This was the real thing...
In a moment, that lovely hot little hand on his arm became the lovely hot little hand on his groin. "Mmmmm," she remarked. "I can tell you like me." Leonard liked her, all right, as the response of his sexual amines affirmed. He came in his pants after just a few crotchrubs. But...she was so nice! "Don't worry, I'll get'cha ready again in a minute." She dropped her cute little hostess top, bearing perfect apple-dumpling breasts, and then her tongue was snaking down his throat. Her hips ground against his as she wedged him between herself and the salad bar counter, moaning into his mouth. Next, she was sucking his tongue with the same dexterity that Leonard had previously sucked a multitude of penises on D Block. The sensation was exotic, and his blood seemed to turn to hot mist all at once. She pulled up her cute little hostess skirt and dragged his hand between her thighs. "Feel my pussy, Leonard!" her whisper pleaded. Leonard felt her pussy, with adoration and awe. A small pelt of soft down and a tender, slick opening that seemed to pulsate around his investigating finger. "I need you
in me
now!" she revealed as her own hand found its way back to Leonard's stifled groin. The zipper came down and the hand went in, expertly parting the already wet Fruit of the Looms. Leonard was erect again instantaneously. "Ooooo, ooooo," she turmoiled. "Fuck me right here on the salad bar!" She sat up on the stainless steel counter, hoisting up her dress, and urgently helped Leonard pull up his dishwasher's apron and get his size 29W 31L Levis down to his ankles. "Aw fuck, aw shit," her breath profanely gusted when Leonard, for the first time in his life, engaged in the act of sexual intercourse with a human female. He could smell the dank, peppery fetor of his previous ejaculation, and evidently so could she... "God, your cum smells so good!" she pointed out, eyes closed, head back, and legs wrapped around Leonard's hips. He fornicated with strained slowness, each glide of his erection into her vagina bringing sensations like rampant electric current from his feet to his genitals. It was as though his penis were a plug and her sex...a light socket.
Don't come, don't come yet!
he screamed at himself. To stave off the inevitable, he thought about proverbial things: Mantle's 500th homer, Paul Casanova of the Washington Senators, the Redskins recent ass-kicking of the Rams, putting Roman Gabriel in his place, the asshole.
Oh how I hate John Brodie!
Leonard reflected.
And Staubach!
If ever there were evil incarnate on earth it was Roger Staubach for being the best goddamn quarterback in the biz and summarily walking over the Skins at will. Meanwhile, during these reflections, P—, er, "She" was coming like a freight train on the salad bar, her feisty vagina spasming around Leonard's penis like an apoplectic sheath, each breath a sucking shriek into her lungs. No one had heard of g-spots back then, but Leonard found it nevertheless and gave it a good thrumming. By now her chest shined like shellack, and her nipples stuck out like rose-colored thumb-ends. At each climax, her eyes rolled back in her head to show only the white (sort of like the girl in
The Exorcist
which Leonard had seen with his friends at the Hampton Mall twin theater) and she was even drooling in her rapture. "God, you can fuck, Leonard! It feels so good to have some good cock in me. Shit, my husband never fucks me... He's queer..." This information surprised Leonard, for her husband was a squat, rock-faced unfriendly motherfucker named... Well, let's not use real names here, since this is a true story. Let's just say that her husband was "The Boss." He owned the place. And as to the revelation that The Boss was homosexual, Leonard grew confused. If The Boss preferred sexual congress with
men,
why marry this beautiful, sexually charged lightningbolt of a
woman?
But the answer came almost psychically, when between respiratory gusts and orgasmic spasms, she said, "The cocksucking old fuck only married me so his business partners wouldn't think he was a fruit," and immediately after this intriguing bit of information, her ankles locked yet again around Leonard's clenched buttocks and she squeezed off another drenching, groaning, gusting, eye-rolling orgasm. "Come in me now!" she pleaded. "Fill my pussy up with your cum!" It was a most dire request, and it was Leonard's full intention to fulfill it. Goodbye to the mental images of Mantle's 500th homer. 'Bye to Brodie and Staubach. Here were the goods, ready to
launch
from Leonard's seminal vesicles and into the deep delights of—
GONG!
It felt like a sledgehammer that impacted the top of Leonard's head just two strokes short of dumping the wares of his loins. Paralyzed, he collapsed to the floor, his inane erection still throbbing but his head throbbing too and near the brink of concussion. "Honey!" her voice could be heard from above. "He came onto me! He-he-he...was
raping
me!" A much more gruff voice responded, "Shut up, ya slut. Fuckin' the help again, Jesus Christ..." Then came a sharp SLAP! no doubt the introduction of an open palm to our hostess' face. "Get outa here before I really get mad." Sobbing, then, and the patter of feet. Eventually, Leonard's vision cleared and, still flat on his back on the floor in front of the salad bar, he looked up and saw the face of The Boss glaring down at him. "Fuckin' my wife, huh?" A shoed foot stomped down on Leonard's stomach. Leonard gagged. "Bet she told ya I was queer, huh?" Leonard's response needed to be decrypted from the paralyzing wheeze, but it sounded something like this: "Nuh nuh nuh..." Then The Boss flipped Leonard over on his belly, and Leonard found he still could not move even a single fiber of muscle. (It was not a sledgehammer that he'd been struck with, by the way. It was a pot pan.) "Sure she did, and ya know something, punk? She's right." A fat hand grabbed a bottle of Progresso extra-virgin olive oil from the salad bar caddy, then squirted it liberally into the cleft of Leonard's buttocks. It was no real surprise what happened then. "Gonna park my car right in your garage," came a rather colloquial promise. The Boss buggered Leonard right there on the salad bar floor, admitting a "car" into Leonard's "garage" that felt not particularly long but admirably wide. A Land Rover perhaps, or a Gremlin. Leonard was squashed flat, a helping hand wrenched into his hair, grating his face into the carpet. "Here's a shit-baby for ya, punk," The Boss then remarked and ejaculated with zeal into Leonard's rectal vault. The soiled penis was then wiped off on Leonard's dishwashers' apron, then he was dragged into the kitchen and out the back door and next thrown into the dumpster.
"Ever come back here again," promised J—, er, The Boss, "and I'll cut your head off and fuck your neck."
The restaurant's back door slammed as
Leonard's
back door effused a slick mixture of extra-virgin olive oil and semen.
Gee,
he thought amongst the garbage.
I guess that means I'm fired.
««—»»
A frisky collie named Fred finished the all-critical job. Snowdrop unfortunately remained close to comatose in the b.g. but that was all right. Sissy, on the other hand, managed to reanimate herself sufficiently enough to reassume the task of having intercourse with a dog.
Using all of her female intuition—or whatever the throes of clinical heroin addiction had left to her—she even managed to sense the animal's impending moment of crisis, pushing away most precisely and, thank the fates, most effectively. Fred the collie then successfully dribbled its ejaculant onto Sissy's blanched belly, providing the absolutely necessary "wet shot" for Leonard's camera.
"Great, great!" he shouted. "Sissy, you did it!"
Not caring to share in the celebration, Sissy threw up a few belts of low-grade bile and passed out. Fred, meanwhile, snuffled away, his business finished, and it was then that Leonard gleefully shut down the baking lights. Finally, and at last, he had the entirety of
Dog Day Afternoon
"in the can."
It was 2 a.m. now. The editing job would take maybe twelve hours, and with any luck, Rocco wouldn't be early. Leonard rushed to the darkroom and put the last film roll in the Kodak processor, cognizant of the grim, pre-industrial strains of Fripp & Eno's
Evening Star
from the radio. Then he went to the fridge for a quick bite, forgetting that it had been empty for two days. "Oh, man," he complained to the open Frigidaire. As empty as empty could be. If you looked up the word "empty" in the dictionary, there'd be a picture of this fucking refrigerator. Leonard's gut ached; he hadn't eaten in two days now. Rocco never seemed to bring enough in the way of necessities, be they food or heroin, and Leonard knew that if he didn't get some grub into the old breadbasket, he'd be passed out on the floor along with Sissy and Snowdrop. Then
Dog Day
would not be ready tomorrow, and that was a consequence he did not care to reckon.
"Oh, man," he said to the panty shelf. The shelf was not empty; in fact, it was loaded up...with dog food.
All
kinds
of dog food—Leonard had four dogs to feed.
Not even a good brand,
he thought. Giant brand. Couldn't Rocco at least have been thoughtful enough to pick up Alpo or Mighty Dog? Well, he'd eaten it before on such deprived instances, he'd eat it again.
Let's see.
He scanned the rows of cans.
Beef & Cheese Flavor, Hearty Chicken Dinner, Big Chunk Beef, Beef & Liver.
He chose the latter, hoping the liver might let him think he was dining on
foi gras.
The label sported a collie much like Fred, dashing happily through a field of grass; the
back
of the label, however, wasn't promising. INGREDIENTS: WATER (SUFFICIENT FOR PROCESSING), CHICKEN STOCK, CHICKEN FAT, CHICKEN PARTS, RED #4, RED #8, SODIUM NITRITE, SODIUM NITRATE, SODIUM PHOSPHATE, BHT, BHA, ARTIFICIAL BEEF AND LIVER FLAVORING.
"Where's the beef?" Leonard almost wailed. Even dog food was a rip-off.
Ain't life grand?
He manually opened the can, plopped its contents on a plate, and began to eat.
It did not taste much like
foi gras.
««—»»
Later, his belly full, he went to urinate. A ring of black fungus marked the waterline in the toilet. Bits of dried vomit flecked about the bowl—heroin addicts threw up
a lot.
As he voided his bladder, an impulse, then, urged him to feel his scrotum and testicle.
Not testi
cles.
Testi
cle.
Singular.
Hence, the happenstance which led Leonard to become deprived of one.
After his termination of employment at The Widow's Walk, Leonard decided that Annapolis was not the berg that would make his dreams come true. He still had the rickety Chevette and one night on a lark, he shimmied it onto Interstate 95 and kept on trucking till he got to New York City. Annapolis wasn't a film town, but The Big Apple was. They shot all the good shows there:
Kojak, Mod Squad, The Man From U.N.C.L.E.,
and Woody Allen made all his movies there. First, he secured his gear in a U-STORE-IT rental facility off of 25th street, and he ditched the car. He found an ideal place to live for cheap rent at what the classifieds referred to as "an artist's retreat" called the Works, and—presto!—he was set.
He still had most of the petty cash he'd ripped off from Channel 22—that would cover rent and food for a while, but he still needed his production budget.
Quite by chance, he met a man one day on Amsterdam Avenue. The man was sporty, sharply dressed in a suit and tie, thinning hair and something in his eye that might be described as "shifty." Leonard would pay this man no mind initially; instead he loped dejected down the street, still caught in his desperate muse. "Just four thousand," Leonard was talking to himself in frustration. "Four thousand and I'm set!" Then, of course, he could make his movie—
The Confessor—
send it to the Sundance Film Festival in Park City Utah, then the cinematic world would see his genius and he'd be rich, copping big Hollywood contracts just like George Lucas had after making
Electronic Labyrinth
and Coppola after
Dementia 13.
But it seemed the tribulations of Job just kept landing on his head.