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Dawn in the Valley

by



D

AWN SITS ON THE EDGE OF THE WHITE TUB grooming herself; shaving, just having finished taking a long hot bath, cautiously, delicately, shaving in places she never would have thought to shave just one year ago like the small of her back, neck, stomach, arms, nipples, asshole. The steam in the bathroom is slowly rising around her, softening her skin, bringing a rosy color to her cheeks, fogging up the mirror and the chrome metal faucet in the tub. She starts remembering herself young in Florida, transfixed by the cloudiness growing over the bathtub’s faucet, unable to look away at anything else, her step dad washing her when she was 7, maybe younger, her step dad insisting that she call him Frank, “step dad” makes me sound old, hun, gently scrubbing her tiny perfectly smooth shoulders, combing her wet hair using the tangle-free spray, The Doors playing on the bathroom stereo, the faucet dull with the steam, strangely hypnotized by it, her step dad gently pinching her nipples, Dawn staring at the faucet but no longer seeing it, only feeling awkward on how to respond, is that an accident, why’s he pinching ‘em like that, is this normal, is this wrong, where’s mommy, his big, callous hand slowly moving down toward her stomach, then to her vagina and then everything goes black.



She puts on her lipstick, her T-Mobile sidekick going off, alerting her of two new messages - both from her agent; he’s getting impatient, panicking that she might be too high to do the shoot, call me back ASAP.

She is.

But a job’s a job and she needs the money but Frank won’t stop touching her seven-year old, maybe younger, body in her head and she takes the glass pipe to her thick red-painted lips, watches the glass bubble at the end of the pipe’s stem fill up with white smoke dissolving from the speed rocks, clouding the inside of the pipe; and she closes her eyes to feel it better and inhales the drug deeply, the image of the fogged up bathtub faucet from that day in Florida blending into the fogged up faucet in front of her, unable to make sense of it, gently confused by it, memories crashing into present images, everything whirling into each other, entangling emotion with imagery, with what’s in front, and letting the drug make everything soft and dull and sane.

She texts her agent back 20 minutes later. She’ll be downstairs in an hour, still getting dress, SMOOCH.

She takes the buttplug out of her ass (practiced by many to properly allow the asshole to prepare for harsh ass fucking), slaps herself in the face to stop herself from breaking down, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t – like today. She pulls apart her razor and breaks loose one of the thin blades and slices her inner thighs, each sting giving her instant relief, sighing, instantly regretting that the marks might turn off the male performers and, shit, even cause the director to cancel the entire shoot (naw, probably not that far) but it’s working and she gets her soul ready for another gangbang scene for one of the valley porn studios.

Dawn had grown up wanting to become a model. Everyone in Jr. High and High school said she was beautiful, so pretty, but seriously though, like Jennifer Love Hewitt pretty! And she knew that boys (and girls) were attracted to her, constantly hitting on her, asking her out on dates but the actual idea of believing herself to be pretty let alone beautiful always seemed very far away and alien, not really a lie but more like a disconnected wrong idea. When she looked in a mirror she saw a girl with average features, nothing special, a thin body type, light freckles, average height; there was no vanity or self-consciousness, no timidity. There was just her, Dawn, and this body that she had happened to born in.She regarded her disconnectedness as an advantage; if (when) she becomes a professional model, she’ll be able to take the harsh criticism without it affecting her confidence. Because she didn’t have any.

Up in a huge mansion in the hills of the San Fernando Valley, Dawn is violently thrown onto a plush beige leather couch by one of the male performers. He takes his long, half-hard cock out and starts jacking off with his right hand while choking her with his left. Another man comes out from behind one of the cameramen, naked except for his tennis shoes, and backhands her across the face (to be edited out later; too much violence on film causes trouble), then starts fucking her mouth with his cock, causing Dawn to gag and vomit (just water and stomach acid), her eyes involuntarily watering, the thick black eye-liner and mascara running down the sides of her face. Another man joins them, lifts her up and turns her around, pushing her face down hard into the couch’s mattress and fucks her. The first man grabs Dawn’s right hand and makes her jack him off. All three men take turns with Dawn, each one alternating positions and body parts. Dawn’s mascara continues to run down her cheeks, each thrust forcing out a moan, sometimes a scream. The director signals to Dawn to yell louder, say I love that black fucking cock (all three men are black), fuck me, fuck me hard, fuck my ASS. And Dawn spits a wad into her free hand and shoves it into her asshole, lubing it up to prepare it. She slows down her breathing, searching deep within herself for the speed’s euphoria to numb and override the oncoming, unrelenting pain; she inhales deeply, feeling the relief in finding the drug’s numbness circulating throughout her veins. As she exhales, the guy thrusts his cock into her accepting asshole. Dawn keeps her eyes closed and says to herself, it’s almost over, it’s almost over. The director signals for her to open her eyes, smile Dawn, smile, roll your eyes back, sigh, moan, take it, baby, take that black fuckin’ shit, take it. Dawn’s mascara keeps running down her cheeks. One of the men gets underneath her and tries to stick his cock into her fast-drying cunt. Dawn whispers, wait, wait, I need spit. And the man hurriedly says, fuck that shit, and pushes it in fast and deep, feeling the burning friction of her drying cunt, instantly forcing her eyes wide open. She moans in pain, feeling herself being torn in half; and as her mouth’s forced open, the other man shoves his cock into her mouth but it’s not completely under her control anymore and so her lips just sort of stay apart but unmoving. Her motor skills have temporarily slowed down; the pain has substituted every other feeling in her, no pleasure, no sense of filming a porn in the San Fernando Valley, nothing, no memories, no thoughts, just blinding pain – and she abandons herself to it; she becomes the director’s, the cameramen and the male performer’s toy flesh doll. Something to be physically manipulated until it’s fulfilled its use.

After a while, each one takes turns cumming on her soft, worn-out and rosy freckled face, her hair, her small 19-year-old tits. The director says thank you, good one Dawn, you were so fucking beautiful, a real professional as always baby. And someone hands her a towel and points her toward the bathroom. She washes up, using her fingers to insert the towel up her asshole to clean out all the loose shit, spit and dick sweat. One of the male performers from the shoot comes over, offers her a bump of coke. She smiles, takes it. She gets dressed. The director says that the agent should have the check by the end of the week and gives her a pill of ecstasy and another bump of coke. She smiles, takes it, says thank you. One of the cameramen offers her a drink, whiskey straight. She smiles, takes it, says thank you and gives him a soft kiss on the lips like a grateful and rewarded child. Her agent comes by an hour later, picks her up, asks how the shoot went, Dawn smiles, fine, good, I like him, he’s very artistic, makes me feel pretty, hard work but he’s real professional like. Yea, agrees the agent. He hands her a glass pipe. She smiles, feeling so happy in finally having made it as a successful, professional, actual model.

He drops her off in front of her apartment complex. The speed and ecstasy isn’t mixing well. The agent recommends she just take it easy tonight, smoke some weed, take some of these, handing her three big brown Thorazine pills. She takes the pills, popping each one in her mouth like a breath mint, says thank you and blows a kiss at him. She goes upstairs to her one-bedroom apartment. Her Sidekick is beeping with all the missed calls, new texts and voicemail alerts. She turns on the TV, switches channels randomly, not really looking for something to watch but merely clicking the remote out of habit. It lands on some cartoons – she leaves it there. Animated, bright-colored things are killing themselves on the screen. Dawn’s brain begins to bother her again, flashes of her youth filtering back in through the wall of drugs, herself 11 years old, sitting in front of the giant TV, her face only inches away from the screen, pixilated cartoon characters butchering each other with mallets and axes, her step dad drinking a beer on the couch behind her, Lacey, her younger sister sitting next to him, the mom in the kitchen cooking. The mom shouts for Dawn to turn that goddamn thing down, and for Lacey to come in the kitchen to help out with dinner. Dawn instantly panics but doesn’t take her eyes off the screen. Her step-dad re-positions himself on the couch (she can hear the leather cushions squishing underneath his fat, stinking, hairy, goddamn moving flesh). Hey, come here, he says softly, being cautious of the mom and Lacey in the kitchen close by. Dawn pretends not to hear him. Pshh, hey, kiddo. The step dad is insistent. Dawn keeps staring at the TV. He gets up, goes over to her, gently grabs her by the arm, says sit down with me; I’m lonely. She doesn’t want to make a scene. Besides, what can she say, what can she do? She sits on the couch. Frank rubs his bulging crotch. Dawn is still staring at the TV but steals a couple of glances at his crotch. Touch it, he says. Dawn can’t speak or move. It’s always like this, like I’m stuck, like I’m crippled, like I’m sick. I am sick. And he eagerly takes her hand and puts it on his lap, his forehead shining with sweat. He moves her hand over to his crotch and rubs it soft up and down over his erected cock then harder until Dawn can feel the skin moving over his dick through the pants but she doesn’t take her eyes off the cartoons and they’re killing themselves, hitting each other with mallets and axes but no one is bleeding and it looks like it doesn’t hurt; there was an explosion but only smoke has marked the cartoon body and faces, and they wipe it off easily. Dawn, Frank, dinner’s ready, says mom. And everything dissolves into nothingness.

And everything goes back to normal.

Dawn is in front of the TV in her apartment again, her brain’s madness slowly subsiding, then she suddenly starts to feel the drowsy grab of the Thorazine. Her brain tells her to fight it, pick up the pipe, smoke it, more, quick, more! But everything is getting calmer with the drowsiness: Frank, the cartoons, the gang fuck, the bathtub faucets, the bathroom steam, the blackness, the coke, the speed, the ecstasy, the Thorazine, the screaming, the screaming, the constant fucking screaming for everything to fucking shut up and die and go the fuck away and just stop fucking touching me you fat, hairy, stinking, goddamn fucking cocksucker, stop it, stop it, stop it, please stop it, please, mommy, please, stop it, please fucking stop it, tell him to stop it, why aren’t you helping, stop it, stop it, make it stop.

– and Dawn passes out on the couch, the cartoons still killing themselves on the screen, her Sidekick still beeping and everything else finally having stopped.

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About Luis Rivas


Luis Rivas lives in Los Angeles, California. He was a telemarketer, construction worker, flower delivery driver, fast food cashier, sales clerk, non-profit canvasser, adult store and strip club manager and package handler/zip code sorter. His work has appeared in the following publications, some of which he contributes to regularly: Zygote in My Coffee, Unlikely Stories, My Favorite Bullet, The Hold, Cherry Bleeds, Corium, Rural Messenger Press, Thieves Jargon, Origami Condom, Outsider Writers, Full of Crow, Counter Punch, Gloom Cupboard, where his is Poetry Editor and Red Fez, where he is author of the Last Days of Los Angeles column. He dropped out of Los Angeles Valley College where he was studying journalism to work full-time at a porn shop. Then he got fired. Now he has gone back to school, continuing his studies in journalism and Chicana/o Studies at California State University of Northridge and Los Angeles City College. He is currently building up his own literary website, peaceisillegal.com and plans on publishing a book on his youth. Once upon a time, he grew a beard. (There is evidence on the Internet.)

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