Pop Kids (18 page)

“Mike!” Stella squeals in perfect synch with Donny as they rush toward me. Her hair is in pigtails. She smooches my lips. I drop my candy. “I was hoping you’d be here sexy!” Hugging me, she mashes her boobs to my chest for 2.5 seconds. I outstretch my spilling popcorn tub.

“It’s so good to see you my brother.” Donovan hands me my fumbled treats, “You look great.”

Yeah, I look great except for the black cat hair that’s all over my white sweater.

“Thanks Donny,” I utter. Setting down my corn, I debate whether or not I should risk drawing attention to the fur by attempting brush it off.

I fold my arms across my chest and Prius expands his radiant GO SMiLE.

“You missed a great party.” Brazenly flaunting Stella’s defection, he lovingly embraces me, pressing my treats and arms to my chest for six seconds. “You should have come.”

I don’t recall having been invited, nor do I really want to hear about it.

“Yeah, Mike, It was so amazing!” Stella titters, as I take comfort in noticing a few of Iman’s hairs that have escaped from my shoulder to Prius’s silver headband. “Aoki, Donny, and Soufflé spun till 3:00 am then we all went to this casting guy’s suite at the W. Steve and his sister Devon are SO nice! She’s a model and says that her agency would love me!”

“The casting agent loved me!” Mia glances up from her phone. “He’s a hottie.”

“I’m sorry…” Not really wanting to address the hottie agent or the party, or wanting to acknowledge Stella’s certain future with Ford, or to further engage DJ Prius and his fabulous smile, I turn to him. “Who DJ’d with you?”

“Oh, sorry Mike.” He sweeps his hand. “Meet my partner, DJ Soufflé.”

It would seem that the guy with the beret is French and named after a fucking pastry.
I’ve got to get out of here.

Keeping his hands shoved deep into his Hammer pants, while brandishing a blonde evil magician style mustache, Prius’s partner gives me a cool chin nod. “
Cå va
?” His accent is bizarre.

“Hey.”

In utter disbelief, I turn to Stella. She winks then kisses at me. For a few awful seconds the smooch hangs in the buttery lobby air.

Soufflé stares at me. And I stare at his hat.

“So…” I breakdown. “DJ Soufflé, huh?”

“Oui” he says, with emotionally trying austerity and, again, sounding very strange.

“I see.” I further my attempt to disassemble the Eiffel Tower. “So you’re French?”

“Naw kid.” He huffs with an exasperated southern drawl. “I’m from Texas. Moved to SF about two years ago to team up with Donavan.”

“Oh. Okay. But … if you’re from Texas,” I innocently ask, “…why DJ Soufflé? Why not, like, DJ Oil Money? Or Cash Cow? Cash Cow could use the Chanel
C
s for a logo if you still wanted to be French. … But wait, why France again?”

“I spin French electro, kid.” Playing with his facial hair, he scoffs as if I had just asked Johnny Depp what he does for a living. “It’s my forte.” He pronounces this last word like he just now managed to count past thirty-nine.

“Oh, right. Fabulous.”
Okay, I’ve really got to get the fuck out of here.
”Well it’s very nice to meet you … man.” I lie to the buckaroo then turn to Stella and smile. “Welcome back.” I snatch my tub from the counter and begin retreating down the red-carpeted hall. ”I gotta get to work guys. Enjoy the film!”

Leaving a trail of kernels behind me, I climb into flickering solitude.

Alone. In my fraying seat, recovering from having made the acquaintance of a pretentious pastry, chasing another mournful mouthful of corn with San P., I’m wondering if Devon Aoki’s agency hires male models, when the dissenter struts into my booth.

“You ran away so fast, I didn’t really get a chance to say ‘hi’ Babe.” As if she’s done no wrong, Stella clicks across the floor and straddles me. Swallowing, I offer her the tub. She pops a single kernel, sets my late lunch on the ground, and then props her hands over my shoulders and onto the backrest. “So…” Her long candy scented pigtails and fantastic boobs gravitate toward my face. “I hear that I missed a pretty amazing Premiere.”

“Yeah it was great. Way better than the first, actually.” Gently swinging, her hair tickles my jaw. I bat it away. “You know that we showed
Pulp Fiction
? Someone asked me to show it but I can’t remember who…”

“Oh, don’t be mad. You didn’t even miss me.” Deliberately stretching her arms above her head, she forces her breasts forward to threaten the permanence of any such accused apathy. “And you had Becca there to keep you on your toes … or … what is it now? Hollywood? I told you that she’s adorable.” Stella adjusts a stray lock of hair on my forehead and hums, “I totally would. Wouldn’t you?”

She’s staring at me the same way Eddie used to stare at Joey’s poor bunny rabbit.
Moz rest his furry soul.

“Um, Yeah.” Looking up into her wild blue eyes, I hesitantly agree, “Totally. Holly’s runway.” Stella grabs the back of my hair, lunges in, and furiously has her way with my mouth.

With the image of disemboweled Freddy bunny terrorizing my mind, I run my hands beneath her dress, sliding them up her belly toward pink-scented bounty. I squeeze boob and black cotton bunches up to bare her mid drift. Abandoning her Bubble Yum flavored tongue, I dive toward her awful curved bellybutton barbell. l chew bejeweled steel. It clicks on my teeth. Stella undoes her bra. I lick upward. She forces her left nipple into my compliant mouth. Upon my first sweet suck, my co-star makes a pained sound that threatens my sanity. I’m forced to take a breath. Abating my intent to bite, I rest my forehead on her fragrant c-cups, panting, watching her black cotton panties grind against my crotch. Tonight, they’re polka dotted with tiny pink hearts. And my skillful Ford prospect is commanding these speckled icons of affection so well that I may soon have to explain jean stains to Gina. My Producer stands to applaud. Stella moans. I’m about to christen my grey camo CK briefs. Then she stops. She pulls away, and stops.

“Ugggh,” she chirps, stretching again before dismounting.

Panting, I watch her strap down my dessert, straighten her dress, and grab my licorice.

“I’d better go. I told them that I was just going to get some candy.” She raises an eyebrow and the unopened box of Red Vines. “I should get back down there before Donny comes looking for me.”

I feel that I may weep. Stella leans back down, shoves her tongue into my mouth for a few more vigorous seconds, and then backs away. “But they’re leaving tonight. Mom’s mushrooming.” Her hand grasps the back of my neck. I swallow saccharine saliva. “You should come over tomorrow. …” She hums, “If you forgive me.”

Chapter 27

At dinner, I’m eating the remaining leftovers from Pasta Sunday while the folks feed on carcass. To protest their violent lifestyle, I’ve begun wearing my shades whenever they eat meat. With my eyes stylishly shielded from the horror, I twirl my spaghetti in cool opposition. Frank forks flesh filet under his brim. Gina sips Cabernet.

After the slaughter, I clear the table, scrub the dishes, then tell the elders that I’m staying at Lynch’s. I skate into the valley with my iPod pumping Justice. Joey says we used to listen to them when he’d drive us to browse Barney’s NYC in San Francisco in his baby blue T-bird convertible. I didn’t know that they were French, but my brother assures me they are, and that the dissuading crucifix on their album cover is supposed to be viewed upside-down. It’s no Britpop, but it’s okay.

Wearing a grey scoop neck long-sleeve under a black military coat by OBEY—(the label is owned by some British street artist that never shows his face and is loved by Brangelina)—I climb Stella’s porch, bandana the light moisture from my brow, and knock. She opens the door wearing the Joy Division shirt—only the Joy Division shirt.

“Hey kid.” Grabbing the back of my freshly styled hair she pulls me in for a tonguing. I taste seconds of watermelon and wine before suddenly finding myself standing at the edge of her bed. In The Pink Room, I get straight down to business.

“Is that my shirt?”

“Yep!” Happily, she plops onto the fluffy comforter.

“Why aren’t you wearing DJ Prius’s?”

“Yours fits better.” She pulls me down next to her.

“You have to give that back to me, you know.”

“I know Babe.” Humming, laying on her side, she traces my belt buckle with her finger. “But did you know that my mom won’t be back ‘til Friday?”

At sun up, lounging naked in the pink sheets, I’m awakened by Katy Perry and Stella. Wearing only Hello Kitty aprons, they serve me berry pancakes and a soy cocoa. Stella tries to add a kiss to her gesture of appreciation, but I stop her.

“Oh, fuck.” I begin to roll off the bed. “I’ve gotta go back home real quick.”

“What? No!” She throws herself on top of me. “Why?”

“I forgot my toothbrush. Morning breath.”

“Oh settle, Babe. I’ve got a ton of new ones.” Her bare thighs sandwich my ribs, trapping me. She motions toward her pink bathroom drawer. “I always have them around just in case I have surprise slumber parties.”

“Oh, okay. Guess I’ll use one that hasn’t been claimed. So, what’d you do today?”

Releasing me, she grabs her pink coffee cup from the pink end table, takes a sip of red wine, and then offers me the acrid, stained mug. I decline with a look. She shrugs, takes another gulp, and then sets her drink atop the gum wrappers scattered about the nightstand.

“Becca and I hung out at The Grounds. She showed me some pictures from the party.” Chewing her Bordeaux-soaked Bubble Yum, she stretches out inches in front of me. The bed creaks. My brother’s old tee shirt crawls up her hips.
She’s must be sponsored by pink Hello Kitty panties
. “It looks like I really missed out.” She adjusts my bangs. “I think you should throw another one tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow?” I begin calculating the time needed to decide on the perfect film, detail the perfect invites, compile the perfect playlist—to make it all perfect. “I don’t know … I don’t know what I’d show? And I’d have to go home to make the invitations—”

“C’mon, Babe.” Derailing my train of excuses with her sex hum, she lightly scratches my chest as she tugs the relaxed collar of my shirt farther down. Every hair on my body stands at attention, and my Producer quickly catches up. “We’ve only got a few days before school starts and this could be our last summer together. You can just use my computer to make the invites in the morning…” She blows then implodes a bubble. ”If you’re not too exhausted. Annnnnd…” Her voice rises as she rolls over to grab her laptop. “I know exactly what you can show!”

Propped up on her elbows, next to me on her bed, Stella brings up download after download of celebrity sex tapes. I’ve only seen clips of a few of them but she’s extremely familiar with them all. Naming each of the celebrated young ladies, she critiques their performance, explaining why some of them are more deserving of their fame than others. She tells me all about the girls’ pre- and post-porn endorsements, reality shows, books, and makeup lines, while detailing how these rewards of fame and fortune are not only informed by sex skills but by social status and online presence. She schools me on Paris, Pam, Jenna, Kim Kardashian, a porn star named Faye who is now a model, and another named Sasha who ‘stars in a straight film made by a totally respected director.’ I recognize her. But not from the straight film.

“Ugh, I totally would. Isn’t she a turn on?” My porn historian points to the screen. A dainty brunette demands to be choked by a massive tattooed boner while my smaller and ink-free, yet equally ambitious counterpart begs to be released from its denim prison.

“Totally.” Uncontrollably breathing—deeply, like I just did nine push-ups—I turn from the monitor to watch Stella. She rises to her knees, takes off my shirt, and throws it to the floor. I make a mental note of where it landed with an addendum that reminds me to send a ‘thank you’ to each one of Stella’s online teachers. “She’s amazing,” I agree. The topless Great tables her Hello Kitty Mac. Leaving the porn playing, she sets it next to the pink mug.

With her body naturally defying gravity, Stella barely bounces over to her pink dresser and presses play on a docked iPod.
Hello Katy Perry
. As a seeming afterthought, she picks up a giant, elaborately bobbled pink and black Tarina necklace and drapes it over her neck. In the pink baroque vanity, she approves of the way the kitty pendant lays on her boobs.
California girls are unforgettable
. She stalks back, steps up, and stands on the end of the pink bed.
They’ll melt your popsicle
. Her toenails match the bedspread. And her underwear. And the wall. And the pile of the socks by the hamper. And the hamper.

She points at me. “Take off your clothes.” Then at the filth playing atop the pink nightstand. “And let’s do that.”