Uneven. The worn black leather wallet. Drifting open between fingers and thumb. A ten dollar bill. Change.

Beer and cigarettes in the front seat. Door half slammed shut. Engine and radio together. I can't sing but I got soul.

Quickly the road. Wheels in easy spin. Sky still light. Some pink and even purple spots near the western clouds.

Coors between Jake's inner thighs. The cold makes his testicles contract. He thumbs his cock for a second.

 

Another cigarette. Commercial on the classic rock station. Imagine. Having to write ads for a monster truck event. Fuck that.

Down and out. Two years before. He did apply to write greeting cards. Still hates to think about it. Please allow me to introduce myself.

Tapping along to the maracas. Lightly on the steering wheel. At least porn is profitable. Just forget Gina.

He can't. Her body is still a temple in his thoughts. A fixture of desire. His heart continues to reach for her.

Nearly empty can leaks onto the passenger side rug. Cigarette filter shakes in the sixty mile an hour breeze.

Green sign. Left turn. Suburbia hits his eyes. The wound, temporary. Wheels slow. The blue house. Corner.

Computer. He does not write. There is a title. A general idea. Recorded scenes. Transcription.

Twice. The productions have been of higher standards. He wrote for those. Still, no one knows.

Outside. Pool. Like a home movie with an extra camera. Two women. A silver vibrator. Quick. The sun is going down.

Jake watches pre-recorded takes and writes down the words. They will be read and re-recorded at the sound studio.

Nudity no longer excites him. When he started, his dreams were filled with sex. Now he can hardly remember them.

Cocaine. A more interesting benefit than health care. Kitchen counter. A little more every time.

Slim. For the first time in his life. Not chubby Jake no more. If only Gina could see him now.

 

No. Just forget Gina. The Rolling Stones riff in the key of E repeats in his mind. The echo distracts him.

Scream. New girl thrown into the pool. Cold water. Laughter. Only the fluffer does not laugh.

Hates it when it's all lesbian carpet eating. Nothing in the world like sucking a cock into hardness.

She does not tire of the accomplishment. Ecstasy. The drug. Roxy's other favorite.

Jake knows. This and more. Waits for the towel. Back to the computer. A shot of coke slides down his throat.

Distracted. Roxy will come to him later. Let me give you head. She still looks sixteen. Of course, she is nineteen.

A lot of them are nineteen. Especially with makeup. Her voice has replaced the riff in his mind.

The beer is warm now. They can buy cocaine, but not beer. Fuck me. He drinks it anyway. Types.

An approaching car Hums. Doors opening and closing. Morleigh. Producer. Will ask two questions and walk away.

The rhetorical type. Things money can do. Jake hurries just in case. Should have been further along.

Half a page. Shuts down instant messenger. Any one can do this candy-ass job. No need to take a chance.

Voice. Why drink that crappy beer when we got Russian vodka and the Peruvian blow in the kitchen.

Just a look. Maybe a grin. How's the script coming along, Jake. Just a nod. Morleigh strolls to his office.

The master bedroom. Audition place. Jake has still not seen it. Doesn't matter. Types more. He sees enough.

Moaning. A recurrent word. Not accurate. They understand anyway. Fast forward. There it is talking. More Typing.

 

Groove. It almost feels like writing. Rewind. What was that. A reference to Norman Mailer. Had to be Holly.

Don't bring books. He had to buy Ancient Evenings again. Still has not finished it. Holly had blue eyes.

They reminded Jake of Gina. More than he knew. It was just conversation but it cost him a book.

Hours later. There are enough pages for the rough draft. He has visited the kitchen several times.

Wants. A joint, to be back home, television . . . Paces. Knows the director won't show. It's Monday.

Can't finish. Vodka makes him vomit. Nothing else to do. Restless. Hears Roxy giving a speech to the new girl.

I like to touch. Such pretty hair. I need to dance. Roxy will dance all around the house. Jake thinks to hide.

Forget it. Too coked up to get it up. Just sits there. Another cigarette. Waiting for ten to go.

Jake. Roxy sings his name. Smoking is bad for you. The speech is endless. It makes your hair smell bad too.

Was that a pout. It's worse than vodka. He rubs his eyes. Takes a breath. Hey Rox. Oh Jake, Let me give you head.

Noticing the negativity she utters a long longing please. Flips his hands outward. Whatever.

Thinking. Should be rather frustrating for her. I'm lit up like a Christmas tree. Well, it will pass the time.

Pants down to ankles. Palms balls. Vacuums cock tip with lips. Squeezes shaft. Jake wonders what's on TV tonight.

Roxy struggles with the unresponsiveness. Continues to slide it all the way in. He wants to say I tried to tell you.

The thought brings Gina back into consideration. Those were the words. The last argument. I tried to tell you.

 

He could have strangled her. He wanted to. Knowing she was right only made it worse. A rush of blood.

Roxy perks up. Goes at it now with purpose. This will happen. Jake is mesmerized. Lost in the past.

Erection. She takes away her mouth. Strokes. Wants him to see. Mission accomplished. He sees, sighs.

Next step. With an unexpected force. Wow. His brain now blank. Roxy is making his cock throb. She loves getting to do this.

Her index finger inside of him. Testicles shiver. Back tightens. He hates it.

The sperm is already down her throat.

Smiles herself into a dance. She knows she's good. The riff from Sympathy For The Devil returns along with his thoughts.

Wonders if he will ever be as good with words as Roxy is with blow jobs. Wonders if he will ever really write again.

Tomorrow. After waking up. Tomorrow. Before coming back here. He promises to write. A short story. Maybe.

Ten. Suburbia looks better at night. You say love is a temple. Quickly the road back. Under eclipsed stars. Waning moon.

Jake won't remember his promise. Will even forget Gina's blue eyes. He will never know that every night he dreams of her.

---

Julio Peralta-Paulino proudly wears his for-writers-only Poor Mojo t-shirt throughout New York City. He dedicates this short story to Norman K. Mailer (of blessed memory), "that long gone Jew with the cowboy mouth." Amen.