Shag Wagon

by pirategrrl

 

Every winter, greater Miami is overrun by these middle-class pissants who come to forget their morbid obesity and drink some "malternative" beverage at a hot café. As one of the South Beach beautiful people, you'd think I'd like being ogled by the tourists. And while I guess in one sense I do, it pisses me off when they slow the rental Taurus down to like five miles an hour to stare at some nice abs or a killer rack on the beach. It's ok to look – discretely – but this open-mouthed gawking shit has to end.

What do these aliens from the Planet Indiana think when they see me? Do they think I'm lucky in the same self-deluding way that they blame their tobacco addiction and 75 pounds of gut fat on cigarette companies and a glandular condition? The truth is that I'm just destined to get more than my share of attention and therefore more than my share of poontang. Don't like it? Well then get your ass to the gym. And it's always been like this; as a high school sophomore, I lettered in football in Pompano Beach High the year we won the regional championships. I capped that season by fucking that hot Cuban art teacher in the faculty lounge, which was usually filled with cigarette smoking teachers bitching about their low salaries and problem students. Even now, at 25, I spend a few hours a week in the gym, and have ripped arms, six pack abs and a firm ass that makes chicks stare like a dog at a raw, dripping side of beef. Sex for me has been so easy and natural, that it's like a trip to the drive thru for all of those average people who fuck up South Beach during tourist season.

But maybe I am just a little bit lucky, especially when you consider my job.

I fuck on film.

No, I'm not like some pimply butted hedgehog screaming "I've got wood" after four hours of self-stroking to prepare for a herpes whore named Tiffanee VanderSleeze. See, my buddies PJ, Alonzo and me film our hobby and put the films on the web for perverts, sex addicts and insurance agents to download for $29.95 a month. And there are lots of perverted, sex addicted insurance agents in this world.

What's our angle?

Fucking amateurs – banging honest to God first timers who've never even so much flashed a boob shot. I'm talking about the kind of normal woman who sits next to you in Mass, just close enough so that you can smell her perfume, soap and shampoo. The kind of woman about whom you wonder whether she'd be a crazy fuck, just before your Catholic guilt gets too strong and you go back to paying attention to the Homily. It's hard for me to believe that we ever got away with filming first-time amateur sex, but we did it so often with so many different types of women.

The suburb girls who drove to the beach from the Boca Raton house that mommy got in the divorce.

The skanky ghetto hoes who just want to get out of their pimp's crib for two hours.

The tourist girls on vacation from Sweden.

The housewife who was pissed at her boring life but too scared to really change it.

We'd pick up the bitch, talk some filthy smack to her, then fuck her in that old van that Alonzo had, filming the whole crazy scene. Alonzo's van was one of those enormous 1970's monsters, the star-shaped windows on the side. It was all so cheesy that we just had to call it the "Shag Wagon".

And there was never a shortage of fresh pussy, 'cause we had the "bitch recruitment" scam down cold. See, my buddy PJ worked in a photographer's office and he would hand out his business cards to girls, telling 'em he was gonna make 'em famous. Of course they never believed him because PJ was way creepy, even compared to me. But most would call the number, and it was an honest to god photographer's office. I guess the guy was kind of famous too.

So PJ would chat her up on the phone, say that the photographer wanted her for a shoot. PJ would lay on the charm and take the bitch out for lunch, dinner, clubbing or something, and make her feel like a queen. He'd tell her about how his boss had found that German uber-model who married the magician and is now a multibizillionaire. Then he'd explain why she was going to be famous too – usually some bullshit about how the new thing was to go for models with a "real" look – kind of like how every pair of jeans is a little broken in when you buy 'em.

But first, you know, you gotta sign the release.

What I never understood is that the bitches would always sign these four pages of tiny type ironclad legal bullshit that said we could do anything to them and make it all public. If they had read it, they would have seen exactly what they were in for in the Shag Wagon. Words like:

Naked

Sex acts

Permanent

Public display

Degrading

People want to be famous and they will cut corners to get there.

With the release in hand, PJ would tell the bitch to meet him somewhere and that he would come by with the crew to pick her up for a shoot. I guess that makes me and Alonzo the crew, but whatever.

So we'd swing by some spot and get her, and as soon as she got in the van, PJ had the camera going, filming everything that she did. Sure it made the bitches uncomfortable to have a camera stuck in their face in the back of some cheesy van, but they settled down when he said that they had to do it, just to make sure that she was warmed up for the real shoot.

The bitch would always exhale and sit back, a little nervous, but afraid to show it.

Then one of us would start talking about why this bitch was going to be the perfect model.

For the 38 year old housewife: you look like what every woman wants to be. You could sell water to a drowning woman.

For the college girl down on spring break: You look so sophisticated – you gettin' a PhD?

For the girl from Columbia who was cleaning hotel rooms after escaping the civil war: se aparece como una chica Europea y mas rica (you look like a rich European).

And the bitch would always relax. When they did, one of us would turn up the heat.

Alonzo's favorite was to talk about her lips. He say some shit into the air, something like when she smiles for the camera, every man will dream about having them lips wrapped around his dick.

Yeah, I'd say, those are some prime cocksucking lips. Put some gloss on them, paint 'em red, and every kid from here to L.A. will whack off thinking about those lips.

The bitch would be squirming again, but PJ would calm her, saying shit like sex sells everything. Right honey, look at Cosmo, they look sexy as hell, but the cover models aren't actually having sex, are they? Look this is just how people in the industry talk.

Exhale from the bitch, who would start wondering what she had gotten herself into.

Then PJ would get his professional voice and explain how to model to the bitch. Look, he'd say, when you're modeling, you've have to do what they call fuck the camera. No, not really fuck the camera, just look into and think about the best sex you've ever had. The best sex you've ever wanted to have.

Then PJ would remind the bitch of something sexual they had talked about – a boyfriend, a husband, a crush on a celebrity. To fuck the camera, he'd say, you need to look at it, and think about that sex - what it felt like to be touched, what it felt like to be wanted, what it felt like to be pounded, what it felt like to come. You need to look at the camera, and without saying a word, tell everyone who sees that picture that you are a woman who knows how to come, and come hard.

Show me now, PJ would say, look at the camera and show me that look.

It was kinda cute because these bitches would try too hard and twist their faces like they were giving that last push to birth the second twin.

That's close, we'd encourage her, that's close, trying to hold back a laugh. Try saying what you're thinking about, that always helps.

And women can never really talk dirty, so the bitch would mumble some self conscious shit about "touch me" or "take me" or some crap like that.

That's close, oh man PJ – this girl has talent, we'd always say, the laughter barely held back. We can help you get there.

You love being on your knees don't you? Silence. Come on, girl answer me.

Uh, um, yes.

Yes what?

Yes, I love being on my knees.

Good, another one of us would say, you love being naked for us don't you?

Oh yeah. I love being naked for you all.

Is that right? You like being naked? Then show us your tits bitch, we'd say, and, incredibly, the bitch always would.

Your dad loves it when he comes in your mouth, doesn't he?

Almost as much as your brother loves it when he comes in your ass, right bitch?

We'd lay that sort of dirty shit on her until she let go and listened to it like she was ordering food at the deli counter -- yeah give me the pork loin and chicken breast. Her tits hanging out, swaying as Alonzo drove the Shag Wagon around aimlessly, talking about body parts and sex acts until it was so routine that the conversation and the nudity lost their shame, like being at the gynecologist's office for a twice yearly cervix scraping.

And at that point, the star of the show – usually me – would whip out his dick, and say suck it. Yeah that's right, I said suck it. You know you want to.

She would always suck it.

Not sometimes.

Not most of the time.

Every goddamn time the bitch would get down on her knees and suck. We'd film a few minutes of that, all with lots more dirty talk.

Ever had a dick that big, you filthy whore?

Did your mom teach you to do that so well?

Then we'd spin her around, pull her ass cheeks apart, let the camera film her holes.

Then we'd do the standard porn collection of doggy style face the camera, doggy style away from the camera, girl on top, guy on top and end with the money shot.

Every girl would get a faceful of spunk as we all shouted "you've been shag wagoned beeeeeatch." Kind of like it was our trademark, which I guess it was.

But after the star of the show jizzed all over the girl's face, we would change gears. PJ would rap to her for a while; I mean like some really nice, sweet shit, and definitely not the sort of filth that we spewed when she was getting fucked on film, but nice, comforting stuff that the "men are from mars women are from venus" books say women love to hear.

You can imagine it: that was great, baby you're hot, naw, we never meant none of that, it's just talk. You're a real lady, a real nice girl; we just got a little out of hand. Everybody gets freaky and it don't mean nothin'.

Then we'd drop her off at a spot we'd say was the shoot location, and say look, if it makes you feel better, take the tape with you, we don't need it. Then PJ would hand her a tape as she was getting out of the van. We'd wait until she looked down at the tape PJ handed her – which read "THIS ISN'T THE REAL TAPE, SEE YOUR NASTY BITCH SELF ON SHAG WAGON.COM".

They'd shit because they would realize that they had been conned – tricked into being used and degraded like a common whore – and that all of it was on film, with their permission.

The farm girl on vacation from Wisconsin girl threw the huge rock and almost hit the rear window.

That black girl from Trinidad must have been a professional sprinter, because she almost caught the van as we burned rubber to get away.

But most of 'em just stood there and cried, with the come slowly drying on their faces.

Then we'd edit the tapes, put 'em on the internet, and charge $29.95 for horndog porn addicts to download. Let's be real – the internet is nothing but a superhighway of filth brought in stereo living color to every computer from Albany to Zimbabwe. But it's all so form, it's all so produced that you can't ever see porn where the girl was a real amateur, so real and so amateur that she cried when she figured out the score.

That was our angle, but now I was retiring.

Retiring is the wrong word. We had gotten an offer from some guy who had a bunch of other porn sites. He was going to take the Shag Wagon national, get some new guys. Each of us was getting a check, a big check, like 50,000 just for having signed a release to let him use our images; isn't it funny that we had never signed our own releases? PJ and Alonzo were going to keep working, but it was time for me to move on.

Sometimes, they said, I scared people. Sometimes things weren't always perfect.

My throat was dry as we headed over to Coconut Grove to pick up the special girl they had picked out for the episode that we were calling "Ryan's retirement bash." Like I was 70. I sipped one of the bottles of water in the cooler, and looked out the window.

There was that new song on the radio by that screechy Alannis Morrissette clone.

Sex Addicts, Politics, Grad Students

Why God, Why?

Authors, Carpetbaggers, Southern men

Why God, Why?

 

What have I done to deserve this black horror?

Surrounded on all sides with the hell of Southern men

Like a Noteboom character, I'm wordy and alone

Why God, Why?

 

Smokers, Sex Addicts, Hondas

Why God, Why?

Southern men, Hondas, Grad Students

Why God, Why?

 

I sighed as it ended, thinking about the video for the song, and how sweet it would be to chug a load of come on to the face of the singer, a 19 year old brunette with decent cleavage who wore those Italian wife beater t-shirts.

I would miss fouling women like this. Once we had started making our films, all other sex was like watching TV with no volume. It looked the same, but it seemed incomplete, distant. I would miss the charge, the edge that came from how wild and extreme these scenes were. I looked out the window, and saw the parade of halter tops, pedicures, pulled back long hair and faces ready for their close up and thought how everything after this would just be so, well, vanilla.

I finished the water, and tossed the bottle in back. I grabbed another bottle. My throat was really dry and PJ laughed up in front.

"You're going out like a big star today Ryan," PJ said. He was filming me finish the second water. "Yeah, you're gonna be a big big star today." Alonzo and PJ laughed their nervous laughs; they were excited for this one too. "Yeah man," PJ said, "everything about today is going to be special. The girl, the scene, even that water is special." PJ laughed and Alonzo punched his arm.

"Yo yo yo, check it out," Alonzo said, slowing the van down as he spotted the woman, standing outside a Starbucks.

Alonzo pulled alongside her, and I opened the door. She was in the van and talking before any of us could say anything.

"Jesus PJ, you guys are fuckin' late," she said, looking really pissed off. She had to have been the boldest woman we'd ever had; this was going to be sweet. She wasn't what you'd call conventionally attractive. She was different, kind of like one of those singers that you see on the country music channel singing about sex in a Nashville double entendre sort of way, playing a guitar with a lot of appropriate girl muscles.

I was getting hard thinking about how good it would be to hold her down as she pushed back with her powerful legs and back, trying to shove me through the roof of the van as I fucked her.

"You got quite a mouth on you, Bethany," PJ said.

"Do I?" she said more as an accusation than as a question. "That may be true, but at least I own a watch PJ. So what's the deal with the camera?"

"We just want to help you get ready for the shoot," Alonzo said. "You know, like warm you up for the big afternoon."

"Whatevah. So why are so quiet?" She said, turning to me.

"No reason, just watching you and trying to figure out what you're going to look like on the cover of Glamour," I said.

"Bullshit, you look like you're about to fall asleep. I guess you're just tired or something. Do girls really fall for that 'Glamour' shit anyway?" she said.

Normally I never let bitches give me that kind of lip. You gotta, you know, put 'em back in their place or the next thing you know they will expecting a call back the next day or something. Fuck that and fuck her too. But I had to hold myself back because this bitch was bold but she wasn't hooked yet.

"You're the first model we've ever had who couldn't see herself on the cover of Glamour," PJ quickly jumped in. "What I mean to say is that we don't waste our time with women, models, who aren't at the top of their game. If you can't see yourself on the cover of Vogue, this may not be the best gig for you."

"Yeah," Alonzo jumped in before I could say anything. "With those eyes, real intense, every guy is going to see your face and think that you're looking at him like he's naked and the hottest thing ever. It's really hot, don't you think Ryan?"

My tongue felt heavy, and all I could manage was a "yeah." Maybe there was more to this retirement deal than I was admitting to myself.

"Like look at what you're doing to poor Ryan," PJ said, "he can barely talk, but he's got a boner the size of Florida."

"Oh is that right?" she said. "Let me see."

Only in America would my last bitch be so bold as to tell me to whip it out – this was sweet, almost too easy, though I felt like I was barely there to enjoy it. I lifted my hips and unzipped my pants. Pulling 'em down, I was glad that I never wore underwear. Gotta be ready for anything anytime.

I looked down, and she was on the floor, between my legs smiling up at me.

I felt her lips on my dick. She had her right hand on the base of my dick, her head cocked to the left as the sucked on the underside of the tip. She flicked her tongue back and forth across the bottom of the end of my dick. It felt great as she timed her tongue flicks with each of my heart beats. She was smiling, flicking and sucking at the same time. Fuck, it was fantastic.

She pulled her huge breasts from her top, and stroked them once as her head kept bobbing on my my dick. She had the most realistic fake boobs I had seen in a long time. I reached down, and they even felt sort of soft, not the crunchy encapsulation that has calcified around so many fake boobs.

After a few, closed-eyed moments of feeling my hands on her soft, plastic breasts as she gently, expertly licked my cock, she spoke.

"Get on your knees Ryan," she said. I went down on my knees, and felt as she slid a well lubricated finger in to my ass. Sure it sounds strange to have just let it happen, but we have all seen those movies, those legitimate Hollywood movies in which some admittedly offbeat character describes the joy of prostate massage. It's no stranger than acupuncture or green tea enemas, all of which are totally mainstream in South Beach.

It felt good, sort of different. At least I think it did because I felt woozy, like everything was moving slowly. I was aware that had limbs, floating somewhere off to the side, or down below, though I had no real but not really able to move them.

"Hey Ryan, get on all fours, 'cause we have a special surprise for you," PJ said.

"Yeah Ryan, this is gonna be great," Alonzo said, as he helped me onto my hands and knees on the floor of the Shag Wagon, in the exact spot where I had fucked so many of our special guest stars.

"See Ryan, Bethany here isn't your average girl," PJ said. "We got ourselves a special guest star for your last performance as we take the Shag Wagon national."

Movement off to his side.

"Look over there Ryan," someone said.

I was barely able to lift my head, but I saw a fuzzy outline of Bethany with the bottom half of her dress pulled up to her waist.

"See that Ryan," PJ said from behind the camera. "Bethany has a special going away present for you."

"That's right Ryan, our special going away present for you is . . . . drumroll please," PJ said and Alonzo rhythmically pounded the steering wheel. "Our present to you is Bethany's DICK. Go ahead and fuck him girl."

I looked at that dangling cock with dull eyed amazement. The next thing I remember was being entered, with a fast, well lubed thrust. After a few strokes, a sort of rhythm developed, as Bethany had her hands on the front of my hips, and she used her strong thighs for leverage, to pound away. My eyes closed, I felt him harden inside of me, plunging into my ass, each time seeming deeper and more wide. After a few more strokes, I felt Alonzo's hands on my shoulders, rolling me on to my back.

I opened my eyes, and Bethany was above me. I saw her soft, hanging breasts and the wicked smile that she had. She was stroking her penis, faster faster faster as I watched.

"Zoom in, man," Alonzo said, sounding off in the distance.

Bethany stiffened, her right hand jerked as her dick spasmed. I felt the first spurt, warm and thick, on my left cheek, followed by another white rope across my nose and forehead, then more on my lips, my chin and running down my face, in my ears and neck.

"you've been shag wagoned bee-atch," they all screamed.

I dressed slowly, and when I pulled my pants on, Bethany kicked me out of the van's open door. I looked at the van as it drove away, the three passengers laughing and filming and I realized that my cheek was wet.

  

  

  

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