwing the first punch, which he did. Yet again, I ducked, but this time I looked back and saw a pool of blood flowing out of #2’s head while he lied on the grocery store floor. It looked a lot different in real life than it did in the movies. Everything happened so quickly that Samantha had no idea how to react. That was until she saw the blood flowing out of #2’s head. The distinct click-click-click of her heels baring the floor echoed throughout the store. She marched to #3, the bitch, the bastard, the eating out my girl’s diamond pussy guy, and she laid him out with one blow. That’s my girl, damn. Blood shot from his nose onto her face, a gruesome image from those with a weak stomach, but she was not fazed by the crimson mess. Again, damn girl.
Samantha wiped her lips clear of blood and turned towards me and said, “We’ve gotta get outta here because I have the photo shoot and now I have blood on me and we’re going to be late because of these pussies. And the cops, too. Fuck.”
Stunned at what I just saw, I agreed. But first, I walked to #3, the bitch, the bastard and I kicked him in the ribs and with the connection of my foot and his bones, blood didn’t hesitate to spew out of the corner of his mouth. I’m guessing it came from his lungs and by the looks of it, he only had a few minutes to live if the ambulance didn’t hurry.
We’re just a few steps from the photographer’s studio. It takes Samantha about two hours to get ready each day, but earlier she got ready quicker than I’d ever seen before. However, even with her makeup on, I could still recognize a faint line on her chin where the blood squirted, dried and then stained. Maybe they’ll use Photoshop for her now. Nobody wants to see blood stains on a woman’s chin.
“Ay, yo, get in here,” Said Jarod, the photographer, “I’ve been waiting all day for yuns. What took the time?”
Jarod looked like his own underwear model, and it made me uncomfortable for Samantha and him to be together. Especially alone. Never alone. Ugh, never alone.
The photographer’s studio, it was an old broken down home and the house came with many uses. I had recently found out that it was also used to film pornos. Nevertheless, it didn’t bother me a bit. I just paid close attention to what I was leaning on and where I was setting my things because the last thing anyone wants to do is set their phone in a pile of dried semen. At the time, I had no idea they did photo shoots while a porno was being filmed at the same time. Honestly, that was the first time I had ever been to the photo porn house. I was beyond mad when I found out. I was enraged, pissed, fucking ticked.
Nonchalantly, Jarod said, “Don’t worry about the other room,” looking at me he asked, “Has Samantha filled you in or can I do the honors?”
All I could think was what the fuck is going on and why hasn’t Samantha told me about it. I needed answers and I needed them quick. “Please, Jarod, fill me in.”
At first, I could tell he was taking it easy on me, trying to break the news as delicately as possible, “This house isn’t only used for photo shoots, ya kna’.”
I figured that out by the sound of the couple pounding each other in the other room. At first, I didn’t know if it was a house for prostitutes and what not, or if it was for some sex slavery weird bullshit.
“They film porn here.”
My face was as blank as a piece of white printer paper, my head cocked to the side like a curious dog while I starred at Samantha and said, “Wooow, didn’t know that.”
Samantha immediately changed her face, now showing regret, or maybe a little remorse because she knew I was extremely upset. Although I didn’t show it then, she got it later.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before it’s just that when I found out we had to pay bills and I knew you wouldn’t be okay with it so I thought I could just tell you later but I never knew how to tell you.”
“You didn’t know how to tell me?” I asked. “You didn’t know how to tell me?” A little more emphasis on “me”.
“Me?” A little more. Realizing how aggressive I sounded, I quickly shifted my tone lower, “You could tell me anything but look, just get this over with and we will talk about it later.”
I never realized how much directors talk while filming porn. All I could hear was, “Get under her, man. Fuck her like a dog. Ride it. Ride it. Ride it. Fuck her, man, fuck her.”
I was sitting on a couch, trying not to touch too much, while I kept my mind off the shaking wall behind me. In a moment’s time, something fell off the wall and scared me half to death. That put my sweat pores to works, man, let me tell you. I was already sweating hard, but then I really started getting hot. I had on two T-shirts, one I wore as an under shirt, so I took my shirt off and laid it on the back of the couch. Resting, I paid most of my attention on Samantha while Jarod’s camera went to work.
I bit my lips raw during the entire photo shoot because the sounds of the actor, actress and director were driving me nuts. “Throw her on the bed. Are you okay, honey? Hang in there. Suck his dick. Suck his dick.” I was done.
I stood up and told Samantha and Jarod, “I’ll be outside having a smoke just come get me when you’re done.”
Smile for the camera, baby.
They wrapped up the session quickly after I went out for a smoke. Just as I was putting the butt out on the front porch railing, Samantha was walking out.
“Ready, Honey?” Samantha asked me, but the nickname “Honey” was ruined for me because of the porn director calling the actress “Honey” over and over again. I cringed when she called me “Honey”.
“Yeah, I’m ready to go.” I stated. We plopped into the car, but I forgot my shirt. God damn it, I knew I had to go back in. I was about to ask Samantha to go in and get it for me, but I said fuck it, I’ll get it myself.
“Fuck, I forgot my shirt.”
“I’ll get it for you, baby.” Samantha offered, but I insisted.
“I got it, don’t worry.”
I walked inside the house, nodding my head at Jarod while he was walking out, I looked back and saw him walk to my car window and he started talking to Samantha. I thought nothing of it, for the most part, and I went to the “back room” where they were taking photos.
A guy without a shirt, a long dirty mustache, a hairy stomach that you could get lost in, and his hair cut medium length, combed behind his ears and a big brown cigar hung from his teeth. He looked like his belly button smelled weird. What a fucked up looking guy. He was on the phone and I heard him say, “In the fucking grocery store?” A lot of emphasis on “grocery”. No, really, think about it, “Grocery.”
“That’s fucked up. How bad is he hurt?” A long pause, “Wow, I hope I get a look at the guy. Let me tell ya’, a good fucking look.” Lots of emphasis of “fucking”. He saw me and stopped for a second, not saying a word and I could tell the person on the other line wasn’t saying anything either. Finally, he demanded, “Ay, I gotta go, I’ll call you soon. Just get your asses over here.” And he hung up the phone.
He took a long look at me and said, “Wow.”
We had no idea who each other were, but he acted like he knew me for a lifetime. He said, “Boy, I’ve been waiting for you for a long fucking time,” and he put his cigar out in the ashtray placed on the table next to him. He slammed his hand on the wood, splashing gray and black ash all over the table, repeating, “A long fucking time.”
He walked closer to me saying, “Look, I’m going to fill you in on something, and I’m going to do it quick.”
Just before he continued his speech, he yelled, “Jeffery, get in here, I’ve got something for you to film.”
This guy, his stomach, his mustache, he walked closer to me, “How much was that shirt? 10? 20 dolla’s? Did you have to think about it before you bought it? 10? 20 dolla’s?”
I didn’t say anything because he started talking faster, “Let me show you how to make 10,000 dolla’s right now. Right here. These things don’t happen when you think about the shit, you just think about that 10,000 dolla’s. Take your pants off right now, and think about that 10,000 dolla’s. Think about your car payment and your house payment. 10,000 dolla’s. I can tell by your expression right now, you need it. You need the money. Take your pants off and I’ll show you how to make 10,000 dolla’s in under an hour. Promise. Take ‘em off.”
Fuck no. What the fuckin’ fuck fucker. No. I’m not a pussy, I just have anxiety, and boy did that shit kick in quick. I turned around to grab my shirt but I heard him taking off his pants. Not that taking off your pants makes a distinct sound, but I knew he was taking off his damn pants.
He said, “Don’t think about it, just do it. 15,000 dolla’s, man. That’s 5,000 more.” He almost grabbed me from behind.
I looked behind me and I saw his flaccid penis, the dangle, his scrotum, his bush, his thigh line stretch marks. I think I stopped breathing for a moment. Honestly, I don’t think I ever started breathing again after that. I turned around to grab my shirt before I ran out the door, but for some reason, I couldn’t help myself, I took another look at his dick and like magic, like 5 seconds, the thing was hard as a rock. I jump over the couch – tripping – I stood up and ran out the door, jumped in the car, every muscle in my face flexed, and I drove away as quick as possible. I slammed on the gas pedal and frantically turned at the next stop sign, slamming into a brown Cadillac. I’m not a pussy, I just have anxiety.
I regained my composure, looked up, adjusted my eyes through the thin white smoke rising from the hood of my car, and saw two guys from the grocery store. Lots of emphasis on grocery.
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