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{static breakdown} ann tinkham Misty did an abbreviated pole dance on the red and white striped pole in front of the booth the hostess escorted them to. Josie spanked Misty and told her to stop being such an attention whore. “Well shouldn’t I be what I am, bitch?” She slipped her leg straddling the pole down to the red and white checkered floor of the diner. Her C-cup store-bought breasts—everything revealed but her nipples—jiggled like firm Jell-O as she jumped down. She loved to tell people she had a drive-through boob job; they sliced her open, plopped the water balloons in, sewed her nips up, and voila! Kick-ass instant boner boobs. The male diner goers were frozen mid-bite and fixated on the tit show. If their wives had choked on their blue plate specials right then and required the Heimlich maneuver, and an ambulance, and an emergency rescue, they would have never known. “Whatever, Mistletoe. God your parents must have been psychic or something.” “More like psycho. And please, don’t ever call me Mistletoe. I abhor that name.” “Abhor—huh? What are we using congressional vocab now?” asked Josie. “Abhor was the word of the day, loser. Congressional—ha! Who talks? And when we do it’s definitely not high and mighty. It’s creep-o, geezer dirty talk.” Misty slid over on the shiny red diner booth—the plastic cold on her bare legs. “Brrrrrrr—it’s fucking freezing in here,” whined Misty. “Well, if you’d ever wear clothes, you might actually be warm for a change.” Once seated, Misty took in the ambience of the diner--chrome tables, fixtures, and red and white striped everything. “This place looks like a fucking candy cane. I could just lick every last drop of it,” she said as she pantomimed licking and displayed her tongue stud. A red and white striped waitress walked up with two chocolate milkshakes with sprinkles and plunked them down on the table. She nodded her head toward a table of four guys and said, “They wanted to buy you girls drinks. I told them this wasn’t that kind of joint. We don’t have martinis or nothing like that and they said, ‘What do you recommend, then?’ I told them all girls like chocolate milkshakes. So here you go.” As Misty and Josie looked over at the milkshake-buying dudes, one of them pumped his arms and stuck his tongue out. “Oh God, you know what that means; I told you to cut the exhibitionistic crap. He wants a piece of you, Misty. Hell, what guy doesn’t?” Misty eyed the lizard up and down and said, “He can’t afford me,” and then laughed before sticking her index finger in the whipped cream and sucking it off, her juicy lips wrapped around her finger. Then she leaned over to slurp her milkshake so quickly, she got a cold headache. “Brain freeze!” Oh-oh-ohhhhhhhhhh-oh-ohhhhhhhhhhhh-God-oh-God-oh-God! Orgiastic sounds emanated from Misty’s purse. “What the fuck, chica?” asked Josie with a matching what-the-fuck hand gesture. Misty mouthed “love line” as she answered her cell phone, holding one finger in the air to buy time with Josie. “Ooh, you do it to me so fine.” Misty said as she answered the phone. Then her forehead furrowed, “Whatever, dude. I’m not in the mood for you to go parental on me. Hit me with your best shot. Client 15. God no. What time—now? What? Two big ones? I’m there!” Misty was quiet for a minute. “What’s that clicking sound? Are you clicking a pen or something? Don’t you hear it? Oh well, ciao.” Misty hung up. “What’s happening?” asked Josie, trying to keep up. “The twisted sister was giving me lip about my O ring. She said it attracts unwanted attention. Isn’t that an oxymoron?” “See you are getting all congressional on me. What the hell is an oxymoron? An idiot on oxycontin?” Josie was truly confused. “Sister, sister, it’s a figure of speech that combines two normally contradictory terms,” explained Misty. Josie pursed her lips and pantomimed high and mighty. “Gotta push off. Big ass fish on the line.” Misty slurped the rest of her milkshake until the sucking sounds were so loud even Josie gave her a look. “Whatever, gotta suck every last drop of sweetness to prepare for the sour shit.” Josie made an icky-poo face and dug into her milkshake with a long spoon, ice cream sundae-like. Misty pried herself from the red plastic booth, kissed Josie on the cheek and said, “The Love Gov is on his way—no doubt with a bad case of blue balls. He’s always all backed up when he needs to see me spur of the moment like this. Oh, and as always—mum’s the word on this stuff. Cool?” said Misty. “You don’t have to say that every time we’re together.” Then Josie stood up on the booth’s shiny seat and play-acted disclosing Misty’s secret to the diner customers. Misty punched her and then flashed a smile and a Jersey gang symbol, flipping her hair as she walked through the field of gazing men. “A-one-a-two-a-one-two-three-four,” Misty kicked off her band’s jam session in the garage of her parental unit who was flying solo after the royal asshole, Cougar, aka her Dad, burned her Mom with a blowtorch. On purpose. When Misty recounts the story, she rolls her eyes, fiddles with her tongue stud, says “flying fuckwad,” referring to her father, and then adds, “Like any of us buys that he mistook her for a machine part. And when we don’t fall for that BS, he claims his face shield fogged up. Now if your face shield fogged up, would you just blowtorch with abandon, or would you turn the friggin’ thing off? Fucking genius.” The drummer, bass and electric guitarists and keyboardist in Static Breakdown played five bars and Misty shouted “STOP! STOP! STOP!!” Moving her mic stand to the left of her mouth, she admonished the instrumentals, “You cats have to give it more meow. That sounded like a fucking lame garage band.” “Isn’t that pretty much what we are?” posed the keyboardist, staring at her cleavage; her breasts were bulging out of her top-of-the line leather jacket. She liked to wear it with nothing underneath. It made her feel like Cat Woman. “Hey, dudes, let’s rename our band Lame Garage Band,” said the drummer, who, for once, wasn’t stoned. “Logan, we are NOT going to waste our entire jam session on band renaming like we did last time. We all went with Static Breakdown and that’s final.” “You went with Static Breakdown,” said the lead guitarist. “Everyone else wanted Toxic Jesus. We don’t even know what Static Breakdown means.” “Whatever. And you can explain Toxic Jesus?” The lead guitarist spoke into his mic, “Toxic Jesus is a societal commentary on the way we’re being poisoned by religion in this country.” “How about you write an essay on the topic and send it to someone who cares? So what’s this going to be now a Misty gang-bang session? Are we going to sing or just run at the mouths? Cuz if the latter, I’m going inside to record my solo single. I don’t have time for you monkeys.” “Okay, dudes, let’s jam,” said the bassist, who had a mad crush on Misty. “Ask her about her trip to St. Tropez,” teased the keyboardist, who was jealous of the bassist because he thought he and Misty had a thing going. “Ooh-la-la, St. Tropez, Misty!” said the lead guitarist, “Who took you there, your sugar daddio?” “Shit. Back off, and no, I went alone. I don’t have a sugar daddio. I paid my own way, you morons.” “This chick’s got a serious stash of cash somewhere. But where, I wonder. Under the floorboards?” asked the drummer. “It’s like those people who win the lottery, but keep living the same miserable existence,” added the keyboardist, making a spectacle of himself looking around at her mother’s junked-out, burned-out, smelly garage. Misty repeatedly hit her forehead with the microphone, making loud crashing sounds. “If this is going to a Misty slam session, not a jam session, I’m outta here. What will it be?” The truth was that all of the guys in the band wanted to do her so badly; they had to vent their sexual tension somehow. And, unfortunately for her sake, they sometimes teased her a little too hard. They liked to play hard ball: break down the bad girl—it seemed that nothing could get through her tough chick demeanor. Her cell phone chimed the stranger ring, and she pulled it out of her pocket to spot check the number. It said, private. She answered. “Yo,” and said nothing for the rest of the call. The band members watched as she went from ticked off to confused to shaken in a matter of minutes. She clicked her phone off and started crying. “Oh my God. I have no idea what just happened.” “What did they say?” asked the bassist. “That guy just threatened me. He said if I don’t leave the country—actually the continent would be well advised—that I’d live—or maybe not even—to regret it.” She looked up at the band members, “What should I do?” “Sounds like a mafia call, if I’ve ever heard one. What do you have yourself mixed up with, Mist?” asked the keyboardist. “Nothing. I’ve done nothing—that I know of. Maybe I sleepwalked and committed a crime or something. That happens to people.” “Maybe you should hire a private eye or even a bodyguard,” suggested the bassist. “Maybe,” she said teary eyed and sniffling. “We’ll be your body guards,” said the lead guitarist, making eye contact with all the band members to build consensus. “Right on,” said the drummer. Upon hearing their outpouring of support, she ran into the lead guitarist’s arms, and then started sobbing again. He was glowing with pride that she had chosen his arms over all the other instrumentals. “We’ll protect you, babe. We won’t let anything bad happen to the lead singer of Static Breakdown.” “Dude, listen,” Lola (aka Misty) said, panty-less with a black peek-a-boo, plunging tank top. Client 15 was flying parallel to the ground—ramrod red—and panting, like a wild rutting animal. His eyes were popping out of his head. He seemed on the verge of exploding at the sight of her round, soft bum peeking out of her tight T. Her clients loved the wrapped-up-and-bursting-out-of tight t-shirts look. He started to bend her over and go for the slam dunk into the back entry, but she resisted. “You can have it however you like it—on the rocks, straight up, with a twist, but we’ve gotta wrap it up. Keep it out of the danger zone. You know the drill, Gov.” “Listen, just this once; it won’t do any harm. I’m clean; I’ve been tested. I haven’t been anywhere—only with my wife; I promise.” “Yeah, but where has your wife been?” She laughed, suspecting that the thought never crossed his mind that his wife, too, was looking for action on the side. She continued, “I refuse to give you the AIDS 101 briefing, Gov. Where’d you go to school? Wasn’t it Harvard? Aren’t smart guys supposed to know this stuff? Remember, you are sooooo fucking smart and, more importantly, so fucking hard. She made sure he saw her looking down at him. He stiffened more under her gaze and touched himself like he couldn’t believe how hard he was. “Hard and brilliant,” she said as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and slid her hands down his arms, moving her hips up against his dripping cock. She swept his penis with her pelvis and then wrapped one leg around him. “What will it be, Gov? Are you going to govern me tonight or will I govern you? My pussy’s getting warm, wet, and willy just being around you.” “I’ve never felt you—massaged your insides without the wrapper. Can’t we just…Just for a minute.” She took his breath away by dropping down on her knees and forcefully taking his cock in her mouth. Misty tickled it with her tongue and then thrusted it deep into her throat. He let out a deep, hoarse moan as she massaged and sucked. She could taste his pre-semen; she knew he was close. It never took long; around her he was a wild beast. He ripped his penis from her mouth and grabbed her, trapping her with his embrace. He sunk his fingers deep between her legs and then jammed his penis inside her. It entered her part way and she pushed him away as hard as she could, and he fell back on the bed. “Hey, hey, we can do the rape thing, but only wrapped up and sealed. Wrapper rape, I call it. Read my lips, I don’t do dangerous shit. I’ll even slip it on with my lips.” She unwrapped the condom and, forced it on his withering boner and then sat on him. “It’s not going to work,” he sighed, resisting. She leaned over his face, her breasts dangling out of her low-cut shirt. “Rip off my shirt and then suck my tits as hard as you can. Now!” He began tearing her shirt in a lackluster fashion, but the more her breasts were exposed, the more his penis grew inside her. He ripped and tore her shirt, exposing her bouncing breasts and erect pierced nipples. Grabbing one and then the other, he sucked so hard it hurt her, but she kept rotating and rocking and tilting her pelvis back and forth—rhythmically and then forcefully. His moaning was beastly and wild, not at all the sound of a man. Then as his penis mushroomed inside her, he exploded with an extended painful-sounding groan. “Wow, Gov. See wasn’t so bad after all. Was it?” she sat above him and jiggled her breasts, then leaned down for a squeeze. “Let me know when you want me to extract myself and I’ll pop off.” He was looking toward the diminishing light in the crack in the curtain-drawn window. “Lola, would you stay with me tonight?” “Don’t you have to go home to your wifey?” “Naah, she thinks I’m at a three-day gubernatorial summit.” “Summit—huh? Good one. Listen, overnights are double or nothing and then the morning glory is extra.” He thought for a minute, “That’s eight grand for a slumber party? Shit, I should be in your line of work.” She laughed, thinking he didn’t have the looks or, for that matter, the cock. “A slumber party sans slumber, I’m guessing. Eight big ones for a sleepless night is about right, I reckon. Thing is, you’ll have to do a money transfer. I can’t deposit checks that big, and I don’t want the cash sitting around for wayward relatives to discover.” They were conducting financial dealings over his shriveled, bagged dick. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.” “Not in the biz of doing the girlfriend experience—all warm and fuzzy and shit. We’ve got good girl types who do that. I can recommend some—Tessa, Angel, Violet. I just need to know how to make a guy feel hot as hell and ready to rip, roar, and rumble. Got it?” He laughed and cupped her breasts, bouncing each, one at a time. “You sure have tits that make a man want to fall in lo…fuck the hell out of you.” “Ha ha, there’s no way to fuck all the hell out of me. So what will it be?” she said, resting by his side on her forearm. He fondled and eyed her engorged labia and clit, splitting her lips to peer inside at the hot pink flesh. Slipping his finger up inside her, he felt her swollen wetness; he looked shocked that he was starting to throb and grow again so soon. “A sleep over,” he said. The next morning after romping in the hay for what seemed like days, Misty asked if she could use his laptop. She was getting bored with the Gov and ready to get back to her music, but she couldn’t complain about the money she was banking. With the major cashola she scored from whacking guys off, as she referred to it when around Josie, the only friend who knew, she was planning to build a recording studio and start a record label. She shared with Josie that she didn’t understand why guys would pay so much for random chicks to whack them off, but it sure kept her living large. Misty figured the dudes could save a bunch of money if they’d just let their wives do the honors. Misty claimed that the daddy of all disturbing things about the escort biz was that dudes wanted to do girls their daughters’ ages. Misty mostly suppressed that thought, but sometimes it would seep into her brainwaves while she was sucking a guy off and then it triggered her gag reflex. The Gov handed her his laptop, “I don’t mind you using it, but don’t do anything incriminating that my wife might discover. And no viruses from porn sites,” said the Gov. “Chill, dude. I’m just getting on MySpace.” She powered up in bed, laptop on her lap, and went straight to her MySpace page. She had just recorded and uploaded some tunes that she wanted her friends to check out. “Oh my God! What the fuck?” She exclaimed. “What is it?” “I don’t get it…I’ve had around ten thousand hits in the last 24 hours. Normally I get only 50 a day. Rock on!” “Certainly your services aren’t advertised on MySpace. Are they?” “Right. The Grande Geisha would hang me by my clit for that. Geisha Girls is all word of mouth.” Then she donned her best voice-over voice and said, “Geisha Girls, a social introduction service that promises private, risk-free dating,” she mocked and then added, “Dating, my ass.” She continued, “with beautiful, educated companions of fine family and career backgrounds" to persons of "immense financial and influential affluence,” she said, making fun of the promotional materials. “Like I’m from a fine family background—ha! A machinist and his white trailer trash whore. You didn’t hear that—okay? But the PR crap got one thing right—you, Gov, are a man of immense influence.” “You politicos spread the word about Geisha—like wildfire I might add. No offense, but is everyone unhappy and bored with their wives or what? Do they not produce the goods? Are they f rigid? Don’t answer that—none of my business, really,” Misty said. “You’re right—none of your business,” he agreed, slipping on his boxer shorts and business casual attire—khakis and a blue button down. “You outta here, dude? Going to your gubernatorial summit?” She chuckled to herself. “Just going out for coffee. Want some?” “Hellz ya. I want all the works—caramel macchiato, extra whipped cream, caramel drizzled on the top,” she said imagining the luscious concoction. “Okay, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere. I can’t stand to be away from you for even a few minutes.” She rolled her eyes, thinking the Gov was getting a little too close for comfort. “Right, I’ll just step out for a quickie BJ delivery service. Time is money.” She clicked on her music link and her voice rocked out in heavy metal screaming accompanied by guitar screeching. “So whaddya think of Static Breakdown?” “Not my thing,” he said. “Right, you’re probably into easy listening and smooth jazz to soothe your frazzled nerves. You power brokers are all the same. No offense,” she said as he opened the door. She saw some activity out of her peripheral vision, but ignored it. The heavy metal music was piping through his computer speakers and she was doing naked head-banging on top of the linen duvet to her own band. He dashed back in and slammed the door, breathing heavily and looking astonished. “Quickest coffee run in the history of man. But where’s my coffee?” Misty asked, still absorbed in MySpace. She didn’t notice that he was leaning against the shiny executive desk, staring down at the floor, trying to prevent a heart incident. “Holy Mother of fucking God.” “What?” she asked absentmindedly. “Paparazzi.” “Cool. Is someone famous out there?” “Yeah, me. Holy Mother of fucking God.” “Why do you keep saying that? Trust me, it’s so totally uncool.” She clicked on her other tune and held waved her hand in the air. “What if I blast my tunes? Do you think I’ll be discovered by the paparazzi?” She finally looked up and saw him red faced and panting and if she didn’t know any better, she might have thought he was on the verge of a heart attack or breakdown. “Lola, they know.” “Who knows what?” “They know about us. Someone leaked this to the press.” “Bummer, dude, guess the party’s over.” “I don’t think you get it. This means we could lose each other. This is the kind of scandal that…Let’s just say that heads could roll—yours and mine and your escort service could be shut down by the Feds.” Then she remembered the threatening phone call she had received during band practice and had a sneaking suspicion that it was all connected. Was it one of the Gov’s people? Did he already know? Was he knowingly putting them at risk just to get his rocks off? “Did you spill the beans? I mean, sometimes dudes like to brag about their sexual prowess and shit.” “In my position, do you really think my judgment would be so bad as to kiss and tell?” “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your judgment didn’t prevent you from using my services—oh gazillions of times,” she said, proud of herself for outthinking a governor. He was pacing, running his hands through the few hundred strands of hair that were clinging on for dear life in the face of the genetic coding. “Perfect, just what I need—my girl becoming holier than thou.” “Your girl? So, what do we do now? How can we sneak out of here?” Misty looked toward the window. “I know—the window!” “From the 12th floor?” “Minor issue. Well, one guy survived recently when he jumped out of a 20-story window. We could chance it. If I broke something, like my face, then I could get the reconstructive surgery I’ve been wanting. Cheeks, nose, chin and stuff.” “Shit, we should run off together. I’ve got an offshore account in the Caribbean I could tap into.” Then the Governor sat on the edge of the bed, hugging his abdomen like he was in pain, and started sobbing. “I can’t lose you, Lola; you’re all I have…I finally fucking feel something.” She had seen all kinds of clients—the guys who wanted a dominatrix, the ones who wanted anal penetration, the men who wanted to tie her up, the ones who couldn’t get it up with anyone but her, the guys who asked her to spank, slap, whip, and choke them. But never before had she had a client who broke down like a child. BJs and her other sexual offerings came easily to her; she had no idea how to comfort a man the age of her father going to pieces. She set down the laptop and sharply patted his shoulder. “Dude, don’t cry. It’ll be okay. You’ll go home to your wife, and it will all work out. Really.” He sobbed and reached to hold her; she kept him at arm’s length and continued patting him. Just then, her O-ring moaned and she spot-checked the caller ID. Incoming call: Grande Geisha. “Lola here. Yes, yes, I know. You pulled the web site? Wow! So this is serious. Okay, I won’t talk.” She hung up and looked at him. “Um, you might want to call your wife before she hears about it on the tube.” He didn’t pay attention to Misty’s advice. His first call was to his lawyer. After six hours of being holed up in the Waldorf-Astoria—the first people in the history of the hotel to ever feel like prisoners in a luxury hotel—Misty declared that she was getting tres claustrophobic and had to hightail it out of there before she went loco and really made headlines. The Gov had tried everything—including bribes and brainwashing—to convince her to stay, but she wasn’t susceptible to sweet talking or strong-arming of any kind. “Ciao, Gov!” she said as she looked back at him barricading himself in the bathroom. As she opened the hotel room door, the camera flashes blinded her, the photogs were just inches away and the reporters stuck microphones in her face, nearly taking out her teeth. The reporters spewed their questions in rapid-fire succession; the only question she could make out was: how do you feel about being involved in such a high profile scandal? Misty said, “One man’s noise is another’s music.” Then she puckered her lips and flashed her signature gang gesture. She left the hotel, the press still trailing her. She picked up the pace but they matched her step for step. “Lola, what is your real name?” called out a reporter. “Lola, were you Governor Levine’s favorite escort? How many times did he use your services?” “How much did Client 15 pay for you?” “Is it true you’ve been offered $3 million to pose for Hustler?” “Are you going to write a book?” “What are you going to do with your overnight fame?” Misty stopped suddenly and faced the paparazzi head on; they nearly collided with her. “Here’s the deal, dudes. I have a band called Static Breakdown. Check it out on MySpace. We rock! Watch for my record label Riotous Girlz. Then she sprinted down an alley away from the media frenzy. Misty shook her head as she watched the Gov on TV giving his resignation speech with his dick between his legs. His wife, swollen eyes and sourpuss mouth, stood by as he apologized for his wrong doing and for letting the people down. For what specifically, he did not say. “He’s not the first power broker to have to suck it up and won’t be the last. Well, he should have been more careful to cover his tracks; these politicos get careless and think they’re above it all,” Misty said like an expert on the topic to the boys in the band. The tube flashed a photo of Misty at the beach in bikini wear. Static Breakdown responded in a chorus of cool, awesome, rock on, and what a hottie! They were taking a break from their Thursday night jam session to watch the breaking news. Misty had to come clean with the guys as the story was breaking. The lead guitarist said, “Yep, I knew something was up…Threatening phone calls, trips to St. Tropez, expensive leather jackets. You had to be a complete moron not to put two and two together.” The other guys agreed that they had known, too. “That’s a crock of shit. You guys had your skullcaps pulled over your eyes. I was the only one on the case,” challenged the lead guitarist. They threw couch pillows and other stuff at the cocky SOB. Her phone rang. She announced that it said “private.” “Here, let me answer it,” said the lead guitarist with his outstretched hand, and then he added, “My first duty as bodyguard.” “What the fuck,” Misty said as she threw the cell phone to him. “Yo, what do you want?” the guitarist answered. “Who’s calling?” Then he mouthed, it’s him! She reached for the phone. “Hey, Gov?” He was crying. “What’s up, dude? Are you okay? I mean, I know this is hard and all.” She walked into the bathroom and closed the door for privacy from Static Breakdown. The Governor told her through sobs that the worst part of all of this was that he was losing her. He said he hadn’t slept since the last time they met and that he realized he couldn’t live without her. Then he told her he planned to leave his wife so they could be together. “Oh my God! That’s crazy talk, dude. Listen, you don’t understand. I’m not sure how to say this, so I’ll just say it straight. I’m not into you, Gov. You’re my Dad’s age. What you’re talking about frankly creeps me out. Okay? I mean you’re a nice guy and all, but the guys I’m into are, well, not old. You know? It was just a gig for mega cashola. Capiche? Sorry, bye, Gov.” As she turned her cell phone off and sent him into telecomm oblivion, she peed, put her head in her hands and thought, what a freak, falling for his fucking escort. She flushed the toilet and bounded out of the bathroom. The band guys looked suspiciously clustered in the hallway by the door. “Were you fuckheads eavesdropping? Get off on a girl peeing or what? Sickos, all of you. Men are just plain fucking tragic.” The band guys had big question marks emblazoned on their faces and were uncharacteristically quiet waiting for the verdict. “It will cost ya,” she said, holding out her hand and pumping her fingers in a cough-up-the-dough gesture. Then she laughed, shimmied, and wiggled her booty. “Oh yeah, the boys in the band have to pay for the privilege. Everyone else is.” They looked both annoyed by her cockiness and in awe of her instant fame. “Shit, you look like a bunch of UFOs in headlights. Don’t you go getting freaky on me, too. Okay, here’s the lowdown: the Gov just told me that he’s leaving his wife cuz he can’t live without me. Tragic—huh?” They nodded in agreement. “And in case your curious minds want to know, no, I’m not running off with a washed-up political geezer.” She switched off the television with pundits and talking heads analyzing the implications of the scandal on Levine and his family and repeatedly showing Levine’s agony-of-defeat face. “Yada yada yada. I’m sick of this shit. Who’s ready to jam?” Misty asked, lips puckered, caressing the arms of the lead guitarist and keyboardist simultaneously and then tugging at the belt of the bassist, pulling him toward the garage. |
