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 escaping 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.
I don’t mind listening to him talk, but right now, there are more useful things he could be doing with that mouth of his.
“Has Dutch gone over the play-by-play with you?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Damian says, between kisses. “Quick make out lead-in, shot of me on top, your breasts hidden either by my arm or by the bed covers, depending on which is going to end up looking better, shot of you on top from the shoulders up, quick shot of both of us from the side where we’ll see your nipples for no more than three seconds, but it’ll help to implant the scene of the two of us in the throes of—”
“Yeah, you need to stop talking,” I tell him. “We’ve got a scene to rehearse for tomorrow, so let’s rehearse for it. After tomorrow, who knows?”
So we’re supposed to start with a quick make out session and then move to missionary. Got it.
First, though, I think I’m going to enjoy a few more minutes of Damian’s attentive tongue and mouth, his hands moving over my body, my fingers in his hair.
It’s impossible to tell whether I’m this turned on because I spent years building up the image of Damian in my mind, never meeting him, but imagining a moment like this, or if it’s because it’s just been a while since I’ve been with someone the way I’m with Damian now, but it doesn’t matter.
He kisses one side of my pussy, then the other, and then he takes my clit into his mouth for one explosive second before lifting his head and saying, “We should probably get to it, then.”
It’s not the sexiest thing he could have said given the situation, but it’s enough to get me to my feet.
I take one of Damian’s hands, and feeling an extra surge of energy and excitement, I lead him into my bedroom.
“You know,” I tell him, “we could always make a sex tape. That would probably send Flashing Lights’ ticket sales through the roof.”
“Why don’t we just start with getting to know each other a little better and then, if one of our careers starts to flag, we can make that sex tape,” he says.
I lie down on the bed and climb under the covers.
“Did Dutch say how he wanted the scene to start?” I ask.
The broad strokes are in the script, but Dutch has all the details worked out in his head. Yeah, it would have been nice if he’d filled me in on what he wanted me to do, but I guess telling Damian amounts to the same thing.
“Why are you so ready to joke about making a sex tape when you’re so terrified of a couple of nude pictures getting out?” he asks.
I’m hoping he’s not serious and we can just move on, but the look on his face tells me that it’s a real question.
“One’s a choice, the other one’s not,” I tell him.
“But you’d rather make this guy a millionaire than put him in jail and deal with the headlines?” he asks.
“Can we not talk about that now?” I ask.
He hit on something, though he doesn’t know it.
There is a reason why I wouldn’t want those particular photos to come out, and it’s not entirely due to the fact that I’m naked in them. It’s not so much the absence of something that should be there as it is the presence of some things I’d rather not think about.
“Yeah,” he says, “sorry. I guess I’m a little nervous.”
Well, that’s going to be a well of self-confidence for a while to come.
“So Dutch wanted us to start by making out,” I say. “Did he have any insights or was that just a general thought?”
“I think the making out was the general thought,” he says. “The rest, well, he put me in charge of the rest.”
“I thought you said it was kiss, missionary, cowgirl, done,” I say.
“I was just thinking out loud,” he says.
To answer the question whether celebrities say the same corny shit to each other that the rest of the world does before, during, and after sex, yes, yes they do.
“Come here,” I tell him, and he climbs onto the bed.
“This is pretty fast,” Damian says. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I think we’ve gotten to know each other enough for me to tell you that I’d really just like to stop answering questions and start familiarizing myself with what your cock feels like inside of me,” I tell him.
That gets his attention.
He’s moving over me, kissing me, and he’s saying, “You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“I guess I am,” I tell him, and he kisses me again.
We’re both under the covers now, and he’s positioning himself between my legs and I can hardly breathe from the anticipation.
In a moment, the world goes silent and he slides himself inside. I let out a long, pleasant sigh and I smile as I look up at him.
He works himself into me a bit more and unconsciously, I’m pulling all the covers on the bed toward me.
I put my hand at the back of his neck and pull him toward me, and I’m just marveling that the difference between a night of acting rehearsal where we pretend like we’re having sex and actually having him inside of me seems to be an unspecified number of blueberry vodka shots. Apparently, that loosens me right up.
“How do you feel?” I ask him while I play with the hair on the back of his head and he presses himself again and again into me.
“Pretty good,” he says, and he takes a look down at our bodies writhing together. “Really good, actually.”
I chortle a little. “Well, I’m glad you’re having a good time,” I tell him. “Maybe afterward we can have coffee cake and various other desserts over brandy and a cigar.”
All right, I’m a little drunk.
He laughs and we kiss, but I’m tired of being on the bottom so I wrap my legs and arms around him as tight as I can and roll as best I can with him inside me.
It’s not the most graceful maneuver, but he gets the idea well enough.
Looking down at him now, stretching my arms back to rest with my hands on his thighs, I don’t feel drunk. I feel like I’m dreaming.
I work my hips over him, leaning back so his tip nudges my G-spot in regular rhythm, and I’m breathing it in; the scent of us.
With the dominant position now, I close my eyes, riding him as that feeling begins to stir.
“Keep doing that,” I tell Damian. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. I don’t, either.
Sensuality grips me, and I lean forward, moving my hands from his legs to his chest and I flip my hips, grinding into him as my legs begin to shake.
“Oh…fuck…” I mutter, only a moment before I lose the capacity for coherent speech.
My legs are going and I’m riding him harder and harder and I just keep coming harder and harder until it feels like it’s never going to end, and for the smallest moment, I get a little scared, and that’s when the foundation shatters.
I roll over to the side of Damian and ask if he could just give me a minute.
He says yes, and I can see the concern in his eyes. It’s not helping.
This is stupid, oh God, this is so fucking stupid. It’s stupid, but I’m lying on my back with my forearms crossed over my face to hide the fact that I’m crying.
“Can I get you anything?” Damian asks.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, but quickly realize the mistake I’m about to make and change my mind. “Actually, could you possibly grab me a glass of water? I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I think I’m just a little lightheaded, that’s all.”
I think I’m a little lightheaded? What the hell does that mean? Who has to think about it? It’s one of the more easily recognized health issues.
“Sure thing,” Damian says, and I try not to laugh as he jogs, still completely erect, across and out of the room.
I close my eyes and try to dry them with my hands.
What the hell is going on with me? Yeah, the sex is incredible, but it’s not like I have this huge emotional attachment to the guy.
Maybe it’s not even about him. Maybe they’re tears of joy at the relief I can still feel joy after everything Ben’s been doing.
Whatever it is, it really needs to stop in a hurry because the tap in the other room just turned off and Damian is on his way back.
I dry my eyes as best I can and I sit up a little, leaning back against the headboard.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“I think I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “I probably just got a little overexcited, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” he says, “you seemed to really be enjoying yourself there. I was glad to be a part of it.”
“You’re a smug bastard, do you know that?” I ask.
“I am well aware,” he says, and hands me my water.
I take a drink and glance down, away from his eyes.
“Looks like you’re down to half mast, huh?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “In here, there was plenty to keep me going, but the kitchen turned that right around.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who’s afraid of being naked in the kitchen,” I sigh.
“I don’t think it’s a fear so much as it is a rational instinct,” he answers.
“So, from what I’ve observed, there seem to be two main camps among people like you,” I start.
“People like me?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him, “freaks. Anyway, so are you in the camp that says that being naked in the kitchen is unhygienic, or are you one of those guys that says they don’t want to get any kind of grease or food particles on your body?”
“’Grease or food particles?’” he asks.
I was attempting to sound like an expert, though I lack the credentials, and I think he’s onto me.
“Or whatever,” I answer.
“I’m in the camp that doesn’t want their junk anywhere near knives, forks, chopping blocks, meat tenderizers, bigger knives, or salad tongs. They say most accidents happen in the home; well, that’s one accident I’m doing everything in my power to prevent,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, “I was right about you.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“You’re a freak,” I answer, and take another sip of my water.
The stress of the day coupled with the exertion of the last half hour and topped with a good portion of that vodka bottle all seem to land on me at once, and as I take one last sip of water and set it on the nightstand, I close my eyes.
“I’m just going to rest for a minute if that’s okay with you,” I tell him.
“That’s fine,” he says. “Do you want me to go?”
“No,” I tell him. “I want you right here with your arms around me.”
This is the problem with knowing my limits when I drink: I always remember too much.
Damian put his arms around me about eight hours ago and they’re still there, encircling me. For an instant, it feels great. It feels like something I’ve been waiting for, and I’m just a moderate hangover away from feeling complete when the gravity of what happened last night finally takes hold.
The sex complicates things enough, but the passing out after crying after coming bit? That’s not really the way I wanted last night to go.
When he says, “Good morning,” I nearly jump out of my skin. Maybe I would have, if Damian’s arms weren’t still around me.
“Good morning,” I answer back.
Then there’s nothing.
I mean, absolutely nothing.
We have nothing to say to each other after last night.
Yeah, alcohol was a brilliant idea, Emma; really A-list thinking there.
“So…” he says.
“Yeah…” I respond.
“Do you want me to sneak out of here or should I go out there and start fixing up some breakfast?” he asks.
I wonder: if I told him that I’d like him to fix some breakfast and then leave, would he do it?
“Whatever would make you the most comfortable,” I tell him.
I think I may have unwittingly put us within striking distance of having the relationship talk and it’s way too fucking early, both in the morning and in the relationship for that to happen right now. He may have opened the door by asking me how I wanted him to leave, but I pulled us the rest of the way through it by letting him know the ball is in his court on that one.
Being noncommittal has managed to lead directly to a question of increasing commitment.
No matter how he responds to my statement, it’s going to tell me something about his desired level of commitment, and then I’m going to feel like I’ve got to reciprocate, and then he’s going to ask me how we got from the manner in which he leaves my apartment to me telling him my views on the modern relationship, optional allowances, and accessories of said relationship and where I fit on the spectrum between “I want to have your children” and “You can fuck me, but don’t look me in the eyes and no kissing on the lips.”
Right now the answer is that I don’t have an answer. It’s still way too early to tell where this is going to go, and I haven’t even begun to shuffle through the various and often contradictory emotions I’m feeling right now.
“Why don’t I pop into the bathroom and then we can figure it out from there,” he says.
Well, that’s just great. He doesn’t want to tip his hand before he has an idea where I’m at.
Clever, Mr. Jones, very clever.
Then again, though, it could be possible that he’s got to pee and I’m reading way too much into everything.
But would I be reading this much into everything if I didn’t see some kind of future between the two of us? That’s the real question, I think.
I mean, what happens when he comes out of that bathroom?
He’s going to come out of there and I’m not going to have any idea what to tell him.
I could always offer him coffee.
Coffee’s a nice way to say, “Hey, we just had a night of passion together. That doesn’t mean we have to talk about it.”
Of course, coffee can also imply sex.
If I ask him to join me for some coffee, is he going to think that I’m trying to get a little good morning sausage from him?
Would it be so bad if that’s what I did?
No, things are already complicated enough.
The best bet here is for me to just wait until he’s out of the bathroom and then go into the bathroom myself, putting the ball back in his court.
Of course, where is it said that the person in the bathroom can’t be the one to do the thinking?
I guess I’m the one that started this whole thing this morning, but that doesn’t mean that I’m the only one that can deal with it.