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From: nickurfe@yahoo.com (Nicholas Urfe)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 17 Mar 2002 02:02:05 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} giggling 1:3 [urfe] [new]
Date: Sun, 17 Mar 2002 02:10:01 -0500
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.
                                                  ::

                                                  Giggling
                                                       1 of 3

                                                  ::

Next table over there's an infant who can't stop staring at his face.
It's the beard. Babies just can't get over beards. It's fucking
bizarre, all that hair on a face. Fucks everything up in their little
heads. Roy mugs as he tries to close the deal. Look, he's saying into
the cell phone. Look. I know. I know. It's part of the fuckin' Honey
Ryder mystique. But it's like, it's like that show. The one with the
guy, wants to fuck that girl, first she doesn't want to fuck him, then
she does, except now he can't stand her. Right? Well, sooner or later
the audience gets tired of that shit. Right? Sooner or later, bam!
They got to get it on. Am I right?

Shit yeah, I'm saying it's that time. This would be major. Think of
the press. Think of the interviews. AVN, Flynt--what? What's that?
You're breaking up. I said you're breaking up!

He sighs. The kid's still looking at him. Kid's mama is yammering away
at her friend, the one with the bad dye job and the sunglasses. He's
in a tunnel, says Roy. The kid blows a bubble of spit.

The cell phone chirps. He stabs it with a finger. Yeah. Yeah. All very
good-- Yeah. But I gotta tell you, the mystique thing is wearing thin.
Everybody knows about the video with her and whatsisname. Guy had that
big hair band back in the eighties. You know what the fuck I'm talking
about. The video. Two of them going at it like rabbits. Kinda blows
the whole-- Shit yeah, I'm telling the-- You can download the
motherfuckin' thing off the goddamn Internet-- What? What? I'll sue
your-- What? You want to tell me that one more time? You want to tell
me that one more time? No, fuck you. Fuck you. I'm not making fuckin'
Dickless Wonder VII here, okay? I need--I need--

He looks away, listening. Looks back. Kid's still staring at him.
Mama's laughing a nasty two-pack-a-day laugh. Rare sound in California
these days. He takes a deep breath, sighs. He tried.

Okay, he says. Okay. You made your fuckin' point. But I want two
giggles out of her. Two, and I want some a. Bad enough there's no
dick. If I can't get anything in the back door, it's fuckin' useless
to me. Might as well cuddle for fifteen minutes and go home.
You--what? What? You want to tell me that again? The scalp? You want
her to get the scalp? Let me get this straight, you might be going
through another fuckin' tunnel or something. She breezes in, does two
giggles, blows me a fuckin' kiss, and gets the goddamn scalp?

He sighs explosively. The kid is still staring at him. Roy screws up
his face, makes his eyes tiny little ball bearings, bares his teeth in
a snarl, sticks out his tongue. The kid bursts into sudden frightened
tears. Fuck you, thinks Roy.

All right, he says into the phone. What? Yes. I said yes. Fuckin' kid
is wailing over here. All right. Twelve, though. Twelve and that is as
high as we go on this. Absolutely non-fuckin'-negotiable. And the
scalp. Yes. Standard fuckin' deal for the scalp. Twelve plus five for
the fuckin' scalp. Are we done?

Roy slaps his phone shut and drops it in his pocket. Prima fuckin'
donna. He drains his cappuccino and drops fifteen percent to the penny
on the counter. You want to shut that kid up? he says on his way out.

    ::

Where is he?

The first words out of her mouth. Honey's a vision, she is. She's
wearing one of those long-line sports skirts and a spaghetti-strap
crop top with barely enough room for her tits, much less a bra. Her
hair's a wind-tangled mess and her face is bereft of makeup, which
makes her look oddly naked to anybody familiar with her, shall we say,
public persona. She kicks open the glass door to the house. One hand
is struggling with a big black bag that's trying to fall off her
shoulder, the other is holding one of those ubiquitous bottles of
water. She's wearing puffy athletic shoes for some sport that hasn't
been invented yet. Looks like they were molded on her feet.

Where the fuck is he? she says, dropping the heavy black bag on the
white shag carpet.

Out back, Honey, says the naked man on the couch. The girl squatting
between his hairy legs doesn't even look up. Just keeps stroking his
mostly tumescent cock.

Honey storms towards the back of the house, past the kitchen, a
glaring vision of chrome and black and white and nasty fluorescent
light. She throws open the sliding glass door. Out on the concrete
deck by the pool, three guys are bent over a pool chair. One of them
has a little hi-8 video camera. One of them is fiddling with a couple
of big black lights on tripods. And one of them is Roy, in a big
billowing ridiculous pink silk shirt.

This is fuckin' nuts, says the guy with the camera.

They're fuckin' antiques, says the guy with the lights. Give me a
fuckin' break.

Hey, Roy, says Honey. Since when do you spring for a fluffer, you
cocksucking motherfucking shitheaded cheapskate?

They all stand up and turn around. Roy snorts. How you doin', you
skanky-assed crack-whore slit-lickin' bitch?

What's with the chippie in there? Viagra doesn't work on Scottie any
more?

That girl's strictly freelance, says Roy. None of my concern. He
starts walking towards Honey. There's a woman lying on the pool chair.
She's naked and nut-brown and gleaming with suntan oil like a greasy
sausage. Her face is buried in a hardcover book big enough to club a
burglar with. She has a dark tattoo coiled around one breast like a
threatening clump of mutant ivy and a gold chain around one ankle. She
doesn't appear to care or even notice that one of the guys is waving a
light meter over her shaved cunt.

By the way, says Honey, that tape is a myth.

Tape? says Roy.

Don't give me that bullshit. I never fucked Sammy Dane, so he sure as
shit never got it on tape. So ain't nobody downloading mpegs or jpegs
or any such shit. So if I hear you say that to anybody else after this
moment right here that we're having I'm gonna sue your lousy ass for
libel. Honey grins. It isn't a nice grin.

Who said it was Sammy Dane? says Roy.

What?

Who said it was fuckin' Sammy Dane? I just heard it was some hair-band
reject. It's what I heard. Word on the street.

Fuck the word on the street.

Okay, okay. I spoke without what do they say. Attribution. Fuck it.
I'm not a reporter. I'm makin' a fuck flick here. So you want to get
your game face on and fuck, or what?

You're lucky I don't walk right this instant, Roy.

Go ahead. Roy shrugs. I'm sure the freelance fluffer in there can lick
cooze as well as she can suck dick.

If Scottie's fluffer can prove she's a day older than seventeen I'll
kiss your fucking ass.

That a threat?

There's a minute where nobody says anything. The guy with the lights
says, Okay, I think I got it, and the guy with the camera agrees with
him. Somebody go get Scottie. Without putting her book down the girl
on the pool chair scoops up a tube of lube, squirts some out on her
palm with a deft one-handed twist and rubs it on and around her cunt.

Mikey got you the scalp, says Roy.

What?

Mikey insisted. My girl gets scalp or no deal. I told him there was no
way you'd want your face on the box of a Roy Smolin fuck flick, but he
wouldn't hear otherwise.

I have to pose for fucking stills?

You have to do me two giggles with a and then you pose for stills and
then we go back to our respective fuckin' homes and toast a job well
done.

Shit.

Hey. Honey. You know why you're doing a Roy Smolin fuck flick?

Scottie's walking out of the kitchen, his cock bobbing in the air, the
tip purple and swollen and wet. His fluffer hangs back, away from the
Teamster rejects. She sure looks like a groupie. Honey's about to
answer Roy when the fluffer looks up and meets Honey's gaze. She holds
it for a moment with big brown eyes that blink once, twice, and then
look away, somewhere, anywhere else. Honey frowns. I have bills to
pay, she says to Roy.

You're on my set because you're on fuckin' stage four, says Roy.

Speed, says the guy with the camera. Scottie grunts. Oh, oh God, says
the girl on the pool chair. Oh, God, you're so big, oh. Cut, says the
guy with the camera. I can see your fucking book, Deedee. Jesus
Christ.

What the fuck is stage four? says Honey, when it's clear Roy won't
tell her unless she asks. Roy holds up one thick furry finger. Who's
Honey Ryder? he says. He holds up a second. Get me Honey Ryder. A
third. Get me someone looks like Honey Ryder, she's too fuckin'
expensive. A fourth. Get me someone looks like Honey Ryder, but
younger. He waves his fingers a little in the air between them.

And what's five? she says, voice even, calm. She knows there's a stage
five. Has to be.

He sticks out his thumb. Who's Honey Ryder? He grins. You're on stage
four. You're this close to fuckin' stage five. He jerks his thumb
toward the house. So you want to get naked and earn your goddamn money
or what?

Honey turns on one artfully molded athletic shoe and marches back
inside.

Speed, says the guy with the camera.

Scottie grunts. His ass starts pumping up and down, his skin pale and
white compared to the roasted tan of the girl on the pool chair.

Oh, she says, oh God. Oh, God, you're so big, oh. Unh. Unh unh unh unh
unh oh ohh!

    ::

Scottie says you're a dyke.

It's Scottie's freelance fluffer, sticking her head around the
bathroom door. She doesn't seem to mind that Honey's naked and in the
middle of lipsticking her mouth.

Well, says Honey. You're going to come in, you might as well come all
the way in and shut the friggin' door.

Which is what Scottie's fluffer does.

Sonofabitch can't even be bothered to spring for makeup, says Honey.
Her face is creamed and blushed and powdered, her cheekbones shine,
her eyes are shadowed green, her lips are cocksucker red. She blots
them and smiles, grimaces, then suddenly dabs her nipples with
lipstick, one, two. She grins, looks over her shoulder in the mirror
to see Scottie's fluffer, her face solemn, biting her lip. Well? says
Honey. What do you think?

Are you? says Scottie's fluffer.

What's your name?

Barbie.

Honey tries not to roll her eyes. How old are you, Barbie?

I turned eighteen last week. Honest. I could show you my driver's
license and everything.

Uh huh.

Scottie says you're a dyke. Are you?

Honey turns around so she can look at Barbie directly and holds up her
left hand. There's a thin silvery ring on her ring finger. The diamond
isn't very big at all, but it catches the light. I'm married, says
Honey. I like girls. But I'm not a dyke. I just don't fuck guys on
film for money.

Why not?

It's just something I don't do. Why do you care?

I just... says Barbie. He said you were a dyke. That's all.

Scottie know you're in here?

Barbie shrugs. They're doing the come shot. When he's done, he'll go
take his vitamins and drink a protein shake. He says I can't mix his
protein shakes right. I always fuck it up. They're going to shoot you
next. He won't need me for a while. You want me to...?

Do I want you to what?

You need help getting ready, or anything?

I already hosed myself out. But thanks.

I mean, says Barbie, and she steps closer, I know how to eat pussy.
I've done it before.

Honey blinks. I don't need fluffing, if that's what you're asking.

I just like to make people feel good. I just want to make you feel
good. That's all. She takes another step. Her hand drifts over, floats
unsteadily, fingers trembling, over Honey's tiny, carefully trimmed
patch of bleached pubic hair. It's really pretty, she says.

Thanks. Grew it myself.

Can I, says Barbie, but Honey is already leaning back, resting her
butt against the bathroom counter, spreading her legs a little.
Barbie's fingers are feather-light. She doesn't look Honey in the eye
at all, just looks down, and down. She takes a deep breath and holds
it a minute, then lets it out and kneels all at once.

Maybe she's done it before and maybe she hasn't. She's clumsy but
enthusiastic. She sucks up Honey's outer lips and worries at them with
her mouth like a teenaged boy. Honey hisses and Barbie starts licking
ferociously, great swooping licks from bottom to top like she's trying
to win a pie-eating contest. Her tongue rasps like a cat's over
Honey's suddenly sensitive clit. Easy, she says. Easy. Barbie's eyes
flick up from Honey's cunt, worried, and Honey makes a face, ooh, oh,
oh that's nice. And it is. Barbie's calming down, she's settling into
it, and in spite of everything Honey can feel the cold greasy knot of
tension that's been tangling in her gut all day start to loosen and
melt. Maybe she has done this before. Honey rests a hand on Barbie's
head.

The bathroom door opens and the girl from the pool chair, Deedee,
looks in. Hey. Twenty minutes or so. They're having problems with the
lights again.

'Kay. Um. You my first?

Yeah. You doing two?

Uh huh.

Cool.

Deedee leaves. Barbie never even looked up.

Honey closes her eyes, smiles a little, to herself. Mm hmm. Oh. Hey.
Sweetie. She runs her hand through Barbie's hair, strokes her temple
with a thumb. Sweetie. Let me ask you something.

Barbie pulls her mouth away and looks up with those puppy's eyes, big
and brown. Want me to stop? She lays a sticky kiss along the crease of
Honey's thigh.

No. No. Let me just. Ah, let me--your dad. Let me just say something
and see if I get it right. Your dad. He left at some point. He died,
or, ah. Honey feels Barbie's jaw working under her fingers, and she
feels weirdly detached. That rolling, chewing motion of Barbie's mouth
is somehow more real, more immediate, than what her tongue and lips
are doing so far below, so very far away. He just up and left one day,
says Honey. She swallows. And your mom, she took up with somebody, or
maybe a couple of different somebodies, and one of them, ah... Honey
shifts her butt against the counter, arching her back a little, her
hips forward, as Barbie falters. Barbie's fingers dig into Honey's
ass, her thigh. She looks down and away, her chin leaving a smear of
spit and juice along Honey's hip. It was my uncle, says Barbie.

Your uncle.

Honey reaches under the girl's arms and pulls her up on her feet. Look
at me. Look at me. She kisses Barbie's forehead, and then tries to
kiss her mouth. Barbie looks away. No. It's gross. Don't.

Don't?

Don't.

Are you saying I'm gross? says Honey, gently.

She kisses Barbie's mouth. She can taste herself. She can taste
Barbie's lip gloss. She can taste an actinic hint of the shaving cream
from the trim she just gave herself. No, Barbie's mumbling. No. You
aren't.

Honey unbuttons Barbie's cutoffs. Tugs the zipper down. I can't,
Barbie is saying. I have to go back. Scottie's--

Scottie is making a protein shake, says Honey. Scottie's popping
Viagra. Scottie's lucky if he can even remember you're here.

The zipper catches. Screw it. Honey tugs the cutoffs over Barbie's
hips. She's wearing cotton underwear, white cotton underwear with
little flowers sprinkled all over like marshmallows in some kid's
cereal. Honey slides her hands under the waistband and feels Barbie's
skin, cool and a little clammy. She pushes the underwear down, too.

I wanted... says Barbie, as Honey's fingers spread her open.

Shh, says Honey. Barbie's so wet one of her fingers almost falls in.
Barbie gasps. I wanted to make you feel good, she says.

Honey slips her finger almost all the way out, and then back in again.
You are, babe, she says. You are.

    ::

You found Dixie yet? Roy is saying.

She's not answering, says the big bald guy. His name is Marvin.

She's not answering?

I don't get an answer. Just her machine or voice mail or whatever. I
left a coupla messages.

Did you try her cell? I said, did you try her fucking cell? Jesus, you
shit-brained lunkhead. Think! Roy picks up his bag in a sudden fury
and fishes a battered black Daytimer out of it and throws it at
Marvin, who ducks. The thing bounces off one of his meaty forearms and
sends business cards and tattered notes and post-its fluttering away
like moths. Look up her goddamn numbers and find her!

Christ, says Linus, who's been trying to keep the lights lit. It's not
like we're even ready for her yet.

I don't give a flying fuck! She was due on the set a fuckin' hour ago!
Haven't you people ever fuckin' heard of professionalism? Jesus! Why
are you still here? he shrieks at Marvin, who's trying to pick up the
cards and notes and post-its, looking for Dixie's phone numbers. Call!

Hey.

Roy's head turns like a slow gun turret on his massive neck. His mouth
is twisted under his beard and his eyes have turned into ball
bearings. Honey's standing there wearing a white terrycloth robe, her
black bag slung over one shoulder. She's made up, hair's done, ready
to go. One eyebrow's cocked and she's meeting Roy with a cool glare of
her own.

What's the build? she says.

The build?

For the fucking scene, she says. What's the build? What am I doing
here? What am I wearing? What's the scenario?

This ain't Stanislavski, he says, his voice low and dangerous. You
want your fuckin' motivation? Go do dinner theater.

I just want to know what the fuck I'm doing.

You're horny! She's a chick! You dig chicks! You want to fuck her! She
says why not! You fuck! End of fuckin' story!

We could do something with me swimming in the pool, says Deedee, not
looking up from her book. You know. I'm swimming, she walks up, I
climb out of the pool. Now she looks up, her mouth half-grinning. And
Honey's so blown away by my awesome bod she gets down on her knees
right then and there.

You wish, says Honey.

We could shoot it a couple of times for coverage and then set up for
the master, says Terry, loading a fresh hi-8 tape into his camera. He
starts hooking it to what looks like a tripod jerry-rigged with a
couple of trucks from a busted skateboard.

Whatever! screams Roy. Where the fuck is Dixie? He goes storming back
towards the house.

So, says Honey, looking into her bag, you're thinking swimsuits? I got
this bikini...

Nah, says Deedee. I'll just hop in. It's like maybe I want to get
clean after fucking Scottie.

There's a round of chuckles at that. Scottie's inside, he can't hear.

And I just happen by? Naked?

Just wear the robe. Keep it simple. Deedee stretches and lifts herself
off the pool chair in one easy motion, steps up to the edge of the
pool, and dives in. She surfaces, playfully spitting water. You
getting this?

Speed, says Terry. Honey shrugs, ditches the bag, and steps up to the
pool ladder, watching Deedee swim.

Whenever you're ready, ladies.

    ::

Hey, says Deedee, treading water.

Hey, says Honey.

You want to come in? The water's fine.

Actually, I'm pretty wet already.

They manage not to giggle.

Deedee strokes over to the ladder as Honey steps down into the water
onto the first rung. Deedee hoists herself out of the water, gleaming
like a dolphin, face uplifted, eyes closing, mouth opening. Honey
meets her kiss, sliding one hand--left hand--down Deedee's flank. She
tilts her head to the left--the right, the right. Terry's over there
with the camera. She tilts her head and showily licks Deedee's lips.

    ::

Hey.

Hey.

Want to come in? The water's fine.

Actually, I'm pretty wet already.

Deedee rolls her eyes at that, which is fine for her, since the
camera's close in on Honey's face. Terry backs away a little, the
camera gliding back smoothly enough on its primitive dolly, as Deedee
hoists herself up the ladder, gleaming like a dolphin, her skin bare
and brown all over, water streaming in a little rivulet down the
pursed furrow of her smooth, bare cunt.

    ::

Hey.

Hey.

You should come in. The water's fine.

I'm wet enough already, thank you.

Honey's step is a little unsteady on the ladder. When Deedee hauls
herself up she nearly tumbles into her, and she grabs Deedee for
support. Left hand? Right hand? Fuck it. Deedee grabs her and gets her
robe. They manage to kiss, but it's clumsier. The robe slips off
Honey's shoulders and she crushes Deedee to her to keep them both from
falling.

Oh, Terry's saying. Hey. That works. That's hot.

As the robe slides down her arms, Honey tips one shoulder back and
lifts her head so Terry's camera can film Deedee kissing her neck,
licking, taking one of Honey's nipples into her mouth.

Damn, says Terry. Can we get that one more time?

    ::

Hey.

Hey.

She remembers to step with the right foot first. Right hand on the
ladder's rail so her left hand is ready to slide down Deedee's flank.
Deedee explodes out of the water, gleaming. Cool, wet skin, smooth and
bare, the weight of her in Honey's hand. The sunlight is bright on the
water, lapping in Deedee's wake. It blazes from the lens of the camera
as Terry crab-scuttles behind them. Rough terrycloth slides down
Honey's shoulders. She tastes coconut oil and chlorine.

                                                  ::
                                                  
                                                  Giggling
                                                       1 of 3
                                                          --n.
                                                  ::
                                                  
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nickurfe/www/
http://www.ruthiesclub.com/
nickurfe@yahoo.com

This story may be freely circulated by anyone, anytime, anywhere.
Originally published at Ruthie's Club. Thanks to Ruthie for editing,
Garv for illustrating, and MichaelD for Reseda.

.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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