Trending
Calendar
 
CP on Facebook

 

CP on Twitter
Print Email

Charm City Porn Star

Patriotic Porn

Thunder flashed and roared as if Zeus himself were standing there

You might think I spent the Fourth of July lounging poolside while a bevy of beauties in star-spangled barely-there bikinis pass around a tray of various intoxicants of various colors, like so many separated Skittles of sin. I actually spent the day protesting the NSA’s domestic spying at the Restore the 4th—amendment that is—Los Angeles Rally.

But never fear, dear reader, for though my hard-partying days are long behind me, I do admit, there have been some crazy times that I will forever fondly associate with America’s birthday. I know it’s past, but all the protesting got me recollecting.

One Independence Day in the mid-2000s, I was shooting a sex scene for Hustler in the High Desert and while it is illegal to purchase (or set off) fireworks anywhere in L.A., to my delight I found that they were legal there. So after spotting a roadside fireworks vendor, I asked the production crew to pull the van over. I bought $100 worth of, like, three enormous packages of the most nasty, definitely illegal explosive shit I could find—stuff that did everything from wizzlewallopbang! to zipperzoodlezing!

I got back to L.A. and was hanging out with my girlfriend, doing all the traditional Fourth of July stuff with our friends, and as it got dark we got back to her place, where it was just about to get hot and heavy, when I realized. . .

FUCK! I hadn’t seen any fireworks! What’s Fourth of July without fireworks? That’s un-American! And I had a crazy amount of banned boom-boom still in the car! No way was I was about to let it go to waste. What was I gonna do? I couldn’t store it for a whole extra year, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to throw it away. So under the cover of darkness, like a drunken Uncle Sam/Ninja hybrid, with great patriotism and stealth, I lined every single Fourth of July firework on the street at a completely empty curb. Let freedom ring! I nervously flicked my lighter and methodically set fire to every single wick. . .

And then ran like hell.

Safely incognito back upstairs in my girlfriend’s second-floor apartment, we hurriedly shut off the lights and just as we peered through her front window shades, night completely fucking turned into day. Hell, even more than that, it was like World War III, Pink Floyd, deadmau5, and every combination of kaleidoscopic-ray show ever witnessed and not witnessed by human eyes suddenly erupted on this tiny, out-of-the-way-off-the-freeway corner on Barham Pass.

KA-BOOM!

Every noise you could imagine, every rocket blast, every kazooowoowooooo! rang out and thunder flashed and roared as if Zeus himself were standing there joyously throwing his mighty bolts.

I admit: It was just a weeeee bit more than I had intended.

But it was too late now.

Soon the neighbors were coming out of their homes (from a safe distance, with their jaws all hanging and their eyes wide with amazement); people were looking out their windows; couples were calling others excitedly to come and see. They were all delighted. The city is so tight-assed about restrictions that there are very few places to see explosions in the city, so you must deal with stadium-size crowds and it’s a fucking nightmare. So a lot of Angelenos say, fuck it and stay in, and to them, this unexpected fireball special was as good as it was gonna get. As my girlfriend and I secretly watched the expanding pandemonium from our hidden, darkened viewpoint, the shockwaves rocked the block and more and more spectators came out to witness the celebratory cacophony. It was then that I realized that while I had been behind her gazing outside, just as completely enraptured with the nutty goings-ons as everyone else, she had quietly pulled her pants down to her knees and was reaching behind to you-know-where to get me excited for you-know-what. I was already halfway to that point anyway—remember, that’s what we had gone back there in the first place, so it didn’t take long to bring me to, um, full attention. The chaos before us had turned her on even more, the daring juvenileness of it all. But it was also the kinkiness of the fact that we could see the entire parade of pow, and no one could see what we were doing in the window.

As the detonating rainbow light show was reaching its crescendo, I entered her. And though we had thought that the demolition dazzle was about to peak, it just kept pulsing, going and going with more and more intensity until seemed like it would never stop. . .

. . .just like she and I.

I wish I could say that we climaxed together with one last resounding boom like the epic cannon at the end of the William Tell Overture (or “For Those About to Rock” by AC/DC), because that would’ve made a great ending. However, I yield no ground as we actually were both so turned on by the whole thing that our torrid skin-trade sweated late into the night, which I think is an equally hot and perhaps more real conclusion.

The next day I checked the street, the scene of the crime. No harm, no foul. Just a few scorch marks on the tar here and there. There are two kinds of heat: temperature and lust, and both kinds had left their mark, one on that asphalt and one in my memory.

Write to Kurt at charmcitypornstar@citypaper.com and follow him on twitter @KurtlockwoodXXX.

We welcome user discussion on our site, under the following guidelines:

To comment you must first create a profile and sign-in with a verified DISQUS account or social network ID. Sign up here.

Comments in violation of the rules will be denied, and repeat violators will be banned. Please help police the community by flagging offensive comments for our moderators to review. By posting a comment, you agree to our full terms and conditions. Click here to read terms and conditions.
comments powered by Disqus