Nashville

On 21 May 1960 John O’Brien, son of Judy and Bill, was born in Oxford Ohio.

Eighteen year later, he graduated from Lakewood High School, also in Ohio.

One year later he married Lisa Kirkwood.

Three years later he and Lisa moved to Los Angeles, where he busied himself with living as Californians do, and in time wrote a novel.

The novel was read by an industrious fellow named Mark Figgis. Mark wrote a screenplay based on the novel. Mark composed music for the soundtrack of the movie that would be made from the screenplay. Mark found investors willing to part with $4,000,000 to make the screenplay into a movie. Mark found actors. Mark couldn’t afford the high costs of 35mm filming, so he filmed in Super16. And being the industrious fellow he is, he directed the film. Despite his industriousness, he wasn’t always able to get permits for shooting street scenes, and those scenes were shot in one take to avoid the inconvenience of arrest.

Mark was an industrious fellow.

In April, 1994, at the age of thirty-four, when the movie based on the novel he had written was a mere two weeks into production, John O’Brien committed suicide with a gun.

The novel, 210 pages, was published in 1995 by Grove Press.

The movie had a limited release on October 27, 1995. Critics praised it.

On February 9, 1996 the film was released nationwide.

Sixteen days after its nationwide release, at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Los Angeles, on 25 March 1996, on his first nomination, Nicholas Cage accepted the Best Actor Award for 1995 for his portrayal of Ben Sanderson in Leaving Las Vegas, the movie based on John O’Brien’s book.

Eleven years later, on August 20, 2007, while I was writing the beginning of a piece about fucking the boss’s daughter and saz lay sleeping in my hotel room bed, I watched Leaving Las Vegas for the first time. I was particularly struck by Elisabeth Shue’s graphic portrayal of the recipient of an anal gang rape. I was so struck that I found myself reading about the movie, and how it came to be made.

I went to bed, late, very late.

I woke up far too early, showered, dressed, and drove to a meeting. Six hours later, and the meeting was thankfully ended ahead of schedule.

I returned to the room to find a delightfully tarted up sazmira. Red high healed closed pointed toe fuck me shoes. Black stockings, seamed. Black vinyl miniskirt. Red satin corset. Red lips painted in “Fuck-me shoe red” by Elizabeth Arden.

I was wearing the khaki suit I had custom made by the Turks at Camp Endurance when I was stuck there for a few days on a convoy layover. Three button, summer weight. Blue French cuffed shirt I had made by Chang the Tailor at the Dragon Gate in Seoul the last time I was in Korea. Mother of pearl and gold filigree cufflinks the size of a small third world country’s national debt.

At first, I didn’t think.

I didn’t think. I acted. I walked over to her, back handed her across those red fuck me shoe colored lips and shoved her to her knees. I grabbed two fists of hair and like a good whore, she grabbed my belt and zipper and pushed my pants aside and sucked.

On page six of the deceased, dead by suicide John O’Brien’s book, there is a passage wherein he describes Sera, the leading whore of his novel, “…And she is a good thing, good at this thing. Paying for and using her, there are always men available. The tricks turn to her, for she glistens with the appealing inaccessibility of the always introspective. They turn to the buyable quench—no lie, a promise in the panties—and she plays out the bargain with the competence of one consistently able to hit well the mark.”

Saz can consistently hit the mark.

At first, I hadn’t thought, I had simply acted. But as she sucked, I thought. And the first thought that came to mind was the image of Elisabeth Shue being anally gang raped and beaten.

And so, eleven years after it’s release – eleven hours after I first saw it, I felt compelled to pay homage to dead Mr. O’Brien, and living Ms. Nominated But Not Awarded Shue, by doing my best to reenact the scene that occurs roughly 5/7ths of the way into the movie.

I hauled her up by the hair, her teeth scraping my cock as it schlurped out of her “Fuck me, Shue” mouth and threw her ass up across the bed. I pushed her skirt up and she squirmed, and squealed in anticipation of the coming sex.

I spit on her ass and again on my hand and smeared my spit with hers. She squirmed and squealed. I pressed the head of my cock against her ass. She squirmed and squealed.

And then I grabbed both her shoulders, pushed her hard against the mattress and stabbed into her ass, full and deep, one hard shove, skin tugging resistance and then all in.

She stopped squirming and squealing. She screamed. She cursed. She turned and clawed back at me, furious with rage, anger, betrayal, murderous anger burning in her black eyes.

I drove my fist into her shoulder, harder than I’ve ever punched her, a solid driving punch that said, “Stop what you’re doing.” Normally a punch for her is foreplay. Normally it stokes the fires and makes her squeal and squirm and fight back with yet more industriousness; normally it has the exact opposite effect of enforcing compliance.

Normally I don’ hit her as hard as I did.

There’s a moment in the movie right before the rape starts with earnest that one of the men punches her like that. And the camera moves in to a close up of her face and you see the wheels inside turning and she decides that further resistance is just going to make it worse, and she stops, she lays there and takes it all.

Saz took it all.

In the movie, Sera gets punched in the head during the rape. In the movie, Sera gets punched in the face during the rape.

I don’t punch in the head. I don’t punch the face.

This was different. This was homage. This was homage to a two minute scene of a movie. A two minute scene in a movie that was based on the book of a man who had committed suicide. A movie made on a shoe string budget with no street permits. A movie nominated for awards. A movie that received awards. A movie that included a brutal rape scene. A movie for which Elisabeth Shue was nominated for Best Actress but was ultimately passed over in favor of Susan Sarandon’s portrayal of a nun in Dead Man Walking, a film in which she did not portray the victim of a brutal anal gang rape.

I pressed my fist against her cheek.

I pushed down, pressing her head against the floral patterned bed covers.

I pulled back a bit and tapped her cheekbone with my knuckles.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

No, this wouldn’t do. This was not proper homage.

I pushed deep inside her ass and ground my pubic mound against her, shoving deep and hard, hurting her.

I pulled my hand back a couple inches and gave her cheek a little jab -- a tentative little jab, barely a tap. The illusion of a punch.

It wasn’t enough. I, her, this – all wanted, needed more.

I pulled my hand back a couple inches and gave her mouth a little jab – again, a tentative little jab, again, barely a tap. Again, the illusion of a punch.

Again, it wasn’t enough. I wanted to split her lip, to feel the flesh yield between the hard bone of my knuckles and the hard enamel of her teeth. To see the warm red blood trickle out the corners of her mouth, the chromatic clash of wet new blood red spilling over fuck-me shoe red lips and polyester hotel bedspread red gardenia bloom print.

I hit her again, harder. And again, harder. I heard her teeth click together.

I rapped her a solid one against her check bone, but again, it wasn’t enough. I wanted to feel that flesh mush between the hard bone of my knuckles and the hard bone of her cheek, to know that the next day she’d have a Techni-Color blue and purple bloom around her eye.

I popped her a quick one on the back of her head, the hard occipital bone safer than the thinner bones on the side of her head.

She squealed. She squirmed. She moaned. I felt her ass tighten. And then I felt and heard and smelled and saw and knew her come.

And we made homage to the two minute scene in the movie based on the book of a dead man, a movie he had never seen, a book written seven years before I met saz, by a man who could never have known how accurately his words on page 19 of the book published after his death would describe her.

“She was haunted, pursued, tortured emotionally, sometimes physically, day and night by the one who had made her the object of his obsession. She was and would become his last, best gold chain, an unwilling bauble on his furry chest.”