I’ll take it.
“Pull your pants down,” I tell her, unable to handle being trapped in my own khaki prison for even a second longer. By the way, the khakis were what the casting director, Corinne, told me to wear. Certainly not a choice I’d make for myself.
She shimmies her own dress slacks down as I make quick work of the button and zipper and then enjoy the show as she starts to slide her hands under each side of her thong. It’s hot as fuck, and so is that ass I’ve only fantasized about before now, perfectly round and just a little bigger than her frame would suggest it ought to be. But it’s taking too long, so I just rip it for her.
“Jesus!” Her reflected face looks shocked and pissed.
“Just me, but a common mistake.”
“How about don’t talk anymo—oh!” But I don’t need to talk, because my dick is nestled in tight against her and ready whenever she is, which as she slides back against me and one small piece of me at a time is swallowed up, is right now.
This is exactly how I wanted her, wet and wanting and rough and dirty and she can’t even see what I can see, where we join, how gorgeous it is to watch her pussy suck me in.
I let her go slow now, adjusting to me as she’s slowly easing my thickness into her tight little channel, but she’s taking my cock like a champ.
So I smack her ass.
She tightens around me, surprised, and that’s when I grab her by the hips and start fucking her for all that I’m worth. You know, eighty-three million’s worth. She’s making little noises that are getting higher pitched and closer together like she might come, so I reach around and press my thumb to her clit, working tiny circles until I feel her clench hard as the orgasm hits.
It takes everything I have to hold mine back while she rides hers out—rides me out— but finally her spasms quieten and I pull out.
I use one hand to pull up her blouse and the other fists my cock as I start to spurt all over her back.
Just then, the fatal flaw in my bathroom plan becomes apparent.
The trash can I’d moved in front of the door? Well, the door opens out, so all it did was provide a place for my brand-new director to prop his elbows as he gazes at the sordid scene before him.
“I told you I was seventy percent sure they were banging,” he remarks to his ever-present assistant.
“Huh. Gross.”
Three
Jaya
I really tried my damnedest to be prepared for everything about this movie. I read the book it’s based on five times. (The script is literally nothing like it. St. Martin’s can not have signed off on this shit.) I practiced my lines for hours a day. I even dyed my hair red to match my character, and I never let chemicals near my hair.
I was not even remotely prepared to face Huck Ivanson’s smug face every day on set.
“Hey there, hellcat. Nice hickeys,” he’d say. For the first entire week. Or, if someone else was around, something clever, like, “God, I’m so hungry I could eat Brazill.”
I could do without it.
I could also do without the longing my body seems to have taken up feeling each time his large and proportional one gets anywhere near me.
The weird thing about movies is that you often shoot in reverse order. So, a couple months in, and suddenly, we’re back at the beginning. We’re trying to shoot the first kiss scene, and it’s not going well.
My character, Candy, has taken a job at a kombucha bar where her sister Kaci is doing stand-up comedy. It’s a terrible job, but she’d rather do that than work for Drake Jonathan as a matchmaker.
In that sense, I’m not really acting at all.
I’d actually rather brew fermented mushroom tea than work with Huck right about now. It’s not that I’m ashamed I hooked up with him—he’s hotter than hell—but since there is no way on earth I’ll do it a second time, I’d prefer not to listen to his self-satisfied remarks about it.
“Cut!” the director calls for what feels like the hundredth time. “You’re supposed to swoon at him, not stomp on his foot.”
I didn’t think he’d notice that.
But what was I supposed to do? Huck was whispering filthy things in my ear about what we could do in the bathroom in his trailer. I cannot abide that sort of cockamamie. This is my big break.
And that is his big… well. It’s pushing up against my stomach as Huck promises the director we’ll get this take for sure.
We will, too, if for no other reason than I’m ready to be alone for a while. Not to pull out my battery-operated meditation device. Nope. Just to have some peace, that’s all.
“And… action,” and the clapboard claps and I do what I do and forget that I’m standing on a soundstage filled with people staring at me from under lowered lashes and I just become Candy.
“Drake?” I ask, my voice quavering just the right amount to show my disbelief, and also my pleasure at seeing him in a pair of jeans.
Note: this is not acting, either.
“Yes, Candy. Yes. It’s me,” Huck says, the smirk on his face changing the dialogue from flat to self-aware.
“But why are you here? I turned you down,” I-as-Candy remind him. That’s when he presses his own reminder into my hip.
“Well, Candy, I want you to work for me. Find me a wife, and I’ll make sure you never have to drink kombucha again.” With those words, he leans down and pauses, waiting for my eyes to dilate when I smell that juniper and leather scent before he gently touches my lips with his. The tiniest bit. It’s delicate.
This is a real departure from the arrogant way he claimed my mouth in the last ninety-nine takes.
I find myself being the one that parts my lips first, the one whose hand comes up to his face for just a second before dropping away again. I’m the one that deepens it, and I’m the one who doesn’t hear the “cut!” and keeps on kissing him.
So for once, I can’t even blame him for looking so cocky.
I invited it.
Once I hear (and I actually do hear it this time) “that’s a wrap,” I just go ahead and walk myself over to his trailer. We have another bathroom to christen.
I can’t decide if I’m annoyed or accepting of the fact that giving me three orgasms might contribute to some of that attitude he’s got. I guess that’s probably why I agree to split a bottle of Cris with him.
I don’t even like pricy bubbles. My roomie, Kami, would never have the audacity to show up with a bottle that could cover our Nissan payment for the month.
Then again, Kami isn’t making Huck money as a makeup artist—yet—and if he wants to waste it, I can help.
By the time I head back to my own trailer, I’m tipsy, confused, sexed up, and weirded out.
None of that is a good reason why I choose to post a two hour video about Huck Ivanson, acting, Huck Ivanson, the differences between books and movies, Huck Ivanson, how much I love the kitty on set named Kitty, Huck Ivanson, and finally, shamefully, worst of anything ever and at all, whether Jaya Ivanson is a good name.
When Kami wakes me up at four in the morning to inquire what I’ve been thinking, I can only answer that I haven’t.
And also that my only recourse is to fake my own death. Goodbye, cruel internet.
Four
Huck
Internet videos are by far the stupidest things about the internet, which I do tend to be a pretty big fan of. Jaya’s roommate, Kami Gold? I’m not ashamed to say I subscribe to her HerTube channel.
There’s something really soothing about watching someone apply various thingamajigs to their face until it looks shiny and new.
But the problem with internet videos is that anyone on the internet can post them.
They don’t even need their agent to sign off.
Although, I’ve met Jaya’s agent at a few events. He’s so senile, I’m not sure he understands how The Internet works, much less what a shitshow Ms. Brazill is stirring up right now.
Luckily, Corinne gets it.
So she’s the one I call, after my first few attempts fail.
Someone else picks up.
“Hey, I need Corinne,” I say, assuming its her husband or manager or whatever.