DUDE, THIS IS REALLY, REALLY FUCKED UP

by Poppy Z. “L.B.” Brite

[ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS STORY — EVEN THOSE BASED ON REAL PEOPLE — ARE ENTIRELY FICTIONAL. ALL CELEBRITY VOICES ARE IMPERSONATED … POORLY. THE FOLLOWING STORY CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND DUE TO ITS CONTENT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE]

It was finally happening. I’d turned down many honors that other people might find greater — a fellowship at Trinity College in Dublin; a chair in creative writing at the University of Virginia — but now it looked as though I might be about to realize one of my deepest literary ambitions: to cowrite an episode of “South Park.”

Comedy Central had flown me to L.A. and put me up in the Beverly Hills (or whatever the hell that big pink hotel is called). They’d offered me a bungalow at the Chateau Marmont, but I turned it down for fear of running into Courtney Love, who I still thought wanted to kick my ass, but that’s another story for another day. Today I was scheduled to “take a meeting,” the first time I’d ever performed this hallowed Hollywood ritual, at Comedy Central with the creators of “South Park,” Trey Parker and Matt Stone. These guys were two of my comedic idols, so before taking the meeting, I took a Klonopin. I wanted to have a shot of Sauza tequila in that crappy, famous little bar, too, but I figured it was a bad idea.

A car picked me up and deposited me at the meeting. I was ushered through halls filled with Comedy Central memorabilia and awards. I only had eyes for the “South Park” material. Well, that’s not quite true — I admit I coveted a life-sized cardboard standup of Patsy and Edina from “Absolutely Fabulous,” and examined a poster of Chris Rock naked except for a giant fig leaf. But even that image dissolved as I walked into the meeting room.

Sometimes you just can’t help a thing. I’ve been with a wonderful man for eleven years, married for five, happy. Even if I was going to develop a little crush on one of my new collaborators, I would have expected it to be Trey. He’s the blonde, more conventionally cute one, with these slightly tilted Caribbean/South Pacific-blue eyes and a smile worthy of a gay male model. Matt wasn’t my type at all (I believed then). I’ve never gone for curly-haired white boys, especially if they let it grow out into a huge Afro as he is often wont to do, and I thought his smile was goofy, not nearly as pretty as Trey’s. But the instant I walked into that room and we saw each other, something passed between me and Matt Stone that — despite all the things that happened later — could never be erased.

I found out later that (A) he was born in Houston (I have an inexplicable, uncontrollable, horrifying thing for Texans) and (B) his birthday was the day after mine (I almost always click with other Geminis, often in intense, fiery, mutually destructive ways). But all I knew then was that he gave me a hard-on and he was looking at me as if he might have one too.

Despite their highly charged makeout scene in “BASEketball,” I didn’t think at the time that they were a couple — I knew Trey had been cruelly dumped in college by a girl named Lianne, after whom he had named the dirty slut Mrs. Cartman, and I’d just like to take this opportunity to point out that I’ve never encountered a Lianne, Leigh Anne, or Lee Ann who wasn’t a dirty slut. I knew nothing at all about Matt’s sexuality. However, I could tell (every assertion I make is questionable) that Trey was the “top” in this duo. He took charge of the meeting at once, questioning my credentials. “Poppy, I see you don’t have any experience writing TV, comedy, or TV comedy — “

“I sent you my novel Exquisite Corpse,” I interrupted. “Didn’t you think that was funny?”

“Well, yes, and speaking of it, we are looking for fresh blood on ‘South Park.’ That’s why we were interested in meeting with you.”

But that’s no longer the only reason I’m interested in meeting with you, Matt’s eyes said to me (or so I imagined). I noticed a tiny, scimitar-shaped scar on his upper lip. I shifted in my chair and took a deep breath.

“Actually,” I said, “I have a proposal for a ‘South Park’ episode I think you’ll really like. It’s called ‘Cartman’s Mom is a Child Molester.’ “

“Hmmm,” said Trey. “Intriguing. Which kid would she molest?”

“Well, Kyle’s adopted baby brother, Ike. That’s how we’ll get away with it, because he’s hardly human, he’s Canadian. In ‘Ike’s Wee-wee’ you had people thinking he was a trashcan or a table leg. That way it won’t be as upsetting to viewers as seeing, say, Stan or Kyle get molested.”

“Dude,” said Matt, “didn’t you see the episode we did last season where Cartman meets NAMBLA?”

“Fuck,” I said. I had watched every “South Park” tape I could get, but somehow I’d managed to miss that crucial one.

“Hey, relax!” Matt assured me in the voice of Saddam Hussein. “It’s probably not even the same premise. Take a load off!”

“Go on, let’s hear your idea,” said Trey.

“Yeah, take it,” said Matt in his own voice, and smiled at me. Suddenly that little gap between his front teeth didn’t look so goofy any more. I could see possibilities there.

“OK,” I said. “The Broflovskys take Ike to the pediatrician for his yearly checkup, and he is found to have anal abrasions.”

Trey arched his eyebrows, a sardonic/seductive look I’d seen him shoot the camera a time or two during their fireside chats, but I could not even begin to speculate on that with the force of Matt’s personality still trained on me. I wondered who was the top here after all, and knew only that it was not me.

“So he’s removed from the Broflovsky home?” Matt asked.

“Yeah, that’s good, he could go in some kind of INS hell camp and have it publicized how much better off he is than in this abusive home. Meanwhile of course Sheila is mounting one of her crusades. Meanwhile — “

“You want to watch it with those ‘meanwhiles,’” said Trey. “You can get ahead of yourself with them.”

I shot him a look. In it he must have seen something of the Gemini evil he’d be used to dealing with, for he spread his hands in a pantomime of innocence and said, “Just a tip.”

“You can keep the tip, as the leper said to the prostitute,” I told him.

They both burst out laughing, and the tension in the room abated a bit.

“Meanwhile,” I said, “Big Gay Al is seen leaving Mr. Garrison’s house early one morning.”

I watched the sheer beauty of the idea begin to dawn on them. “So everyone would assume … ” Trey said.

“And naturally Sheila would encourage them in assuming … ” Matt said.

“That the homos had to be the child molesters!” I finished.

They both stared wordlessly at me, expressions of incomprehension and contempt spreading across their faces, and my heart seemed to stop.

“No,” said Trey impatiently, “that Big Gay Al and Mr. Garrison were planning to bomb the big Sno-Cat rally at the Grange.”

I can’t even imagine how my face must have looked until Matt took pity on me. “Just kidding! That’s another episode we have on the drawing board. Sure, all the townspeople assume the gay guys have to be the child molesters, and probably Satan worshippers too … “

“Satan would be cool,” I said, “but what I really hoped for was to work a little Terrance and Phillip into this episode.”

May I employ the cliche “Their faces lit up like the morning sky over the mountains of South Park”? Of course I may, for I am a TV writer now, though not credited as such. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Unlike those in many pieces of writing, the asterisks below are not meant to stand in for a sex scene. That’s coming up soon in all its golden glory.

*

I had no idea whether the meeting had gone well; as Trey pointed out, I had no experience for gauging such things. When I asked them if they wanted to get a cup of coffee or some juice or something afterwards, they said they had animation to do. I was wearing a tight black Betsey Johnson slipdress with winged lions printed on it, and a pair of high-heeled Doc Martens, and I thought I looked pretty cute. But maybe I wasn’t their type. Or maybe they had girlfriends. Or maybe they were a couple after all. The only thing I knew for sure was that I was having some very unprofessional feelings about these two guys I might be working with: namely, I wanted to be their whorebag.

I’d come into the meeting thinking Trey was the more attractive of the two, developed a massive thing for Matt during the course of the meeting, and left the meeting realizing that I couldn’t separate my feelings for them. I’d kept thinking of their passionate kiss in “BASEketball” and wanting to ask if they would demonstrate just how it was done. I was certain that this distracting thought had affected the remainder of my pitch. Fuck, I thought. Fuck fuckity fuck fuck. I’ve blown it. That only brought more filthy images into my mind. I took the car straight back to the stupid pink hotel, threw myself on the king-sized bed, jammed both fists into my crotch, and writhed in frustration.

A couple of hours later, I was paging sadly through the ads for gay porno listener lines in the Hollywood phone book and wondering if Comedy Central would pay the charges when a knock came at my door.

I tried to prepare myself for every sort of disappointment in the moments it took me to walk to the door. It was Room Service with something I’d forgotten I ordered. It was a personalized fire drill. It was Fred Savage. “Who is it?” I asked.

“Who in Hell do you think it is, bitch?” said the voice of Saddam Hussein.

I snatched at the doorknob, nearly yanked the chain off its moorings, unhooked it, and let them in. I’d taken off my dress and boots, and wore only black panties and 12-gauge stainless steel nipple rings. Matt and Trey, for some reason, were wearing the white chef jackets with their names embroidered on the chests from the “Bakin’ Bacon With Macon” fireside chats. I could tell they weren’t really chefs, though, as Trey wore tight velvet pants, Matt wore Lucky Brand jeans, and they both had on the rhinestone sandals they’d worn to the Academy Awards.

“Hi!” I said. I knew there was a huge, shit-eating grin on my face, but I decided to acknowledge neither that nor the fact that I was nearly naked.

“Hi there!” said Trey. “We wanted to discuss some points of your story in greater depth.”

“Now, Trey, you know that’s a lie,” said Matt. This, I thought disjointedly, sounded like a line from a fireside chat. “Poppy, do you remember what we called Dian Bachar’s character in ‘BASEketball’?”

“Little bitch,” I tried to say, but something had happened to my voice.

They stepped closer to me. For infrequent drag queens, their balance in those high-heeled sandals was very good. “What?” said Trey. “We couldn’t quite hear you.”

“LITTLE BITCH!” I shrieked, then glanced nervously at the door.

“Don’t worry,” Trey told me with a big smile. “In an old Hollywood hotel like this, we could be beating the crap out of you and no one would bother us.”

“That’s good,” I mouthed, my voice gone again.

“We do like your storyline,” said Matt in that same earnest, fireside-chat voice. “But what we were really wondering is how you’d like to be our little bitch tonight.”

I could only nod my head. Vigorously.

“In case you were wondering,” Matt explained, “we are a couple. We don’t usually do chicks. But from the moment we first saw you, we could tell you were a dude on the inside.”

“And I could tell how bad you wanted my ass,” Trey said.

“Dude, no way, she wants my ass.”

“I thought I wanted your ass first, Trey,” I said. “And then I decided I wanted yours even worse, Matt. Because it’s true, you do have a really sweet ass. But why must we quibble? Can’t I have both your asses?”

“I think we’ll start by having yours,” they said in unison. Each of them grabbed me by one arm, and they hoisted me effortlessly and threw me headfirst onto the bed.

“Wait a sec,” I said, twisting around to look at them. “You guys are totally in charge. You can do anything you want to me. But Matt, can I please unzip your fly? I’ve always wanted to unzip someone who was wearing a pair of Lucky Brand jeans.”

“Sure, OK,” he said, lifting the hem of his chef jacket.

Lucky me, I thought as the red logo appeared.

“Unzip mine with your teeth,” said Trey, and I did. Neither was wearing underwear, and they both immediately stuck their huge cocks down my throat. “Dudes,” I tried to say, but what came out was just a sort of “VVVVVV,” which they seemed to like as it created a vibrato effect. I’ve done a lot of things, but I’ve never had two cocks in my mouth at once, and I couldn’t really do a whole lot with them other than lap at the heads and go “VVVVVV.”

My attention was diverted when I saw that they had wrapped their arms around each other and were kissing as passionately as they had done in the “BASEketball” scene. When they noticed me watching, Trey put one hand on top of my head and shoved it back down. “Hey, watch all you like, but keep busy.”

So I taught myself the art of sucking two cocks as best I could, and found that it was easier if I kept the two cocks pressed together with my hands and deep-throated them as if they were one awesomely wide cock. Matt and Trey didn’t seem to mind. They’d kicked off their pants and rhinestone sandals by now, and I could see in the perimeter of my vision that they had their chef jackets open, pinching and tugging at each other’s nipples. I wished I could just sit back and watch them, but Trey had ordered me to keep busy, and I didn’t dare do otherwise.

Apparently I was a pretty quick learner, because they both came at the same time, the salty taste flooding my throat and sinuses without warning. As it trickled from the corners of my mouth, they flopped down on the bed on either side of me and kissed me, the taste of come mingling in our three mouths. As soon as they’d licked it all off my lips and cheeks, they rolled away from me and entwined together, muttering things that I couldn’t hear. Soon they were kissing deeply again, Trey sprawled on top of Matt, and I lay there and watched, painfully horny but unwilling to even masturbate because they hadn’t said I could.

I thought they’d forgotten I was there when Trey sat up and said, “OK, we’re hard again and we’re gonna fuck you.” He was right on both counts. I hoisted myself onto my knees.

“C’mere,” Matt said, grabbing me beneath the arms, and basically lifted me up and over and impaled me on his cock. Once in a great while, I love being tiny.

“Dude, please use some lubricant,” I said as Trey positioned himself behind me. “Dude, spit works fine,” he replied, and shoved his cock rudely into my ass. I screamed (not entirely in pain) and collapsed forward onto Matt’s chest, pulling Trey with me. Matt wrapped his arms around both of us, and I closed my eyes in ecstasy, half-crushed between their bodies, inhaling the clean scent of their sweat and come, filled beyond capacity with their cocks, as happy as I had ever been in my life.

That was the evening’s nicest moment.

After they finished fucking me, they turned me into their chew toy. I always thought that was just an expression until I saw the tooth marks on my nipples. The stainless steel rings felt white-hot. “Ow!” I shouted, certain that Matt was about to take one of them right off.

Trey pulled back and stared at me in mock surprise. “Why, Poppy,” he said in the voice of Mr. Garrison, “I thought we were all cannibals here.”

“Yeah, well, where’s my meat?”

“Right here,” said Trey, and shoved his cock down my throat again. By that time, Matt was making use of that gap between his front teeth that had fascinated me earlier, so I would not have complained even if I had been able to.

When we were done with that, I discovered that someone had used a thick-pointed Sharpie to scrawl the word COCKMASTER across my chest and stomach. “Goddamn it,” I said.

“Naughty language,” said Trey, and smacked me across the face. That was apparently some kind of signal, and they both fell on me.

I came back to consciousness some time later, bruised and spread-eagled, one limb tied to each bedpost. They were shaking the bed and yelling “Exorcist! Exorcist!”

“Your mother sucks cocks in hell,” I said tiredly, and pretended I was being tortured in Vietnam until I lost consciousness again.

*

Thank God somebody remembered to pull the curtains was my first thought upon awakening. I couldn’t have stood the sunlight on top of all the pain.

They’d untied me at some point before falling asleep in each other’s arms on one side of the bed. I was on the other side. I sat up and took a quick inventory of my ruined body. In addition to COCKMASTER, I now bore the legends LITTLE BITCH, UNCLE FUCKA, TESTICLE SHITTING RECTAL WART, and BARBRA STREISAND. Over my left breast were the initials MS + TP in a Valentine heart. I was covered with bite marks, bruises, rope burns, and dried come. My ass and pussy felt stretched and abraded. I looked over at Matt and Trey, clean, flawless, cuddled together like two kittens, and I smiled.

They opened their eyes and smiled back at me.

“Coffee?” Trey asked. I tried to say yes, but my voice didn’t seem to be working yet, so I nodded. He picked up the phone and ordered it while Matt sat up and groped for his glasses on the nightstand. Trey got them first, held them out of reach for a moment, then put them in his hand.

“Dudes, I had a great time,” I said.

“Dude, so did we,” said Trey as they both stood up. “But, hey, one more thing? Could you come in the bathroom with us?” I hauled my decrepit body out of bed and steadied myself by grabbing Matt’s sweet ass. They guided me to the spacious pink-tiled bathroom. “That’s good, that’s real good,” Trey encouraged me. “Almost there … OK, get in the tub here. Now stretch out. Good … Now close your eyes … “

I closed them just as the twin streams of pee began to hose me down. I knew I was truly lost when I realized I didn’t even mind the stinging.

*

Six months later, back home in New Orleans, I watched as the new season of “South Park” opened with the episode “Cartman’s Mom is a Child Molester,” script by Trey Parker and Matt Stone, with a nice little Terrance and Phillip episode-within-the-episode. As a DVDA song called “Leave Those Kids Alone” played over the closing credits, I noticed a Special Thanks to L.B. Even as I cursed them for ripping off my brilliant idea, some small and loathsome thing deep inside me squirmed in delight at the knowledge that my degradation at their hands was now complete.