Pandemic Porn

It was the very definition of a cottage industry, you could say. They were among the first “content creators” to hone in on the inevitable trend. And they weren’t going to use something like OnlyFans as a means to disseminate their “message” (that wasn’t where their dark web purposes lie). No, that would require far too much censorship for their, well, porn. And there was no way around it: that’s what it was. That’s what it had to be. Recta Infecta—that’s what she had decided upon as her virus-tinged porn name—was the one who suggested the thematic “film sessions” over that first weekend. Before that moment, she was just Rita Hillman, another Hollywood, Florida resident who had found herself in the wrong Hollywood by sheer misfortune of circumstances: her mother birthed her in this ersatz hellhole. But before slipping off her clothes and slipping into the amended-for-“sexy-and-scanty”-purposes hazmat suit, she was sure to enlist a partner in pandemic porn: THRUSTID-19. Yes, that’s what her not-boyfriend, Derek, had decided to go by. 

Derek, instead, was a “friend” who lived with her, but who also often had sex with her when one or both of them was feeling the loneliness brought on by a dry spell. In many ways, it was the ideal relationship. Or “non-relationship,” as Rita preferred to look at it. Plus, Hollywood was filled with muscular bodybuilding-type men that she wanted to fuck whenever she felt like it. Having a “steady” would have only prevented her vaginal exploration. And likewise, she knew Derek took the opportunity to be a himbo whenever he could—she couldn’t even count the nights when she had been awakened to the sound of him coming home with some desperate post-2 a.m.-and-still-in-the-club ho. Followed by the sound of her overly bombastic screams. As though Derek were really that good in bed. She knew it was just the coke he provided that was delighting her. 

While Florida wasn’t exactly “urgent” in its lockdown measures so much as urgent in over-capacity at hospitals, it didn’t mean that Rita herself wasn’t getting the hell out of there while she still could. Hence, the cottage. The one in Vermont that she had bought on the cheap and renovated over time, knowing one day in her heart that a deeper use for it apart from Airbnb would arise. The time for that “deeper” use (no innuendo-laden wordplay intended) had arrived. She packed her things and told Derek she was getting out of dodge before the inevitable zombie apocalypse that was sure to come to roost in all of Florida. She recommended that if he wanted to attempt any form of self-preservation, now was the time—and he ought to join her. 

Porn was still the furthest thing from her mind as they drove up the Eastern Seaboard together, talking now and again in between the static-y pop hits of yore coming in on the radio. Derek at one point off-handedly remarked, “Damn, I’m just gonna be stuck fucking you from now on.”

Rita scoffed. “That’s what you think, but maybe you’re being too optimistic.” 

He glared at her. “I should have stayed in Florida to have zombie sex.” 

They stopped one more time for gas. It was at a Sunoco. Derek got out of the car to stretch his legs, while Rita went inside to throw forty more dollars into the tank and buy one last round of snacks. The man in the station wasn’t wearing a mask, and regarded her as an “odd bird” for herself donning one (specifically with the design of “Protagonist” in Tenet holding an oxygen mask up to his mouth). She arched her brow judgmentally as she paid him, and was sure to douse her hands with sanitizer after she put the change back in her purse. She wanted him to feel shame, but obviously he didn’t, instead looking at her with his own disgusted impression. She could hear him mutter, “Fucking commie liberals” under his breath as she walked out the door. If she wasn’t so terrified that he likely had a gun stored underneath the counter, she might have gone back in and uttered her own obscenity-laden “nickname” at him. But this was America, and expressing yourself wasn’t all it was cracked up to be in terms of violent result yielded. So she went back in the car and suppressed her emotions like a good citizen. 

The cottage was cleaner than she expected. Sure, she had enlisted the usual Airbnb “team” to make sure it was, but somehow she was expecting it to look more dilapidated in her absence. As though it would be visibly pained over being abandoned by its true owner for so long. But no, lo and behold, it was a vision. An idyllic set for what would become an impure narrative. 

It only took three bottles of whiskey, consumed over the six-hour period after they had arrived and lazily set down their suitcases without bothering to unpack, that the idea struck her as she remembered that she had, in fact, packed all manner of “pandemic porn” attire. Namely, the aforementioned hazmat suit that she cut with scissors in order to “sex it up.” Derek was certainly drunk enough to go along with anything Rita said, and, clearly, he saw that there could be no downside if sex was involved. So it was that they set up the camera and proceeded, with Derek wearing his surgical mask on both his face and, initially, on his pénis (doesn’t it just sound so much more eloquent when it’s French-ified?). 

They were both at a drunken phase where peak amounts of horniness were at play, contributing to the raw sensuality they conveyed on screen. It was this, Rita—now Recta Infecta—believed, that made them an especial draw even after more pandemic porn became available. That, and they were the first. Whenever one is the first at something, it automatically makes them stand apart. She had to admire her vision and foresight at jumping on a bandwagon before anyone else knew that wagon was going to be so popular. And, in many ways, she could only thank Florida for imbuing her mind with such trashy trend forecasting abilities. It was going to be her ultimate “gig economy.” And she would milk it for all it was worth—in the process quite literally letting Derek milk her (with some damsel in distress lilt as she cooed, “There’s nothing to do in quarantine except fuck“). 

The problem she could not foresee, however, was the inevitable bout of “COVID fatigue” that would overtake the nation just a couple of months after it all started. She thought she had struck at least a year’s worth of gold. And even when she switched up to the cliché yet still deviant doctor-nurse narrative, the views went down, all as Derek’s erection seemed to remain hopelessly up. She had created a sex monster. A beast that needed to be fed at least once a day, even though she insisted she wanted to put the brakes on the operation for a bit, as the market was oversaturated. She needed to think of a different angle (should Ariana have called her album Angles instead of Positions?—oh wait, The Strokes already did that). 

Derek wasn’t having it. Instead, he was growing more violent by the day, more enraged with each time Rita refused him. “So what? I’m just some kind of gigolo to you? You only fuck me when you feel like it, but not when I want to? I wish I’d never come up here with you.” 

She snapped back at him. “Yeah? Same.” 

In the meantime, more troubling news had arisen. Her period was eleven days late. The last thing she wanted to add to her quintessential Florida-ness was having a quarantine baby. She would have to get rid of it, and ensure that Derek never knew. Of course, she wasn’t going to bother with an abortion clinic—that shit was judge-y and expensive as fuck, even in Vermont. Yes, even in “Senator Sanders’” territory. She decided to April Wheeler that shit and make it happen at home. Granted, she didn’t use a “kit,” so much as the classic method of throwing herself down the stairs while in a potent enough state of inebriation to not really feel anything yet still be “aware” of what was happening. And what was happening was that a pool of blood was streaming out of her vag. Derek, whom she thought was safely passed out in the other room, lumbered in with a look of horror and then delight on his face. He ran to go get his phone and make a video of her as she writhed in semi-conscious agony. 

The next day, it had garnered them even more views than their original pandemic porn masterpieces had. Who knew “Watch slut bleed out” would be so much more arousing to people? Derek didn’t even question what might be causing her to bleed out in such a way, oblivious fucking prick that he was. All he did was sneer at her and say, “Good thing I caught you on the rag, now we’re back in business.” 

She couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t fathom what he or she had become throughout this short duration of time called life in post-corona. It was as though they had both lost any remaining trace of innocence. The irony was that it happened in a place as wholesome as Vermont as opposed to Florida, epicenter of filth and degradation. Yet she had felt purer during her entire life spent there than the mere three months she had retired to this “bucolic” (not to be confused with “bubonic”) cottage with Derek. 

She had to get him out, but she knew he was going to be a complete dick about it. Start getting in her face about how he was owed and how she was the one who insisted that he quarantine with her away from the madness of Hollywood, FL. It was then that she figured, “Fuck it, might as well get a snuff porno made out of this ordeal.” 

That was what really tipped her over the edge as the Queen of Corona Porn era. For what better way to lend authenticity to the macabre tones of a pandemic than to actually have someone die during sex? With her editing magic, she made it appear as though she had transmitted the disease to him (with a bit of graphic art in the form of the now infamous “corona balls” wielded to make it look like she was queafing the disease out of her pussy). Ad-libbing a bit, she declared, “Oh no, THRUSTID-19! You’ve just had your recta get infecta! I need to spare you the horrible, slow death you’ll have from corona by—stabbing you, motherfucker!” That definitely made him flaccid as he perked up to see that, yes, she had a knife and was about to penetrate him with far more force than he ever had to her. 

As he choked on the blood that started to flow forth from his mouth, she smiled at the camera and shrugged, “Better to have respiratory problems with your dick smothered in cum, right? This was honestly the most humane way to spare him the corona curse.” 

After that, the messages to her encrypted (duh) website poured in with requests from other men, claiming to have COVID-19, just begging her to kill them while fucking them, too. She sighed to herself. Didn’t they understand? THRUSTID-19 didn’t actually have corona. 

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