June 14, 2008
Under My Skin
Perdida Cheyenne breezed into town last night after spending a week in Capetown for preproduction meetings on Crocodemon. She gave me a call, knowing full well that I pitched her Fuck Machines idea to the assholes at Mildew. She wanted to know how it went, but she happened to catch me at a bad time. I had to clean the whole Paint Shaker before the cats from Mildew came around. Riffs, Mikey, and Carl have been living there for months, and it’s turned into quite a sty as a result.
I shut off the vacuum and asked to call her back in half an hour. She told me she wouldn’t be around and told me, instead, to drop by her apartment and hang out when she got back. I couldn’t say no to that.
I managed to get over there around 4:30, found the key under the plastic rock at the base of her door, and took the alone-time opportunity to troll for any sort of sexy photos or videos. The best I could come up with was a video of her appearance on MTV’s Charlie Rose for Teens, hosted by teen heartthrob Gil McElroy (frontman of the NüMetal band Linden Necromicon), in which she looked sorta hot (she spent most of the interview in a tanktop, although most of the shots were from the neck up—still, nice makeup and that sexy voice allowed me to get up and off with less effort than usual).
Afterward, I popped a frozen pizza in the oven for us to munch on whenever she decided to show up, blew a joint, and just tripped out in her crazy bedroom. Around nine, I heard the front door open and Perdida call my name. I came out into the living room and noticed she looked very upset.
“What’s up, Perdy?” I asked, inventing an endearing nickname on the spot.
“Never call me that,” she said, her voice icy and jagged.
“So anyway… You don’t look so good.”
“I had a rough afternoon,” Perdida sighed.
“Okay,” I said, “but what happened?”
“Christ,” Perdida sat on her funky, lip-shaped couch and started bawling. “The guys at the studio hate Crocodemon, so they want to sink it. And there was this guy, this producer I was banging—not Corman or Sloane, but pretty high up—and he’s basically going along with them, even though I made him promise that if I let him do his thing with me, I could have creative control.”
“So they took it away?” I asked.
“No,” she sobbed. “They gave me so much, now they’re blaming me for script problems and location problems and actors who can’t say the dialogue. I mean, how is it my fault they don’t get the dialogue? They won’t even let me coach them.”
“Fuck ‘em,” I said. “Actors can suck my nuts. And have.”
“Great solution,” she griped. “Girth, they’re going to fire me.”
“What do you want me to do about it? Don’t you have something else lined up?”
“No,” she bawled. “There’s been some talk of a TV project about the whimsical adventures of a salty broad with senile dementia, but I’m afraid that might go to someone else.”
“Who else could possibly write something so terrible?”
She glared at me through her tears. Her look softened for a moment, and then she said, “I have an idea.”
And what an idea. She decided to write a screenplay version of Fuck Machines—with my permission, of course. She insisted on having a long, somewhat tedious conversation about my aim for the album. When I tried to balk, Perdida reminded me that I owe her since she gave me half the storyline. At first, the whole conversation annoyed me, but after a few hours, I found myself entranced by her passion, the sparkle in her eyes, and her breasts.
“Girth,” she said after awhile, “you have really interesting ideas.” She placed one of her small hands on my knee.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I don’t want to sound too forward,” Perdida said, leaning in close, “but I think there’s something we have to do before I can really understand the world you’ve created.”
“What’s that?”
Perdida slid her tongue across my teeth until I opened my mouth. We kissed for a few minutes, and when she grasped the general crotch area of my leather pants, I took that as license to grope her. She seemed really into it, but abruptly stood up and walked away. “I have to go to the bathroom, Matthew,” she remarked without turning around.
“Now?!”
As soon as the bathroom door closed, my phone rang. Colby.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he whined.
“Colby,” I said, suddenly remembering the bug. “Listen, I got this idea…”
“I know all about your ideas.” I could hear his sneer.
“No, Colby,” I said. “I don’t know what her plan is, but I just felt like… You keep saying someone’s going to kill her, right?”
“Right.” Icy.
“So I figured the closer I get, the more she’ll let me into her inner circle, and I can figure out who the culprit is,” I said.
A long silence from the other end. Then: “That’s actually a good plan. But if I hear anything about you instigating any sort of…touching of her, I will kill you myself.”
“Sure you will,” I laughed. “It doesn’t even matter. I can’t fucking stand her. I just want to bone her. Is that so wrong?”
“I suppose not,” Colby sighed.
“Besides, I don’t have to instigate anything,” I added. “She’s totally into me.”
Perdida stepped out of the bathroom, wearing a boner-inducing red lace teddy that hugged her form in all the right places. “Okay,” she said. “You need to leave now.”
“What?!” I snapped my phone shut and stood, trying to surreptitiously manipulate my erection to make sure she could see it bulging in my pants.
“I have someone coming over,” Perdida said. “I think I have a really good start on Fuck Machines. Thanks for letting me get inside your head.”
“No…problem?” I couldn’t help feeling baffled. In my experience, when a woman steps out of the can in lingerie, she wants you.
“I’ll call you, okay?” Inching me toward the door.
“Yeah…”
I went down to the hearse to get myself off, then drove home to the silent, empty apartment. I wish Margo would come home.
Written by Girth McDürchstein on June 14, 2008 8:52 AM
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