Jasmine Reviello is a 22-year-old college dropout living in Southern California, just outside of Los Angeles. This series follows her through the erotic, degrading misadventures of her life as an employee of a popular new sex carnival opened on Venice Beach.
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*****
Reese's maroon-bodied El Camino cruised along Lincoln Boulevard, and we both draped an arm out through the open windows, savoring the cool evening air of Spring. He'd already lit a joint as soon as we hit the carnival parking lot, and was making it dance between his lips while he drummed on the steering wheel with his fingers. His taste in music was one of the only things that didn't fit his out-and-out "white boi surfer" aesthetic -- Dan Auerbach poured his soul out through the vintage car's rattling speakers, sounding much more melancholy without the other half of his duo that made up The Black Keys.
I didn't mind, I'd listen to just about anything that wasn't loud, angry butt-rock after being subjected to multiple hours of Jay's awful custom playlists on the Throat Trash stand. My ears felt plugged from the excessive volume of the speakers behind the attraction, and my throat was scratchy from the 3-ish dozen cocks that had forced their way down it during my shift. I kept trying to subtly clear it, and wishing I had a water bottle or something to soothe the sensation.
"So what time you gotta be back at the big top tomorrow?" Reese projected over the music and rushing wind, plucking the joint from his stubbled mouth and offering it to me.
"Evening again, I rarely get day-shift anymore," I accepted the half-smoked roll and puffed it, letting the cloud expire in my lungs for a few moments before releasing it into the empty streets.
"Yeah, makes sense -- day shifts are all B-squad girls. You're too hot for that." He said it without looking at me, but I could see the crook of his grin even from the corner of my eye. I was again mortified at the girlish flutter the compliment caused in my belly. So juvenile. Guys called me "hot" all the time, why was it any different when Reese said it? Maybe because he wasn't following it with "slut" and then spitting on my face.
He hooked into the parking lot of Jack in the Box without slowing down much, and the jostling of the car bounced my braless tits around beneath the thin, black camisole I'd slipped on above my frayed jean shorts. My hair was still pulled back into a high, poofy pony, and it still had dried streaks of jizz in it, despite my having tried to scratch them free in the shower. He maneuvered us into the drive-thru lane and halted at the large outdoor menu board.
"Good evening how can I help you?" A bored-sounding voice crackled through the speaker below the little order-review screen.
"Yeah uh, can I get an order of tiny tacos, some bacon cheddar potato wedges, and a Sprite? Aaaaand," he looked over at me.
"Just a strawberry shake," I said, and he squinted his eyes as if he didn't believe. I just shrugged and nodded -- I needed something cool for my throat, and the food there wasn't all that different from what I could have gotten back at the carnival. If the munchies hit me when I got home, I could always down a bowl of yogurt with some fruit.
Reese relayed my order, then swung us around to the pickup window and paid for everything like a true gentleman. A surly teen handed our bags through the window, and we parked in a slanted spot facing the TR!P Santa Monica music venue across the street. Huge likenesses of Hendrix, Morrison and Slash watched me plug a straw into my shake while Reese unboxed his tacos. Then he stopped abruptly.
"Whoops, first things first," he grinned, reaching across my thighs and clicking open the glove compartment. Inside was an old-timey tin box with pictures of those yellow, loopy butter cookies on them. He snagged it, popped the lid, and pulled out a fresh joint and lighter. I shook my head at his enthusiasm, but wasn't going to say no to another toke.
He lit up, puffed it, then passed it to me while he continued his foray into the world of miniaturized tacos. The windows were still down, and I listened to the sound of the occasional car rushing by as I peered out at the buzzing streetlights, lost in abstract thoughts.
"So, you dating anyone?" Reese popped a tiny tortilla stuffed with meat and cheese onto his tongue, looking over at me.
"Oh, nah -- I'm not really the relationship type, I guess." Sip straw. Avert eyes. Jagger judges from the wall across the street.
"For real? Guys probly ask you out all the time I bet."
"Yeah, I guess. I mean honestly I'm usually just at work or at home. Guys at work aren't really trying to 'date' and at home I'm usually sleeping," I laughed for my own sake.
"Do you wish guys at work wanted to date?" He held his hand out, and my cheeks flushed for a moment before I realized he just wanted a turn at the spliff. I ashed it and passed it back across the center console.
"Mm, noo. They're not the type you'd wanna settle down with, for the most part." I didn't want to offend by lumping him in with everyone else at the park packing a dick between their legs, but I also wasn't expecting a romantic interrogation.
"True. Can't imagine most dudes would want their girl working at the carnival, lotta sharing huh?" He had a thoughtful look on his face while he sucked the weed cig, but it passed like a cloud as he exhaled and took a swig of Sprite. It seemed like he may have just been genuinely curious. Herb is as likely to cause brain munchies as the belly kind. If he was trying in any way to ask me out, the pitch sailed right by me.
"You think you'll keep working there -- like, long term I mean?" He passed the cig back to me.
"I haven't really thought about it... It's good money, aaand it's better than an office-"
"Ha, yeah dude fuck offices. I've tried that route -- obvi not my thing," he lifted one of his dreads as indication and let it fall back onto his crumb-scattered tee.
"Me neither, parents probably wish I'd do something like that, though."
"They know what you do now?"
"Nahh we don't really talk. They just know I'm out here making it work."
"Yeah. Gotta eat, right?" He smirked and held up the little carton of cheesy potato wedges, but I declined, the smell making my stomach twist a bit. We chatted about music and Marcy and surfing for a while longer, until the snacks and encore joint were finished, then he chauffered me home while my eyelids weighed down on me.
We pulled up to the blue and white towers of my complex at Avalon Playa Vista, just north of the airport, and I thanked him for the ride, grabbing my clothing bag and empty shake cup.
"I'll see you back there tomorrow?" He leaned across the passenger seat as I held the door.
"Yeah, def," I quirked my lip and waved, tossing the door shut and watching him motor off.
My body was a thousand pounds as I collapsed onto the puffy white bedspread of my mattress, and I fully intended to get my ass up and shower again before officially going to sleep. But exhaustion won the fight, and I woke up drooling into my arm at 4am.
"Fuck..." I lifted my head groggily, glancing around the darkened room, and ultimately decided to just crawl under the sheets, twisted clothing, crusty hair and all.
*****
When the sun finally reached me through the drawn blinds and death-like burial of comforters, it was nearly noon. My phone was face down on floor, murdered by neglect, and my mouth tasted like old strawberries and sour dick. Priority numero uno became a tall glass of water as I smacked my lips disdainfully.
I stumbled into the recently-renovated kitchen and filled a cup from the door of the fridge, slugging it down like a desert wanderer, or coma patient, before blinking hatefully into the sunlight issuing in from my patio. I'd never been a morning person. And to me, morning was whatever time you woke up on any given day.
The stove clock said 11:46, still lots of time before work, but no real plans to fill it. I figured I could at least check that Marcy was still alive, so I fished a charger cable out from my couch cushions and plugged it into my rectangular pocket-window to the world, before dragging myself to the shower, at long last.
My thick, brown ringlets were a stubborn tangle, and I winced as I drowned them in conditioner and finger-combed them back to sanity. The little room was mired in the scent of mango body wash, and that at least restored some life to the well-used husk I was still inhabiting from the night before. I sang little catches of Auerbach's melodies, and started to think about breakfast. Or lunch, more realistically.
"Morning sleepyhead," Marcy replied to my message of 3 skull emojis.
"Need ramen," was all I typed back, and she replied with a thumbs up.
I couldn't be bothered with the upkeep of an actual car, but my apartment was only a 20-minute ride on my electric longboard from Venice, and the weather was great that time of year. So I slipped into some track shorts and a sports bra, tossed my wallet and phone into my drawstring bag, and hit the pavement, freshly-cleaned curls catching the wind behind me.
Lunch traffic was picking up as I zipped by the Whole Foods and rounded the corner past LA Fitness. I had a membership there, but mostly relied on good genetics and somewhat careful eating to stay thin. Well, thin enough. My tummy wasn't as flat as Marcy's, but she was a freak of nature. No matter how much she ate, she never gained more than a couple pounds. And she shed them in her sleep, forever retaining the body of a recent high school grad.
I got a few pervy honks along Admiralty Way before picking up the bike path and following that to the Ocean Ave area. Marcy was sitting out front of the ramen spot under one of the umbrellas, tapping her foot and scrolling her phone in the sunshine. She had on a cute little teal dress that showed her perky nipples clearly against the lightweight fabric.
"It lives," she said, shading her eyes as she glanced up at the sound of my approaching board.
"Fuck you," I slid to a stop, before picking the board up and crouching to hug her. "Noodles. Please please noodles."
