Plush (9 page)

“HAYLEY, WHAT THE FUCK are you DOING WITH MY WIFE?!” He screams and keeps going on and on, but it all sounds like “wah wah wah blah blah,” and we don’t stop. This is the longest orgasm in history. I moan; I scream; my body trembles; it won’t stop trembling, vibrating on another level. My legs kick out as she sucks my cum, and then I go limp everywhere.

Shit is getting thrown in the room. Shit is getting broken. The witch disappears, gowns and all. All she’s left are hickeys on my neck and a rope around my heart. Looney Le Egg throws a purple rhinestoned candelabra that hits above my head against the wall. “THIS IS MY FUKING HOUSE. MY FUCKING PARTY. OUT!” I’m too tired to move and too fast in my mind and there is a crowd of people forming: strangers in my strange, new life.

I hear a shot. A 15
^th
century chandelier above me crashes on the floor and doesn’t touch me because I am fucking golden. But now Le Egg is holding a golden gun and shooting rubber bullets in a Virgin Mary halo around my body into the mattress. Holes everywhere. Holes in my heart. Ladies’ holes in my mouth.

I see Jack come in a black mop of hair, shadow against the wall, and punch La Egg in the nose. He takes his gun.
Hallucinations of love
. He lifts me in his arm and grabs someone’s keys. Now this is a real Hollywood Hills party.

We’re in the driveway when our legs buckle. All six foot, three inches of lanky Nikolai Le Egg runs in front of us into his long, bronze Rolls Royce and starts the engine.
KACHUNG KACHUNG
. He aims the car straight at us. White powder all over his face, his nose looks like a clown’s. He looks like Al Pacino in Scarface, and he’s shouting “I AM THE FUCKING KING OF HOLLYWOOD!” while fisting the air. The party people have all poured out, watching from a distance and through windows. I feel like I’m on a TV police chase and the audience is listening.

His car jolts – thrusts – towards us. “I AM THE FUCKING KING OF HOLLYWOOD. NOW GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE!” He throws his fists in crazy vogue-ing motions. I’m scared. But I can’t think, can’t react. I’m so high and
weird
.

Jack’s muscled, wiry arm pulls us to the side into a big green bush. It cuts my side, my hair gets caught in the branches, and Jack’s legs buckle above his head right as La Egg’s Rolls Royce kisses our side. La Egg is screaming and his hands let go of the wheel, waving in the air. But the car keeps going. And he doesn’t take his foot off the gas pedal. People of the party part like the Red Sea as the car guns through the greenery, bumping, popping, screeching. Roses get mowed over in their red and white glory. A table crashes beneath the teeth of the wheels – a table full of drugs and underwear and other wasted youth party-favors that make mothers scared. Something hits under the Royce’s wheels, and it lifts up in a jump, soaring in the sky across the moon like a Santa Claus, bronze, serpentine, Trojan joke-horse; then it spoon-dips down, heading almost face first into the giant, money-sign-shaped swimming pool. Water splashes everywhere. Screams, gasping ladies, barking dogs, and sirens crow and shock the airwaves with the disorder of broken dreams wrapped up in too many drugs. The car sinks down, down, down.

I stand up, up, up. Jack brushes me off. Did I kill him? Holy fuck. No more jail for me please! I’m shaking with the possibility that I may have fucked the finale of the album. Good thing all that’s left is a little mixing. And if he dies, I guess only more publicity. Is it mean of me to think that? Am I turning into an L.A. brat?

A wet, fine-boned, man hand curls at the edge of the pool…

It’s La Egg.

His wife comes out screaming rage, pointing fingers, and throwing things at his head, while he tries to creature-of-the-black-lagoon himself onto dry land. Jack and I make a dash, and pretty soon Jack has me in someone’s stolen Porsche and is driving me out, out, and away. The lights of L.A. zoom neon storms. We blast classic rock – Hole’s “Celebrity Skin:” “O
h make me over, I’m all I wanna be, A walking study, in demonology… Yeah, now you’ve really made it.”
Courtney Love is EVERYTHING. Jack’s hand is in my hand.

Black-shadow palm trees shoot against the starless sky. The stars were stolen and shoved in pink on cracked sidewalks that steam piss and glitter everywhere. Everything good is in the gutter, and everything dark and fucked up is on a pedestal.

I smoke. Jack takes me to the Rainbow Room where 80’s rock-stars full of dope and small hope of reliving the old days suck away tears through gins like Lemmy. And there are always small-time porn stars.

We order gummy worms. I’m chewing on my lips. My eyes twitch. I NEED SPEED: I NEED THRILLS.

“I’ll be right back.” Jack disappears for a bit, and in a little time too long he comes back with a Roxy V.I.P. bracelet on, a boy that looks like him but shorter, and a little less attractive and blonde hair’d version of me. He makes out with the girl in the red booth, black and white signed autographs of the past behind our heads like broken halos of letdown lives.

“HAYLEY… LETS ROLL… His name is Tom. This is Sharon.”

Our stolen, red Porsche pulls up. I do a bump off my hand in front of all the tux-suited valet.
ZZZING! WAKING!
Who needs sleep when you have everything? Ninety miles-per-hour down Sunset, running red lights, top down, wind thrashing hair, wild and wilder. Tom’s arm is around me. Jack has the girl – what was her name? – sucking on his neck in the front seat. PCH. We hit it. Tires smack speed. The moon reflects in the Pacific Ocean. ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE. We ride the curves of her dress
faster and faster
, swerve off into an empty dirt pocket, and slam the brakes. Jack runs out; we all follow. He’s throwing off his clothes, heading to the ocean.

“OWWW OWWW OWWW.” He howls at the moon. The water hits me cold hard – I scream – and the waves throw us around like sardines. That big, big, full, white moon. Laughing and screaming at the clocks, we have it all. We are young. This is it. This night is everything.

My slip dress that was white is completely see-through. I kick the wave, and dance in the wind. My arms up, I’m dragged under the current. Jack is leading the girl and Tom to the sand. I follow. I always follow Jack. Jack pulls wet, black eyeliner from his pocket that he always wears under his eyes and puts it on Tom. He pulls my favorite pink lipstick from his pocket and puts it on me then the girl.
We all lay down and watch the stars spin
. Fast and faster. Waves crashing.

Jack is on top of what’s her face but stares straight at me. He’s kissing her pink lipstick’d mouth; the pink smears all over his face. He’s so passionate. And in a moment, Tom is on top of me, kissing me like how Jack kisses the girl. I can’t take my eyes off Jack’s eyes; he is dragon staring me down. Tom’s tongue is everywhere. I’m confused. Jack pushes the girl’s breasts together but is looking at my chest that Tom is tonguing. Wet sand in my back, I’m getting wet. But I can’t stop looking at Jack.

He pulls his hard, 8-inch cock out – it’s so perfect, so beautiful, so long, so thick – and parts the girl’s legs like the moon. “You’re beautiful,” he slithers into her ears, but his grey, fire gaze doesn’t move from me. And it’s like Tom was instructed to mimic every one of Jack’s moves; as Jack first thrusts into the girl, Tom puts it into me. I moan in the quick pain and suddenness of it all. I feel strange, Jack watching me like this. But it’s making me so much more wet, like Jack was on top of me. I’m so high I can’t think. Tom gets faster at the same pace as Jack. And Jack pulls his chest right on top of Sharon’s, who’s flat against the sand. His mouth is only three inches from mine, breathing hard, pounding her harder and harder. Sweat, lust, moon, waves, sand, wet, screams. He starts to moan, “Hayley… Hayley… I love u… Hayley…”

I’m so confused and so high at the same time. Jack and I start to moan in uni son. Orgasm. He cums into that girl, but into my eyes, and I cry too as that Jack-look-alike hardens and ejaculates. Arched backs. Pulling hair. The real Jack pulls my hair, and his mouth is almost touching mine – centimeters away. My heart is hitting me so hard.. I can’t escape

all this desire dragging me down

in the undercurrents of wings and demon claws.

    And on this island of us:

thunder hearts tear,

     blankets of stars kiss the ocean,

   stars reflect everywhere,

    whiteness floats me to the sky.

  Twinkling lives      vibrating lost.

    Wet; the world is wild,      filled with so much darkness

and so much love.

There’s a beauty to all this desperation, and I can’t handle myself or my head and who am I without you, Jack. But this… this is too much. Too weird. Too close. What does it all mean? Am I losing my grip on myself… on reality? Whatever that means.

21
    October 14, 2006

NYC. Album is done and climbing up the charts. BOOOYA! Then “The Look” was licensed to a commercial where a shiny red corvette with crazy, neon lights speeds through the streets of New York. My voice and Jack’s guitar – all fast and wild -helped us get way more exposure. The day after that commercial first aired, our single went straight to the top of the charts, and our iTunes presale went insane! We are just about to start touring, but not before we play a New York fashion-week show. The Killers got bumped for us, MOTHERFUCKAS! We’re on fire. Parties. Sing. Parties. Will I ever sleep? Rock star life is crazy. Jack is crazy. I’m crazy. The paparazzi are crazy. They are eating out of my beautiful, perfect hands. I admit I kind of like it – or even LOVE IT – because what else am I going to do? I am tired of being a mouse. I’m tired of being good and sweet. But I’m always sweet to Jack. And I’m still quiet, but the coke makes me more chatty and less afraid.

At the end of the Alexander McQueen runway show, as the models walk back, we kick on and the lights shoot out from above. A stage that was hidden near the ceiling floats down with us slamming out on it. We are loud, fast, dangerous, erotic. I’m drunk already: so much Cristal. At the end of the song I fall off the little stage and into the laps of the two beautiful blonde boys from Nikolai Egg’s infamous party. I look around and don’t see Jack, just his famous disappearing act. The blonde boys laugh and we roll out together into their limo, cameras snapping everywhere.

RoRo and Bo. They’re moving up in the world. They were on the cover of NME last week. Bo has the face of a cherub; RoRo is more Bowie, refined. Both are soft and effeminate. They pour me more champagne. The lights are dim in the limo. Billboards swing hard. Shiny lights, woozy eyes, mind flawed, jacked-up, gone, fun, fun, fun. Jacques Brel is blasting in the speakers, loud, sad songs in French passion tongues. “Roll down the window… I need some fresh air…” I gasp. Puke. Take another swig. This must be what Keith Richards feels like.

Bo hands me a breath mint. I suck on it hard. RoRo lights me a cigarette. They both are wearing too many necklaces. We are all three staring at each other’s faces, observing the beauty of what we are: famous and gorgeous and young and everything the vultures of the press feed upon and everything that everybody else wants to be. I’m high on all of this. I love it. I admit it. I know that beauty is impermanence, and there’s probably more to life than this, but I’m going to ride this wave out until the end. I’m going to ride until my face is ravaged by time and no one loves or worships me anymore. Or Jack.

Our pure faces get closer. The black leather of the seat is sweaty under my legs. Bo starts to kiss me while RoRo touches my leg. Then RoRo comes in: Three tongues, three mouths, French music, flashing bulbs. Oh, I want to be worshipped by beautiful boys like this. Bo’s soft hands are on my tits. Glitter smears our lips, red and sparkles. The meaning of my life right now is fun, have fun, and more fun. Full throttle.

The car stops. Where are we now?
The Chelsea Hotel
. We get out. Cameras snap away as we walk – me with a boy on either side – and go to the elevator. RoRo has a big suite on the top floor. Floor 12. Legendary lovers and deathers were here. Sid Vicious, Arthur Miller, Iggy Pop, Patti Smith. I can barely walk. Keys jangle. They lay me down on a king-sized, canopied, oak-wooded, tree-silk-sheeted bed. I kiss them both, then Bo goes to my back and pulls my dress up. And RoRo is in front, pulling my panties down. Their shirts are off. Their necklaces rock against their beautiful pale chests. Sweat, so tender. Bo, yes! He kisses my neck and my back.

“Here, take this…” RoRo puts a soft pill in my mouth that melts, and all the coked out speed I feel
slows into a dream
.

Sparkling lights, fantasies, ballet tutus pirouetting in the corner, warm blood flowing, everything is a perfect, slow, slow, slow dance in my head
. Oh, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. Supreme. Slow, slow, slow supreme. And Bo takes some K-Y jelly and slips himself in my ass, which would hurt if I wasn’t so fucking beautifully high. So in a dream, a dream, a dream. And RoRo is slipping in my pussy and I’m wet and dying the most beautiful death of poetry and sex. Slow, slow, slow, and when RoRo pushes in Bo pulls out. They do a dance, and I can’t stop myself from falling; I can’t stop this everything.
Ohhhhhh
.

In, out. Front, back
.

Sighs
.

beautiful bodies, three of us, breaking time into us

slow, slow, sloooow

and RoRo’s fingers are in my mouth, and I suck hard and my ass is ohhhhh

RoRo, Bo,

and somehow I’m now sucking slow and hard on a pink dildo in my mouth

in and out