The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman (14 page)

I used to have a boss who was on the same level as pubic lice.
I wouldn’t
have helped that sonofabitch if he’d promised me Cadillacs filled with
disease-free whores. If Mick Jagger had pinned him down and started tossing his
salad I would’ve taken pictures and sold them to the highest bidder. His name
was Bryan, and I called him Switch Hitter like it was on his birth certificate.

Typically,
I would impart this as a form of greeting, such as, “Morning, Switch Hitter!”
or, “Kiss my balls, Switch Hitter!” It was usually based on the mood I was in.

Anyone
who’s ever worked a job anywhere has known at least one of these dickheads—the
person who got a promotion and became the heaviest hardball to ever abuse an
expense account. That rimsucker who was once one of
us
—another cog in
the squeaky wheel; our brother/sister in arms; and the one who served as
lookout when I was getting head in the supply closet—only to become one of
them
when the money was right. They typify the phrase “forgot where they came from”
and infiltrate every hiding spot you’ve managed to forage in your office.

I’ll
bet you even have one looking over your shoulder right now.....

My
derogatory pet name didn’t go unchallenged. Bryan would complain to the owner
about it but nothing was ever done seeing as how he didn’t like him,
either (it was a family business and
Bryan didn't become a
prick until
after
he was promoted). Truthfully, I never understood his
beef about the “Switch Hitter” stuff. It was all in good fun, and to me it
seemed better than that period when he’d converted to Islam and I
really
became the dick in his birthday cake:

“As-salamu
alaykum, Coxman.”

“And
a-licka my salami to you, good sir.”

I
should mention that I’d say this to Bryan’s face in a room full of people
whenever I got the chance because he was a big traitorous bitch who deserved it
for all the shit he pulled.

Now
as much as I would love to use the term “Switch Hitter” in reference to that
chubby cashier from Balfart yo-yoing between my girl’s clam and these salty
nuts, I will abandon that yarn for the sake of telling you
an enthralling
tale
an engrossing saga
something that happened.

***

Bryan
and I worked side-by-side in an enterprise that offered an outlet for
humanity’s sickest desires. We provided a gateway to an edge of fantasy that very
few people ever get to experience in their entire lives. Our vocation was one
that facilitated a release for the most basic primal urges of perverted
shut-ins everywhere. So adored were we in our field that cellar-dwellers across
the country sent us letters about watching our greasy bodies in action while
pulling their pork at the foot of their mother’s bed.

The
meals of our livelihood were entrees of grunting served with steaming sides of
sweat, rear-ended with desserts of delectable, nipple-biting pain. The tools of
our trade were gag balls, sixteen-inch dildos, battery-operated finger bangers,
and clear-blue anal beads. Last but not least, the hallmarks—the very staples
of our profession—were raw stamina, physical strength, a sustainable erection,
and the ability to shave your balls without developing the slightest hint of a
razor bump.

We
worked in the adult film industry, good people.

And
lo, it was awesome.  

To
fully understand my sense of betrayal surrounding Bryan’s radical attitude
shift, I feel it’s important for you to know the circumstances of his birth as
well as his unconventional upbringing.

***

Bryan
was of German descent, son of the two most sought after porn stars in the land
of lederhosen. When news of his upcoming natality reached the ears of his
grandparents, they were so excited about his bloody show that they sat outside
the hospital for days waiting to buy tickets (they were very old-world, and
their refusal to grasp medical terminology led to confusion as to what a
“bloody show” actually is). Alas, his birth was not looked upon with jubilance
by everybody.

Victor
and Enemay Wienersmashin, his career oriented-parents, weren’t ready for his
presence in their lives, and vigilantly pursued every avenue available to halt
his arrival. They tried everything—from coat hangers and Lysol to uppercuts in
Enemay’s tummy. It was of no use. Bryan came screaming into the world one night
at 3 AM, already accustomed to being a loud-mouthed little autocrat.

Bryan
was cannoned from his mother’s hairy snapper and smacked against the bedroom
floor like a painful case of blue balls finding release. By all accounts he
looked like a snot rocket sliding across the tile. The virtue of the
Wienersmashin bloodline was such that they thought he’d enter the world with a
ten-inch donger dangling from his shitty Huggies. Certainly, this was an
unrealistic expectation, though Bryan didn’t disappoint with his golden
appearance. He already had a mouth full of teeth, seeds planted for a crop of
blonde hair, and blue eyes so huge that the doctor had to promise his parents
he’d grow into them.

During
her pregnancy, Enemay was hesitant about becoming a mother, her and Victor’s
occupations not exactly promotive to raising a child. Her fears vanished the
minute she laid eyes on Bryan. She instantly fell in love with the child,
becoming a doting protector and caregiver.

Victor
did not share her endearment. He’d been sketchy throughout Enemay’s gestation
and wanted nothing to do with their little offspring when he took his first
breath. He’d sit in his living room chair with a scowl, watching ruefully as
Bryan crawled around on their shag carpet, playing with their coworkers when
they came to call, and laughing uncontrollably as he chased Ben
Wa
Balls across the floor.

That
is until the day Victor was changing Bryan’s diaper and noticed that his little
baby dick had grown
two full inches
in his first six months. Amazed at
Bryan’s brisk maturity, Victor tossed him in the air to the kitchen ceiling,
knocking the boy unconscious and temporarily sending him cross-eyed. When Bryan
came to, his father was cradling him in his arms, praising him for becoming a
man so quickly.

Victor
saw promise in his abnormally-endowed toddler and became an attentive, loving
role model, as well as Bryan’s mentor in the adult film industry. An anonymous
report made to German Social Services stated that there was a couple raising
their son in a “haphazard manner,” specifically grooming the child to work in
pornography once he came of age. The Wienersmashin clan moved to the States
shortly thereafter to duck the authorities and further their careers.

Jumbo
Dick, as the tyke was disturbingly called, accompanied his parents to porn
shoots to learn the tricks of this filthy trade, growing up to become one of
the preeminent stuntcocks in the business.

***

After
growing complacent in my career as a low-level drug dealer, I went to work for
an adult film company called Feisty Fista, LLC in sunny Los Angeles,
California, owned by none other than Bryan’s American cousin, Dick
Wienersmashin. Bryan had developed a following in the industry and was one of
the company’s top-billed stars, though it wasn't simple nepotism that earned
him his position:

Thanks
to his impeccable bloodline, the man was truly a talent in his field. He could
lick a woman’s colon through her vagina and had a cock big enough to direct air
traffic.

So
it was that Bryan and I met at an audition for the lead role in what was to
become the runaway hit
Basic Fiststinked: Asses and Elbows.
Of course, I
didn’t get the part. The audition was merely a formality, for everyone knew
that Bryan was due for the spot. But while lounging in the
jacuzzi
in the men’s locker room, we hit it off wonderfully. Bryan agreed to put in a
good word for me to the director of
Bar Whores: The Empire Strikes in the
Back,
a movie that was set to begin filming on another lot
.
It was a
coveted role and I wound up getting the job. Afterward, I took Bryan out for a
dinner of Jack Daniels and cocaine to thank him.

We
were cast in a number of movies together, performing scenes with various skanks
from the company’s roster, and occasionally breaking in a new girl whenever she
signed the medical waiver (Bryan’s dick was so huge that it was known to leave
some of the newbies in traction for a few days following a shoot). He was a
good dude who was popular with his peers, never hesitant to assist if you
needed a helping hand, and always willing to take your scene if you’d been doing
too many drugs and couldn’t get it up. It wasn’t long before we started hanging
out away from work, becoming tighter than a first-timer’s bunghole.

***

As
misfortune would have it, one of Feisty Fista’s executives was abruptly removed
from his position without explanation. We came to learn that he was given a
long prison term for casting an underage girl in one of his movies, much to the
horror of everyone. Thankfully, his crime was discovered before anyone plunged
into
that
cherry pie, but it left a gaping hole that needed to be
fucked
filled immediately.

Dick
looked to his cousin Bryan to fill those lofty shoes. After all, Bryan had
Wienersmashin blood coursing through his veins; he’d grown up in the biz and
knew the ins-and-outs as well as any community dildo. Who better to spearhead
Feisty Fista into the future?

In
a moment of bad judgement that would leave Dick drunk and filled with regret,
Bryan was promoted from a lowly Patch Banger to Director of Dongs.

***

Bryan’s
transformation came on as fast as good acid. One day, he was an actor like the
rest of us, another head of cattle on a stud farm. The next, he was a walking
hard-on without the innuendo. The first noticeable example of Bryan’s change
was when he embarrassed a long-time employee in front of numerous onlookers.
Her name was Sheeta King and she had been a close friend of mine ever since I’d
arrived to the company.

Sheeta
was a devout Catholic who could suck the color out of an oil painting. An old
pro in the porn industry, she was able to stretch her full lips around a
swollen knob and make a man spew in a matter of seconds. She was a virtuoso in
every sense of the word—whether it was solo masturbation, double-penetration,
or a bestiality scene, she was an artist first and always put the craft ahead
of her own discomfort. When she wasn’t turning coin on camera, she exhibited
her civic pride as one of the community’s leading activists; during March of
Dimes charity drives, she collected more funds than anyone in Los Angeles. (For
some reason, a majority of her donations originated from the Freemasons Lodge
on Fair Oaks Avenue. Always struck me as odd.) A true sweetheart who was adored
by everyone, Sheeta was blindsided by Bryan’s conversion like the rest of us, receiving
a dose of his management style on the set of her would-be gangbang classic
All
the King’s Ass Men: True Politics
. As happenstance, she and I were in the
middle of a scene together.

The
script was set in a barn, the crew having constructed a hayloft in the studio
.
The scene took place on a hay bale and Sheeta’s shapely derriere hugged me
fantastically as her tassled green roper skirt lay thrown over her waist, her
lustrous dark hair draping to her haunches. Brock Musselman drilled her
honeypot from below, Sheeta’s rouge lips expertly sucking off a very willing
burro named Dave. He’d placed his forehooves on the bale to angle his monstrous
dick in her mouth.

(Pursuant
to Section 597f of the penal code, California law prohibits bestiality if it’s
for
human
gratification, stipulating the animal can get off as much as
they want. Even if the person receives pleasure from the encounter, it’s a
small fine and a paltry six months in the clink. True, distribution is a
different
animal
matter altogether, but it’s nothing that isn’t remedied
with a few greasy palms. Yeah, they’re real progressive on the West Coast.)

The
shoot was going as planned until Bryan strolled onto the set in a pair of brown
corduroys, his waist hidden by an untucked purple shirt, blonde hair frozen in
place with an abundance of mousse, emanating the air of entitlement afforded
him by his new position. It was a week after his promotion and he was itching
to flex a little muscle for the sake of showing off. He stood by the sound
tech, taking in the scene, then stuck his nose in the air and sniffed.

“My
God!
What is that viral
smell?!”
He aimed a finger at Sheeta like
an SS soldier choosing a victim with the sights of his Luger. “Goddammit,
Sheeta! We discussed this the
last
time you smelled sick! I told you to
douche with Massengill! Not
Summer’s
Eve,
Massengill!
If you can’t show up to work smelling April fresh then we’ll find someone who
can!”