by Claire Adams
“Not that,” she says. “I’m just saying that I think I can get through this scene without the guidance of Damian Jones.”
I smile.
“All right,” I tell her, “if you really think you can do this thing solo. I will remind you, though, that I have won all kinds of awards and people usually listen when I give them acting advice.”
“That’s got to be hard on them,” she says, “listening to all that drivel and still having to act afterward.”
“Oh, ha ha,” I mock.
“Jones, Roxy, they’re ready for you,” one of the stagehands calls.
“You ready for this?” I ask. “We didn’t really prepare the way we were going to, so—”
I’m interrupted by Emma’s mouth falling on my own. Her arms wrap around me, and she’s breathing heavy as her lips move over mine.
The kiss lasts about 10 seconds, but every one of those moments is an entirely new feeling, a new rush of blood and endorphins, a new opportunity for me to completely forget everything else in existence.
She pulls away, says, “Yep, I think I’m good,” and makes her way to the set.
Holy shit.
I normally wouldn’t even think this way, but I might have to throw the scene a few times just so I can feel that again. What was that?
Chapter Nine
Ethanol and the Demands of the Theater
Emma
I think when I got to the set my first day there were a lot of people who were asking themselves and each other if I could really hack it in a major motion picture, but in the three weeks after Damian and I got that first onscreen kiss under our belts, people’s perspectives on me seem to have changed.
Now it seems like all the people who would only ever roll eyes when I walked past are coming up to me for an autograph for their nephew or their cousin or for eBay—I appreciated Claude’s honesty on that one, but he did not receive an autographed headshot.
Things are pretty good.
Actually, things are going great right until my phone starts ringing and I see Ben’s number on the caller ID.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“You don’t have to greet me like that every time you pick up the phone,” he says. “I was just calling to let you know that something’s come up and I’m going to need you to double the amount of money per payment.”
“Nope,” I tell him. “You and I had a deal. I was worried that you might try to do something like this, and I even told you that I wouldn’t let it happen.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Ben says. “So I’m going to need $10,000 by midnight tonight, not $5,000.”
“Did you find more pictures or something?” I ask. “Because you’re trying to hold my feet closer to the fire, only you don’t have any more fuel for it.”
“I never said that you’d still have to make as many payments,” Ben says, “I’m not asking for more money. I just wanted to inform you that it’s $10,000 now. Send me a message after you’ve deposited the money, and assuming that everything goes through all right, I’ll put in my password so you can have another month without anyone knowing what kind of a slut you are.”
“Excuse me?” I ask. “I didn’t even want to take those pictures, and even if I did, that wouldn’t make me a slut. We were dating. It’s not like I was letting anyone who had a camera take a picture of me that day, only you after you whined and badgered me like a little girl who’s still trying to convince her parents to get her a pony.”
That actually felt kind of good.
“Say whatever you want,” Ben says, “but if $10,000 isn’t in my account before midnight, you can start thinking about how many people are going to be beating off to naked pics of you in the water.”
The way he says it makes me gag a little.
With any kind of notoriety, you always run the risk of someone taking a picture of you or a video and jerking off to it. That doesn’t really bother me so much, mostly because I don’t have to hear about it. Having Ben present that, though, has put an uneasy feeling in my gut.
“Fine,” I tell him, “but we’re not going to do this again. I’ll give you twice the money in half the amount of time, but if you try something like this again, it’s not going to work out so well for you.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he says. “So, I should expect my money today?”
“You’ll get your fucking money,” I tell him. “Just stop calling me.”
He hangs up and I want to strangle someone. Right now, I don’t even think it matters who.
This isn’t what I needed tonight.
The thing about doing an onscreen sex scene, even one that doesn’t show any of the naughty bits, is that people have gotten so used to seeing sex being simulated in movies or in commercials, if you want a no nudity or partial nudity only sex scene to make any sort of impression, it needs to look good.
There’s intimacy and there’s muscle memory. A kiss can be affected a lot more visually by intimacy than sex can. That’s not to say that intimacy doesn’t change the nature of a sexual encounter, it’s just not as visible on film.
We wrapped for the day a few hours early, so Damian and I had talked about getting together tonight and doing a non-dress rehearsal of tomorrow’s scene.
Now, though, I’m pissed off. I really need to start looking at the caller ID before I pick up a call, but to tell you the truth, even seeing that name on my phone probably would have put me somewhere about here.
How the hell am I supposed to focus when I’m this irritated?
The good news is, there’s an easy way to relax and it just so happens to relieve nervousness as well. It’s called alcohol, and I’ve got plenty of it at home.
Now, I’m not a big drinker, but every once in a while, something comes up where I need a drink and I need about 20 of its friends to follow it.
Just thinking about that chemical relief has me breathing a little easier.
I just hope nobody gets in my way, because with the mood I’m in, I don’t know that I’d be that quick to swerve.
I get home and into my house, and I don’t even bother to close the door. I’m on a mission.
Now, I’m thinking that three shots are probably the magic number. One or two may not be enough and four or five might be more than enough. I’m not looking to get plastered; I just need to chill the fuck out so I can be present for the awkward night that lies ahead.
Still, this blueberry vodka tastes pretty good.
I have a second shot and it tastes even better than the first.
It’s not very often that I’ll have two shots right on top of each other, but there’s not a lot of time before Damian will be here, and I really don’t want to be slamming them back when he gets here.
I take shot three and realize that because the vodka I’m drinking is flavored, it’s got a lower alcohol content.
I suppose I could justify having just one more shot. Sure, the difference in alcohol content is only like five percent, but that adds up over three shots.
By the time I’m pouring my fifth shot, I’ve dropped the charade and I’m just glad to be getting some relief from the insanity my life has been ever since Flashing Lights started filming.
After shot number three, I look at the clock.
It’s so funny. There are thousands of women out there who would completely lose their shit if they had a night of dry humping with Damian Jones ahead of them. Me, well I just made sure to wear an extra pair of panties to avoid chafing.
This really is a strange line of work when you think about it.
Not only are we people who make a living pretending to be other people, the things we have to know and learn, the ways in which we have to go out of the box in order to get the best possible performance for a scene…we spend so much of our lives learning how to act and react to people and situations, but when that camera’s off, the only people that seem to know who we are want something from us, and the only situations we get into are either work-related or related to e
scaping the side effects of this career path.
That said, the pay’s phenomenal and the perks are incredible.
I’m sitting on my couch now and I’ve stopped counting shots.
This is supposed to be my time. This is supposed to be the point in my life I look back at fondly, years from now, and delight in how magical it was to make my first major picture.
Everything’s not so bad, I guess. I mean, I’m financially secure, I’m doing something that I love and I’ve even made friends with a famous actor. At the end of the day, it’s not a bad line of work.
I hadn’t counted on the blackmail.
I take another shot.
You know, Damian’s pretty attractive.
I’m halfway through an infomercial with a product that claims to remove the need for sharpening your knives permanently, when a voice speaks just behind me. “You know they just replace the knife if it ever actually does go dull.”
I whip around to find Damian standing in my living room right behind my couch.
“The door was open,” he says. “I thought you’d see me when I came to the doorway, but you looked like you were pretty engrossed in whatever it was that you’re watching.”
“I’m not watching it,” I tell him, and turn off the TV.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
If anything, I’m a little too ready.
It could be the fact that we’ve been growing closer over these past weeks, or perhaps it’s that he’s a famous Hollywood actor I’ve had a crush on for years; it’s even possible that just having a handsome man standing in my home is enough to do it, regardless. But Damian Jones, actor extraordinaire and Hollywood’s eighth sexiest man, is looking pretty damn good tonight.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m good.”
“Great,” he says. “Now, what I’ve done in the past is to start with some kissing, and kind of just take it from there. Obviously we’re not going to do anything, but if we’re going to get this down, there’s going to have to be some touching.”
“Okay,” I tell him. “I’m ready.”
“Would you like to get something to drink?” he asks. “We don’t have to go right into it.”
I nod, take another shot, and set the bottle back on the end table. By “set the bottle back on the end table,” what I mean to say is that I drop the bottle and rush over to Damian, quite literally throwing myself at him.
His arms enfold me and we kiss. My hands are already in his hair, and I’m ready for more.
His taste is sweet, fresh. He must have brushed or popped a mint before he came.
How thoughtful.
Me, on the other hand, I probably taste like stale blueberry vodka, but that doesn’t seem to slow our pace as Damian’s hands move over my body.
My fingers come out of his hair and work their way down his back and just under the back of his shirt.
His eyes come open a little, but they close just as quickly when I work my hands under his shirt and around to his strong, firm chest.
“No nudity?” I ask.
“Well, it’s really a judgment call, but it’s not absolutely necessary for—”
I pull open the front of Damian’s shirt, sending buttons soaring in various directions.
“I’ve had kind of a shitty day,” I tell him. “I think I could live with a little skin on skin.”
My lips are back over his, and I’m tearing the rest of the fabric from Damian’s shoulders.
He pulls back a moment, asking, “Are you all right? You seem kind of…ravenous.”
“Just practicing for my role,” I tell him as I guide his hands to the bottom of my shirt and encourage him to lift. “I hear it’s a big one.”
Damian laughs and kisses me, his hands lifting the shirt from my body and then moving around back to unhook my bra.
“You sure you’re good with this?” he asks.
“Oh, just shut up for once in your life, will you?” I ask.
He shrugs and pulls my bra open. I grab one of the straps and quickly remove it from my arm, flicking my other wrist to get the bra the rest of the way off of me.
“Should I be calling you Sophie?” he asks.
“I think we can save that for the cameras,” I tell him, and start working on his belt.
“Whoa,” he says. “I thought you wanted a dry run.”
I laugh a little. “That’s a good one,” I tell him. “You’re very clever with words, you know.”
“I’m not sure where the line is right now,” he says.
I stop what I’m doing and look up at him.
“Where do you want it to be?” I ask.
While he’s trying to muddle through his response, I’m back at the side of the night table, taking another shot of vodka.
“You want some?” I ask. “I haven’t had any in a really long time,” I tell him. “I’d kind of forgotten how fun it can be.”
“I don’t think we should be doing this while you’re drunk,” he says.
“I’m not drunk,” I tell him. “I’ve got a solid buzz, but I’m still making my own decisions here.”
He starts again, “Still, I don’t know if we should—”
“Where do you want the line to be?” I ask him again. “There’s no wrong answer here tonight. Just tell me what you want and that’s how far we’ll go.”
I hold the bottle out to him and he looks at it. Right now, I’m the devil and he’s Faust, only I don’t want his soul tonight. Right now, I just want his body.
We can always go from there.
Damian looks up at me and then back down at the bottle, which he grabs from me and he takes a long pull.
“I fucking hate vodka,” he says.
“Even blueberry?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, takes another shot, and with the bottle dangling from one of his hands, he leans down and kisses me.
Until his touch returned to my body, I had actually forgotten that I’m topless. The contrast between the heat from his skin and the coolness of the room is quick enough to remind me, though, and I press the naked skin of my upper body against the naked skin of his.
My hands go back to the front of his pants, and I find the strap of his belt, which I quickly remove.
Taking a break to kiss his chest, I feel Damian’s package with the palm of my hand.
Yeah, he’s on board.
I’ve spent all this time with Damian doing my best to avoid something like this because I didn’t want to be one of his skanks, but having gotten to know him a little better, I’ve learned that he’s more than meets the tabloid.
I unbutton Damian’s pants as he starts slipping mine from my hips.
This is actually happening.
The carpet is soft beneath my knees as I slide down between Damian’s legs and guide his erection through the opening at the front of his boxers.
I kiss his tip a bit to savor the moment before taking him into my mouth.
Above me, Damian grunts his satisfaction, and I’m just hoping the liquid courage doesn’t wear off. I can just see myself turning all bashful at just the wrong moment and ruining everything.
Damian’s first few inches take up a lot of room in my mouth, and I look up at him looking down at me, smiling.
I slip my mouth back toward his tip and wrap my fingers around his shaft. Pulling back with my head a little further, I ask, “How’s that?”
“That feels good,” he says. “Let’s move over to the couch, though,” he continues, “more comfortable over there.”
He helps me off my knees and we’re all over each other on the way to the couch. I’m walking backward, kissing his lips, when my legs hit the arm of the couch and I tumble backward laughing.
“You all right?” Damian chuckles.
“Yeah,” I snicker. “I am a little cold here all alone, though.”
He grins and moves to my side. Bending down, he kisses me on the lips while his right hand slips through my hair and over my shoulder, across my neck and between
my breasts. Damian’s hand hesitates a moment as if he’s trying to decide where to go from here, but he decides fast enough, and his hand continues to travel over my stomach and down between my legs.
As soon as that first finger is within a few inches of my center, I’m already moaning. My hips are moving, and I’m so wet that I’m starting to worry about the upholstery on this couch.
His touch is white heat, and I’m melting into ecstasy.
He fingers me a moment, just long enough to wet his digits before his hand goes on to explore my labia, making frequent stops on and around my clit.
“I want to know how you taste,” he says as if he’s asking for permission, as if his dick in my mouth wasn’t already indication enough that I’m on board here.
“I want a full report when you’re done,” I moan, and his mouth settles over one of my breasts, sucking my nipple into his mouth.
As he did with his hand, he works his way down my body with his mouth, kissing every bit of me on the way down.
I open my legs a little farther to accommodate him, and I relish the feel of his hot breath against my cool skin.
When his mouth arrives between my legs, he adjusts my lower body, his hands under my butt, until he’s in the perfect position, his tongue picking up where his fingers left off.
“Oh fuck,” I gasp. “Eat that pussy.”
He looks up at me, and with a somewhat disoriented smile, he asks, “Has this been you the whole time?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I know you said that you’re not a prude, but the way you talk around me and the way that you act around me—” he starts.
“You thought I was a prude anyway?” I ask. “I don’t blame you,” I tell him. “It’s rare anymore that I do something spontaneous.”
“Is that what this is?” he asks. “Is this just a one-time, spontaneous thing?”
“How many sex scenes do we have in the movie?” I ask him.
“One,” he says.
“Yeah, I think we’re probably going to have to make this a regular thing,” I tell him, and casually place my hand on the top of his head and ever so lightly, I push his head back down between my legs.