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Actress

Posted on September 30, 2007
Filed Under The Stories |

The first time someone told her to spend some time with her thoughts she was bored before they left the room. She was six years old. She needed people, even at that age. To tell her she was beautiful or funny or adorable. To tell her that they didn’t know what they would do without her in their lives. To remind her that she was beautiful on every occasion she didn’t have a mirror to confirm the fact. All of that was so long ago. She remembered it like she was remembering stories she had heard about another person. If she looked real hard she was sure she would find pictures of her little self in bell bottom trousers and a dimpled smile. But she didn’t want to look that hard. If anybody asked, her six-year-old self was twenty-one years ago. Or like she sometimes said, “That’s a whole person old enough to drink ago.”

(It’s not like imagining someone else during sex is like actually imagining that person having sex with you…that’s just not possible. The human body is not stupid. All you can really do is remember your memories of people. Like Kyle, or Anton…so easy on the eyes. I don’t even think I could imagine Kyle or Anton’s penis unless I saw it in a sex video. I think it would be Kyle’s hands that turned me on. Sort of like Russell Crowe’s hands in Gladiator…those were hands! All strong and powerful-looking. I’ll bet a phone thrown by him would hurt. And Anton’s chest…that boy needs pasties more than any girl I know!) Her mind wandered that same Möbius strip of thoughts while the paunchy man got ready to find her input for his output. His back was hairy in that bagel and lox kind of way that made her want to rip her arms out so that she wouldn’t have to rest them anywhere on him. She could smell his lunch from all the way over there where he was trying to hang his pants off the back of a chair. (Remember to close your eyes before he takes those tighty whities off.)

She raised her arms over her head and closed her eyes, allowing a soft moan to escape her lips. That got his attention and he leered, his chest puffing up as much as saggy man-boobs can, and he said, “I know how you feel baby but I have a meeting to go to so I gotta make sure these pants don’t lose their crease.” She opened her eyes a tiny fraction and parted her lips in a seductive smile. Though she didn’t know it, a real-life seductress was a part she was born to play. He stuck his thumbs into the waistband of his underpants and she shut her eyes as tight as they would go. His weight on the mattress made her want to grimace but she took a deep breath and waited for the clammy fingers to search her like security at an airport. After barely any fumbling he was inside her and she tried not to think that he was fucking an idea as much as she was accommodating the possibility of a dream.

The perspiration-greased balding Lothario was a movie producer in the most successful kind of way. He screamed at his assistants and employees and, often enough, the members of his family. He liked to think that nothing would get done if he didn’t do it himself and he took all the credit and none of the blame for the movies he made. In some corridors of Hollywood power he was a legend. In all others, he was a pain in the ass. They liked the money he could make, they hated having to confront him for anything. It took him no time at all to get up in a person’s face because he thought that person had wronged him in some way. He defended his actions by saying, “I never set out to fight. But I grew up on the wrong side of town in the wrong town and that I’m a major player in Hollywood is because I never stepped back from a fight. Where I come from, you have to fight for everything. Keeping quiet is a sign of weakness. Backing down is a sign of weakness. Conceding a point is a sign of weakness. Weakness will get you killed. I’m too young to die.”

In truth, his only ‘weakness’ was any blonde with a flirtatious smile, which meant he was weak all the time, especially in LA. Three minutes after his belt buckle settled into a gentle swing off the back of the chair he was done. His pants weren’t still yet but he was already spent. A fifteen hundred dollar suite, that did not rent out by the hour, a hundred dollar flower arrangement, champagne, truffles and an oyster lunch had been the price he paid for three minutes of ‘bliss’ in the arms of a not quite fully ripe starlet. Not that he was paying of course. He would make sure that all the money disappeared somewhere inside the ‘incidentals’ within the accounting statement of one of the movies he had in production.

Six minutes later, he was dressed and thinking about the meeting he needed to have with a director who considered himself an artist. He was relishing disabusing the man of the notion and simply the idea made him semi-hard again. He thought about the girl in bed and considered going again and then he realised he was already dressed and it made no sense to give the bitches too much of a good thing. So he smiled and said, “The room’s already paid for so you should hang out. Take a bath or something.”

She raised herself on one elbow and smiled. He didn’t kiss her goodbye. Very few men did.

An hour later the room was a hive of activity. Anton was giving it to a beautiful ‘actress’ doggie-style while Rafon the director whispered instructions to Gavin the transsexual cameraman (woman?). She didn’t get in on the porno stuff, even if they offered to hide her face. On these jobs, she was strictly a producer. (If that fat prick knew how much money I’m going to make off his little room that’s already paid for he wouldn’t get hard again for a year! Maybe I should tell him…)

Three hours after the producer’s fancy hotel suite had been immortalized in porn, soon to be downloaded by eager masturbators from Atlanta to Zanzibar, she let the people in her phone book know that she had a great view for a nice party. As the lights came on across LA and darkness descended over the town’s dirty deeds, models, photographers, actresses and a couple of executives turned up to share the view and drink some bubbly. As the girls air kissed and the boys commented on how nice someone’s tits looked or wondered if someone had got her jawline fixed she tried not to giggle as a model with an incredibly weak stomach lounged on the bed where, not too long ago, Anton did anal with an girl named Lexi. When the actress lit up a joint she thought to herself (Don’t inhale too deeply around there sweetie or your dope will smell like shit.)

On the balcony she saw a guy she didn’t recognize. She wandered over and said, “Do I know you?”

He shook his head, “Nah, just moved here.”

She looked again and saw the signs. His eyes still had light in them and his skin actually had that fresh glow, that wasn’t the product of Vaseline highlights and massage treatments that cost more than the struggling actress had any right to pay so that her face could look flushed and alive.

“What do you do?”

“I’m an actor.”

“Cool. Me too.”

He offered his hand, “Andrew.”

“Sandy.”

“Nice to meet you Sandy.”

(If we were a couple they’d call us Sandy and Andy.)

She knew someone would fuck Andrew over soon enough and before long he wouldn’t need to stand on a balcony while everyone else had ‘fun.’ The way she saw it, if she was the one to do it for him, he should thank her for the favour. She checked his hands. She was not disappointed. (Come on little Andy, let big bad Sandy show you how H-town works. Maybe you can thank me in your Oscar speech someday.)

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