Porn Star's Sunday Song
Porn Star drives a Jaguar car, steers with hands under-lapped at six and six thirty o' clock—as if cupping his Payday Package.
Porn Star got him some Onstar, and Smart MP-3 on the dashboard plays Johnny Cash when he whistles through gold tooth inlays—and ahhhh, the sweet fire engine red leather seats, Porn Star controls the heat, any damned way he may desire.
Porn Star gobbles B-12 and energy bars between sessions, chewing over Friday morning Money Shot, wherein Producer got into the choreography a bit too heavy like a Lee Strasberg guru, as if together they created hard art, and not pornography:
"THAT'S IT . . . COME ON HER TITS! . . . COME ON HER
WRISTS OR QUICK-BITTEN LIPS, COME IN HER
JASMINE-SCENTED HAIR—SHOOT YOUR
QUICKSILVER LOAD ANYWHERE!"
Porn Star weathered the drip of Key Grips' derisive laughter, shrugged, flossed and popped a cinnamon Altoid-coated steroid, after.
Porn Star knows the Score, been socking away Rainy Day Bread for a decade or more, sometimes he winces when thinking of the Frat guys who blink and curse on the cusp of auto-erotic climax when camera has happenstance to zoom in on his eyes: "Oh fuck, not HIM!" they cry, "that's GAY, get the Camera back on that hot bucking slut and let it STAY!"
Porn Star arrives at Starbucks on Rodeo Drive—sometimes the people glare, or beg for camera phone High Fives . . . Porn Star stares out the window, past his next Mandatory STD test, and ED Wonder Drug spokesperson requests, he dreams of misty grape arbors, the bliss of unscripted ardor, icebergs arriving at lunchtime on Alaskan Carnival Cruise Line . . .—"maybe a love shack in Adirondacks, nothing but hers and mine" . . . Porn Star pines for the fizz of pop rocks in the hot spring, beach walks, pillow talk—a dozen wistful things like wedding rings and Salton Sea honeymoon sand spars.
Not every body in this world is lonely, but some of your
Porn Stars are.
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