Crabcakes

I flew out to Boston to drive back to California with Candace after she graduated from law school. We decided to take the scenic route: down through New York to D.C. then make our way West through the Smokies, down through N'Awlins and back up through Texas. We weren't in a hurry.

We ended up in Baltimore the first night, tired from a day of driving. Neither of us had been there before, except passing through, and now we were looking for a lead on a place to stay. We ended up at a restaurant on the waterfront, eating crabcakes, drinking beer, lying to the barman. When Candace and I went out together, we always invented an alter-ego to play for the evening. Most often, we are from out of the country, as in, “Oh, I’d love to go out with you sometime, but I’m flying back home to [insert name of country here] tomorrow morning. I’m so sorry!”

Fresh from finding out that my man produced porn as a side gig (and worn out from wondering when I'd be able to see myself on the Net, panting and moaning during one of our marathon sessions courtesy of a hidden camera), I thought that sounded like an interesting persona to experiment with. Candace usually sticks to the British designer character; it's the only accent she can muster with a reasonable level of consistency. The novelty of a cute porn producer and her high-fashion gal-pal caused a surge in free alcohol procurement at the bar, with corresponding increases in our levels of intoxication (not to mention rapidly-diminishing judgment).

Before we knew it, we found ourselves at the Hooters next door, with large burly doormen sniffing around, trying to do to us those things they are paid to prevent customers from doing to the girls in those awful shorts. There were no more crabcakes, but there surely was more alcohol. We still had no place to stay.

Some time later, hours in drunk time, we found ourselves in the apartment of the original barman. There were a dozen of us (unless I was seeing double) - a motley crew of Hooter girls, doormen, foodservice folk, the porn empress, and the fashionista.

Excited at his ability to be frank away from the confines and dictates of his work environment, the barman was asking me rapid-fire questions about porn and the production of it. I bullshitted my way through as much as I could, looking at Candace, rolling my eyes.

Now curious about his own potential future in the adult film biz, he popped a video of himself fucking his girlfriend into the VCR, then kept up a running narrative throughout the show, describing his artistic intentions as the film showed close-up shots of his girl sucking his cock, and then doing her damnedest to look appropriately ecstatic when he shot his prodigious load across her face, a goodly amount of it hitting her in the eye. If I had been less drunk at the time, I feel sure that I would have been laughing more at the surreality of it all, like I do now in retrospect.

I know I was fucked up, but I do remember that there was a lengthy startled silence after the video, which continued with the ubiquitous 2nd scene: haughty over the shoulder look from the girl, ohbabybabygiveittome, the sound of sticky balls slapping against ass and upper thighs, money shot finale as our hero furiously strokes his cock, look of anguish-slash-concentration smeared across his face, you know the drill. The silence was finally broken when he asked if I thought I could use him in any upcoming productions.

Not one to break the hearts of any John Holmes-wannabes, I tried to let him down gently. "Well, you know, we film in California." He looked disappointed but understanding, which was the response I was hoping for - the one that would end the conversation. I was relieved to not have to tell him that although he had a cock any girl would love to catch a ride on, myself included, he over-emoted, and his lighting choices were suspect (although, in fairness, that probably would technically have been my job)...

The next thing I knew, I awoke in the dark to the touch of unfamiliar hands. I had passed out on the couch, and I momentarily forgot where I was and with whom. I smelled the hot breath of liquored audacity pulsate across my neck and shoulders. I stiffened with fear as a doorman (and the biggest one of them naturally) worked his hands over my tits, down my stomach and toward the Promised Land.

I threw up a little in my mouth and tried to sit up. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I scanned the room for Candace. She was not there. She was my ride. I began to panic.

“Shh, shh baby. Don’t worry – it’s just me.” His hands began rhythmically working my shoulders.

“Yeah, no. What the fuck do you mean, 'it's just me?' I don't know who you are. You need to stop. Where’s Candace?”

“She’s in the other room. Don’t worry about that. Let’s just you and me have a little fun right here.”

I struggled to get out from underneath him and said “no” several more times as he lay on top of me, trying to work his tongue into my mouth.

I held back another gag as adrenaline began to course through my veins. I needed to get the fuck out of there, I didn’t know where Candace was, and this guy was a shooter, not someone you fight. Presumably, in his mind, it was okay to violate me either because I made porn, or because I was insanely drunk, or (probably) both.

I was lucky, and managed to get away. I couldn't do anything physically, so it would have to be more lies. First I told him I was pregnant (I had told them earlier that I was married). That fazed him not one bit, and he was no lighter on my stomach. Then I told him I was HIV-positive. That did the trick. He jumped back off of me, saying "Damn bitch! That ain't cool!"

Then I was afraid he would really hurt me, because now he was afraid too. I rushed through the dark to find Candace, woke her up, and we took off still half-drunk in the middle of the night. When we made it to D.C. dawn was breaking, and the sky began to turn light again. I threw up several times at the side of the road, the acidic taste of fear and disgust mixed with self-loathing forcing its way from me as I gasped ragged breaths, sucking in fresh air, and, I hoped some common sense.

Now, when I have to have genuine Baltimore crabcakes, I fly them to me. Luckily for me, it's a rare craving.