Hello. It’s been awhile since we fucked. Everything has changed and somehow nothing has.
Production is boring. I hate television. It’s nothing like the casting couch porno videos. I stand around. Leaning against walls. Propping myself up on anything I can sit on that’s not a grip’s face. Eye-fucking anything within a 25 foot vicinity of my throbbing lady parts. No one has time to fuck around. Maybe on your production they do. But not here. And I have to keep it professional.
So you want to write for television? No you don’t. Do anything else. Beat your head against a wall or a girl’s stomach until you feel some sense of relief. Whatever you originally put on the page has disappeared into the gullet of the network.
Attached to that great character name? Too bad, it didn’t clear legal.
Need a yes or no about something? Take a long string and some empty cans and play a game of telephone from set — to the production office — to the network — to the moon — through someone’s ass — and of course, back again. What was the question again? Could you clarify? Ask someone else. Repeat.
I slink around the blocks we’ve blocked off. We’ve taken over your corner of the greater Los Angeles area for 30 seconds of screen time and I feel bad. You can’t get to work*. I can’t get more than 5 hours of sleep or any of this actor dick. Like my personal fluffers, the casting people taunt me with hot guy and girl headshots all day long. The ones I like don’t get the job. Maybe that’s for the best. Email addresses saved, just in case.
*Kind sir(s), I’m glad we met on that Tinder date while I was working so you could share your grief about the impact of our production. I’m also sorry we cut down your favorite rose bush. I think your dogs have behavioral problems and skin allergies. Thank you for the weed and the hint of a finger pushing into my pussy through my tights.
As production ramped up I googled every single dude on the distro list. Married, married with kids, might be gay, might be gender fluid and in a polyamorous thing, might be my boss, might live in Bakersfield but drives a stupid amount of miles to stand around as a Set PA for 12-18 hours a day until his toes bleed. I can’t keep up with the names and faces as they reach 80, 90, 100+.
On the fifth day, after complaining there was no one to fuck, he appeared: “Mike” or thats what was taped on his walkie. A vision straight from my teen skater boy dreams realized as a full grown hunky man strapped with a camera bag.
Five more days passed and nothing happened. Eye contact was impossible. He began picking off the hot blonde PAs one by one. My confidant believed I had missed my window. She didn’t know that when I miss a window I punch a hole through the fucking wall.
It was a particularly miserable day with that wet stuff falling from the sky. Rain in Los Angeles. OMFG I needed a raincoat but I only had condoms. We filmed in a bar that day. Do you know the pain of sitting in a bar for 15 hours without drinking? I was determined to make something out of this day. I wouldn’t let a perfectly good bar day go to waste.
It’s a wrap! Or 14 or 15 hours if you’re counting every last minute of your day and life you’ve lost to the art of television.
The crew hustled out of there and disappeared to their respective trucks. Expecting it to be just another day on set, I wore a boxy denim shirt from Target, and let a colleague drive me; thus giving up 100% of my sexuality and control. But something about that Thursday wasn’t letting the rain, the shirt, or the polite offer for a ride home end my day.
I told the ride I’d venture off on my own. We were filming around the corner from a bar I liked on Palms so it made sense to linger a bit and find my AC dude. I got stuck in a work conversation and thought I missed my window when I saw the transpo van pull out. My bottom lip did a tiny pout and I started to sad-Charlie-Brown-walk over to the bar when I saw a PA friend on the camera truck… with Mike.
When I’m professional, I’m really professional. I say that’s why I stutter-stepped my way to the truck but honestly I was worried about rejection. I didn’t think I’d be able to pull his focus.
And then I remembered who the fuck I am. With one hand I shoved PA friend to the side and offered myself some of their whiskey. Mike smiled and handed me the bottle. He was more attractive up close. We did the basic introductions and he hadn’t seen me on set before. I guess giving someone the fuck-stare for 10 hours a day doesn’t do anything. The PA wouldn’t stop yapping at me about getting dinner, when someone pulled him off the truck to do some paperwork.
Thanks to Instagram, I knew where Mike lived and it was on my way home. The whiskey and small talk encouraged me to invite him to the bar… wow that was easy!
We ended up at the Palms bar. Before he sat down to drink he did something remarkable; he walked over to the water cooler and filled a glass of water for me. Swoon. We drank and he complained of his day, the director, and the lack of sex in his relationship that (conveniently for me) ended a week ago. I complained that it took me 5 days to ask him out. He was flattered and turned on. He paid the tab and we walked out to the Uber I summoned before he had a chance to order a 4th round of drinks.
We passed Olympic and Bundy – his attention shifted from my thighs to the strip club he went to a few nights before – The Silver Reign. I knew it, since it was a lunch haunt of mine when I had the desk job. We made it to the stoplight in front of the Bed Bath & Beyond when I instructed the driver to turn around. Mike protested a bit — I grabbed his cock and he gave in. The driver dropped off us in the Good Stuff Burger strip mall and we walked around the corner to La Grange and the club’s entrance.
I learned more about Mike and myself at the club. Mike liked spending money on strippers. Mike liked buying me lap dances. Mike liked it more when the strippers were grinding me. Mike liked it when the strippers pulled my tits out and sucked on them. I wasn’t sure I liked it, because I was wearing the weird boxy denim shirt and a sports bra. The best looking gal encouraged me to kiss Mike. So I did, next to the stripper stage, while a petite Miley Cyrus look-alike dressed as a nurse hung upside down on the pole.
Apparently for $500 the Cyrus stripper would eat my pussy in a private room. The manager and Mike negotiated for a bit when I said we could hire a hooker for the same price. Ugh. What a tangent the night had taken and I needed to get him home. I took him to the guest house I’ve been squatting at for a few months. Squats are good for squirting, right? We showered, he fucked me, and appreciated it. Enthusiastic appreciation is a big part of good sex. A killer body from hauling camera equipment doesn’t hurt either – on his part – not my doughiness from sitting around set for weeks.
After we collapsed from the physical exhaustion of the day and the act he cuddled me. He cuddled me hard. Normally these days I would be repulsed, but he felt good wrapped around me. I noticed his cock getting hard again so I tried to slip it in my ass. He suggested a condom — good man! — so I wrapped myself an anal present and backed up on his perfect dick.
In the morning he took an early work call. Pacing around the room with a full boner. I sat in a puddle of drool or something and waited for him to come back to bed. Before he ended the call he started getting dressed. I didn’t feel that much heartbreak during my divorce. It was for the best since call time was 3 hours away.
He gave me a pretty sweet kiss as he left through the side gate. I wished him luck in avoiding the boss on his way out.
16 hours later I passed him on set, us both in the depths of hangover hell, and said “long day?” I didn’t speak to him again the rest of the production.