Paper Cut Bob
I got to the gas station where Bob worked and found him standing by the dumpster out back. He hadn't seen me yet, so I just stood there for a minute thinking things over. Was I sure about this? If I had a type, Bob was definitely not it. He was about five foot four and two hundred and eighty pounds; pudgy to say the least. Even in his mechanics' coveralls, he looked like a fat, messy, little kid. To call him ugly would be too kind. Weird and a little scary 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. He wore those athletic tube socks with red and blue stripes that only dorks and small kids wore. I would have felt sorry for him if I hadn't known he was a great big, fat, fucking pervert.
I just stood there watching him for a couple minutes, wondering if I was making a mistake. Then Bob flicked his cigarette into the wind, which flicked it right back at him. He freaked out and started patting his chest like a baboon to put out the smoldering ashes. I started to laugh. "Why the fuck not," I thought, "at least he's entertaining."
"Hey, Bob. Don't get too close to the pumps while you're burning like that!" I joked. When Bob saw me his face turned redder than usual.
"God damn cheap cigarettes," he said. "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 you asking?"
"I need a place to stay, Bob." That was one of the most painful things I had ever said, but I tried to look enthusiastic. Bob didn't need to try. He looked like he just remembered it was his birthday and he was hungry for cake.
It's only about a forty minute drive from Miami Beach to Bob's house in Ft. Lauderdale, but that day it seemed like the longest drive of my life. Bob didn't shut up once the entire ride. He told me all about his "connections." He knew Mick Jagger, Rod Stewart, Ozzy; all the great rock stars. And if things worked out well for us, I might get to be a stage hand for the Stones. How lovely for me. I knew he was full of shit, but something in me wanted to believe him anyway. It was strange how much I wanted to believe back then. So I just tuned Bob out and started daydreaming about being a roadie for the Stones, until some distraction would bring me back to reality and I'd find myself riding in fat Bob's filthy fucking car. It's no wonder I daydreamed so much.
In my daydreams I was living with a beautiful librarian. I was always taking out the trash or fixing the leak under the kitchen sink. We would lie in bed reading every night and then discuss the books in the dark. Somehow we always ended up making passionate love. In my dreams; in reality, I had fat fucking Bob and his bad breath and dandruff. He 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, but Bob other stranger plans.
When we got to his house Bob played it cool for a couple of hours, then out came the pornos. Straight ones right off the bat. "Right on," I was thinking, "this could work out after all." But there was something strange about Bob's attitude towards the pornos, it was like he had a purely scientific interest. Then he got out a pad and a pencil and started taking notes.
"Damn," Bob yelled, "that's not the position I designed. This director is always screwing up my moves!" Then, once he knew he had my attention. "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. "Yup," Bob said, "I invent new positions for these adult movies."
All I could say was, "What?"
"Oh yeah, they run out of new positions to do it in, and that's where I come in. I design the new ones." Did he think I was buying this shit?
"I bet that pays well," I said sarcastically.
"Oh, sure," Bob replied, "they pay me ten dollars a position and I can do about twenty positions in a night. The only problem is I need a helper."
So here it came; the question, they all had a different way of getting there, but the question was always the same. "Do you know anyone who wants to make some fast money?"
"I don't know. What do you have to do?"
"Just help me invent new positions for the movies is all. It's easy. You just have to pose in these new positions while I create a template."
"OK" I said, trying not to laugh. "How much will I get paid?"
"I'll split it with you kiddo, and that's a good deal. After all, it's me who's coming up with all the ideas; you just have to lie there."
"OK," was all I could say; I mean I had come this far already right?
So Bob turned off the movie and took all the dirty clothes and damp towels off his bed and then he told me to take off all my clothes. That was for realism, he explained. And then the freak show began. It was fucking hard to believe how seriously Bob took his act. He got me to pose on all fours, and then on my back with my legs in the air, and then he covered me in these dirty old newspapers. I mean literally covering me in filthy fucking newspapers! I'd been wondering what all the newspapers were about; they were stacked everywhere. His apartment looked like someone was doing a paper drive. And all the time he was wearing these ugly bi-focals with a black magic marker stuck behind his ear. To make matters worse, fat Bob 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 naked body. And Bob was fucking frantic. He kept yelling stuff like, "Perfecto!" and "Bravisimo!" or, "Hold that one, don't move a hair!" The only reason I could keep a straight face was that he was a little scary. Then he got this little, pathetic boner and I was terrified that I might start laughing. I mean, this was fucking ludicrous right?
But I didn't laugh. Actually, it wasn't really all that funny, this position I was in. Not literally, just the fact that I was now stuck in Ft. Lauderdale with fat Bob the freak.
"OK," he said, "that's enough of the solo poses. Time to do the action couple shots!"
"Wait a minute," I asked. "How many was that?"
"Ten," Bob said.
"It felt more like thirty!"
"Well it wasn't," he said. "We only did ten usable new positions. Now you're distracting me. Do you want to make more money or what?"
"OK," I mumbled.
So then Bob climbs into the bed with me and starts arranging us into all kinds of sexual positions and once we were in a suitable "new" position, he would drag the newspapers up on top of us. Then he would make little tears in the paper where our bodies were touching. "These are the templates," he explained.
"Whatever," I said.
This went on for about half an hour and then Bob would exclaim, "I've got it," and we moved on to another so-called "new" position.
Bob achieved bliss in about the one hundredth new position. He never took his underwear off. I guess he was thinking that if he 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!"
Then he started getting dressed. So I didn't even get to cum? This was absolutely the worst trick I'd ever done. When I finished taking a shower to get the smell of Bob off me, not to mention all the fucking black newspaper ink, Bob said he wanted to go out to eat at Morrison's Cafeteria. Well, where else would a guy like fat Bob eat?
Later on, 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, which was thirty days after he submitted his work. "But the royalties," he explained, "the royalties are 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 until 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," he said, "joke all you want. But you don't wanna miss out on this opportunity."
I fell for the bait. "What opportunity Bob?"
"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 trying to say Bob," I asked.
"What I'm saying is that 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."
And 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. I suspended my disbelief. I couldn't hear Bob anymore. I was gone, starring in my very own child porn film.
Later, when we got home, he went into his bedroom for a couple of minutes while I watched TV. When he reappeared 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 in this folder are available for work next weekend. Take your pick."
I opened the folder and found a neat stack of photos cut right out of magazines. They were all of young girls from about twelve to sixteen. He must have cut them out of "Seventeen" or "Miss Magazine," but I looked them over anyway. I spent hours trying to decide which girl I wanted to work with. When I finally made up my mind I handed a picture to Bob and said, "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 perplexed. She had big dark eyes, and wore black plastic eyeglasses like Elvis Costello. She had medium length chestnut brown hair and a fair complexion. Her breasts were just starting to develop beneath her white blouse. Under the desk you could see her plaid school skirt and just enough of her milky white thighs to make you squint and try to see a little further. My eyes kept drifting down further to her white knee high socks and black patent leather shoes. Don't get me wrong. I'm not into schoolgirls with plaid skirts and all. I mean I'm not into schoolgirls in the Japanese fetish sense or anything. But she just looked so damn smart. She was the hot sexy librarian of my dreams and I fell in love immediately.
"Oh, nice choice," said Bob. "That's Dianne; let me give her agent a call."
And off he went into the bedroom. I could hear him making his fake call in a voice way to loud for the phone, and couldn't help but chuckle. Bob was definitely a fucking freak. When he came back to the living room he said, "OK, champ. She's available for next weekend on Saturday. It's all set-up." He took back the folder, but I kept the picture of Dianne. Well, what else was I going call her?
I knew Bob was full of shit and all, but I couldn't help dreaming about Dianne every second for the next week. Everyday, Bob got home at seven or so and I met him at the front door. Of course he didn't let me stay in his house alone during the day. I just wandered around Ft. Lauderdale daydreaming and smoking. At night we did 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.
The following Saturday, I was all nerves. I was at Bob's door at five pacing up and down the corridor. Of course, Bob showed up at seven-thirty 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 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 dollars a day! On tour with the Stones! Wow, maybe I could even bring Dianne. Then again, maybe not.
Like I said, Bob gave me five bucks a day for food and cigarettes. So, I didn't eat. I was squirreling away some cash for a rainy day. I would steal food while Bob took his morning shower and then eat like a pig at night when he got home. I stayed at Bob's for over two months, every night another story, and every night the same "position game." After about ten more stories and the subsequent let-downs, I had about a hundred bucks saved up.
One day I woke up and split. I didn't think about it or plan it; I just got on a bus headed back to Miami. I never saw Bob again, but that happens a lot in my line of work.
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