I got to the gas station in South Beach, where Bob worked as a mechanic at close to five o’clock. I knew he’d be finished working at about five thirty and I wanted to catch him before he left. As I was walking up, I saw him standing by the dumpster out back and I froze. Bob hadn’t seen me yet, so I just stood there for a minute thinking things over. Was I sure about this? Bob was most certainly a freak and if I had a type, he was not it. He was about five foot four and two hundred and sixty pounds, pudgy to say the least. Even in his mechanic’s coveralls, he looked like a fat and messy little kid. To call him ugly would be too kind, weird was a better way of describing him. His curly black hair was always covered in dandruff, his skin was always greasy, and his breath always stank. My mother once told me never to say ‘never’ and ‘always’, but Bob never brushed his teeth and his breath always stank. In fact, Bob always stank too. He wore those athletic tube socks with red and blue stripes that only dorks and small kids wore. I knew about the socks because his coveralls were always about six inches too short. Overall, he was pitiful, and I would have felt sorry for him if I hadn’t known he was a great big fat old pervert.

I just stood there watching him for a couple minutes, wondering if this was a mistake. Bob flicked his cigarette into the wind, which caught it and flicked it right back at him. I started to laugh as Bob freaked out and started patting his chest like a baboon to put out the smoldering ashes stuck to his chest. Then I thought, why the fuck not? At least he’s entertaining.

“Hey Bob, don’t get too close to the pumps while you’re burning like that!”

When he saw me his face turned red, well redder than usual anyway.

“This God damn wind!” Bob yelled, “What are you up to kiddo?”

“Nothing man, when are you getting off work?”

“Oh, I can get outta here in about twenty minutes, why?”

“I need a place to stay Bob.”

That was one of the most difficult things I’d ever said, but I tried to look enthusiastic. Bob didn’t need to try. He looked like he just remembered it was his birthday. I waited around the station for twenty minutes, smoking and trying not to think of what was coming later that night.

“You want an iced cold soda champ?”

I hated when people would call me names like that. The same names my step-father used to call me; sport, champ, and kiddo. My real father never called me names like that, even when he was drunk. He always called me Matty or Harvey Wall Banger and that was it. Harvey Wall Banger was his drink by the way, Vodka, orange juice and a splash of Galliano.

“Sure Bob.”

“Well what flavor do you want kiddo?”

“Sprite, I guess.”

“All out of Sprite champ, alls we got left is Coke. Is that alright?”

“Sure,” then under my breath, “then why the fuck did you even ask me?”

It’s only about forty minutes from Miami Beach to Ft. Lauderdale, where Bob lived. Riding with Bob, it felt like several hours. He told me all about his connections. He knew Mick Jagger, Ron Woods, Bob Dylan and a lot of other rock stars. He told me that if things worked out well for us he might be able to get me a job as a stage hand for the Stones. How lovely for me… I mean, I knew Bob was full of shit and all, but something in me wanted to believe him anyway. It was strange how much I wanted to believe back then. So I found myself trying to believe and then eventually even daydreaming about being a roady for the Stones. Then I would sort of return to reality and find myself riding in fat Bob’s filthy fucking car. What a drag. It’s no wonder I daydreamed so much, reality sucked, at least back then it did. In my dreams I was living with a sexy librarian. In my dreams I was always taking out the trash or fixing the leak under the kitchen sink. We would lie in bed reading every night for hours and then discuss books in the dark. We always ended up making passionate love. In my dreams, in reality, I had fat Bob and his bad breath and dandruff.

Bob went on talking about his famous friends for the entire ride. You know, a guy could really go far hanging out with Bob. Like right to bed!

Or so I thought, Bob had other, stranger plans. When we got to his house he played it cool for a couple of minutes, then out came the pornos, straight ones right off the bat.

“OK,” I thought, “this might work out after all. I just need to get him to brush his teeth.”

But there was something strange about Bob’s attitude towards the pornos. It’s like he had a purely scientific interest. He was studying them very closely and then he got a pad and a pencil out and he started taking notes.

“Oh shit, this is gonna get weird,” was all I could think, and it did.

“Damn,” Bob yelled, “that’s not the position I designed! This director is always screwing up my moves!”

Then, when he knew he had my attention he said, “Oh, sorry kiddo, I have to get some work done. This is my second job, the one that makes me rich.”

He didn’t look rich to me.

“I invent new positions for adult movies.”

“What?”

“Oh yeah, they run out of new positions to do it in, so that’s where I come in. I design the new ones.”

Did he think I was buying that shit?

“I bet that pays well Bob.”

“Damn right, they pay me ten dollars a position and I can do twenty positions in a night. The only problem is I need a helper.”

So here it comes…

“Hey, do you know anyone who wants to make some fast money?”

“I don’t know, what would I have to do?”

“Just help me invent new positions for the movies. It’s easy, you just have to pose in my new positions while I create a template.”

So Bob was an artist…

“OK, how much will I get paid?”

“I’ll split it with you kiddo, and that’s a good deal too. After all, it’s me who’s coming up with all the ideas. You just have to lay there.”

“OK.”

Did I have a choice?

So Bob turned off the movie and took all the dirty clothes and damp towels off his bed and told me to take off all my clothes but my underwear. That was for realism, he explained. Then the freak show began. It’s fucking hard to believe how serious Bob took his act. He got me to pose in these positions like on all fours, or on my back with my legs in the air, and then he took out these filthy old newspapers and covered me up in them. I was wondering what all the newspapers were about. His apartment looked like someone was doing a paper drive or something. And the whole the time he was wearing these ugly bi-focals and he had this black magic marker stuck behind his ear. To make matters worse he got undressed too.

So picture this if you can, a five foot four, fat, naked and extremely hairy guy with bad breath and dandruff, wearing only bi-focals and dirty Fruit of the Loom underwear, running around the bed making marks on newspapers that are covering my body with a black magic marker. And we were just getting warmed up. Bob was fucking frantic. He kept yelling stuff.

“Perfecto” or “Bravisimo” or “Hold that one, don’t’ move a hair!”

It was hard to keep a straight face through all this. Then he got a little pathetic boner, and I was terrified I was gonna start laughing. I mean this was fucking ludicrous, right?

But I didn’t laugh as it really wasn’t all that funny. The position I was in. Not literally, just the fact that I was now stuck up in Ft. Lauderdale with Bob the freak.

“OK, that’s enough of the solo poses, time to do the action couple shots!”

“Wait a minute, how many was that Bob?”

“Ten.”

“It felt more like thirty.”

“Well it wasn’t. We only did ten usable new positions. Now you’re distracting me, do you want to make more money or what?”

“OK.”

So Bob climbed into the bed with me and started arranging us into all kinds of positions. Once we were in a suitable new position, he would drag the newspapers on top of us. Then he would make little tears in the newspapers wherever our bodies were touching.

“These are the templates,” he explained.

“Whatever, man…”

That went on for about a half an hour and then Bob would exclaim, “I’ve got it,” and we would move onto another so called new position.

Eventually, Bob achieved his bliss in like the one hundredth new position. He never even took his underwear off. That was to conceal his orgasm. I guess he thought that if we didn’t cum, then what we did was legit. So he shot his load into his shorts and I wasn’t supposed to notice. The filthy creep never even changed his fucking underwear. He just stood up and announced,
“That’s a wrap!”

Bob started getting dressed. So I didn’t even get to cum? This was absolutely the worst trick I’d ever done. My plan wasn’t working out so well after all. When I finished taking a shower to get the smell of Bob off me, not to mention all the black newspaper ink, Bob said he wanted to go eat at Morrison’s Cafeteria. Where else would a guy like Bob eat? Later, when we’d finished our home cooked meal, I asked him for the cash and he said he couldn’t pay me until he got paid, and that was thirty days after he submitted his work.

“But the royalties, that’s where we make all the money!”

Now I was fucking pissed.

“What the fuck Bob, you owe me a hundred bucks!”

“Sorry champ, can’t help you out ‘til I get paid. We’re both in the same boat.” “Like hell we are Bob! I’m not even in the same fucking ocean with you!”

Bob handled my outburst like a patient father. “Take it easy kiddo, we’ll get paid soon enough. I’ll cover your expenses until then and you can pay me back. Besides, I haven’t even told you about the best part yet!”

“Oh, I’m fucking quivering with anticipation Bob.”

“OK, joke all you want, but you don’t wanna miss out on this opportunity.”

I took the bait, “What opportunity?”

“Well, you’re great at modeling the new positions, but I think I need someone smaller than me to work with you. Besides, I can’t work and pose at the same time anymore.”

“So what are you saying?”

“We need someone closer to your size that you can pose with. Don’t worry champ, I’ve already got a few girls in mind.”

I’ll never forgive myself for falling for that one. I mean I knew he was lying, but I wanted to believe him so badly that I just shut off my ability to reason for a little while. What do they call that, suspension of disbelief? Well, I suspended my disbelief alright. I couldn’t hear Bob anymore, I was gone.

I was starring in my very own child porn film. After Morrison’s, Bob told me to walk around the mall while he took care of some errands. Later when we got home he went into his bedroom for a couple of hours while I watched TV. When he reappeared from the bedroom he was carrying a large manila folder. He walked over to where I was sitting on the couch and dropped the folder down next to me.

“There you go champ, all the girls left in this folder are available for work next weekend. Take your pick.”

And so I did. I opened the folder, and found a neat stack of photos cut right out of magazines. They were all pictures of young girls of various ages from twelve to about sixteen. He must have just cut them out of “Seventeen” or “Young Miss”, but I looked them over anyway. I spent hours trying to decide who I wanted to work with. When I finally made up my mind I handed a picture to Bob. “I like her.”

It was a full length shot of a young girl sitting at a small wooden school desk, chewing on a pencil and trying to look as if she were perplexed. She wore black prescription glasses over her dark eyes. She had medium length chestnut brown hair and a fair complexion. She looked to be about fourteen or fifteen and you could just barely make out her underdeveloped breasts under her white schoolgirl’s blouse. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t into schoolgirls with plaid skirts and all, but she looked so damn smart. I was in love.

“Nice choice kiddo. That’s Dianne, let me give her agent a call.”

And off he went into the bedroom where I could overhear him making his fake call in a voice way too loud for the phone. I couldn’t help but chuckle. Bob was definitely a freak. Then he came back to the living room.

“OK champ, she’s available for next Saturday. It’s all set-up.”

He took back the folder, but I kept the picture of Dianne. Well, what else was I gonna call her?

I knew Bob was full of shit, but I couldn’t help dreaming about Dianne every second for the next week. Everyday, Bob got home at seven or so and I’d meet him outside his door. Of course he didn’t let me stay in his house alone during the day. I would just wonder around Ft. Lauderdale daydreaming and smoking. At night we would do the usual newspaper routine and pretty soon Bob was into me for like fifteen hundred bucks, minus the five he gave me everyday for food and cigarettes. On the following Saturday, I was all nerves. I was fucking frantic all day long.

I got to Bob’s door at five and began pacing up and down the corridor. Of course, Bob didn’t show up until seven with the bad news. Dianne’s agent had called him at work and they had to re-schedule for the next weekend. But hey, The Rolling Stones were on tour and Bob had made a call to his buddy Turtle, who guaranteed him that there was a job for me starting next Sunday and paying two hundred bucks a day! On tour with The Stones! Wow, maybe I could even bring Dianne… Maybe not.

Like I said, Bob gave me five bucks a day for food and cigarettes. I never bought any food, I just squirreled away most of the cash for a rainy day. I would steal food while Bob took his morning shower and then I’d eat like a pig at night when he got home. After about ten more stories and the subsequent let-downs, I had about a hundred bucks saved up. I had been at Bob’s for over two months, every night another excuse, and every night the same newspaper game. One day I woke up and split. I didn’t think about it or plan it, I just got on the bus headed to Miami. I never saw Bob again, but that happens a lot in my line of work.

 

© 2003 Matty Lee - Contributor's Bio