Offenders

 by Kamil Beylant

Holly was a little depressed.  She was bored.  She tapped her fingers on her knee as she sat in among her satin bedsheets, rousing herself out of her early evening power-nap.  This wasn’t the right feeling for a late-night party girl like her.  She mulled a bit, then realized it was partly because of what Robert Stanter had told her.  His club was going under.  He’d once had the hottest sex-comedy club in Beverley Hills, but the heyday of Lollygaggers – the club – seemed to be over. 

 

Holly herself had done a couple of gigs there.  That was before she’d given up comedy for full-time modeling and agent work.  Her humor had been awkward, too offensive.  She’d stripped down to bikini shorts, cupped her big bare breasts, stroked her goosefleshed thighs and said “wow, I’ve got fried chicken skin all over, and two BIG wattahmelons up here – SOMEone must be interested!” Tilted her nose up at a big black basketballer in the front row of tables.  Outrageous.  He’d heckled back, “Woah, you racist, girl, but I’ll still have your ass.”  The crowd roared but the boss, Robert, didn’t like it.  He was keeping the politics clean in there. 

 

And he wanted her white-meat ass for himself. 

 

He didn’t get it for a long time after that.  “No one fires that ass and then touches it,” she’d murmured to herself.  But she’d remained friends with the lusty entrepreneur, and eventually she warmed up to him again.  Now, she hated to see him and his club go down. 

 

But there was nothing to be done about it.  The fact was that today’s hot club, Offenders, was based on the kind of new idea that killed old ideas dead.  No one could hope to compete.  And anyway, the People, the sainted People of the USA, had created the niche for the new club themselves.  They’d made it inevitable when they’d driven all the hyper-talented bad-boys out of the film industry in Holier-than-Thou-Wood, as people were now starting to call Tinseltown.  All that genius had been left sunning itself idly around empty swimming pools and swilling down pariah-hood with a twist of lemon.  That was how it was, at least, until Marcus Corvin had given the fallen stars his fateful phone call – would they like to come back to work again as a valued member of the Offenders team?  Marcus got all the top baddies for next to nothing.  Harvey Weinstein worked as his MC four nights a week.  Louis C.K. had a regular Saturday night residency.  Kevin Spacey seldom performed, but he had a regular table at the front and any boys (21+) that he liked the look of got free drinks on the house as long as they sat there with him.  Every night, as part of the show, he chose a favorite by putting his hand on the fellow’s knee.  The crowd ate – and drank – it up. 

 

The number of people who were willing to cross the raging picket lines at the front door was truly impressive.  Every night there were hours of screaming, as police and security got the punters into the seats.  Guests could get light-weight ski masks labeled ‘consenting adult’ from the gate staff of the guarded parking lot, plus a mini-umbrella for warding off spit.  They got a free drink if anything hit them on the way in; security guards gave out the coupons. The inside staff came through a side door under heavy guard earlier in the evening.  They were a unique crew: every one of them had to be a registered sex offender.  And not just any registered sex offender. 

 

Marcus had his preferences.  “No killers, no violent fucks, I want nice sex offenders, guys and girls who crossed the line – schoolteachers who dropped their dress for a hawt 15-year-old, the guy who fucked the tall chick who said she was 18 but was really 14, that kind. All of ‘em out of trouble for at least five years.  Get me a few edgy ones who were in the papers for Weinstein type stuff, nothing too coercive.  Public masturbators – perfect.  As for porn downloaders, not very exciting, but they’re the cheapest hire so they can do the busboy stuff and the dishes.  And I want a pedophile bartender.” 

 

Part of the shtick of Offenders was that all the ‘sexy baby drinks’ – the non-alcoholic cocktails like the Shirley Temple and the MargarLolita – were prepared by a genuine pedophile.  Marcus didn’t care if he or she was an ex-offender or a never-offender, as long as the covering letter of the job application stated “I am a pedophile.”  There were no kids anywhere near the club anyway, so no trouble could come of that.  The neighborhood was mostly Korean phone stores and real estate offices that closed by 5, or by 9, and there were no parks or schools around for many blocks.  The screams of the picketers outside echoed off blank walls, and the sound insulation was great. 

 

Needless to say, that was where Holly was going tonight.  Fuck Lollygaggers.  Sorry, Robert.  At Offenders, you could sometimes actually gag on the lollys, since Marcus had provided an extra level of excitement – the performers, if they were in the mood, could go to extra large dressing rooms called Offender Blender rooms.  Guests who paid enough money, and met the visual approval of the performer, could go in to ‘get Offended.’  For a lower rate, patrons could also let it be known that they were interested in certain members of the staff.  The signalling was discreet, starting off with a message on a tablet wired to the table, and an agreement was signaled when a drink or a tray of nuts was delivered along with a banned-in-Hollywood mini-grope.  Everyone male who was gay or feeling bi that night wore a purple wristband; there also were other colors, as you might expect. 

 

Holly hated conventional sex.  She liked her bit of rough.  She wanted to be offended tonight. 

 

She started off naked, showered, in the bathroom.  Great attention went into her hair, her brows, her purpled eyelids, and her S/M-ready whip-long eyelashes.  All along the frame of her bathroom mirror, shiny golden faux-cockleshells gave out mini-reflections of a work of male-stalking art.  The fully made-up Holly was a mesmerizing tableau of hormone-imbued, deftly painted flesh that silently screamed “offend me, up-end me, then send me.”  That was one of Marcus’s radio advertising slogans.  Perfume went on last.  Anyone environmentally offended by perfume was banned at Offenders.  Holly silently thanked the Zimbabwean civet cats whose anal gland musks, mixed in the perfume, gave jungle swagger to her man-stalking predations.  But she didn’t actually take victims in her heavy-breathing moments of pouncing and carnage.  Her prey all had to be tough enough to overwhelm her back, at least a little, or they went out later with the trash.  She liked her boundaries pushed.  She like every boundary pushed. 

 

“If there were any sheep at Offenders, they’d be bloody nervous.”  That was an online ad campaign for the nightclub.  Marcus wasn’t actually crass enough to say his place was where men were men.  You could read it between the lines. 

 

Holly got into the taxi looking like a beautifully coiffed butterfly emerging from a slim-lined, golden cocoon. 

 

The Arabic-accented driver spent the whole ride telling her about her prospective employment prospects in Dubai.  She’d heard it all before. 

 

She tipped two goon guards at the entrance to shelter her way in past all the feminists and the ‘extraordinary men,’ who bulged their throat veins at her or tried to shove leaflets into her hands.  Some of the guys were pretty cute, and she liked their rage, but ultimately, she was from the jungle and they were from the farm.  It wouldn’t be sporting to go after those grain-fed idealists.  “Take me to the dark side,” she whispered under her breath.  And when she got there, a table was waiting, along with her gay drag queen friend Lavendula and her fellow cis-vaginate lioness Carmacita.  She didn’t want to get drunk, but the night was young, so she ordered up the ‘rapist bloody Mary’ (which had a double shot of vodka in it) and settled back to relax.  In the midst of amiable and sultry chit-chat with her friends, she murmured in Carmacita’s ear, “honey, this vag-ionizer I’m sitting on is just itching to atomize some man parts tonight!”  “Got a ton of condoms in my purse if you need some,” was the equally sultry, but louder answer.  All three friends laughed it up pretty well. 

 

The show was awesome.  Holly never thought she’d be in the same room as Dustin Hoffman, and now here he was, all shuffles like Jimmy Stewart but with an Offenders glint in his eye that made a few of the women shriek like teenagers.  Holly wasn’t attracted to him, but the lesser known comedian Riley Edgefield really got her going.  Yes, he was bald, he was chunky – he could have been Danny DeVito’s cousin.  But he had given himself the right stage name.  Edgy, you’d better believe it.  And a certified pussy-groper from his days in the now-lost Hollywood world known to insiders as ‘casting-couch IKEA.’ 

 

“My goilfriend knows I like it shaven down theah, you know, like a little kid,” he said into the microphone, putting on an exaggerated Noo Yoahk accent.  “So when she gets mad at me, she don’t talk about divorce, all she does is let it grow.  I mean, I forgot her boit’day, and after two weeks, I was distressed, I was in tears.  Know what I mean, guys?  *sharp applause* I tell her, ‘This is hair-assment, PUBIC HAIR-assment!’ So what does she say? She says, ‘the hair on YOUR ass hair-asses me!’  OK, I admit, once in bed she mistook one of my cheeks for her cat, and when she went to scratch Fluffy’s ears, she got a big surprise!  (crowd: *ewww! hahaha*) But that’s now our favorite sex act, so I’ve been purring ever since.  My life has nevah been better, you know, and I got recognition!  When that Julian Ass-hat posted my dick pic on Dickileaks, the top comment said, ‘wow, that’s not a foreskin, that’s 10-skin!’  OK, so I found out my brother wrote that, but it was still nice.  People say to me, I thought you were circumcised, and I say, no, what you heard there was “circus-sized.”  It’s the only live elephant left in show biz, you know what I mean?” 

 

Holly’s thoughts turned to that very scenario; her imagination saw the trunk extending toward her and two giant testicles beside it flapping out in a threat-pose of imminent charge.  She had to have that elephant.  She signaled the head waiter over, a lanky redhead who’d once video’d his girlfriend getting lusty at 16, and said she wanted to sign up for an Offender Blender meeting with Edgefield.  

 

“You’ve got stiff competition tonight,” Red told her.  “And speaking of stiff, I’m available too, by the way.” 

 

“He’ll take me for sure,” Holly breathed, flouncing her hair.   “But thanks, I’ll take a sperm-check on that.”  She pressed a $5 tip into his hand just to make the point.  In reality, he was just too – nice – just too fricking nice for her.  She was into the hard stuff. 

 

At the end of the show, when Kevin Spacey had befriended the knee and a few other bits of a nervous-looking tousle-haired 21-year-old, to wild audience cheers, Holly got the news that her bid for Edgefield had come out on top.  No extra money was involved in the choice to prefer her above the other bidders – just desirability, or offendability, or both.  After collecting kisses from Carmacita and Lavendula, she strode around to the side of the stage and was let in through the door whose lintel said, in small letters, “Politician, your career ends here.”  Holly was not exactly nervous, but she was definitely keyed up, and she stayed on her guard.   You never knew what was going to happen with a whip-smart barbarian like Edgefield.

 

He came in offensively, smoking a cigarette.  “I pardon you for not smoking,” he said, with a smirk.  He was breaking some local bylaw, but there was no smoke alarm, so no one was going to bust him for it. 

 

“Very funny show, Mr. Edgefield,” Holly said suavely, biting her lip.  “I hope your girlfriend liked it.” 

 

“Haha, jealous, are you?” Riley snorted.  “She’s a ‘woik of fiction’ as I might say onstage.” 

 

“The elephant has no watering hole?” Holly asked sympathetically.  “I think I might hear a rainstorm approaching across the savanna.” 

 

Like lightning, Riley swung around and grabbed her presidentially by the kitkat.  He looked into her eyes. 

 

“Interesting,” he said, “that wasn’t the highest level of your game, was it?”  He rubbed his index finger around anyway.  It snaked back towards alternative fissures. 

 

“You’re very perceptive,” she said, with a shudder.  “If I was 21, that would’ve crossed my wires and made a big spark, and it still works, but…”

 

“Tell me,” he said, “who was the worst boyfriend you ever had?” 

 

“Oh shit,” Holly said, “There’ve been so many worst boyfriends.”

 

“Gut feeling, fast” said Edgefield, inserting her good panties up into her butthole with the first joint of his ring finger. 

 

“Miguel, definitely Miguel, the little shit,” Holly said, undulating her breasts into the flaps of Edgefield’s unbuttoned suit jacket.  “Latin romantic fucker, told me he loved me, bought me flowers, all that romance shit. I hate romance – it’s like religion, and I hate religion too, and the guy was always 'Jesus this' and 'God that,' and 'mama,' too.  First high school boyfriend, I didn’t know any better.  Then his mama tells him to cool it with me and he’s such a good boy he does.  Lovey dovey candy ass.” 

 

A glimmer came to Edgefield’s eyes, and he licked his lips. 

 

“I have a problem,” he said. “Since I started working here, the women are different.  They’re already up for offenders and I can’t get my first prize from them – that look of shock that says I’ve reached past the façade and gone right down to the true reactions.  The fluster, the panic, the fucking reality that gives a guy a killer cum-shot.  A guy like me, anyway.  But with you, I’ve got your number now, you lovely, beautiful, gorgeous, perfect baby doll angel.”

 

He kissed her nose sweetly and tenderly.  His right hand was gone from her nethers and rested demurely on her side. 

 

“What the fuck!” Holly expostulated. “Cut the romantic shit!  That’s not what I came for!” 

 

“Darling, I kiss you anyway, because I believe you want to be my baby forever -  the way God planned it,” Riley breathed hard, starting to waltz her around.  He looked deeply into her eyes.  They were hazed with indignity. 

 

“Fuck this shit!” Holly said, almost in a panic, “I’m going back to my table!” 

 

“Wait a sec,” Riley hissed.  “I got what I wanted, now you get what you want.”  He pulled down his pants and Holly realized he had rubber shorts on.  As he started to strip them down, she saw the elephant, with its trunk rigidly swaying, already covered by a condom and a whole lot of lube.  “Bend over,” Riley said.  “Pick up some soap.” 

 

Damn, this was more like it.  Holly bent and felt his hands expertly undoing her.  Moments later, as she hunched like a prisoner in the shower, she felt the elephant charge hugely up into the interior of her continent, and then a hand came around and Trumped her from the front until she blew up like a jungle volcano, seething, heaving, rasping, grasping, and she felt the call of the elephant echoing through her. 

 

“Fucking inTENSE,” she muttered.  “Abuses me with romance first, and then that!  What the hell was that?” 

 

“I dunno, I never felt anything like that,” Riley sighed, wiping his de-condomed monstrosity off with a towel from a nearby rack.  “We should meet again, Holly.  But not until I have a dozen red roses and a nice card with puppies on it.”

 

“You sick fuck,” Holly retorted vehemently, but her eyes fired up with complicity.  Her humiliation at accepting romance seemed to flavor her anger like a spice.  She began to suspect she was now addicted to this emotional rapist. 

 

And, as later events showed, she was right.  One day, she’d find herself looking at a diamond ring and discussing engagement with him, all the while writhing with disgust.  Then, he’d meet her parents and be sickeningly polite and cheerful and not himself at all – but in the bedroom later, he’d savage her like a real man.  Then, finally, in the most loathsome moment, she’d marry him at a church altar, saying “I do,” and then silently mouthing, “you piece of shit.”  But hey.  He could be a romance offender, a lovey-wuvey-dovey abuser, as much as he wanted, however revolting it all was – as long as he kept HIS end of the bargain up HER end of the bargain later on.   

 

When she lay in stirrups having his baby, he’d be singing Paul Anka’s “You’re having my baby, what a lovely way of saying how much you love me,” and leering creepily into her eyes.  How she’d despise the song, and how she’d want to kill him; and yet, at that very moment, how her alternate love canal would burn for the nurses to leave the room, and for the baby to fall asleep, so that the elephant could come and ram its trunk up into her, and fill up the baby-sized void that abusive romance had left inside her. 

 

 

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