Not Dead Yet (XXX parody)

The alarm clock buzzes loudly, waking me up from an amazing dream where I was getting fucked senseless by Paul Rudd in a helicopter, hovering over Hollywood. Getting some great action in an action movie. I wipe the sleep from my eyes, reluctantly returning to my broke loveless thirty-something life in Pasadena. I'm a "proud journalist" in the dying newspaper industry, living in a small dumpy apartment with an uber-annoying environmental lawyer roommate. Paper straws, my ass!

The last nine months have been pretty weird for me. I've been seeing lots of ghosts of people who just died moments before in a distant location. Nobody else is able to see them. Those amusing spirits have been giving me lots of life advice before I send them to heaven (or hell?) by writing their obituaries and publishing them in The SoCal Independent. The novelty has worn off, and now it's just fucking creepy.

Edward is frying a vegetarian curry jalapeno sausage in the kitchen. The disgusting aroma pushes me out of bed.

"Good morning, Nell," my roommate says flatly as I walk through the living room toward the bathroom.

"What's so good about it?" I mutter. "I'm gonna take a shower while you eat that smelly crap."

"This is a lot healthier than the crap you eat. By the way, remember to drape your towels perfectly flat on the drying rack after you use them. Even the smallest fold can breed millions of mildew cells."

"Okay, Edward," I reply flatly.

"And remember to rinse all the soap scum off the shower curtain and the bathtub. Leaving that behind is like hanging a giant welcome sign for nasty microbes."

"Okay, Edward."

"And when you shave your legs over the tub, please don't leave any little hairs lying around."

"That rule should also apply to you, Mister Manscaper. Dozens of curly brown pubes have escaped your neat-freak attention."

"Fine, whatever. Don't take too long in the shower, and don't turn the heat on too high. That's not financially responsible or eco-friendly."

"Jawohl, mein fuhrer. Sieg hiel!" I reply sarcastically with a nazi salute. He groans as I close the bathroom door.

I get naked and admire my naked BBW latina body in the mirror. I'm cute in a girl-next-door kind of way, so why can't I find a steady boyfriend? Well . . . I'm sure my perpetual bitchiness has something to do with it.

I turn on the shower, nice and hot. This is my favorite guilty pleasure, so I sure as hell won't let Edward take it away from me, no matter how much that passive-aggressive eco-freak bitches and moans about "climate change." The steaming water hits my goose-bumpy flesh, and I moan pleasantly. I close the shower curtain and let it fall all over my soft mocha skin, erasing my problems for a few fleeting minutes. Lathering up my big tits with cheap soap; feeling like Miss California instead of Little Miss Nobody.

I suddenly get a strange feeling that I'm in the famous shower scene from Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho. I turn my head slowly to the right, and see the silhouette of a voluptuous woman standing near the closed bathroom door. My pleasure instantly turns to fear. I slowly move my head around the shower curtain, and I see a twenty-something blonde bombshell in a sexy ivory cocktail dress. Ghost number fourteen, apparently. She's the prettiest one I've seen so far, by far. With that curly 1950's hairstyle, bright red lipstick, and white stiletto heels, she looks just like . . .

"Marilyn Monroe?"

"Not quite, Nell," she replies sweetly, sounding almost exactly like that iconic model/singer/actress. "I'm Marilyn X. Monroe."

"Who the hell is Marilyn X. Monroe?"

"I was a porn star, honey."

"Wow. I haven't watched any porn since my college years. That shit rots your brain."

"Fair point," she giggles.

"So . . . I guess you're dead."

"Brilliant deduction, Captain Obvious."

I pull back the shower curtain to get a better look at that deceased celebrity lookalike; revealing my wet soapy full-frontal glory.

"What happened? Did you overdose on sleeping pills, just like the original Norma Jean?"

"Nope. It's a funny story, in a tragi-comic way. It happened while I was on vacation in Paris. A few hours after getting gangbanged on camera by five French hunks."

"Ooh la la, tres sexy."

"My sentiments exactly. I went back to my hotel room near the Eiffel Tower and had some more fun with a vibrator. However, like a lot of American tourists, I didn't know that the power plugs in Europe are all 240 volts. Much stronger than the American 120."             

"So it caught on fire?"

"Yep. My Dildobot 5000 burned to a crisp, and so did I."

"Damn. Why didn't you stop, drop, and roll?"

"I was drunk as a skunk, honey."

"Of course," I sigh wearily, remembering my own drinking problem. "So many porn stars end up dead in a ditch or rotting in jail. Why do people think that industry is 'glamorous?'"

"It ain't glamorous, but the pay is great, and you make lots of interesting friends. With benefits."

I take a deep cleansing breath of steamy air in the bathtub, bracing myself for another freaky day. How much more of this ghost shit can I take before they throw me in the loony bin?

"All right, I know the drill. You'll follow me around town and give me a bunch of advice to improve my shitty life, before I send you to the afterlife by emailing your obituary to the copy editor of the SoCal Independent. Beaming you up like fucking Star Trek."

"Bingo. The other ghosts helped your mind, but I'm gonna help your body. Specifically, your vagina."

"Holy shit," I chortle. "My own private ectoplasmic sex coach."

"At your service. So . . . I heard your job's a joke, you're broke, and your love life's D.O.A."

"Bingo. But my life is not nearly as funny as Friends, or any sitcom in 2023."

Marilyn admires my naked body with a sly grin. "A bootylicious Puerto Rican mamacita like you can't get any action?"

"Nada. Zilch. I must have the avian flu, because I've been sending lots of cocks into quarantine."

"Too bad. I hate all these shallow Hollywood guys who only like pencil-thin ladies with no brains. They need an intelligent woman like you, with a little junk in the trunk."

"Ha . . . yeah," I murmur awkwardly, looking down at my flabby body. Meanwhile, Edward knocks on the bathroom door.

"Come on, Nell. Quit talking to yourself and hurry up!" he shouts.

"Get a life, Edzo!" I snap back.

"Your roommate is a total prick," Marilyn remarks.

"Tell me about it."

"I know everything you always wanted to know about sex, but were afraid to ask. I also know that you've never had an orgasm."

"What? No way. I've had plenty of orgasms."

"No, honey. You've ejaculated lots of times, but you've never had an earth-shattering orgasm. Ejaculation is purely physical, but an orgasm is . . . transcendent."

"I guess you're right. I've always been too tired, too worried, or too drunk."

Marilyn X steps closer to the shower. The steam goes right through her ectoplasmic spirit-form, just like the ghosts in Ghosts.

"Show me how you masturbate, Miss Serrano."

"Are you fucking serious? Is this some kind of warped supernatural porn parody?"

"Come on, Nell-Nell. I can improve your sex life by leaps and bounds, but we have to start with the basics."

"All right, all right. You got more action than the other Marilyn Monroe, who got more dick than Paris Hilton. So you're probably a good teacher."

I slowly move my right hand toward my pussy, laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Marilyn smiles reassuringly with those amazing red lips, pearly white teeth, and sharply arched eyebrows. I masturbate every morning in the shower, but the current situation is awkward as fuck. Her old-school centerfold beauty lowers my inhibitions. Before I know it, I'm jacking my clit fast and hard, as per usual, while moaning softly.

"Damn, girl, no wonder you never had a real orgasm. You gotta slow down, and move in little circles instead of up and down. Picture a classy romance novel to get your mind away from this dumpy apartment. And put your fingers right above your clitoris instead of right on it. That stimulates more nerve endings."

I follow her advice, working the fleshy hood above my clit nice and slow while picturing Hot Dixie Summer, a harlequin romance novel I read when I was an English major at UCLA. A sultry tale about a blonde southern belle who falls madly in love with a hunky horse trainer. A strong surge of pleasure washes over my entire body. My knees literally buckle in the bathtub. I lean back against the tile wall, groaning gutturally.

"Oh my god, Marilyn X. Where have you been all my life?"

"I've been getting fucked on camera for tons of cash, while you've been working for a newspaper that nobody under fifty gives a shit about."

I keep working my clit, feeling so good while gazing at that amazing bottle-blonde in a fabulous 50's dress.

"Good girl, owning your body and taking control of your pleasure," Marilyn murmurs while gazing deep into my soul. "You don't need a man to be happy. In fact, you don't need a man for anything. Well . . . you need one to make a baby. But that's criminally overrated."

I stick two fingers deep in my pussy while rubbing my clit with the other hand. My mind has gone south for the duration; hypnotized by an alluring ghost. I've never felt so alive, floating on cloud nine in the misty bathroom. No wonder JFK fell so hard for that other crazy blonde bimbo.

"By the way, Nell . . . that shower wand has a massage option."

"It does? Oh my god, why haven't I noticed that for the past nine months?"

"You were too busy whining about everything to notice anything."

I take the shower wand off the overhead clamp, turn the dial to the strongest massage setting, and park that plastic disc right on my twat. It feels like my own private Niagara Falls, blowing my mind with aquaphile splendor.

"Oooooh fuuuuuuuuuck," I groan toward the ceiling.

The hot water keeps pulsating hard against my sensitive cunt lips, driving me insane. My heart beats faster and faster, and my legs shake like hell. A minute later, a tremendous transcendent orgasm bursts forth from the very depths of my body, making me roar like Katy Perry. My body slides downward along the wet tiles, incapacitated by ecstasy. I melt into a figurative and literal puddle at the base of the tub, with the shower head spraying hot water all over my big Puerto Rican ass.

That was by far the strongest climax I've ever experienced. I lie there in a pathetic daze with a frazzled expression, gazing up at Marilyn's smiling face. I look just like Janet Leigh in Psycho, right after she got stabbed ten times in a motel shower by Norman Bates in drag.

"Good girl," Marilyn beams. "See you at the office!"

She gives me a cute girlish wave, then she walks toward the bathroom door and morphs right through the painted wood. A moment later, Edward knocks on the same door.

"Hey Nell, are you okay in there?"

"Fine and dandy, Eddie-boy," I murmur dreamily.

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

The SoCal Independent newsroom bustles with journalistic chatter in the heart of Pasadena. I'm sitting in front of a computer screen in the southeast corner, sipping a large mocha latte from Fatty Arbuckle's Java Joint. The ghost of Marilyn hasn't reappeared since my epic shower wank. I'm feeling quite rejuvenated and refreshed, and well-caffeinated to boot. My assignment for tomorrow's edition of the paper is (of course) to write the obituary for Nancy Claire Rubado, A.K.A. Marilyn X. Monroe. Her life story is easy to find on the filthy internet.

Nancy was born on June 17^th, 1994 at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. Her parents were veterans in the U.S. Marine Corps, moving to twelve different military installations across the country during her childhood. She earned a drama degree from Michigan State, acting in a few campus plays. She moonlighted as a stripper to pay her tuition, under the deliciously burlesque stage name of "Naughty Nanette." After college, Nancy moved to New York City and starred in several off-broadway productions, including After the Fall by Arthur Miller. That play was based on Miller's tumultuous marriage to Marilyn Monroe, leading up to her sleeping pill suicide in 1962. She played the role of Maggie, looking and acting almost exactly like Marilyn.

After a performance, the director of After the Fall invited her to an orgy at his Manhattan apartment. She went there in her white ruffled "Norma Jean" costume and fucked a bunch of random sleazy guys, including Gary Glam, a porno director from LA. At one point, Gary wittily remarked: "Wouldn't it be cool if there was a porn star who looked just like Marilyn Monroe?"

"Oh my god, that would be cool as hell!" Marilyn agreed. "I've always fantasized about getting fucked on camera, so thousands of losers can shoot their wads all over their laptop screens. Maybe I should sign a contract with you, and change my name to Marilyn X. Monroe."

"Why the fuck not, baby? You got the right look and the right attitude, and you ride cock like a rodeo queen."

"And the porn industry pays a lot better than this Broadway bullshit." (The details of their conversation aren't mentioned on Pornopedia, so I'm using creative license, like a good journalist.)

Nancy dropped everything and moved to California, adopting the smarmy pseudonym of Marilyn X. Monroe. She starred in 132 dirty videos over nine years. Many classy period pieces like Beowulf X, Riding Lady Godiva, Shakespeare in Bondage, and The Screwing of the Shrew, along with many contemporary parodies like Wonder Woman vs. The Lesbian Titans, Terminator XXX: I'll Be Black, and Barbie XXX: A Plastic-Fantastic Porno, which earned her an AVN award for Best Female Performer.

Meanwhile, a stereotypically gay news editor prances down the aisle and pauses next to my computer.

"Oh my god, Nell, can you believe what happened to Marilyn X. Monroe?" Dennis asks, trying hard not to laugh.

"I sure can," I reply wearily. "Her vibrator caught on fire in Gay Par-ee, and she kicked the bucket."

He bursts out laughing. "A porn star getting killed by a sex toy? You can't make that shit up. Stand-up comedians will be milking that for years!"

"It's not very funny when you think about her family, and all the lonely guys who worshiped her."

"I know, it's quite a tragedy. She was like a sluttier version of Princess Di, who also died young in Paris."

"Gentlemen Prefer Blondes."

"But I prefer gentlemen, so I didn't give a shit about Marilyn X. Monroe," Dennis retorts.

"Neither did I, but now I feel her presence all around me."

"You've been saying that a lot lately, about all the dead people you research."

"Maybe I'm psychic."

"Or maybe you're just shit-crazy. Anyway, I better get to work on my article about Pete Buttigieg's gay hooker cocaine scandal. Oooh, that handsome dude is in trou-bull!"

Dennis prances further down the aisle. I sigh wearily, gazing blankly at Marilyn's biography. I get another strange feeling that I'm being watched intently.

"Wow. A queer man with an african-american father and an asian-latina mother? They killed four diversity birds with one stone!"

Oh my god, she's back. I turn around and see the beautiful face of Marilyn X, grinning wryly.

"Can't you see I'm hard at work, Miss Rubado? I mean, Miss Monroe?"

"You're busy pretending to work hard, Miss Serrano. Like most Americans nowadays."

"You're a drop-dead gorgeous ghost, but you're also annoying. Just like Piper, that bitchy valley girl who fell off a cliff while taking a selfie."

"Oh yeah, that redhead was fucking hilarious," Marilyn snickers while teasing her golden curls. "Look, I'm just trying to help you find your soulmate. Your predestined Mister Right. But of course, your soulmate might be a girl."

"No way. I'm straight as an arrow."

"Ya sure about that? After jerking off like hell in the shower while admiring this blonde bombshell?"

"I've never kissed a girl, or had the slightest temptation to kiss a girl."

(Thankfully my desk is in a remote corner of the office, so no one can hear me apparently talking to myself about kissing girls.)

"Try switching teams for one game, and see if you like it. Like my parents always told me, 'you never know until you try.'"

"Did your parents approve of your porn career?"

"They were my biggest fans, cheering me on at the AVN awards in Vegas, just like they cheered me on in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof."

"Hey Nell, can I see you in my office for a minute?" Lexi interrupts from behind us. I turn around and nod at my blonde boyish boss.

"Sure thing, Lexi," I reply eagerly; tired of shooting the breeze with the spirit of a goddamn porn star. I follow Lexi toward her corner office.

"Go get 'er, Tiger," Marilyn coos from my desk. I follow Lexi into her office, and the sliding doors shut automatically behind us. The fancy art-deco decor is a relic from the golden age of newspapers, when titans like Randolph Hearst controlled the narrative of the world. Lexi's billionaire Big Tech daddy is the only thing keeping The SoCal Independent from going bankrupt. She sits behind her desk, below a painting of her in a vintage horse riding outfit, standing in front of a mighty brown colt.

"Listen, Nell. I'm getting concerned about your mental health. You've been talking to yourself an awful lot lately. Are you feeling okay?"

"Fine and dandy, Lexi," I utter awkwardly.

"I know how tough the newspaper business can get, so I always take care of my journalists. Just like I take care of Todd," she muses, pointing at a photo of her prized racing colt that ran in last year's Preakness, finishing in fifth place. Marilyn's spirit morphs through the closed office door, and she sits down in another swivel chair.

"Keep your ass in the saddle and your eyes on the range, cowgirl," Lexi advises.

"Do I look like a cowgirl?"

"No, but you're really cute, with lots of homely charisma. You'd make a great TV news anchor. A latina Connie Chung."

"Wow, thanks," I reply, blushing with her bold praise.

"Your boss is obviously a lesbian, honey," Marilyn muses. "This is your big chance to get some action."

"Shut up, Marilyn," I snap.

"Marilyn?" Lexi replies confusedly.

"Uh . . . I was thinking of a song by Marilyn Monroe. The one she sang for JFK at Madison Square Garden. 'Happy Birthday, Mister President.'"

"Oh yeah, that was creepy as hell. She was strung-out on booze and drugs, and she killed herself just a few months later. Overdosing on barbiturates, easing herself into an early grave."

"Marilyn X. Monroe also met a tragic fate at the height of her career."

"That's such a sad coincidence."

"Super sad-zies," I sigh wearily, quoting the ghost of Piper.

"Tell you what, I'll get that dyke 'in the mood' for you," Marilyn giggles. She gets right behind Lexi and touches her shoulders. Lexi can't feel her hands touching her, of course, but she definitely feels something. Her stuck-up professional demeanor suddenly disappears, and she starts acting like a cheap hooker.

"Oooh, wow," Lexi murmurs throatily while swooning in her office chair, tossing her blonde bangs and batting her long dark eyelashes. "I never realized how beautiful you are, Miss Serrano."

"I . . . am?"

"You're a perfect ten, baby," she utters seductively. "A flaming hispanic hottie."

"Uh . . . thanks, I guess."

"Come on, go for it," Marilyn urges. "Bring that horsey-set dyke out of the stable."