The heat shot through him like an electrical charge. His feet were connected, directly connected, to his penis. He’d never known that before. Through his bare soles he felt Lila’s hard nipples moving back and forth. He strained again, uselessly, against the ropes that held him. He had never known such heights of sexual frenzy, of utter frustration. Hopelessly, he arched his feet against the heat and softness of her breast. And then he began to cry.
The sobs, small at first, began to rack him. He pulled against the cords and shook as the crying—deep, deep sobbing—welled up from somewhere in the very center of him. Tears ran down from the sides of his eyes, wetting the sheet. He turned his head to one side, his silent sobs continuing.
And then Lila was on him, her face beside his, her hair cascading over his eyes, his nose, his mouth. “Ooh, baby. Oooh, no. No, baby,” she crooned. She wiped his face with her silken hair. “No, baby. No,” she said, gently as a loving mother, and kissed his lips, his eyelids, his still-wet cheeks. “Here, here, baby,” she said, and lifted her heavy breast into Marty’s mouth. “Here. Here,” she told him. He suckled, too crazed, too frenzied to be embarrassed. And then she crouched over him, her back to him, and bent over his cock, her soft, hot, perfect mouth kissing him there, her hands stroking him, her fingers loving his balls, his ass, his cock. Through his tears he could see her move her G-string to the side, watched her as she mounted him, feeling the head of his penis push against her, into her. At last. At last. He was surprised but he was beyond questioning, beyond judgment, beyond words, and she was in control; she pressed her perfect flesh down onto him, impaling herself slowly, so slowly, on his throbbing dick. Moving up and down, using her knees, in an atavistic crouch, she slid up and down on his cock, whimpering.
Marty made no sound. But it felt as if his whole being, the whole universe, was centered in his loins, an inferno of pressure that pushed and throbbed into Lila’s silky flesh. It was agony, and yet it was the best, absolutely the best that Marty had ever had. He came at last, and he sobbed as he did, gasping with each endless spasm, filling her to overflowing, emptying and cleansing himself.
And so it went. The ritual changed slightly, and it was only once a week, or maybe less, but each time Lila brought out the silken ropes, Marty was more and more inclined, more hungry, more grateful.
And it was strange. Because it wasn’t worrying him that he was drawn into this utterly powerless, passive sex. Instead, he found it a huge relief. He realized that all his life had been spent striving to please demanding, difficult women. First his mother, then his professor, then his wife, and a host of beautiful, spoiled Hollywood actresses. He was, he knew, simply a small, skinny, bright, hardworking, overcompensating kid who had been trying to satisfy the goddesses’ demands. At thirty-seven, he was still the strike-out kid from Queens, desperate to score, to please his lovers, to perform and be liked.
Now, with Lila, he was relieved of all the burden. The director finally became the directed. And the relief was so enormous that each and every time it brought tears to his eyes. He was no longer responsible for the timing, for the choreography, for the sexual etiquette. Lila chose to perform for him, to be in charge, and if that made her more comfortable, if she needed to be in control so as not to be frightened, it was more than fine with Marty. In fact, Marty was pathetically grateful. For once in his clever, hardworking, overcompensating life, Marty didn’t have to work to please a woman. Lila pleased herself, and he took his pleasure like a precious gift.
Once again, he lay in the darkness, one of the most powerful men in the Industry, tied to the bed, flat as a roadmap, naked as a newt. Who would imagine this? Who, in this morass of climbing, backbiting Hollywood serpents, could picture the sex life of one of their most powerful directors and one of their most popular stars? Marty smiled in the darkness. Go know, he thought, and pulled against the tightness of the cords at his wrists and ankles.
43
Jahne lay in the circle of Sam’s arms, alternately watching his face while he slept and the face of her watch. These moments were so precious to her, but, no matter how much time they spent together, she was left hungry, ravenous, for more. And soon, too soon, they’d have to be up, preparing for the difficult shoot on the beach.
This was what she had always wanted! And now, at last, it was hers. Sam loved her. She knew it! By his touch, by his gaze, and by the way he made love to her. His passion was so strong that both of them were dizzy, even exhausted by it. All she wanted was him, more of him. And all he needed was her. If only they weren’t forced to work on this stupid film together.
He had told her how unsure of it he was. She comforted him. And she told him how afraid she was as well. They gave one another comfort. In bed together, nothing else mattered. The world went away.
Jahne sighed. Neither she nor Sam had said so out loud, but the film was not going well. Michael was almost impossible to deal with. During her big breakdown scene, he’d left his fly undone—an accident, he claimed—and the whole thing had had to be reshot the next day. That wasn’t all. Jahne had seen the dailies, and she looked wooden. Beautiful, but wooden. Her new face didn’t react in the same way as her old, and on a big screen it looked lovely but almost…bland. She’d have to learn to exaggerate her reactions, but it was already too late for the half of the script that was in the can. And it was exhausting to hold the youthful posture she’d created. She projected her chest always forward, her shoulders back; she stood swaybacked to give the illusion of youth. But it was agony to hold. And day after day, it drained her. Of course, Michael and his hammy performance didn’t help. Every day was a torture. It was only this time, the time in the dark with Sam, that mattered; it was all she cared about.
After making love that first time in the dark, in her hotel suite, she had had to tell him about the scars. She had been frightened of his disgust or censure or even mere distaste. But he had only looked at her and asked, “Don’t you understand? I don’t care about your looks. I don’t care about that. I love you.” Then they’d made love again, even more hungrily than before. And she seemed to be fed by his words. “I love you. Only you.”
And it seemed that he did. Each evening, they lost themselves in one another’s arms, in one another’s bodies. She kissed him all over, tears in her eyes, so happy to have his flesh returned to her. And he caressed every part of her, made love to her so completely, his love burning like a fever under his skin.
“I love you,” he murmured as he kissed her neck, her hair. “I love you. I love you.” And she, Jahne, believed him as Mary Jane never had.
But what would happen if he found out the truth? She could never tell him now. Once, she’d planned all this as revenge. Now it seemed a punishment for her. She had everything she had ever wanted from him. Why was it, then, she wondered, as she watched his face and the clock’s, why was it that she was so sad?
Michael McLain hated Northern California, he hated filming on location, he hated Sam, he hated April, he hated this script, and he hated this movie, which was a definite pièce du merde. Most of all, he hated Jahne Moore, and, he realized with a start of surprise, he hated acting. Not just acting in this dog-meat production, but in any production. Christ, it was foolish and wimpy and childish. It was boring. And if, at his level, it paid well, that had long become irrelevant, because he already had all the money he’d ever need.
Still, he couldn’t give it up, because, aside from this, he couldn’t think of anything else to do. What the fuck else was there? He’d always liked being a star and fucking beautiful women. But now both had become tiresome.
He was too young to retire, and business had never been interesting to him. Somehow, starting a popcorn or a spaghetti-sauce company, or, worse, opening a chain of restaurants, didn’t seem attractive. Because, whatever his next venture would be, he knew two things about it: it would have to be on a grand scale, and he’d have to be number one.
Of course, one natural next step was directing and producing. Everyone wanted
to direct. But Michael had tried it once, on Cliffhanger, and he didn’t want to do it again. The pressure was crippling. You were number one, but only until the picture came out. Then they ate you alive.
He could try to pull off some kind of Sundance bullshit, but, let’s face it: Redford had already done it, and Michael really didn’t have that much interest in sitting around listening to asshole students from Chicago explain their views on “the cinema.”
Politics was an option. But not if he had to do it on some local scale, like that putz Sonny Bono. National politics was far more intriguing. He’d done a lot of fund-raising, he was plugged into his party. But where was the niche? Senator? Could he beat the incumbent? And then wouldn’t he just be one of all those senators?
“Ready for you, Mr. McLain!” one of the assistants called to him from outside the trailer. Michael clenched his fist, banging it down onto the table before him.
Christ, he thought. Sometimes life was so unfair! He was not only better-looking than Ronald Reagan had ever been, he was also a better actor. How come Ronnie had gotten the good part?
They were losing the light for the beach shot, and the crew was scrambling to beat the clouds. They could cheat, to a certain extent, with kliegs, but without that natural light the film came out looking like videotape. After trouble with a cable (don’t mix electricity and water, something almost inevitable on a beach), and then trouble with a lens (don’t mix sand and cameras, either), they were finally ready. It was a long panning shot, ending with a swooping close-up of an embrace and kiss. Jahne, jittery enough at the thought of the upcoming scene with Michael, felt just about crazy from the delays. Now, at last, they were ready.
She turned to Mai, to take her sweater and to replace it with the deceptively simple white shirt she would wear for the shot. Of course, the shirt was far from simple. It looked like a man’s, was in fact supposed to be Michael’s shirt that she’d put on for this walk after their love-making, but it was fashioned out of the finest cotton cambric, softer and more sheer than any man’s shirt. And, to heighten its ability to reveal her, it was dampened, so that it turned semi-transparent, molded itself to her breasts, and clung.
Jahne had wanted them to use the body double for this shot, but Sam had begged her to do it. “It would be hard to fake convincingly, and your breasts are lovely,” he’d murmured, burying his face against them as they lay in bed. Jahne had argued, but he had prevailed. “Trust me. The scars won’t show.”
Now she turned to Mai, both for the shirt and for the reassurance that the old woman gave her. When it came to Jahne’s appearance, Mai was the only one Jahne trusted. God knows how she could have made it through the filming if it hadn’t been for Mai.
“It is all in the skin, my dear,” Mai told her. “Notice how disappointing stars look in person?”
Jahne nodded. They had looked unspectacular.
“It is the skin. Alvays it is uneven. Splotchy. Or else makeup is obvious, but on the screen, makeup disappears. On the screen, more than anything, it is the flawless skin that creates the illusion of beauty. We must make you up to create the illusion.”
“Even my cleavage?”
“Especially your cleavage. We all like smooth. It is primal, infantile. The full breast. Not empty, withered dugs like these.” Mai patted her own chest and laughed.
But now, as she turned to the old woman, it was Mai’s appearance that startled Jahne. God, Mai looked old! Her face was paper-white, and it seemed to Jahne that every line, each wrinkle was etched deeper than ever before. Is making this movie as awful for Mai as it is for me? Jahne wondered. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“A headache,” Mai said, and winced, but that was all Jahne had time for before Joel hustled her out. The wardrobe mistress began misting her shirt some more, while the hairdresser sprayed some artfully tousled strands across her face.
“Watch out for my makeup,” Jerry Detria warned him. Jerry crossed his arms, his brush ready to correct any flaws. Jahne almost smiled. Jerry was so protective that, when he finished with her, he’d tell her to “be careful of my face.” Now he looked her over minutely, nodding his approval, and Joel moved her to her place. Her stand-in, a nice woman named Dorothy, smiled and stepped out of the way. Jahne took her spot. Then she waited.
And waited. And waited. At last, after perspiration had begun to trickle down her side despite the cool wind whipping at her wet blouse, Michael stepped onto the set. Without a greeting, without even a look at her, he turned to the camera and the place where Sam was ensconced with the cinematographer and the best boy. “Ready,” he told them, through tight lips.
There was another pause, and then: “All right, ready, action.” There was a pause. “Rolling!” Michael took her in his arms, and the long shot began, the camera circling them from a distance as they embraced, beginning the long dolly ending with her close-up. Michael nuzzled her neck. He smelled good, a vague mixture of English soap and some mild spice.
“Like it?” he asked, holding her tighter. It wasn’t scripted; there was no dialogue in the scene, so they weren’t miked. “Like it?” he asked again.
To be polite, she made a “mmmm” sound.
“I know you like it, you little slut. But do you like it better from Sam or from me?” Michael said, still hugging her tight, the camera moving in for her close-up, only to catch her face frozen in a grimace of distaste.
“Okay. Cut!” Sam yelled. He stepped from behind the cameras and lights. “I know it’s a lot to ask, Jahne,” he said, “but can you try to act as if it’s not disgusting to be held by that man?”
Jahne broke out of Michael’s grasp. “You ruined that shot!” she yelled at him.
“What did I do?” Michael asked, an exaggerated innocence playing on his face.
“Oh, Jesus! Would the two of you stop bickering?” Sam asked. “We’re losing the light! Jerry, could you fix her face? Laslo, we’ll back it up and try once more…” There was a loud murmur behind him, somewhere. It simply wasn’t done when the director was issuing orders. “Could I have your attention?” Sam asked, annoyed. But the noise didn’t stop. It grew.
“Get the nurse. Someone call an ambulance!” Joel yelled. Jahne moved, along with everyone else, toward the ruckus. A group was already huddled near her chair. Because she was the star, or for some other reason, it parted for her and she moved through them, as if in a dream. At the center of the group was a small clearing, where Dorothy, her stand-in, sat on the ground, Mai’s head in her lap. Even from where she was standing, Jahne could see the thin stream of blood at the corner of Mai’s mouth.
“Oh, God!” she cried, and crouched beside them. “Get a doctor!” she screamed.
“It’s too late,” Dorothy told her.
44
Sam entered the darkened bedroom quietly. Jahne lay, exhausted and sedated, asleep under the top sheet. Only her dark hair and one hand were exposed, her hand flung over her head and now lying limp and all but lifeless on the pillow, an abandoned leaf. The room had become too warm, almost stuffy, since he and the doctor had put her to bed and turned up the thermostat to help stop her shivering. Now he turned it down a bit and went to check on her. Jesus, he didn’t need this! Another delay. April was already on his back. How soon could he expect Jahne to recuperate? And why was she taking the death of the old lady so hard? She was a very sensitive girl. Gently he lifted the sheet away from her face. Jahne was so pale she was almost luminous, dewed with a light film of perspiration. He carefully lowered the sheet. She was bare, and he pulled the cover down as far as her waist. Jahne murmured, moved her head to the left, but continued sleeping heavily.
Standing beside the bed, he watched her. She was so beautiful to look at. Her perfect face was partly obscured by her hair, but her neck, her arms, and her breasts were revealed to him. From this angle, he could not see the slight scars on the underside of them. She looked perfect, but, beautiful as she was, she reminded him of nothing so much as a wounded bird—his dove.
And now, after the death of Mai, Jahne needed him.
He slipped out of his jeans and into the bed beside her. He would hold her until she woke up. What could be more comforting after a shock than that? He would hold her and comfort her for as long as she needed it. To hell with the shooting schedule.
Her body was voluptuously warm against his. He put his chest to her back and fitted his body to hers so that they curved against one another like two spoons in a drawer. She fit him perfectly, and he felt a wave of such tenderness, mixed with such passion, that he couldn’t resist putting an arm around her and cupping her left breast in his hand. The heaviness of her flesh and her unconsciousness made the moment intensely erotic and private. He felt almost as if he could possess her more now than he ever had. He also felt his erection bump up against the soft curve of Jahne’s buttocks.
Perhaps she felt it, too, for she stirred a little and murmured in her sleep. Oh, how he longed to enter her now, to lie beside her, inside her, until she woke. But was that for her or for him? Wasn’t it selfish, even masturbatory, to consider it at a time like this? He wasn’t the kind of man who had ever enjoyed taking advantage of a drunken date. He didn’t like them passive. But, somehow, his feelings for Jahne were so strong, and at the same time so insecure, that the more often he had her the less he actually felt he possessed her. The public, the media, the Industry owned her. Would she leave him, in the end, the way the other beauties had left him? Was she gone when the picture wrapped?
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