"Right on time," Matt said, glancing at his watch. "You gotta like that in a bitch."
"I'll agree that's it's a favorable attribute," Jake said, unconsciously using a Nerdly-ism.
The woman driving the car was Kimberly Kowalski. That was the name her mother had given her, although only a select few knew her by that name. Most knew her by her "screen name" of Mary Ann Cummings. Ms. Cummings was perhaps the most famous and sought after pornographic movie actress in the industry. To date she had starred in more than twenty adult movies, including the critically acclaimed To Fill A Mockingbird, Blonde Faith, and Ball Street Blues. What set her apart from the rest of the adult film actresses of the day were her looks, which, despite the life she'd lived to get where she was, remained wholesome looking, sweet and innocent; and, perhaps more impressive, her amazing ability to portray an on-screen orgasm in a way that looked and sounded utterly realistic. Her facial contortions, moans of passion, pelvic thrusts, and leg quivering were so realistic looking that fans endlessly delighted themselves in speculating that she wasn't faking any of them, that all of her on-screen orgasms were, in fact, genuine explosions of sexual pleasure.
Matt had met Kim, as he called her, three weeks before at the Flamingo Club when both had happened to be there at the same time. Since then, they had been seeing each other on a regular basis — the first such relationship Matt had ever engaged in. Though he did not refer to her in conversation as his "girlfriend", it was quite obvious that he was taken with her in some way that was fundamentally different then all the other women he fucked and then threw away. They went out to dinner together several times a week, had gone fishing together twice, and she'd even spent the night at his house a few times — something that no other woman had ever done.
This was only the third time that Jake had met her in person and, like always, being in her presence and talking to her like she was a normal person was strange considering the fact that he had seen several of her feature films. He had watched her taking nine-inch penises into her mouth, vagina, and anus, had seen her engaging in smoking hot lesbian sex with up to three other women, and had witnessed her convincingly real orgasm scenes. He had even masturbated a few times while watching some of her more erotic depictions (his favorite was in To Fill A Mockingbird, when she'd engaged in a threesome with two actors who were supposed to be brother and sister in the movie).
"Hey, guys," she said brightly as she turned off the engine and stepped out of the Mercedes.
"Hey, baby," Matt said, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her body against his. They engaged in a semi-lustful tongue kiss that lasted the better part of fifteen seconds.
"Nice to see you too," she said, reaching down and giving his crotch a discrete squeeze. She turned to Jake and held out her arms to him.
"How are doing, Kim?" he asked her as he gave her a hug. He felt the press of her surgery-enhanced breasts pushing into his chest (breasts he'd not only seen bared on many occasions, but had once seen three guys spray their semen on in Ball Street Blues).
"I'm ready for some softball, some flying, and some fishing," she told him, kissing him wetly on the cheek (with lips that he'd once seen deep-throat Mark Snake — a man with a ten incher).
"Well you're in the right place then," Jake said, embarrassed to feel that his penis had started to fill with blood at the contact with her.
"Did you pack lightly?" Matt asked. "Remember, no more than twelve pounds of luggage per person."
She rolled her eyes. "That's totally barbaric to ask that of a woman," she said. "But, yes, I managed to keep it at eleven point nine pounds. Happy?"
"Ecstatic," Jake said. "Having an overweight plane is just not a good idea."
"Do you wanna drive, Matt?" she asked, waving him toward the driver's door.
"Fuckin' A," he said. "Jake, looks like you're in the back."
"No problem," Jake said. "It'll do my ego good to be stuck in the back once in a while."
They stowed their bags in the trunk of the Mercedes and then climbed in, Jake in the back seat, Matt behind the wheel, Kim in the passenger seat. They pulled out onto Hollywood Boulevard and began fighting their way toward the freeway so they could begin the trip to Ventura, where Helen's softball team was engaging in their regional championship game at 6:30 that evening.
As soon as they hit the freeway, Matt pulled a fat joint from his cigarette pack and lit it up using the Mercedes' cigarette lighter. He took a tremendous hit and then passed it to Kim, who took an even bigger hit. She passed it back to Jake. He sucked up a lungful of the potent greenbud and then handed it back to Matt.
"So you're sure that your girlfriend won't mind having a porn star at her softball game?" Kim asked Jake.
"I'm sure," Jake assured her. "She said to bring you along. She doesn't give a shit what the media think about it."
"How many media people are going to be there?" asked Matt.
"Well, ever since that clusterfuck in Omaha, they've been on us like stink on shit," Jake said. "The game is actually going to be broadcast live on ESPN."
"No shit?" Matt asked, shaking his head. "A fuckin' women's softball championship in Ventura County, on ESPN?"
"They say it's to help promote regional women's sports," Jake said, taking another hit and feeling the drug go rushing blessedly to his brain.
Helen Brody, flight instructor, pilot, and amateur softball athlete, had suddenly found herself smack in the middle of her fifteen minutes of fame, or infamy if you prefer, after that "clusterfuck in Omaha", as Jake termed it. After spending the night together in a suite in the Ferriday Hotel, they had emerged the next morning into a full-blown media circus, with camera crews set up all over the lobby and dozens of Omaha reporters shouting questions at them about what their relationship was, how long they had been seeing each other, and, inevitably, how many times Jake had beaten her, whether or not she was a willing participant in the sexual activity, and whether or not Helen knew about Jake's past abuses of his girlfriends.
What they hadn't had to ask was who Helen even was. By the time Jake and Helen had emerged into the fray, all of the reporters knew everything about her, including her address and profession. They shouted questions about whether or not she was teaching Jake to fly, about whether she was passing him because he was sleeping with her.
"No comment," Jake whispered to her as he began dragging her through the lobby toward the entrance. "Don't say anything to them but 'no comment'."
He prayed that their limo would be waiting for them out there. Under the circumstances, Jake decided to forgo the formality of checking out. He would call the hotel from the airport where his new plane was being kept and have a little chat with the manager.
The limo was there and they made it safely away — or so they thought. What they didn't know was that the limo driver had already been approached by several reporters, handed a few twenty dollar bills, and had given up the location where he would be taking the couple that morning — Executive Airport in suburban Omaha. When they arrived there, another gaggle of reporters and were already waiting, cameras flashing, video machines filming.
"Why are you here at the airport, Jake?" one shouted. "Are you taking a flight somewhere?"
"Are you in Nebraska to complete your flight training because California refused to certify you?" asked another.