DRIVER MUST WATCH

Anyone who ever said it never gets cold in L. A. never had to stand on Santa Monica Boulevard at 3 A. M. in February. A black leather jacket may make you look hot, but it don’t keep you warm. I can see my breath. It’s like I’m back in Iowa. You got to come from somewhere.

Last summer I was detasseling corn, now the only stalks I yank are old men’s dicks. Not that I’m a fag... kick your ass.... I don’t know, guess men are just hornier and willing to pay up front. Not that I don’t fuck chicks, too. I did a straight porn over in the Valley, a gangbang scene. One of the guys on the crew said he went to college to learn how to make movies. He just shook his head, said he didn’t care if he ever got laid again after watching people fuck for seventeen hours a day.

I nodded, told him I knew how he felt.

A big old Chrysler comes around the corner. It looks like a boat. They don’t make them anymore. It pulls to the curb.

“Would you like to go for a drive?” asks the Ken doll in the chaffeur uniform behind the wheel.

“Maybe.”

Ken doll holds up a virgin hundred dollar bill.

“Just found yourself a rider.”

I take the bill and the back door opens.

The old man in the back seat is a freak. He’s got this giant, lopsided head, a flabby barrel chest with a gut just as lopsided as his head, a couple of shriveled legs, and the whole thing’s held together by a spine shaped like a meat hook. He puts this pair of crutches in the back window and pats the seat for me to sit. But the really scary thing about him is his eyes. I was at a party once where the host ODed. His skin was the same color as this old man’s eyes. I close the door. Thank God it’s dark. The old man leans back and undoes his pants.

Click!

The dome light comes on, and I have to see this old freak with his dick in his hand.

“Could you turn off the light?”

He motions to the front seat and croaks, “driver must watch.”

I glance up and, sure enough, there’s Ken doll with a blank face waiting for the show.

As I go down on the old man, I remember that, when I was a kid at my old man’s Super Bowl parties, I’d scam cash from my drunk cousins by eating raw oysters.

One time my cousin looked down at me. “Christ, kid, how can you do that?” he said with a thick tongue, blinking slowly and weaving in place. When he handed me the money, he whispered, “how does it taste?”

I fingered the five dollar bill as I put it in my front pocket.

“Like money,” I said. “It tastes like money.”

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