by Horror Sleaze Trash on March 13, 2012

The Pets of Dead Porn Stars

I adored her but the crazy bitch had let her cat starve while running around who knows how long scoring dope and doing what? Oh, yeah, hanging with me…and how many other guys?

“Go ahead, suck it.”

“Suck what?”

“What the hell do you think?”

I had just given her a xanax and an orange, though I’d never seen her eat. Benzos, painkillers, sleeping pills. She would come around for that shit when short on what she really needed, which was something I had the taste but not the tolerance for. I had all those pills because my doctor was insane.

“Got any pills?” she’d say.

I sometimes did, often did, but didn’t always say so.

“No. Well, maybe,” I’d say. Even if I didn’t. Even if I did.

She didn’t tell me how her cat died. Someone else did. No food. No water. Weeks passing. I never called her on it because I was afraid it might be true.

“No way,” she said. “Not until you give me Nina Hartley’s phone number.”

“What do you want with Nina Hartley’s phone number?”

“I’m thinking of moving back to Los Angeles.”


“Porn, dummy!”


She was sick and nearly all facade. I felt more real when she was around. I didn’t know her well enough to miss her. But I didn’t want her to go. LA would be the end of her.

“I need to get clean,” she said. “I wanna go stay with my mom for awhile and kick.”

“You’re going to live with your mom, do porn, and kick?”

“Just give me her number.”

“It’s on my machine.”

“She left you a message?”


I had Nina’s business card in my wallet, but I always hid my wallet when Leticia came around. I also hid my checkbook, bank statements, my heart.

She moved from the couch to my answering machine, which was hooked to a land line I was too flattened to have much to do with. The answering machine had been a gift. The ancient god of a past employer. Thus it came to me…

“It says you have forty-nine messages on here. I’m not going to listen to all this shit.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Oh for fuck sake.”

She pressed the button and the voices came.

Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah. Yo, buddy. Blah blah blah. You there? Blah, blah, blah…

“Hey, that’s me! Why didn’t you call back?”

“I never heard it.”


“That’s me again!”

“Never heard it.”



“Never heard it.”


“Aw, your mother.”

“Shit, I need to call her.”

“You’re a horrible son.”


“Hey, it’s Nina!”

Nina Hartley, adult film star, old school, now producing.

I got up and went to the bathroom to piss, thought about Nina Hartley, all that 70s and 80s porn I grew up on, got hard hearing her voice on the machine, felt weird about it, flushed. Nina Hartley had grown old and wrinkled and I was pretty sure the girl in my living room would never see herself in that mirror.

“She likes the painting you sent her. She wants more.”


“She wants to use them in a movie.”

I zipped up and walked back to the living room…risen, raised?

“That’s funny,” I said.

“Would she pay you?”

“Beats me. Did you get her number?”

“Yeah, you want that blowjob?”

“I’m good.”

“God, you’re such an asshole!”

“I don’t mean to be.”

“Why didn’t you try to fuck me last night?”

“You told me you were tired.”

“That doesn’t stop other guys.”

“Other guys,” I said.

She grabbed her purse, put on her face, got up to go. Always getting up to go, that one.

Sun on right shoulder blade, left back; Skeleton key on left calf.

Run a search on that sentence and tell me you are not like other guys.

When I was young a woman called me a fag because I wouldn’t fuck her while a guy who claimed to be her brother watched us from the kitchen. I backed away and began putting on my clothes.

“You’re hard!” the woman screamed. Her shoes rocketing through the air, deranging the walls, dogging my head for days.

Previous post:

Next post: