Children of the Porn
The stage behind her was set with fluffy pink bedding, string lighting, and a combination of glass and rubber penises molded from both human and mythological creatures, large (some really large) and small, the small ones not getting much action lately. No one wanted to see realistic, normal-sized cocks anymore. Bigger was better for business. She snorted in the resin-heavy line of coke that some guy had given her the other night—guys were always throwing drugs at her—and then yelled at her roommate Ashley who was as basic and forgettable as they come to turn down that awful country music and proceeded with her Only Fans “teaser” video. Her skills had become almost Spielbergian, always the perfect angle and perfect lighting to accentuate every contour of her youthful and perfect self.
“I’ll see you—” She puckered up her plump lips, swollen and sore from multiple injections, and blew a kiss to the camera. “—later.” She stepped back and flipped around, her ass sculpted from a million hip-thrusts bouncing perfectly before hitting End, leaving her thirty-thousand and growing fans wanting more, always more.
Ashlea with an A—not with a Y like her loser roommate—started with the basic posts: tight skirt pics, bikini pics, ass pics from the gym mirror, and then moved onto slightly more provocative pics involving panties or lack thereof, the natural progression for the hot girls of Instagram. She always had an attention-grabbing ass that made men of all ages want her and women hate her, so the @Asslea handle was only fitting. Her Insta-fame grew, and she quickly became an influencer, aka: ass model, for the most popular and hot brands of fitness wear and spandex that leave nothing to the imagination, every crevice, every line, every lasered-smooth underlying surface exposed. You would see her anus through the stretched-thin material, but it was bleached. No one likes a brown asshole. That is so 2020.
Ninety-nine percent of her followers weren’t exactly the ideal customer base for LUX Leggings or Roar Underwear; they’d only buy the products if she could prove she had worn them evidenced by her sweat, maybe some piss, or vaginal discharge, something they could smell or lick while they jack off. But that didn’t matter. “Likes” and comments were gold—scratch that—platinum, and Ashlea’s sparkle could be seen from outer space.
Ashlea pulled her heels on, checked for “likes,” took a bump, scrolled through the incoming comments, took another bump and swallowed a couple prescription pills she borrowed from her roommate. She wasn’t sure what they were, but something was better than nothing. She summoned an Uber, and texted Becca back an “On my way bitch” with a crazy-faced emoji that symbolized just how wild and super busy her faux-celebrity life was.
The Uber arrived, and she climbed in the car that smelled like some weird incense or flavored vape. She watched the “likes” climb and scrolled through the growing comments from her followers complimenting her ass, the words—perfect, snack, delicious—dominating the page. She had once turned the comments off after getting annoyed by “all these men” trying to hit on her which she made very apparent by lashing out on all her social media platforms in a sort of I-hate-being-so-beautiful-and-desired campaign of posts. She followed that up with her I-don’t-spend-hours-a-week-doing-squats-and-hipthrusts-for-you-creeps campaign. After about a week, and a net loss of around a thousand followers and a heaping of self-worth, she turned the comments back on. Then she started an Only Fans page, tips welcomed and encouraged, Cash App preferred.
The Uber stopped. “Um, ma’am,” the driver said, looking back at Ashlea who was buried in her phone. “Ma’am,” he said a second time, more assertively.
Ashlea’s display went dark.
“We’re here,” he said.
Ashlea swallowed down more resin from that coke she got from that guy, and what was his name, again? John or Jacob, something J? She looked out, seeing that she wasn’t at all where she needed to be. She looked at the driver through the rearview, noticing him for the first time. “Um—” She sucked the back of her teeth. “No . . . We aren’t.”
“They have the road blocked off. This is as far as we can go.”
This Uber guy was annoyingly overweight and breathing heavily. Ashlea sighed loudly, rolled her eyes, and got out of the car, shutting the door, putting a barrier between perfection and the miserable lump of grossness in the driver seat. She headed in the direction of The Strip, the newest and most prestigious club in a city full of new and prestigious clubs, her iPhone display spotlighting her goddess-like facial features and artificially voluptuous lips. Honks and whistles flew at her, but went unnoticed, only irrelevant background noise as she walked and scrolled, walked and scrolled.
In the past hour, she had gained thirty-three more followers and had received more comments than she could keep up with. Nothing could stop her, especially when she bounced her ass in slow-motion. Could you blame them? She thought. I’d fuck me.
“Excuse me.”
Ashlea looked up to a policeman who was inches from her face. She could smell his after shave. There were several other cops and whoever these other uniformed people running around were, red and blue lights lighting up the sky.
“This is a crime scene,” the officer said.
“Goddamn it,” Ashlea rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“Look, you don’t understand. I’ve got to get over there,” Ashlea said, pointing through the police and ambulance and yellow tape.
“Sorry. Can’t let you through. There’s been another homicide.”
Ashlea shook her head and looked off, noticing a bloody sheet covering a body on a stretcher. Where the head should’ve been was a lumpy pile of mashed potatoes loaded with shattered skull and pulsated brains and mucous.
She snorted in frustration. “Look. I don’t care about a fucking homma—whatever you called it. People are expecting me.”
The officer who was in his forties—probably one of her paying fans, Ashlea thought—smiled, obviously about to let the hottest thing on the street go wherever she needed to go.
“Ma’am,” he said. “You’re going to have to go around.”
She looked back at the cause of this total bullshit and shook her head at the bloody body that lay under the once-white sheet. Selfish fucker.
“Ughh,” she said, giving this officer who could only dream of slipping his middle-aged, sour dick into something as perfect and young as her a look of total death.
A car full of hot college guys pulled up. “Hey, babe,” the one from the passenger seat with fluffy hair and stunning blue eyes said. “Where you going?”
Ashlea turned back to the officer and smirked before saying, “You had your chance.” She walked toward the car full of strange boys and flexed her ass with each step, giving the officer something to regret the rest of his life.
The officer just shook his head. “Psycho bitch.”
Ashlea climbed into the back of the black BMW, sandwiched between two okay-looking guys. The guy she wanted with the great hair and piercing light blue eyes was in the front.
The driver looked back through the rearview. “Where we going?”
“Where do you think?” Ashlea said, the only choice for a hot girl like her was obvious. When they didn’t answer, she said, “The Strip . . . obviously. I couldn’t get through because of all that bullshit. I mean . . . who gets murdered on a Saturday night in the middle of downtown?”
The guys laughed.
“Yeah,” said the hot guy from the passenger seat. “The nerve. So . . . what’s your story?”
“What’s my story?”
“Yeah,” he said. “What do you do?”
“I’m an influencer.”
He nodded and smirked. “Aren’t we all?”
Ashlea didn’t know how to respond, like the air was just sucked from her lungs. Her cheeks warmed and that damned resin hit her throat again, and what the fuck kind of bunk coke was that? The car seemed to shrink some; all of a sudden there wasn’t enough leg room.“Um, no.” She composed herself. “Not everyone is an influencer,” she said, unconvincingly.
“No, no. It’s cool. Influencing is cool.” He turned back toward her. “If you’ve got an ass . . .” He was about to say something else but shifted gears. “I do a little influencing of my own.”
“Really.” Ashlea wondered what brands he worked with but then felt the urge for another bump, and not of that shit she had on her. “Do y’all have any coke?” She suddenly got upset with herself for getting into their car without this knowledge. Let’s hope to fuck they do.
The guys all smiled, seemingly pleased by her question.
“Well,” the guy next to her said as he fished a baggie of white powder from his pocket and held it up, displaying it to everyone. “Since you asked.”
They parked and took turns snorting the powder that was much, much better than that trash she got from whoever that loser was the other night, before walking up to The Strip where the muscular, bearded door guy quickly waved Ashlea and her new friends in, avoiding the line of about fifteen not-thems.
Ashlea’s friend Becca came up, tall and lean, long dark hair, jeans practically painted on her fit ass, sexy as fuck.
“Heyyy,” Becca said.
“Heyyy,” Ashlea said.
Ashlea noticed the boys salivating over her friend, practically fucking her with their eyes, so to steal some of the attention back, she grabbed Becca’s ass, pulled her close, and started dancing to whatever song was playing. Becca didn’t deserve a solo performance. Ashlea wouldn’t allow it.
Becca was also an influencer and had an Only Fans account but not nearly as many subscribers as Ashlea, which she attributed mainly to not caring about it or posting enough to grow her following, and just not feeling the need for all that attention. But Ashlea knew that was total bullshit and that Becca had a great ass but not an ass worthy of stardom like her own. Becca may be able to pull off ten thousand followers, she thought, but not thirty thousand. No way.
The guys, mainly the driver of the BMW who was named Frank, bought several rounds of drinks. They went down and more followed, mixed in with quick bumps of coke. Ashlea was hot but feeling good from the combination of uppers, downers, whatever those prescription pills are her roommate left out. The booming bass from the music sent vibrating pulses of warmth through her body. More drinks came. The guys’ eyes were eager and excited as they watched these two beautiful young women dance, check their phones, type responses, tongue each other, and speak loudly about how sexual they were and how all men wanted to fuck them. Sex is power when you’re young and fucking flawless. The guys did not argue this.
Becca kept forcing herself on the hot guy with the piercing eyes who was called Brandon—hot name for a hot guy—so Ashlea moved in and reclaimed her territory by grabbing his crotch. He’ll do, she thought. She brought his mouth to hers. The tip of her tongue gently danced with his, which felt electric, before she pulled back and said, “Don’t go anywhere.” She smiled her infamous pageant-winning smile and walked toward the restroom, the floor like an ocean, the music pounding deep into her. A guy nudged her shoulder hard.
“Hey, asshole,” she said. “Watch it.”
He kept walking, obviously too intimidated by her to turn and look or apologize.
She made it into the restroom, and there were about twenty other women crowded in there. Fuck. She pulled out her phone and noticed the “likes” and comments from her teaser post beginning to fade. A stall opened and she rushed in, cutting off the others who had been waiting.
“Hey, bitch. We were waiting.”
“I’ll only be a second. Rude.” Ashlea pulled her panties down below her skirt and sat down letting the stream of warm urine pour from her. She positioned her camera just right, capturing her black Roar panties around her ankles and the awesome heels—Chamandi brand—and her Gucci bag, around two-thousand dollars in all sent to her for free to model. She went through the filters and uploaded the pic with the caption: Don’t my Roar panties and Gucci bag look good with my Chamandi heels? Make sure to tune in tonight if you want to see more. Hashtag. Hashtag. Hashtag.
She came out expecting angry eyes, but no one noticed. As she walked out of the overcrowded restroom full of what she thought of as sixes and sevens, none of them in the same league as her, she felt a dribble of pee between her legs and realized she didn’t wipe. Fuck it.
The coke had her wired up, her heart racing like the Kentucky Derby, banging against her chest cavity, trying to escape. The too many shots of booze and her lame roommate’s crazy pills had the walls and everyone inside of them swaying back and forth. She focused as best she could through the churning crowd to the bar, looking for Brandon’s piercing eyes looking back at her, but he was nowhere. Neither was Becca, that fucking bitch. She pushed her way back to her spot at the bar where only VIPs are supposed to hang and wondered who the fuck these other losers were crowding her. She flagged down the bartender. Over the music and crowd, she said, “Did my friends leave?”
The bartender looked at her incredulously. “Who?”
“Becca . . . and the guys I was with.”
He shook his head in quick short back-and-forth movements as he toweled a glass clean. “I’m not sure. Sorry.” He walked off.
It was then Ashlea realized she was holding a drink she didn’t remember ordering, the condensation like ice on her hands.
The floor began moving more beneath her in waves, and this retched song that was so last year drilled into both sides of her temples as everything started closing in around her, constricting. She leaned on the sticky bar and tried flagging down the bartender who saw her and quickly turned away, mouthing something to the manager. They both glanced over and then eyed each other with some weird look, and what the fuck was going on? Struggling to catch her breath—the air thin and depleted—she left her drink and swam through the blurry crowd of people that melded together like dancing water colors, all eyes on her. She walked out, the muggy, warm night air hitting her. She looked around, unable to focus. The towering buildings and continuous stream of people coming and going was overwhelming. Breathe, Ashlea. Breathe. She finally spotted an Uber parked along the curb. She stumbled over on heavy, weak legs and climbed in.
“Where to?”
***
Ashlea woke to the pounding on her door—bang, bang, bang.
“Ashlea,” her roommate said. “Your mom has been calling non-stop.”
Ashlea rolled over and squinted her eyes, focusing through the blinding sun that must’ve been absorbing the Earth or at least her room, her head throbbing. The pink walls and fluffy blankets looked no sexier than Pepto Bismol in this lighting which made her want to vomit. It took her eyes a moment to focus enough to read the clock. 2:45 p.m.? Holy fuck.
“Ashlea, call your mom.”
“Yes, yes. I hear you.” She reached for her phone, tensing up from the raw, sore feeling coming from her ass. There was a beer bottle sitting on the nightstand she was afraid to touch. She wasn’t sure what her fans asked for last night—she couldn’t remember anything; it was all a blur—but she had her suspicions. You’ve got to stay creative to stay relevant in this world and to give your fans what they want. Requests are welcomed. Pain sells.
On her phone were several missed calls and texts from her mother.
Mom: Are you ok?
Mom: Where are you?
Mom: Text me back! I’m worried about you!
Mom: Ashley, call me
Ashlea snickered a little at the misspelling of her name—even her mom couldn’t spell it right—and really didn’t feel like dealing with her mom trying to be all parental and concerned and stuff. She hated it when she got that way. It was very unbecoming.
Ashlea deleted the texts and went into her Only Fans account, expecting at least one hundred new followers and a blossoming pay day on her Cash App. She looked at the number of followers that . . . had gone down by eight? What the fuck?
She ran through what she could remember of last night, the hot guy Brandon, and got more upset thinking about that bitch Becca kidnapping him. She’s such a slut. But it wasn’t surprising. The Becca’s of the world were like skinny vultures, ready to tear into the scraps left by much hotter women at any chance they got, doing anything to get noticed by men. Pathetic.
Ashlea took a bubble bath and got ready, applying her MAC makeup and concealer, trying to hide the dark circles that were a byproduct of last night and the many nights before. Even not at her best, she was still hotter than ninety-nine percent of the women in this city, still a ten.
She turned on the lighting and equipment and spread her skirt, showing her new pair of Coco thong panties, promising her loyal fans a real treat later. If they wanted more, which they always did, she’d give them more.
“Aren’t these Coco thong—” she said the word “thong” as slowly and sexy as possible. “—panties to die for? Stay tuned, tonight. You won’t want to miss the show.” She blew a kiss through her unnaturally full lips and hit End. She hadn’t put much thought into what she was going to do, never did. Her fans usually led the way with a dangling carrot of potential tips, the largest players having the most influence.
She swallowed down the two pills her roommate must’ve accidentally left out on the counter—thanks, bitch—with a swig of Grey Goose and Ubered to Rock and Roll, the best and most expensive sushi bar in town, snorting the rest of the trash coke she had gotten from whoever that guy was, she couldn’t remember.
She walked in. Everyone turned, their eyes glued to her as she scrolled through the “likes” and comments from her teaser post.
“Can you fit a one-liter up there?” one of her sicko followers posted. Creep.
She scrolled and stopped.
“I want to see you bleed.”
She shook her head and sighed, turning the display off, and there he was: Brandon. Looking hot as ever, his hair a messy masterpiece, his eyes more crystal than the night before. He pretended to not notice her walk in—the too cool act—which was kind of cute in a boyish way. She walked up next to him and leaned on the bar, her hotness commanding attention. When he didn’t say Hi, Ashlea made the first move.
“Brandon.”
“Uh, yeah.” He turned to her with a confused look on his face. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
Ashlea snorted a small laugh. “Um, yeah.” She looked into those fantastic eyes of his, smiled, refreshing his memory, but his face didn’t change. “Ashlea, silly.”
He smacked and twisted his mouth in thought. “I’m sorry. Drawing blanks.”
She hated to do this, like REALLY FUCKING HATED it. “Becca’s friend.”
His confusion turned to a half grin. “Oh . . . Becca’s friend. Sure. Everyone knows Becca.”
Ashlea wasn’t sure what game he was playing, but his cuteness was wearing off. The bartender brought him his tab which he signed to close out. Staring down at his ticket, he said, “Your friend is quite the screamer.” The bartender came back up and he and Brandon laughed about something as they did that cool fist bump thing that guys did. He faced Ashlea, smiled, and walked from the bar.
Ashlea felt her heart racing, and it got hard to breathe, and what the fuck is going on? She turned on her phone—her crutch—and noticed several outgoing messages to Becca she didn’t remember sending and that Becca hadn’t texted her back. She gasped for air that was thinning by the second and felt dizzy, the restaurant and everyone inside it beginning to spin around her. She raced toward the restroom and splashed cold water on her face. Staring into the mirror and gripping onto either side of the porcelain sink, thinking about Brandon giving her the cold shoulder and Becca not responding and losing eight fucking followers despite shoving a fucking beer bottle up her asshole, her frustration growing and growing until it came out in a screeching, guttural yell that lasted for several seconds. Her phone beeped.
Mom: Ashley, call me. I’m worried about you.
Another beep.
Mom: Do I need to come up there?
Another beep.
Mom: Please tell me you’re taking your medication!
Medication? Um, yeah mom. If coke was prescribed, sure. Has everyone gone fucking crazy?
The door swung open.
“Is everything alright?” some guy asked.
Ashlea caught her breath and tried to compose herself as the guy said something to her.
“What?” Ashlea said.
“You need to leave,” he said.
Ashlea gave this loser server guy the stare of death and walked briskly past him. Her legs felt heavy on the ocean floor as she walked toward the exit. She felt everyone’s stares. She tried her hardest not to look, but the smiles on these people were wider than their faces, everyone of them like demonic clowns at a circus. A laughter grew around her, amplified and more hollow than anything human. She couldn’t breathe and . . . everything went white, all sounds muffled into one static hum.
***
Ashlea woke up in the back seat of some car, the driver pushing on her.
“Lady, we’re here.”
She looked out at the night surrounding her apartment building and wondered how she got there. Her head was throbbing.
“Twelve dollars,” the driver said.
“Oh,” she said, a déjà vu suddenly washing over her. This driver—this car—she’s seen both before. She pulled out her wallet from her Gucci bag and her Amex from her wallet, handed it to the driver.
“Ashley,” he said, reading from the card.
“With an A at the end,” Ashlea said.
“What?” the driver asked. “Looks like a Y to me.” He handed the card back to her.
Ashlea looked the card over and of course, they misspelled her name. Is Ashlea with an A really that fucking hard to spell?
“Thank you,” the all-too familiar driver said.
Ashlea pulled on the handle, but the door was locked.
“Um, the door’s locked?”
The driver just stared at her flatly for a moment, before unlocking the door and saying, “Sorry.”
Ashlea opened the door and got out, her mind already moved on from the déjà vu and eyes already deep in her phone. The driver rolled down the passenger side window, leaned over, and said, “Don’t forget to lock your door. There’s some sicko around, butchering people. They found two more bodies tonight.”
Ashlea’s eyes didn’t move from her phone, like she didn’t hear him at all.
“He likes to see young women bleed,” he said.
Still no response.
“I want to see you bleed.”
“I’m sorry,” Ashlea said, totally uninterested. “Two more what?” Her eyes didn’t leave the bright phone display.
The driver just shook his head and rolled up the window, pulling the black BMW from the curb and driving away.
Ashlea suddenly realized who the driver was. It was Frank, Brandon’s friend, from the other night. Did he not recognize me? she wondered. Surely he had to have, right? I’m not one to go unnoticed, especially in this skirt. There’s no way. What the fuck is happening, right now? She felt her chest and face warming and her heart beating faster. Looking up at the stairs that led to her apartment, it seemed like they went on forever. She trudged her way up, one heavy step at a time, and tried steadying her shaky hand enough to insert the key and unlock her front door. After several missed attempts, the key finally found its target, and the knob turned. The door opened and a foul odor punched her in the face.
“Ew . . . what the fuck?” She walked in, fanning her nose, and turned on the lights seeing her apartment that looked like one of those fucking homeless encampments, with bottles, garbage, and clothes strewn about. “Ashley!”
There was no answer as it appeared her boring and apparently gross roommate was out. Yuck. She walked into her room and closed the door on that awful smell, lighting up her phone and reading through the comments, stopping at one.
“I want to see you bleed.”
She took in a deep breath, slid her skirt down to her ankles and stepped out, cranked the lighting and equipment, positioned her fluffy pink blanket just right, and got ready to entertain. She started with standard dildo penetration, but the tips weren’t coming in.
She typed: Well, what do y’all want to see? Biggest bidder wins.
The responses began rolling in. I want to see you bleed. I want to see you bleed. I want to see you bleed. I want to see you bleed.
They kept coming, a relentless assault.
You’ve got to stay creative to stay relevant in this world and to give your fans what they wanted. Pain sells.
She typed: Hold tight. I’ll be right back.
She walked from her room and returned a few moments later, sitting back in the golden position for her fans where every pore of her flawless self was illuminated perfectly by the lighting. She looked into the camera and held up the large knife for her fans to see, turning it this way and that way. The tips started coming in. She placed the knife at her throat and smiled that mischievous, cute, sexy smile that only she could pull off. More tips poured in. She winked and slid the sharp edge across her throat, a clean slice that stung like fire and then ice, before a flood of warmth poured over her chest. As her throat filled with venomous cotton, she saw her dull, basic roommate through the reflection on the screen as she watched the relentless tips and comments rolling in. She smiled until her eyes went hazy and everything went dark.
Horror Sleaze Trash 