Goldberg Gets Lucky

Back in the 90's, porn parodies were all the rage. Movies, TV shows, pop stars, politicians . . . anyone who got their fifteen minutes of fame was bound to get fucked for fifteen more, in flimsy farcical fantasies. The internet wasn't "a thing" yet, so lonely dorks like me still had to go out to dingy hole-in-the-wall (pun intended) adult video stores in the worst part of town; browsing through hundreds of tapes with unimaginative titles like Pulp Friction, The Joy Fuck Club, Buffy the Vampire Slut, and Forrest Hump. ("My pants are like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get!")

I was finally liberated from my weird Jewish family back in Philadelphia, taking drama classes at NYU and hoping to take a big bite out of the Broadway apple. A nineteen year-old guy living alone in a tiny dorm room in the heart of New Jack City, with no girlfriend to comfort me on those cold windy crime-filled nights. Acting was my only refuge, and porn was my only release. I watched those beautiful naked bimbos every single night, trying to emulate the comic flair of Peggy Bundy, Elaine Bennis, and Fran "The Nanny" Drescher. They couldn't act worth a damn, but they could ride cocks like the wind.

I was still pining for Brea Bee, the only real girlfriend I ever had at William Penn Academy. That hot redhead was the coolest girl in school, and I was the un-coolest boy, but somehow we ended up lovers. Sparks flew like the Fourth of July, and I thought we'd be together forever. She unlocked my artistic talents and convinced me to become an actor/playwright. But we gradually drifted apart, going our separate ways after graduating. She enrolled in the drama program at the University of Virginia instead of NYU, leaving me broken and blue with all my Transformers, Go-Bots, and Masters of the Universe. (A lot of kids who grew up watching He-Man and She-Ra in the 80's were now coming out as gay. Those scantily-clad leather-loving warriors turned an entire generation toward "the dark side.")

My porn stash was getting stale, so I took the subway up to "The Deuce." Times Square was still sleazy in those days, and I stuck out like a sore thumb among a horde of hookers and hustlers. I didn't feel like watching a dirty flick at a run-down theater with rock-hard seats and sticky floors (not from popcorn and soda!) so I just went to Carson Books on 42^nd Street. That place started out as a sophisticated theatrical book store in 1946, but then the neighborhood went to shit, and now there was just a small selection of "adult literature" in a back corner, with the rest of the place devoted to XXX on VHS.

"Hey, Goldberg!" beamed Billy Bukowski, the scraggly store owner.

"Hey Billy. I'm here to check out the latest hilarious send-ups of Hollywood tripe."

"Hollywood can slide right off into the Pacific, for all I fucking care," he grunted while cracking open a can of Surge. "We just got a new title that's right up your Comic-Con alley. Captain Planet XXX."

"Holy shit," I chortled.

"That's exactly what I thought. They got a porn parody for everything these days."

Five busty twenty-something babes sprawled on the front cover in neon latex body suits, groping a buffed-up Captain Planet. That mutated eco-justice hero had blue skin, green hair, and red Superman-style external underwear. The tagline above him proclaimed: "By your powers combined . . . I will CUM!!!"

"I really shouldn't watch this crap . . . but of course I will."

"I ain't judging, bro. That'll be three dollars."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The next evening, I starred as Harry Hope in The Iceman Cometh. That sounds like a weird porno about the Abominable Snowman, but it's actually Eugene O'Neill's epic tragedy about a bunch of dead-end drunks living in a flop house on skid row, bitching and moaning about their shitty lives for four straight hours. It's the most depressing train wreck you can possibly imagine, but people keep watching it for some reason. It was opening night at the NYU theater, and the snooty Manhattanites in the audience never suspected that I had Fraggle Rock and Thundercats posters in my college dorm room.

Sword of Omens, give me sight beyond sight . . .

My eyes drifted toward the front row, glancing at the illuminated faces. A young woman sitting in the middle looked a lot like . . .

Oh my god . . . no fucking way!

"Brea?" I croaked awkwardly, breaking my 1939 wino character. Indeed it was Brea! My old high school flame smiled at me in that adorable way I remembered dearly from William Penn Academy. She gave me a friendly finger-twiddling wave. Balls, balls, balls! What the hell was she doing in New York, at that theater? She was supposed to be south of the Mason-Dixon Line, "pursuing her own artistic dreams."

I cleared my throat, struggling to resume my tortured stage role. The rest of the play went by in a blur of conflicting emotions, fictional and non-fictional. I somehow managed to get a standing ovation at the end, with several loud "bravos!" from Brea Bee. I followed the rest of the cast out to the lobby for the traditional opening night exchange of praise and flowers. Brea stood next to the box office with a big smile, holding a dozen red roses. Baaaaaalls!

"Good evening, Mister Goldberg," she cooed sweetly while tossing her shiny hair. That ginger vixen got a lot hotter since we starred together in William Penn's production of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Her tits went from B to C, and her face went from "flirt-worthy" to fucking awesome.

"Oh my god, Brea, what the hell are you doing here? Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world!"

"I'm on spring break from UVA, so I drove all the way to Manhattan to see your big theatrical debut."

"But . . . why?"

"Because I miss you, Adam. I've been thinking about you all the time, even though I have another boyfriend now."

"Damn. I miss you just as much, girl. I'm still keeping all your love letters in a shoebox under my bed."

"Me too. My favorite letter is the one where you said: 'My most beloved Brea, I need you every moment of every day. Our romantic chemistry is beyond compare. Your tender passion is like divine oxygen, sustaining my soul with every kiss. I need your love to live.'"

"Ha, yeah," I snicker, flushing with embarrassment. "No wonder I ended up on Broadway, spouting sappy crap like that."

"We had a good run as soulmates. I was your 'density.'"

"Totally. But density rarely condenses the way you want it to. And my crazy-ass mother sure didn't help."

"You'll always be a part of me, Adam F. Goldberg. No matter how far apart we may be."

"There's always something there to remind me," I croaked like the awkward high school kid I used to be, asking her out to the prom. "So . . ."

"Do you have another girlfriend now?" she asks boldly.

"I sure don't. Because I miss you too much."

"Then why don't we do something about it? Let's get out of this stuffy old theatre, and have one last epic performance at the SoHo Sheraton."

Holy shit, I couldn't believe what I was hearing! All the crazy sitcom-y stuff that happened in the Philly suburbs were nothing compared to this.

"But . . . but . . . what about your boyfriend?"

"Cosmo will never find out. Come on, you geeky cutie. I know you wanna party like it's 1989."

Oh my god. I'd be crazy not to do this.

"Damn right, Queen Bee. I don't know about the future, but the past keeps getting clearer every day."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Brea Bee led me by the hand through Washington Square Park, like every couple in every cliché New York rom-com ever made. She paused underneath the historic arch and french-kissed me like hell.

"I've always wanted to kiss someone under this arch," she beams.

"Me too. And I've always wanted to have sex in a city park, but I was too afraid to do it."

"Let's do it right now, baby," she cackles naughtily.

"Oh my god."

"What are you . . . chicken?"

My face crinkled indignantly, drawing on my inner Michael J. Fox. "Nobody . . . calls me . . . chicken!"             

I pulled her away from the arch and led her to a shady grove near a statue, dimly illuminated by a nearby street lamp. I nibbled on her neck while unbuttoning her orange blouse. Oh my god, this shit was so fucking crazy. Her perky tits popped right out, with no bra to keep them in check. I shoved her pointy pink nipples deep in my mouth, sucking hard with my head in the clouds. No way this could happen to a hopelessly awkward dweeb like me! I guess Robert Palmer was dead wrong when he sang: "Some guys have all the luck."

"You suck my titties so good. Talk nerdy to me, boy!"

"Uh . . . okay. Let's see . . . did you know that Jabba the Hut was supposed to appear in Star Wars: A New Hope? They filmed a scene where Jabba confronted Han Solo outside the Mos Eisley cantina about his smuggling debts and his laser-blasting of Greedo. But that scene didn't make much sense, so George Lucas tossed it on the cutting-room floor. And did you know that the guy in Darth Vader's costume was actually a Scottish bodybuilder? It would have been funny to hear him say: 'Oi foind yourr lack of faith disturrbing!'"

"Oh my god, your geeky rambling really turns me on!" Brea moaned throatily. She dropped to her knees, fished my dick out of my pants, and shoved it deep in her pretty mouth.

"Holy fuck, now I'm a sleazy New York criminal," I groaned toward the muted stars over Manhattan. She kept bobbing all the way back and forth on my throbbing shaft, sucking real hard, making me feel so fucking good. My pleasure was doubled by the danger of getting caught. I'd have to call Beverly Goldberg to loan me $500 to cover the fine . . . and believe me, my obsessive yenta mother would totally plotz.

"Fuck yeah, Brea bitch. Your blowjobs have gotten a lot better since you blew me off."

She pulled out with a funny poof sound, and looked up at my face with a sweet grin. "I've been studying fellatio real hard with Cosmo. But I keep picturing your face on his face."

She shoved my schlong back in her mouth, whipping her head back and forth, groaning loudly on my man-meat. The best sex since my eighteenth birthday party, when I popped Brea's cherry in a Dave & Buster's bathroom.

The pressure in my prostate got stronger and stronger. I tried my best to hold back my load, making this magical moment last. The sound of New York City traffic filtered through the trees, reminding me of the real world.

"God damn, you slutty fucking drama queen. I hope we won't get robbed by a bunch of crackheads."

She giggled with a mouthful, then she sucked my balls like a pair of Jawbreakers. A minute later, she leaned against a mature oak tree, hiked up her orange skirt, and hiked down her black panties. My jaw dropped open in disbelief at the sight of her wet pussy, framed by a shock of red pubic hair.

"Take me now, Adam fucking Goldberg!"

"Yes ma'am, Queen Bee."

I slammed my six-inch jalopy up her tuna tunnel, making her squeal like a little girl. I growled like Randy "Macho Man" Savage, fucking that gorgeous ginger like there weren't no tomorrow. Crashing my hips against her flabby ass cheeks in a loud rapid rhythm.

"Fuck yeah, Goldie! Keep fucking the shit out of me. You're so much better than Cosmo."

"With a name like Cosmo, he has to be a douchebag."

I slapped her ass hard, making her squeal yet again. I spanked that naughty girl a dozen more times, turning it red. Purging my existential frustrations as a lonely struggling artist. A few minutes later, my sex-addled brain tried to tell me something was wrong. Flashing blue-and-red lights on the nearby park driveway soon confirmed that nagging sixth sense.

"Oh balls, the pigs!"

"Get the hell outta here!" Brea shouted while pulling up her panties. She got a head start down a dark gravel trail while I jammed my erect penis back into my khakis. One of New York's finest got out of his cruiser and aimed a flashlight at my genitals.

"Hey, you pervy lovebirds! Stop in the name of the law!" he shouts while chasing after us. I ran like hell toward 17^th street, with my ex-girlfriend trailing far behind. Like a mentally challenged protagonist escaping from bullies in rural Alabama.

"Run, Forrest! Ruuuun!" Brea yelled gleefully. We zig-zagged through a playground and a farmer's market, then we burst into the traffic on the street, almost getting hit by a bus. Losing "the heat" in the process.

"Come on, I live right over here!" I shouted back at Brea, pointing toward an NYU dorm building. We paused breathlessly at the front door and looked back. That cop was nowhere in sight.

"Holy shit, that was close. I'm so fucking turned on right now!" she groaned seductively. I dragged her into an elevator and pushed the button for the tenth floor. We made out all the way up, in standard Hollywood fashion. I paused at the front door of room 1023, fumbling for my keys while Brea smooched every square inch of my neck. We finally reached my tiny dorm room, and my high school flame laughed at the same décor she saw in my old Jenkintown bedroom.

"Damn, you haven't grown up a single bit," she giggled while gazing at a shitload of 80's nerd culture merchandise. "Except for your new porn collection. Oh my god, Captain Planet XXX. Did you seriously watch that?"

"Twice," I admitted shamefully.

"I'm gonna fuck you way better than those anorexic Planeteers with fake boobs," she remarked seductively. She took off all her clothes, revealing a body that got twice as sexy since she got the hell out of Philly. I got naked just as quickly, revealing my far less impressive body. Brea Bee didn't give a shit how I looked, because she knew Adam Goldberg had a heart of gold.

She brushed all the action figures off my bed and shoved me down on it. "You better not cum without my permission, Private Goldberg!"

"Sir yes sir, Brigadier General Bee!"

"Smart-ass punk," she growled playfully. My old flame took a flying leap onto my single-size mattress, landing on my lap with a loud paash! from her flabby thighs. She took a shorter bunny-hop onto my hard wet cock, moaning triumphantly. Bouncing up and down in a wild blur, like that crazy aerobics bitch in Flashdance.

She's a maniac, maaaniac, at my love / and she's fucking like she's never fucked before!

"Fuck yeah, General Bee. Keep riding my stallion like a Midnight Cowgirl!"

"Oh shit, your cock feels so good, so deep in my twat. I'm squeezing it like A Clockwork Orange!"

"Your pussy feels even better, racing on my hot rod. You're so frisky, like Fritz the Cat!"

"How many more X-rated cinema references can we throw into this coitus?"

I smacked her ass a dozen more times, then she performed a perfect dismount and got down on all fours.

"Fuck me like a dog, Goldberg!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

I got on my knees and rammed my rod right back in. Cruising down her pink highway in a skin Cadillac. Rattling my bed like hell, and rattling the shelf behind it, full of flexible plastic figurines from blockbuster movies. Han Solo fell over on Princess Leia, burying his face in her royal Alderanian crotch.

"Who's your daddy, you fucking dog-bitch?"

"You're my daddy, baby!"

I pictured my real father, Murray Goldberg, sitting on a ratty recliner in his underwear. Calling me a moron ten times every half-hour. I'm so glad I escaped from that mind-numbing black hole on Harrison Street.

"You drove four hundred miles to cheat on your boyfriend. What a fucking slut!"

I spanked her even harder, driving her bonkers. Brea's shiny red hair looked even better from behind, drooping down her pale white back toward her amazing bubble butt. Meanwhile, my orange Garfield telephone rang on the other side of the room.

"Oh shit," Brea grunted.

"Good thing I got an answering machine," I chortled while fucking her brains out. Garfield rang six times before the machine clicked and beeped. I didn't have many real friends in New York, so the chances were really high that the caller was . . .

"Hey there, my precious schmoopie-woopie!" Beverly Goldberg beamed on the speaker.

"Oh my fucking god," I groaned in deep embarrassment, but I kept pounding my prick into Brea Bee's honey-hole. Once I get going, a team of wild horses couldn't drag me away.

"I just called to congratulate you on your big Broadway debut. I guess you're still out on the town, having a ball at one of those wild theatrical after-parties I've always heard about. I'm so proud of you, my adorable man-child prodigy! You're gonna be the next Billy Shakespeare, no doubt!"

"Oh my god, that bitch is so fucking annoying," Brea snickers while working her clit with her right hand. My mother is not just annoying, she's fucking insane . . . and her constant meddling in every aspect of my life is the main reason why Brea broke up with me.

"Be sure to call me when you get back to your dorm room. I can't wait to hear about your opening night performance in The Iceman Cometh. I'm sure you broke the ice real good, and melted the hearts of those stuck-up New York critics. Oh, by the way, schmoopie . . . you'll probably get my package in the mail today. I sent you some homemade wool sweaters, and some new underwear. I know you like tighty-whities, but boxer shorts are better for your sperm count. I want your boys to swim, so you'll give me lots of grandchildren to spoil!"

"Shut the fuck uuuup!" I growl at Brea's laughing face. My brain superimposes my sexy blonde mother's face over that flaming redhead, getting me horny as fuck. I pound her pussy even harder.

"Oh my god, are you pretending you're fucking your own mother?"

"Fuck yeah. That jewish schlub is a real ball-popper, just like you!"

Brea cracks up as I race toward the finish line, literally bouncing off her hips. Beverly ends her call with an annoying "too-da-loo!" My bed rattles like the Big One, knocking over G.I. Joe's entire platoon.

"Oh shit! The Iceman is gonna bust a snowball all over your face!"

Brea drops to her knees on the cold floor. I aim my cock right between her amazing brown eyes, blasting her like Optimus Prime on Discharge.

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHH! FUCKING BIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!"

That hot ginger takes a massive creamy load with a sweet smile, giggling girlishly. I keep jerking and growling long after my balls empty out, surging with macho triumph on the craziest night of my life. She grabs my dick and shoves it back in her mouth, sucking out every last drop. Her face looks even better with a gallon of jizz on it. I grab my Polaroid 1000 to capture this crazy moment for posterity.

"Ooh yeah. I'm ready for my close-up, Mister DeMille."

I press the shutter button, and a piece of glossy paper slides out the bottom end. Brea admires her cum-splattered likeness as the chemicals develop it before her very eyes. I take two more money shot shots, then I step back for some full-body angles. Brea wiggles her big naked ass so fine, like a Penthouse Pet of the Month.

"I'm a model, you know what I mean / and I do my little turn on the catwalk . . ."

She wipes all that splooge off her face and licks it off her hands, moaning contentedly. We sink down on my bed in complete exhaustion, spooning tenderly. Savoring the bittersweet afterglow in the heart of SoHo.

"Holy shit, Brea Bee. That was better than any stupid rom-com I ever saw."

"Way more entertaining than The Breakfast Club."

"Damn, I really miss our high school glory days."