by Alexis Ayres
Contents
Chapter One - BLASTING BLAINE
Chapter Two - STRIPPER CLASS
Chapter Three - GOOD FRIDAY
Chapter Four - FIT MODEL
Chapter Five - COFFEE TALK
Chapter Six - LAP DANCE
Chapter Seven - EASTER
Chapter Eight - CRASH COURSE
Chapter Nine - NO NIGHTCAP
Chapter Ten - MORNING DELIGHT
Chapter Eleven - JETTING OUT
Chapter Twelve - LANDING
Chapter Thirteen - LIGHTS! CAMERA! ACTION!
Chapter Fourteen - AWAKENINGS
Chapter Fifteen - THANK YOU!
Chapter Sixteen - COPYRIGHT
Chapter Seventeen - RECOMMENDATIONS
CHAPTER ONE
BLASTING BLAINE
I fired my agent on a Thursday. Holy Thursday. I remember that specifically, because it was the Thursday right before Easter. That Easter, the Easter weekend that changed my entire life. A gal tends to remember such things.
Anyway, Blaine from "Commercial Agent Associates" had it coming.
While looking over my new headshots, he made one of the most incredibly insensitive comments I'd ever heard.
"You know, maybe if you gained twenty pounds or so, you'd be a shoe-in for all the funny fat girl parts."
"The...what?" I was sure I hadn't heard him correctly.
After I'd made at least ten grand for the guy, it was hard to believe that he'd be such a buffoon.
"Let's face it, Ella," he continued, his beady eyes narrowing. "There are no parts out there for chubby girls. You can either lose seventy pounds and be sexy, or gain twenty and actually work."
My head was about to explode. This couldn't be happening.
"You know, plus-sized modeling is a huge industry now. People are casting larger women in roles traditionally played by super skinny women," I told him.
It was true. There were more opportunities opening up than ever.
"Well, where are these roles then?" Blaine scoffed. "Because I'm certainly not seeing him."
"Maybe that's because you're a crappy agent. You don't look hard enough. You're not imaginative enough to say to people, 'Hey, I've got this client who's bigger than what's listed in the breakdown, but she's sexy and fun!'"
"I'm sorry. What?!" Blaine's face turned purple, as the vitriol of my comments overwhelmed him.
He wasn't used to clients telling him off; he was used to insipid, silly actors who would do and say anything for their big break. Well, I'd been in Hollywood long enough to know the score. People like that never made it. And there was no way I was going to take advice from someone like Blaine anymore.
"We're done," I sighed, collecting my new headshots and making my way towards the door. "You have nothing to offer me. Absolutely, freakin' nothing."
Then, like a cliched Hollywood movie, he yelled "You'll regret this!" as I made my way past the receptionist. I kid you not.
Taking a deep breath, I collected myself and walked to my car, which was about a half-mile away from the agency. People love to talk about how difficult traffic is in Los Angeles, but no one really says anything about the parking. It's just as bad.
As I got closer to my car, I noticed the telltale red and white paper stuck in my windshield, flapping in the breeze. I'd received a parking ticket. Unreal.
It wasn't totally unexpected. Blaine had made me wait a long time before my meeting with him. I'd been hoping beyond hope, however, that the meter maid wouldn't have gotten to my car so quickly. No such luck.
"Argh!"
Grabbing the offending piece of paper, I tossed it in the glove box and proceeded directly home.
I remain firmly convinced that there are certain days when it would have been better to not get up -- to just crash out in bed all day, drinking tea and watching soap operas or awful reality shows. Days where something has gone terribly awry in the cosmos, and there is no point in trying to "carpe diem" or "just do it" -- nothing can fix the rotten nature of these days.
The problem is that the universe does not alert us to these days ahead of time. So, unfortunately, we run blindly into these awful experiences, with no forewarning whatsoever. There should be a system that alerts us to these treacherous periods, like a tsunami warning or something like that.
Anyway, as you can probably tell, this particular Holy Thursday was one of those days for me. I headed home to lick my wounds after the terrible meeting with Blaine, deciding to log onto Facebook and settle my nerves.
Bad idea. Terrible idea, in fact.
There was my ex-boyfriend, Jeff, announcing his new engagement for the entire world to see. And, of course, the girl in question was a skinny-mini. And pregnant. It was enough to piss off the Easter Bunny.
Quickly, I closed the laptop and did what I should have been doing all day -- the bunny hop to my bed.
Even my cat Ruby seemed to agree. A beautiful black fluffball, she climbed in right beside me and cuddled up as I tried to shake off the terribleness of the day. Rescuing Ruby from the shelter was one of the the best decisions I'd ever made. Most of my life decisions -- moving to L.A., becoming an actress -- were pretty questionable, but picking up Ruby had been the one choice that I'd never regretted.
"Ugh, how am I going to pay our rent, Ruby Wooby?" I groaned.
I was already a month behind, and now, without an agent, my chances of booking a commercial (or any
acting work, for that matter) were greatly diminished.
"Why can't some handsome guy on a white horse come in and sweep me off my feet?" I complained.
And then, at that exact moment, my cell phone started buzzing.
Unfortunately, it wasn't a handsome guy on a white horse. It was Katrina, from Katrina's Katerers.
"Ella!" she squeaked, in her annoying, high-pitched voice. "Are you free to work a gig that starts tomorrow night? It goes Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Easter Sunday! So you can't have holiday plans. Six hundred bucks total. Are you free?!"
Katrina was one of those women who always seemed to be in the middle of a perpetual nervous breakdown. She wasn't a bad person, but she was completely unable to deal with the stressors of everyday life. Just being around her put me on edge.
And she wouldn't wait for an answer. If I requested time to "think about it," Katrina would quickly start calling everyone else on her roster of unemployed actors, most of whom were more than willing to give up their holidays to make some extra cash.
"Okay," I sighed. "Sounds good."
Money talks and bullshit walks. Catering gigs had become an unfortunate reality of my life, since I hadn't booked any acting work in awhile. Normally, they weren't the worst jobs in the world. Katrina was kind of a crazy person to work for, but the great thing about her company was that they paid in cash right after each event. And, at this point in my life, cash was king.
"Great!" Katrina squeaked. "I'll send you an email with all the deets!"
I had to roll my eyes. The "deets"? Because it took so long to pronounce the word "details"?
"Fantastic. See you tomorrow, Katrina."
I hung up the phone and exhaled loudly, curling up with Ruby once again. Surely things had to get better.
As I flipped on the television and settled in for my nap, the skinny-mini newscaster, Kelli Woodward, started reporting on a story with that faux concern/mock outrage that impossibly thin reporters so often seem to have.
"Athletic apparel designer Dash De Maio is under fire for comments he allegedly made about plus-sized clients recently. When De Maio was asked when his popular sporting line, De Maio Designs, would be coming out with a line for plus-sized yoga enthusiasts, De Maio r
esponded, 'Never. My company is about promoting health, not complacency.' This has set off a social media firestorm, with plus-sized advocates leading the charge to call for a boycott of the popular brand."
"Hah!" I rolled my eyes at the television. "I'm sure you're really upset about it, Kelli."
And then Ruby and I settled in for a nap. After all, Stripper Class was at nine. I was determined that the day wasn't going to be a total loss.
CHAPTER TWO
STRIPPER CLASS
My friend Daniela and I had discovered Stripper Class on a random Sunday afternoon, and we had never looked back. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday, we joined a group of like-minded women in an old, closed-down nightclub, for an amazingly fun class that consisted of a varied curriculum. From pole tricks to lap dances, our teachers (current and ex-strippers) never ran out of sexy tricks to teach us.
Stripper Class was my salvation, my escape from reality. No matter how many crappy dates I went on, or how many awful auditions I had, Stripper Class consistently made me feel like a goddess. Daniela felt the same way, which was why she drove from Venice Beach three times a week to attend Stripper Class in Hollywood.
On this particular Thursday, we learned the intricacies of the lap dance, really getting down to the nitty-gritty, so to speak. It was harder work than one would think! Of course, there were no men in our all-female Stripper Class, so each girl practiced on a chair with an invisible man.
Our instructor yelled out helpful instructions as we worked on our lap dances, hip-hop music blaring in the background.
"Keep grinding, Ella! That's it! You blond bombshell, you! Really work the butt."
"Daniela, move from your core. You got it, girl! Now throw your head back. Okay!"
"The lap dance contest is in three weeks, y'all! Make sure you get your routines together by then."
Every year, the instructors held a contest for the best lap dance. Whoever "bumped and grinded" their imaginary man the best would win a year's worth of free classes. Daniela and I, of course, were planning to enter the contest. Stripper Class was not cheap, and a year of free classes would be a godsend. But competition was stiff. Some of the girls in class could really dance their asses off.
By the end of our exuberantly choreographed session, we were covered in sweat, spiritually cleansed from our respective rough days.
"Wanna get a beer down the street?" Daniela asked.
"Sure!"
The other part of our ritual involved getting a beer after Stripper Class. It was a nice way to catch up, and the bar down the street had a "second happy hour" starting at 9 p.m. Only in L.A...
This particular bar was on the trashy side (well, for Hollywood), so we felt totally comfortable going there in our workout attire. After I shared my tale of woe over the first Belgian draft beer, Daniela started opening up about her own rotten day.
"So then the casting director told my agent that I need to lose ten pounds..."
"What?!?" This was shocking to me.
"Well, I'm like a size eight, Ella. That's not considered tiny in L.A."
I had to take a second and guzzle my beer. Size eight considered too big? Daniela was stunning, with a five-foot-seven frame, dirty blond hair, and quite the shapely figure.
"Ugh. So did you hear about that jerk on the news?"
"Oh, yeah!" Daniela snorted, pointing to her workout capris. "These are officially the last Dash De Maio workout pants I'll be buying. What a jerk!"
"Seriously."
Daniela had recently gotten a corporate job, so she was (luckily for her) unable to work any more catering gigs. She'd been my one saving grace at Katrina's Katerer's, so I was a little upset.
"Ah, chin up!" she said. "I'm sure it'll be at some rich person's house. Maybe you can nab some awesome soaps from the bathroom!"
"Argh, you know me too well!" I started cracking up uncontrollably.
Daniela was referring to a time several years prior, when I had been even more broke (how was that possible?). Anyway, I'd run out of soap at home, and had pocketed some tiny lavender soaps from a bathroom in some rich person's house. This was before I'd known that I was allergic to lavender...
Several hives and an urgent care visit later, I became quite familiar with my allergy. Ironically, the doctor said that the soap must have been super fancy, because the concentration of lavender normally wasn't that high in regular soaps.
Yeah...karma was a bitch. I'd never been the kind of gal who could get away with doing things that were illegal or unethical. Unfortunately. Talk about having an Achilles heel in Hollywood. Anyway, I digress.
After drinking one more beer, Daniela and I decided to call it a night. We said good-bye and then I commenced the walk home to my apartment, which was only about a half-mile away. Just as I was settling into my couch with Ruby -- to catch up on all the Vikings episodes I hadn't seen yet --I noticed that my phone was lit up with quite a few text messages. I had a nasty habit of forgetting to turn the volume back on after class, so this was something that occurred frequently to me after dance class.
When I saw that the texts were from Carlo Catelli, I had to catch my breath. Carlo was a man that I "saw" (polite way of saying "banged") whenever I was in New York or he was in L.A. We'd met at a bar the prior year, when I was visiting friends in Manhattan. One thing led to another, and I'd ended up back at his place. And thus began an interesting -- albeit animalistic -- bi-coastal romance.
Carlo Catelli was probably the most gorgeous man I'd ever slept with. With perfect olive skin and jet-black hair, he'd caught my attention immediately. We were around the same height (five-foot-nine), which was unusual for me at first. Normally I dated guys who were over six feet. But Carlo easily made up for the lack of height in other...ahem...areas.
He was very New York, very dominant in bed...very fun. The problem with Carlo was that he was also, quite likely, very Mafia. At this point, I had no confirmation of this...but there were stories in the media, mentions here and there. He always told me that he was in "construction" but he had a hell of a lot of money for some random New York guy in construction.
The other odd thing about Carlo was that he didn't like to go down on girls...something about it not being "macho" or whatever. Now, oral sex had always been one of my favorite things about hooking up...or one of my favorite things about life in general, as it were.
Nothing made me happier than the feeling a talented tongue snaking its way up my leg. But, again, I was somehow willing to forego my usual rules when it came to Carlo. He was so handsome, so good at making me explode in bed, that I was willing to overlook this transgression. And a few others. Carlo Catelli had made it clear that he was not interested in having a steady girlfriend -- as fun as our encounters were, he was determined that our relationship not progress past the "casual" phase.
Although I appreciated his honesty, a tiny piece of me was sad that our relationship could never move forward. Obviously, Carlo was Mr. Wrong. But in all the right ways. He was all of my sexy bad boy fantasies, wrapped up and embodied in one sizzling hot package and topped off with an impossibly thick head of black hair.
I mean, there were so many barriers to our relationship that it was ridiculous, anyway. He lived on the east coast, I lived in L.A., he possibly had some crime connections, I was more of a good gal...There was a lot to give one pause.
But the body wants what the body wants. And the most efficient way to make my heart start pumping wildly -- aside from Stripper Class -- was to look at my phone when there was a text from Carlo. This one did not disappoint.
The first text said, simply:
*Missing you, Luscious...
"Luscious" was Carlo's nickname for me. The text was accompanied by pictures of his gorgeous cock. Normally, this kind of thing -- sexting with pics -- turned me off. But for Carlo, who was such a real man, full of vigor and lust, it never bothered me. In fact...okay, I'll admit it...
I liked it. I liked knowing how much I was wanted, how much I turned him o
n. As always, I wrote back instantly.
*Miss you too! Was picturing grinding on you during our lap dance class tonight. XO
Immediately, Carlo shot back with:
*Naughty, naughty, Luscious! Send me a pic of your panties!
Carlo was the only man in the world who could convince to me to sext. Within minutes, I found myself digging into my underwear draw to find the appropriate pair (I certainly wasn't going to send him a picture of the gross workout underwear I was wearing). After taking a shower, I settled upon a sheer peach pair of panties. I put them on and snapped a masterful shot, then settled back into bed and texted Carlo.
*Why oh why can't you live here? Would love to feel you between my thighs right about now.
And then I fell into a deep sleep, with visions of the most gorgeous Italian-American man in the universe, hovering over me as he took me over the edge, again and again...
CHAPTER THREE
GOOD FRIDAY
The email was annoying. But, then again, when weren't Karina's emails' annoying? They were a cesspool of caps lock, underlined, and bold instructions, guaranteed to infuriate anyone with common sense.
HEY GUYS!
Thanks so much for taking part of this weekend's AMAZING catering event with Katrina's Katerers. I'm sure you're all grateful for the $$$!
First and foremost, I wanted to remind everyone to come looking well-groomed and FABULOUS. This is an upscale event for a VERY RICH client in the Hollywood Hills. Not telling you who, but you are guaranteed to be impressed, so come looking as *perfect* as you possibly can.
Directions to the parking lot are attached. Be sure to give yourself PLENTY of time to get there. As you know, Katrina's Katerer's is a company for punctual people (hey, I should trademark that line!). My standard motto applies here, as always. "On time is late!" That means that anyone who is less than fifteen minutes early will be given a spanking. (Not really LOL, but you get my drift!)
Anyway, once you arrive at the parking lot at the bottom of Mulholland (2:45 or earlier!), the shuttle will arrive to take you up the hill to our client's home.