Just the Tip: A Sample of Porn Star Adventure Eleven Inches From Heaven

Cal Longwood 1 cover

Before he moved out of the Valley, Cal Longwood traded in his 6,000-pound Hummer H2 for a 2002 Hyundai Accent. There was so much left over from the trade-in that they had to cut him a check, enough money to cover his first and last month’s rent in Kansas. The new car left no footprint, no impression, and its thin metal walls clamped tight up against Cal’s body in a way the Hummer never could.

At first it made him squirm in the bucket seat, the plastic steering wheel pushing against his chest, the door against his arm. But after a few minutes, he took a deep, cleansing breath and let it out slowly, the way he would when holding off his ejaculation until everyone was in place.

There was plenty of room, plenty of room, even with the back, trunk, and passenger seat stuffed with clothes and whatever he thought he would need in the new place, the random spot on the map he had chosen to fall into from the sky. He started the little engine and left the smoggy place of doom behind him.

*          *        *

“Smallton doesn’t really have like an apartment complex,” the gangly manager boy of the Snak ’N Shop, the town’s main business, told him. “Closest think we got here is a room for rent, something like that. I know a place.”

The cashier girl, skinny and freckly, licked her lips and said, “Maybe we got some room at my house. My mom’s got an extra room.”

The manager laughed. “My girlfriend. She’s a real cut-up.”

The girl kept her eyes on Cal’s as she said, “We ain’t been together so long.”

The manager’s smile slipped away.

Cal realized he shouldn’t have worn the spandex shirt that clung to his muscles. He had a car full of clothes bought for his old life. Pants with snaps down the sides. Shirts made to enhance nipples and biceps. He didn’t own a single pair of underwear.

He took the room for rent’s address from the manager boy, thanked him while avoiding the cashier girl’s gaze—as long as he didn’t look her in the eyes again, all would be well—and drove thirty miles to the closest Wal-Mart, where he loaded up on rayon button-downs, Rustler loose-fit jeans, and Fruit of the Loom jockey shorts two sizes larger than what the package said he needed. Wearing these, he would look like an Average Joe.

And the sunglasses. Dark like welder’s goggles, they were perfect.

He threw all of the California clothes into the Wal-Mart Dumpster, every shred of clothing he owned, except for one blue Sassoon logo shirt and one pair of groin-gripping red shorts. His power outfit. He couldn’t let it go, and this made him sit in the Hyundai behind the Wal-Mart and cry.

***

One month earlier, San Fernando Medical Center.

The lead doctor stepped into the waiting room where Cal, producer Norm DePlume, and director Sue Doenim sat on hard plastic chairs and stared at the small color TV, never meeting one another’s eyes.

Collision dyspareunia,” the doctor said with great clarity. “Essentially it’s a severe bruising of the cervix, actually the muscled entrance to the uterus. Very painful, but not life-threatening.”

“She’s going to make it?” Sue cried. She was a woman in a man’s world, and the injury to her superstar, Lana Foxxx, on her watch was a jab against every woman who sat in the porn director’s chair.

The doctor nodded, but gravely. “She’ll heal and, in time, will be able to engage in normal sexual intercourse. Normal intercourse. No eleven-inch monsters rammed into what, after all, is a Thai woman’s vagina, appropriately sized for the average male Thai’s smaller penis.”

The producer and director couldn’t help but glance at Cal, who kept his eyes pointed at the carpet. Norm’s voice broke as he spoke.

“So her career is over, then.”

The doctor placed a compassionate hand on Norm’s shoulder and said gently, “There’s always girl-girl.”

 

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