j. l. navarro

Without A Trace

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They had foot long cocks hanging on the walls, puckered latex pussies in boxes, various cock rings and dildoes in all sizes under glass displays. I would sometimes haunt these places late at night, usually in disguise. Incognito, as the old timers would say. I play a squeaky-clean dad on TV. You know the type. My prissy fans wouldn't care to think of me hanging around these kinds of places, even on my own time, off camera. It's a whole image thing. I don't mind being typecast. Once the show is over, I'm history. I've thought of opening a strip club in Montana. Went there once to shoot a movie. The country is breathtakingly beautiful. I fell in love with it immediately. My image is somewhat of a curse. I need to pretend to be someone that is totally opposite of what I am in the real world. My agent already had me signed up to do a movie of the week playing a priest who goes all out to save an animal shelter in Hoboken, New York. I can't stand animals. Hate them.

So there I am, looking at rubber cocks and plastic pussies, when a man comes up to me and says, "Don't I know you?"

Understand-I'm wearing a false mustache, a long wig and tinted glasses, as well as a pair of false teeth to enhance the disguise. I wouldn't recognize myself if I were standing on the lineup. 

"I don't think so," I said, looking away to some tit magazines. Some women have boobs bigger than basketballs, and I pretend to be intrigued by this observation.

"Sure I do." The man was persistent. I began to think he was a reporter for a tabloid. Maybe he'd been tailing me. Maybe he knew exactly who I was. "The voice sounds very familiar." 

"No, no," I said. "You must be mistaken." I ducked around a video rack and made for the back door.

"Wait a minute," the stranger said. "I do know you. Let me think a moment." 

The door was just ahead of me. When I push it open, I see my humble out-in-public-very-dinged-don't-pay-any-attention-to-me means of transportation parked in the lot behind the building. It's an old Chrysler with a film of dust powdered over it. It's a sad looking car. East Hollywood porn shops are scattered about the neighborhood like pimples on a teenager. I know every one of them. During this time of night the seedy denizens lurk about like hung over banshees, darting furtive glances at one another. What it is about the sleazy atmosphere that attracts me, I can't say. There are street whores that hang around in clusters, or line up along the sidewalks. Sprinkle in a few cheap hotels, liquor stores, street thugs and drug dealers and you now have more than enough components to negate my TV screen fašade. My straight-laced fans would have a fit. 

I had planned on purchasing a dildo and hiring a prostitute, rent a room, buy a pint of expensive scotch, and indulge myself for an hour or two. The game plan was this: my erection and her mouth were a match; her vagina and the dildo were a match. On principle, I never have intercourse with a street whore. It was always the same thing with a little variation-different woman, different hotel room. However, that was it-a night on the town for me. The rest of the scenario was pretty well scripted and stayed intact. My enjoyment was in the shopping for the prosthetic and the selection of the woman. What dimension should it be tonight? I would ask myself. How about a 14 incher? I would then stroll outside and causally walk past the harlots who where for sale and appraise their stance and my physical reaction to them. Did this one or that one make be throb more than this other one? After I had made my choice, I would walk up to her and show her the molded penis I had already taken out of its container. "Can you handle this?" I would say in a low tone. They would invariably assure me that they could and we would proceed to the hotel room. 

Before I had entered the porn shop, I had spotted a painted woman standing near by with a group of colleagues who were soliciting passers-by. I had planned on taking her and a fresh dildo to a hotel room. She had the kind of face, the color hair, and the shapely legs I admired on a street whore. But my plans were now scuttled. The stranger had followed me outside into the parking lot. 

"Wait a minute," he said. "I know who you are."

Even more reason to get away from him, I thought. I was in a mild panic. What would this do to my ratings? I kept walking, heading toward my car, the car I used on excursions like these. The parking lot was softly lit. Next to my vehicle was a late model custom van. 

"Hey!" the stranger called. I could hear his shoes echoing rapidly over the asphalt. "I know who you are!"

I fumbled with the key to unlock the car as I heard the side door to the van behind me slide open. 

Someone said, "There you are, you pervert!"

A strong grip took hold of me around my neck and something strong smelling covered my nose and mouth. I was soon drowning in darkness.



This story is included in The Blood Cake Vendor and Other Stories.