Hour 18: Porn Job

He’s drunk.
Not drunk enough.

But getting there.

He’s had a rough night. A shit night. Maybe the worst night he’s had in years.

So he drinks.
He’s drinking and watching porn.

Anything to dull the day that he can’t wait to be over.

He’s drunk.

But not so drunk he thinks the fake-looking woman giving a blow job on the screen is talking to him.

That is, until she says his full name and looks right at him.

No way, he thinks. No way is the porn talking to me.

The images on the screen go wavy and blurry.

He gets off the couch and kneels in front of his TV, trying to find the problem.

“Ah, you came closer, good. You are handsome, aren’t you? Yes you are. Too bad you’re on the other side.”

His heart skips.
Holy shit.
The porn is talking to him.
It actually is.

“I have an idea.”

The screen goes fuzzy again and the glass bends. The porn star pushes her hand through the screen and caresses his face.

Static dances across his cheek and lips as she touches him with her fingertips.

He kisses her fingers, electricity gently playing over his tongue.
He can taste her, smell her perfume and make up.

“Oh, I wish you could be here with us.”

He stares at the screen. The man in the video is standing still, unmoving, like a cardboard cutout.

She reaches for him again through the screen.

She laughs and looks behind her, then gives him what he suspects is supposed to be a naughty wink, and begins to push her face through the screen.

He can see the lights of a thousand camera flashes bouncing in her eyes.

He leans forward and she kisses him.

His heart stops and is jump started again.
Her kiss is magic.
Her kiss is life.

She pushes forward.

His hands move over her cheeks, through her hair to the back of her neck.

She pushes her electric tongue into his mouth.

He touches her porn star neck, her porn star shoulders, her porn star breasts.

“Come. Come be with me”

She cradles his face in her hands.

“Okay,” he says.

Her smile flashes wicked.

She grabs the hair on the back of his head and pulls hard.

His face smashes into the glass, breaking his nose.

He screams.

She pulls again. The glass cracking against his cheekbone.

Blood pours from his split lips and she pulls again.

And again.

And again.

Each time his face breaks and bleeds more.

Each time his screams become dimmer and duller.

She pulls until his face is unrecognizable and the sounds are like pudding falling from a second story window.

The TV screen broken, the porn playing out, he lies on the floor bleeding, still drunk, but not drunk enough.

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