ATTRITION


Julio and I are putting two MILFs through the paces on a pet-stained sofa when an effeminate pimp and an androgynous pixie enter the set. They stand off camera in silence, watching Julio and me work. Pixie girl hikes up her skirt, pulls her panties to the side and fingers herself.

Flea, the director, acknowledges the pimp and his girl’s entrance with a silent nod and continues filming. He pushes the camera in for a close-up with one hand, and mimes a motion that resembles shaking dice with the other: pop at will. Julio looks at me and we exchange nods. We’re ready. We dismount from our women and stand shoulder to shoulder, stroking our dicks. The MILFs sink to their knees in front of us and angle their faces upward. Julio and I pop together.

Flea says, “Cut. Hold for stills.”

Flea has swapped his video camera for a digital stills camera. The camera flashes as he snaps pics. When he’s done with the stills, I pick some dog hairs, glued in place by lubricant, off my dick. The MILFs leave and the girl that came with the pimp replaces them, kneeling before us. She wraps her lips around my penis and works on me until I’m erect again.

Flash!

Flea checks the shot he just took on his camera’s screen. “Who’s the girl?”

Femme Pimp says, “Eris. She’s street legal: her test is good through the end of the month.”

Eris switches to Julio. She sucks him to get him going while she strokes me.

Flash!

Flea says, “Who’s she shot for?”

“Alpha Man, Red Assholes Films...just a handful of scenes. It’s slow for her, so I’m taking her around on sets for some go-sees to help her out.”

I sit on the sofa and pull Eris on top of me, cowgirl. She’s not the best piece of ass I’ve had but whatever, she’s there. If you see a five-dollar bill on the sidewalk you’ll pick it up. Julio sits next to me and pushes her head into his lap. Flea orbits us, pointing his camera.

Flash! Flash!

“I’m finishing up this MILF CHOCOLATE movie,” Flea says, “and then I’ve got BROTHAS LOVE PHAT WHITE ASS. She doesn’t fit into the lines I’m shooting right now. What about Gideon Roads? Maybe he’ll throw her into a bukkake.”

Femme Pimp says, “Already tried. He’s not interested. Don’t you have a blow bang coming up?”

Flea sighs. “I guess. What’s her rate per scene?”

The pimp quotes a sum that a would be insulting for a mope.

“Cut that in half, and maybe...”

The pimp points to Eris, bounding on my dick. “Come on, look at her fuck!...Hey, you wanna try her out yourself?”

Flash!

“I’ll pass.”

Julio gets up from the sofa and leads the Eris by the hand down a hall. I follow them to a bedroom, and when Julio opens the door a team of dogs and cats run past our feet. When the last beast has exited I pull the door by the handle and it creaks shut behind me. Eris climbs onto the bed and gets on her hands and knees. Julio mounts her. After a while we switch off and I mount her.

The door creaks.

Flash.



As I’m parking my car, I notice the brakes feel soft and I make a mental note to get them checked. The driver’s side door doesn’t lock, but nobody’s going to steal a rusted-through car with a carburetor. It’s the end of a workday, consisting of two Viagras and, including Eris, five girls on three different sets. The reek of pussy, ass and sweat clings to me the way cigarette stench lingers on a chain smoker’s clothes and fingertips. I’d have preferred to shower after last scene with Julio and the MILFs, but my clothes are infested with dog hairs and set grime (When was the last time you saw porn stars stop to fold their clothes? Never, we rip them off and toss them on the floor.) so it made no sense to clean up only to put them back on again for the drive home. I feel greasy. My pores feel clogged, like I'm suffocating through my skin.

Home for Amanda and me is a duplex on a hillside cul-de-sac of Melrose Hill. Named one of L.A.’s ten best neighborhoods, you could live your entire life in the city and never know this tree-lined oasis exists. No traffic. Neighborhood children’s laughter sparkles in the air as they chase after the ice cream truck. The fact that Amanda and I don’t live in the Valley was a conscious decision to compartmentalize my work, and keep it away from our home life.

When I enter our home, I leave the front door open behind me and take a moment to open some windows. A breeze sways the curtains, and light from the setting sun fills the space. Our sofa, dining room table and bookcase all bask in the golden light.

My mail is laid out for me in a neat stack on the table. Bills. Checks from different studios. An envelope from my bank. Inside it is a check from a studio and letter stating the check has been returned for insufficient funds. I scroll through contacts in my cell phone.

“Good afternoon, Sexual Deviants Studios, Kiran speaking. How may I direct your call?”

“This is Tyler Knight. Let me speak with Alex Kidd, please.”

“Regarding?”

“A bounced check.”

“Please hold.”

While on hold, I read more of the letter. The bank will charge a returned check fee to my account.

“Alex isn’t available, but he said to just go ahead and redeposit the check.”

“My my bank charged me a fee, and I want to be reimbursed.”

“Go ahead and redeposit it, and we’ll mail you another check to cover the charge.”

“Fine.”

Amanda calls to me from the bedroom, and I go to her. A parti-colored bowling shirt, wrapped in dry-cleaning plastic, hangs from the bedroom doorknob. Date night. Amanda is buttoning up a matching bowling shirt in front of a mirror. She catches me in its reflection.

“Te amo.”

“Te amo.”

I walk past her and into the master bathroom without stopping to hug or kiss her, and she makes no attempt to embrace me. Shower first; a protocol we never break.

Amanda enters the bathroom, but keeps her distance. “You smell like cat piss.”

“Yeah.”

“How was work?”

“Not going to talk about it.”

“You never want to talk about it.”

I kick off my shoes. “Correct.”

“Why?”

“‘Why?’ You know why.”

“How are we supposed to have a normal relationship if you never want to talk about anything?”

My clothes weigh me down like spilt crude on a baby seal's white fur. I peel off my shirt, pants, socks and underwear, and stuff them into the hamper. “We talk about everything, just not my work. You know that, so stop asking me.”

Amanda glowers at me as I pour a cup of blue mouthwash and gargle. I swish the minty alcohol over my tongue and teeth. It has a pleasant burn inside my cheeks.

She says, “This is not healthy, Erik.”

I spit out the mouthwash and foam fizzles in the sink.

I say, “I don’t want to bring that shit home with me. What we have together is the only normal thing in my life, and I’m not going to poison it.”

She scoffs and points to my clothes rotting away in the hamper.

I say, “Can we talk about this after I take a shower, please?”

“Whatever.”

I pin the shower knob to “H” and steam thickens the air. I lather up, rinse, and lather up some more. With some pumice scrub, I excavate the muck that has seeped into my pores. Next, I soap up the fingernail brush and scrub the left hand, then the right. Then I work some dandruff shampoo into a lather, scratching it into my scalp with my fingernails. It has a cooling menthol tingle and scent, so I let the foam sit in my hair for a while. I place my hands on the wall, lower my head, take deep breaths as the hot water massages my neck and back.


Looking down, I see Amanda’s scrunchie on the tub sill...I don’t want to fight with Amanda, and she doesn’t want to fight with me...She wants just wants to feel involved. Loved.

Clean clothes, including the bowling shirt, are laid out for me on the bed.

I say, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“You hungry? Let’s go eat first.”

She smiles. “Okay, but it’s got to be drive through. I can’t be seen with you in that shirt, ha ha.”

We hug, then kiss. Her lip gloss tastes like green apples.

As we separate, something about my ear catches her attention. She picks something out of it. A dog hair.