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
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.
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
"Hmmm," said Trey. "Intriguing. Which kid would
"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
"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
"OK," I said. "The Broflovskys take Ike to the
pediatrician for his yearly checkup, and he is found to have
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
"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
"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
They both stared wordlessly at me, expressions of incomprehension
and contempt spreading across their faces, and my heart seemed
"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
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
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
"And I could tell how bad you wanted my ass," Trey
"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
"Sure, OK," he said, lifting the hem of his chef
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
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 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
* * *
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.