Digitally rendered snowflakes floated in between video stills of swollen cocks and puckered assholes.
I scrolled through the unending webpage of video titles. I Saw Mommy Fucking Santa Claus. Ho Holy Night. Some elf in lingerie brushed a reindeer in one of them. The animal was dressed in bells and ribbons, and the elf had to stand on her toes to reach its muzzle. I scrolled past and selected the next one. Making the Naughty List.
She was already naked, the young actress, lying on a table that looked like it belonged in a strip mall office basement rather than Santa’s home. A boiler hummed in the background and blood rushed into my trunk. She lay stretched back across the table, tits up, like small globes, and her makeup dovetailed perfectly off both eyes. Symmetric. The dim room accentuated everything about her, as if she were the light source and not the bare fluorescent lights above.
A shadow grew across her. Some fat guy with elephant legs stepped in from the background. His balls hung halfway down his thighs and I couldn’t tell if he was hard or not. Without hesitation, the actress smiled with an open mouth, sticking out her tongue with such glee that I wondered if she were even pretending at all.
The button on my jeans popped open as the woman leaned her face back over the edge of the table until it disappeared from view. Like a chicken with its head cut off. Her breasts didn’t even jiggle at all as the man with elephant legs tugged both her and the table up against him. They clung too tight to her chest. I leaned my own head back, keeping the screen in view. The man must not have been hard yet because his dick blew up like wet sausage as the model worked her hands on him. The thing was large enough to give her an Adam’s Apple.
Hot fluid shot into my hand, squeezing between the creases of my fingers, but elephant-man was still going. His hands clutched the model’s snow globe tits like he wanted to tear them off, pulling her as close as he could against his failing body. It sounded like she was trying to vomit into a firehouse. Her wet choking went from shrill to silent as the man completely plugged her throat, and her fingernails scratched into the rickety table. They were long but clean and buffed into perfect ovals. I couldn’t tell if they were real or fake until the one on her middle finger snapped off.
I clicked out of the video, back to the unending reel of other ones. He Sees You When You’re Sleeping. Stocking Stuffers. Little Cummer Boy. Gunk rolled further down my hand, and without thinking, I wiped it across my shirt.
Shit. Dinner tonight. I forgot.
The slime soaked into the fabric of my dress shirt. The only one I owned. Verona and I were supposed to be meeting with her dad soon, and she’d be home from class any minute. I ran to the bathroom and started dabbing the stain with a washcloth and faucet water. The single lily, in its makeshift gargle cup vase, had somehow sprouted another bloom. It stretched towards a ray of sun cast across the counter, while water dripped from my shirt to the tile floor. The stain wouldn’t come out, and I was only making it worse.
A hostess led Verona and I up a flight of stairs to the rooftop bar and patio. Small light bulbs were strung across the overhead terrace, flickering to life as the sun set over the valley. I made sure my blazer was still buttoned and that it covered the stain on my shirt, while some older man with cigar paper skin waved his hand towards us.
“It’s so good to see you, my love. You look great.” The cigar skin man, Verona’s dad, stood up to hug her. She didn’t return the favor. “And you must be Kurt.”
I reached out an arm to shake, but he embraced me in a hug too. “Oh,” I said, unsure of where to put my hands. He smelled like he had been basted in broth and herbs, and I couldn’t tell if his tan was real or not. The stiff stain on my shirt rubbed against my stomach.
“Dad,” Verona cut in, annoyed.
He finally let go of me and shook my, still outstretched, hand. “Nice to meet you, Kurt. I’m Randy. Please, sit down.” He motioned at the table. “I had the waiter bring us some wine. I played it safe with the white.”
“Wow, thanks for all this…” I had already forgotten his name.
“Randy,” he finished with a smile. His teeth were white enough to outshine all of the small light bulbs overhead. He could have been a model. Maybe he was. I couldn’t remember what he did.
Verona sighed, taking a seat. “I’ve told you this before, Dad. Kurt and I don’t drink.” She pushed the bubbling wine away from her plate, and I licked my lips, taking the chair next to her. How long had it been now? A couple months? I hadn’t so much as licked a Xannax since then. My face stretched and reflected upside down against the wine’s glass stem.
Before Randy could respond, a waiter appeared with several menus. “Thank you all for joining us this evening.” His voice was as crisp as his starched uniform. “Our special tonight is the Pan Roasted Chicken, I couldn’t recommend it more.” It looked like he had stepped out of one of those black and white movies. His hair was slicked back, unmoved by the breeze. He passed us each a menu.
“Well I sure know what I want,” Randy said, leaving the menu closed on the table.
Casserole au Pork? Carre D’Angelou? Everything was in a different language, like the bottles in Verona’s shower. I wasn’t sure what I was doing here. Sweat pricked through my chest and into my shirt. Verona was already ordering. I placed the menu down like I was studying for a test. Salade Nicotine? Verona went to rest her hand on my back, patting more sweat into my shirt.
My reflection in the wine glass continued to elongate. It stretched into one thin strand, twisting down the stem tighter and tighter, until it finally snapped. Wine exploded against all of us. Randy, Verona, me, the waiter. The clear liquid dripped from Verona’s face, running down the crook of her nose into her lips. She didn’t react, didn’t say a word, even as the wine sliced into her skin like acid.
I went to reach for her, but my hand was frozen. One of the slices stretched all the way down her face—eye to mouth—turning the translucent wine pink as it dripped off her jaw. My body tensed. Something pushed from the other side, and the pink streaks bloomed red. Strands of muscle fiber shot from the wound and crawled free. They plopped against the table like nests of spiders, crawling towards me, over my menu.
“Sir?” The waiter interjected, and the scene reverted. All the blood and muscle tissue were gone, reconfiguring into Verona’s beautiful face. She nudged my arm.
“Huh, sorry,” I responded, pretending to read the menu closer. “Just…the chicken, I guess.”
“—and one Pan Roasted Chicken.” The waiter scribbled this down on his notepad. “We’ll have those right out for you.” He strode away towards the stairs like he was on a red carpet.
“So, Kurt.” Randy slapped his palms against the table, ignoring my mental blackout. “Has Verona shown you any of her paintings yet?” He clearly knew as much about me as I did about him. I glanced over at Verona for any hints of what to say, but she was too busy staring into a glass of water.
“They're terrific aren’t they?” Randy continued. “I have a friend up north, an art dealer. I showed him one of her pieces, and he was blown away when I told him it was my daughter’s. He couldn’t believe it.”
Verona ran her finger around the rim of her glass as the last bits of sunlight disappeared behind the horizon. A breeze caught beneath my blazer, but it didn’t help with the sweat. I tried pulling her into the conversation. “Yeah, that Gerald guy really liked them, right?”
“Gérard,” she corrected.
“Jerry? Jerry who?” Randy asked. Verona sighed, resting her chin in her hand and ignored both of us. I detected a chip in Randy’s bright smile. The waiter reappeared, only to turn on the patio heater beside our table before leaving again. “Well,” Randy faked a cough into his tanned leather hand. “What about you, Kurt? You must almost be out of school too. What are your plans?”
“Doesn’t listen to a thing I tell him,” Verona muttered into her water, just loud enough for me to hear. The hostess walked past our table and she shot up from her chair. “Excuse me, where's the restroom?” she asked, before being directed towards the stairs. Randy and I were left alone.
The bubbles in the wine glasses stopped popping. Would Verona even notice if I drank them both?
“I used to be an agent, you know?” Randy was swirling his own wine glass, staring into the tablecloth. “Most people, they want to be in the spotlight, they have what it takes to be in the spotlight. But not me. I’d rather be the spotlight than be in it. But that’s not how it works in a relationship. My ex wife, she’ll tell you all about that.” He paused to suppress a burp. “Do you get what I’m saying?”
I did not get what he was saying. His words slurred together, and this was probably not his first drink of the evening. Sweat grew heavier against the stain in my shirt, which reactivated the smell of soap and light bleach. Making the Naughty List.
“I just want the best for my girl, my love.” He took another sip of alcohol. “And I hope you do too.”
The flame from the patio heater flickered beside us and steps echoed behind me. I turned around hoping to see Verona, but it was the waiter. He approached the edge of the table, hands held behind his back, staring directly at me. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid we’re out of chicken.”