The Great American [ Porn ] Novel

The Great American Porn Novel

Chapter 1

“There aren’t  enough virgins in Vegas Pastor”. The Mayor leant forward, warming to his theme. “And in this Church we are especially interested in teenage virgins”. He licked his lips. The heat and humidity regularly had a dehydrating effect in the desert, even for locals.

Pastor Pye assumed that was his cue to state his pitch. For the full time job of Pastor at the Church for the Return of Purity to Las Vegas. The Mayor and his two fellow Church Elders looked at him. For forty thousand dollars a year plus housing, Pastor Pye was willing to get very acquainted with virginity, teenage or otherwise.

“Years ago” he began, “Before I ever thought about Divinity School, my Grandpappy used to say to me, Clarence, he would say, they is all these white girls out there, they just need a black boy like you to bring happiness to they lives.” The Elders were nodding their heads. “It was your mission” the Mayor interjected, “to bring happiness to Caucasian American girls. Well we sure got plenty of them in this town Pastor”.

The Pastor told them all about his athletic High School days. The scholarship that enabled him, a poor black kid from a rough neighbourhood in Alabama, to go to further education. And in that College he turned his back on sports and devoted his days to girls. College girls. Especially virgin College girls. And in particular, Caucasian American virgins, white girls who willingly answered his call and gave themselves up to an experience that would stay with them all the days of their lives.  So, he concluded, while he was wasn’t even thirty, and he was looking for his first Church after graduating from Divinity School, he had a lot of experience in the particular mission of this particular Church.

“And could you do that again Pastor?” asked the Mayor, “Could you move all the way to Las Vegas, could you endure the life threatening temperatures, the temptation of the gambling dens, the enticements of sin, would you extend your College experiences and make it your day to day work to keep focused on the many wanton and wanting teenagers that this God forsaken town has developed?” The Mayor certainly spoke his kind of language.

“Indeed I could Mayor, indeed I could. Yeah hah. Pastor Pye has seen the light. He has heard the call of a Higher Power. He will make teenage sex his priority. He will do that for this Church”.

All four of them were nodding in unison. They had sent out a call and having checked his references, they felt that he, Pastor Pye, was sent to them so that they could fulfil their objectives. When he walked in the door, all six foot four inches of impressive African American inner strength and vitality, they realised that their call had been answered. Pastor would see to the virgins. Hallelujah.

He might not have been able to answer their questions about the best way to manage that couple of million dollars that had been saved in Church funds over the years, or mightn’t have been able to tell them anything about their duties as Trustees of the fund that owned the land the Church was on. Indeed he had been completely stumped when they quizzed him on possible property developments in Vegas in the area around the land owned by the Church.

But, they had assured him, that those problems were not insurmountable. In fact, they had interviewed many people for the job who were unsuitable because they knew all about money and funds and property development, but nothing about the Church’s main interest. And that was where Pastor Pye came in. Yes Sir. He might not be well up on the nuances of the politics of running a successful Church, but he knew all about virgins. And that was all that mattered. They all shook hands and praised the Lord that he had answered their call.

And so it was that in the first week of April 2011, Pastor Pye packed his bags and drove himself all the way from Georgia to Nevada to take up a job at his first Church. Forty thousand dollars, free housing and a helpful Board of Elders to get him on his way wasn’t a bad start for a fledgling Pastor on his first gig. Not bad at all.

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Willie Mutton sat in his Editor’s office. Things weren’t going well Willie. The internet you know. People just weren’t buying newspapers any more. Unless they got a real headline grabbing news story. Then they would sell extra papers for a few days. But that was it. Willie had heard this before. In fact he could have sat in the Editor’s chair and told himself exactly what the Editor was telling him right now.

He drowned out the Editor’s voice. Wondered to himself how the hell he had managed to end up in this situation. He knew the answer. The Great American Porn Novel. It was due for submission by the summer. End June 2011. Three more months. Willie had gotten a huge advance for it, but that was two years ago. Then he had had a brainwave. Move to Vegas and write the book out there. After all the plot was centred on America’s second largest pornography production center. A couple of months of full time gambling and part time writing later and the advance had disappeared. Now his publishers and his agent were getting fed up waiting. They wanted a return on their advance. They wanted the bloody book.

Willie needed the time to write. But he also needed money to live on. So he had to work. And work meant less time for writing. Vicious circle. Willie knew all about vicious circles. Now, if he took the Editor (the one in the newspaper), seriously, he was going to have to work even harder. And have even less time for writing the book. Fuck it. Just Fuck it.

The Great American Porn novel was to be his launching pad to success. His agent loved the proposal and the three chapters he had submitted. Two publishers had outbid each other for the rights. And the advance reflected the success they expected his book to be. But it would never be a success if he couldn’t get the damned thing written.

Scoops. It was all about scoops. Get a scoop, sell more papers, please the Editor, keep job. He had decided to be a writer because he didn’t want to join the rat race that every one else seemed to be on. All he had done was to swop a rat race for a hamster wheel. Scoop, sell papers, keep job. Another scoop. Sell more papers. Keep job for another month.

The Editor wanted to know if Willie understood. Yes Sir. Message received and understood. He took his notepad and headed out of the office. The dead heat of the Vegas Strip caused him to instantly perspire. The Deuce bus was just coming, he had no idea where he wanted to go, but hopped on anyway. Bus was full. Tourists. Bloody tourists. They might be the life-blood of the town but to Willie they were a bloody nuisance. They were all going to lose anyway. Vegas was built on the losses of gamblers. Why not stop wasting time, skip the casino and just leave the amount they were going to lose in some drop box in the airport or something?

Heat made Willie cranky. Standing in a moving bus with random overweight tourists elbowing him in his own over sized gut made him crankier. Pressure of work and lack of money was driving him to places he would rather not contemplate.

Without much thought, he got off at the stop nearest Slattery’s on the Strip. His favourite watering hole. An ‘Irish’ pub owned and operated by an Alaskan pension fund. The beer was good though. And beer helped him think. When he had no money. When he had money, beer helped him gamble. This was Sunday. He wouldn’t be paid again until Friday. Hadn’t enough money to gamble, just in case he didn’t win this time. So he’d use the time it took to have a beer to think. Think about a chapter for his book. Think about a story to keep his job.

Slattery’s was one of the few places on the Strip were you couldn’t bet at all. He wondered if that was why it was his favourite pub as he ordered a Pint of their ‘Best Irish’. Freshly brewed in Palin country no doubt. No slot machines. No poker machines. No roulette wheels. Nothing. Just drink. And cracking looking women. Locals and people in the know knew that Slattery’s was the best pick up joint in Vegas. Sure some were hookers, but no harm in that, right? Willie reckoned that it was something to do with the lack of opportunities to gamble. Because people weren’t too busy either trying not to lose their shirt, or trying to win it back again, they could concentrate on the second most important thing in life – getting laid.

He took a stool at the corner of the counter. Gave him a great vantage point. To where the bar keepers industriously plied their trade. Up at the televisions. Round to where the cracking looking women would come and go as the day wore on. The other big thing about Slattery’s was that it was like a Vegas for locals. Well, without the gambling. It was only fair really. If the rest of the world could come to Vegas and misbehave with the excuse that ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’, where were Vegas residents to go? To Slattery’s as it happens. One of the bar keeps, Marty, reckoned that more affairs had been consummated in the darkened cubicles that surrounded the tiny dance floor than anywhere else in the world. Slattery’s was the number one venue for locals who were either having an affair or wanted to have one. Willie wasn’t looking for an affair. He just wanted a drink. And loads of creative inspiration.

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Hank Regan read his credit card statement. For the third time. His day job as Vice President of External Relations for the Grand Casino Company of Las Vegas meant he regularly had to get to grips with complicated financial accounts. As a VP, that caused him no difficulty. It was this damned credit card statement that was threatening to defeat him.

The biggest number on his March statement wasn’t any purchase he or Cindy, wife number two, had made. It was the interest that had accumulated, and the interest on that interest and the interest on that interest. He wouldn’t have owed loan sharks as much if he’d borrowed from them.

Hank Regan hadn’t always been Hank Regan. When he had emigrated from England first he was plain old Ronnie Regan. But he hated being asked ‘THE Ronald Regan?’, so much that he changed his name to Hank. He wondered if he changed it again, would he be able to leave this whole credit card nightmare behind.

From his vantage point in the den, he spotted wife number two descending the stairs and heading for the kitchen. Cindy was naked. Well she would have been if she wasn’t wearing those brand new sky blue satin panties. The two hundred dollar ‘special purchase’ item that was close to the bottom on the bank statement.

The ten thousand dollar silicon enhancements that had started off the whole credit card nightmare teased him as they swung out of his line of vision. He hadn’t understood why a twenty five year C cup just had to become a brand new double D, but it’s hard to win an argument when that C cups’ owner is using her twenty five year old fingers to pinch the tip of your forty eight year cock and refusing to let anything else happen until you gave in.

When he was married to his first wife he couldn’t stand her most of the time. At least they had had shared financial goals. Saving for Brittany and young Ronald and their future was most important. Savings were but a distant memory now. All gone in the rushed divorce settlement. And the alimony payments. And the deposit for the new house he had to  buy when he moved out of the first home he had already paid for but had been forced to hand over to wife number one. And then the investment deal he had bought into, on the advice of the Mayor.

If there were a book written about his life, Hank ruefully concluded, it would be called ‘How to be rich and successful and have absolutely nothing’.  They used to have a college fund once upon a time, he remembered. No matter what else happened, he was determined his eldest child, the adorable Princess that was Brittany, would go to college. And not end up like her step-mother with ten thousand dollar breasts and a penchant for demanding two hundred dollar knickers. Not that Brittany was slow at putting expensive lingerie on the credit card bill he had to cover for her as part of the divorce settlement. The more times he told himself that Brittany was nothing like Cindy, the worse his headaches became, and the more similarities between the two he was beginning to see. At least they couldn’t stand each other, so there wouldn’t be any direct influence by one on the other.

The silicon enhancements floated past the door to his den again, making their way back upstairs with a glass of freshly squeezed acai juice, made from berries imported from ... somewhere. He couldn’t remember where exactly, and couldn’t bring himself to look at the credit card statement again to find out.

“Don’t forget we got the Brunch at two Cindy”. He wasn’t sure she had heard him. She wasn’t really talking to him since the whole ‘you slut’ argument the previous week. The two hundred dollar panties had thawed matters but not resulted in a full defrosting. And for the second Saturday in a row he had gone without his usual ‘get a leg over’. Saturday was ‘get a leg over’ night. Legs don’t go anywhere on Saturday nights when wife number two goes out Friday night, ‘with the girls’, doesn’t come home until eleven on Saturday morning and you call her a slut. He was beginning to wonder if he changed his name back to Ronald could he get rid of the debt and the wife?

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