film

Krakov Corporate Concepts was located two blocks south of Colfax Avenue in a sad little brick building that came complete with a half-destroyed dumpster in the back parking lot. The location was advantageous, according to Krakov, because it kept his employees in touch with reality. This ugly stretch of pavement was our poor American version of a dacha, he liked to say – our second home. It was bombed-out and played-out. The bums scavenged in the alleys and the more enterprising vagrants caught the RTD out to the Mission for a real meal once a day. And when Krakov spoke the word dacha across his Russian tongue, he laid a unique emphasis on it. He seemed to say to all of us: if we failed in our jobs, the gutter was just a few steps away.



Corporate Concepts was one of many lookalike companies that Krakov owned. Our humble office produced corporate training films on bland topics, such as workplace safety, product training, and sexual harassment. It was just a job, as people say. Yet after three years of checking in at 8:30 and slinking home at 5:00, I was astonished at how my grand plans to become a film editor at some Hollywood production company had slipped away.



The open secret among the employees was that our boss, Krakov, ran a barely legal business. “Anything for a buck,” summed up his ethic, and his secret to success was diversion and confusion. All of Krakov’s companies had names that sounded like bigger, better known companies and his guiding strategy was to mislead executives into buying his services by mistake.



The reason I stayed, I told myself, was that underneath it all Corporate Concepts was still a good company with a lot of heart. That was only partly true – mostly it was the lovely girls, or rather one particular lovely girl – that kept me plugging along. Her desk was in the front of the office, near the creaky elevator that somehow smelled exactly like I imagined it did when it was installed in 1955. She was a ridiculously busty and pleasantly plump red head that spelled disaster every time I walked by. A work romance was a bridge too far, and yet I couldn’t help daydream over the possibility. Or more accurately, I wallowed in the idea of nothing more than spending hours with my mouth latched onto her breasts. I had tits on my mind, and hers drove me crazy.



Krakov himself had boundless energy, but a misdirected sense of artistic mission that filtered through everything we did. Simply put, we produced films that ranked near amateur grade – I often imagined that our training films were viewed once by managers and then locked away in a vault, never to be mentioned again. I did console myself with the idea that we also produce passionate films. He wanted it all to “seem real” as he would always intone, and with our cheap production values and so-so lighting, we did capture a documentary style that was sometimes unnervingly up close and personal.



Another of Krakov’s businesses was a call center that worked in the top floor of our brick building. And then there was a collection agency on the second floor, which harassed people to make payments on their wide screen TV’s, and which employed a half-dozen Spanish speakers, none who seemed to know a word of English.



And finally there was an adult film company, by the name of Stella by Starlight, which appropriately enough occupied the entire basement, just like the unruly stepchild it was. It surprised new employees to learn that in the dusty rooms downstairs were offices for an X-rated film company, but after meeting Krakov and sensing his sketchy background, the astonishment faded. What else would someone expect? Following this somewhat shocking revelation, there followed shrugged shoulders from myself and other long-time employees of the Krakov ‘family’ and the topic was suddenly blasé.



When business was slow at Corporate Concepts, I took the stairs down to the basement and planted myself behind a desk and wrote adult scripts for Stella. It was a nice change from my usual corporate script work, which usually included product safety instructions and other material that was simply as boring as watching the RTD busses creep up and down the street.



Krakov was a nutcase for a good porn script. His dream in life was to emulate the success of Deep Throat, which earned the producers an enormous amount of money with little effort. In his mind, this was the ultimate get rich quick scam. He was convinced the movie did killer business because of three factors: a great title, a good script, and a believable cast. All of this fit his flawed-yet-passionate character. Every week or two I’d drop him off a copy of one of my new porn scripts, which he variably compared –poorly – to Deep Throat, the gold standard by his estimation. He urged me further along when my efforts showed promise, always repeating his mantra about what made for a great porn film.



It’s got to be real, he told me. Well – he then always corrected himself – not real, but believable. And then he surmised in a gruff manner: If it’s good, it’ll make millions, no matter… He would then appear to be lost in deep thought over Deep Throat, and wander away, the carpet emitting static electricity jolts from his scuffing shoes.



But most of my time was spent scripting bland corporate material. The one saving grace of our training films was their strict adherence to ‘reality’, which in Krakov’s view dictated a large amount of surly behavior from the characters on screen. Our films always suggested that polite society was nothing more than a fraud. This meant that when we filmed a sexual harassment scene, it seemed disturbingly real. The guys were lecherous and loathsome. They were always deserving of that lawsuit – or at least a stinging memo from HR – and it seemed like Cro-Magnon man was not in the museum downtown, but just around the corner making photocopies and leering at customer service girls.



The women were enticing, believable, and overtly sexual. Krakov was a casting genius. The girls were tempting in a way that suggested the entire 1970′s porn-world had somehow been transferred into a modern business of cubicles and email. A man watching the film and ogling the women on screen might be tempted to think: I want to work at that office! And then later, after our cautionary story unfolded and the men got sent away in handcuffs, he might think: maybe it’s better if I just stay away from women altogether.



Krakov liked my scripts because he thought I wrote good dialogue. His favorite line was spoken by a gorgeous woman – who in a reversal – was harassing a male associate. In the scene, she was accidentally rubbing against a reluctant man in the coffee break room while reaching for a container of non dairy creamer. With no provocation she simply says, “Baby, do I make it bigger than ever?”



This had nothing to do with the on-screen action at that point and was a complete goof, but Krakov loved it because it was just the right amount of awkwardness and libidinal aggressiveness. For weeks afterward, whenever there was a lull in the conversation he simply smiled and apropos of nothing said, “make it bigger than ever,” and then laughed to himself.



It took eight full-time employees to produce our usual run of both corporate communiqués and porn, which was one film a week. Most of us were liberal arts majors who once dreamed of exotic jobs like running art galleries, building wineries in France, or in one case – publishing our own communist inspired newspaper. Reality turned out to be somewhat different, but we still managed to inhabit our old beliefs by inserting them into our work in the present day. I edited the finished movies to a fine point, and edited and rewrote scripts to avoid miniscule continuity errors. It was a small compensation, but many days I just felt happy to have a job in the industry when I thought about my friends and their unhappy compromises. Sometimes, too, I looked out the window at the dumpster in our parking lot and wondered just how many unlucky turns of fate I was away from such an end.



Krakov saved money by getting his employees to play parts occasionally, and he did not shy away from the obvious limits of his expertise or budget. This made my job much easier. The blonde sitting across from me made extra money for car payments and remolding her condo by donning a wig and becoming Casey Adams, which meant if I had to write a scene in which she seduced a tow truck driver, or perhaps in another film, discussed the benefits of the corporate dental care plan, all I had to do was look ten feet to my left and imagine her in such a situation. Chances were we wouldn’t even rent a tow truck for filming; we’d just grab Steve’s pickup and have the camera guy attempt to overcome the obvious holes in the production.



Sometimes she saw me studying her, daydreaming over her as Casey Adams, trying to imagine a new Deep Throat with her in whatever role it demanded. But she wasn’t right; it didn’t work.



My own prejudices took me further down the hall to my curvy red head who did administrative work part time, didn’t need extra money, and who would never dare to take off her clothes for the camera. I wondered if she even knew my name. I would linger by her desk, imagining her saying certain things, in certain outfits, sprawled into certain positions. She would be typing away or studying files, and I would hang around her desk long after it was time to leave, paging through a magazine, stealing glances, hoping that tomorrow I would have the guts to ask her to lunch.



I mused that she was like Loni Aderson’s character in WKRP in Cincinnati. She was a hottie, a dangerous distraction. She was a person who didn’t belong doing clerical work at a down-and-out dump, and stayed in the business for mysterious reasons.



But that was before my big chance. The one good thing I wrote. That was before I composed ‘Blow Job Princess’ on my computer and then issued it from my printer, and although the pages smelled like any other HP Ink Jet draft copy, I knew it was something special.



The plot was simple, and somehow right. It played to some silly idea of male vanity, and in its basic structure the script was a crass homage to Deep Throat (and probably a hundred or so other films): A beautiful – too beautiful – woman is unfulfilled by sex. She is lured into becoming a sex kitten, and in so doing, becomes fulfilled.



The morning the script was ready I deposited it under Krakov’s nose, knowing that he would set aside everything else until it was read and properly digested – and then weighed against Deep Throat. I waited on his faux-leather couch and watched as his bushy eyebrows raised and furrowed as he pursued the pages. Finally, he finished the script and set it down. Silently, he walked over to his liquor cabinet, poured two glasses of cheap whiskey, and set one in front of me. “Drink up,” he said. “You deserve this.”



He felt that Blow Job Princess could be his Deep Throat…. never mind the economics of the adult film industry had been turned on its head in the last thirty or more years. It’s got the title, he said. It’s got a good script, he said. But I wonder if it’s believable, he said. Or at least plausible.



“Have you ever experienced anything like this?”



“No, of course not,” I confessed. “It’s just a script. An idea.”



“What do think about the plump red head?” I saw that he was thinking his deep thoughts yet again. He contemplated his drink. He contemplated making a decent film for a change. He contemplated untold millions of dollars and retiring his 1974 Lincoln for a model made in this century.



“I wrote it thinking of someone like that: a curvy, sexy, red head,” I said. “That’s just where my instincts sent me.”



He smiled. He had seen me lingering around our own busty red head and knew my not-so-secret lust. But I continued. “I suppose it could be any girl who was generally right for the part. She just needs to be gorgeous, of course. Feminine. Adorable. Loveable. Crazy-sexy. The kind of girl you’d sell your soul for.”



“It must be plausible, in its own way,” he said. His eyes were again on his drink as his particular bent on reality took hold. “Our character is a bit on the voluptuous side, yes?”



I nodded my head. “I think curves and a bit of ‘extra-girl’, if you will, are ridiculously tempting. An over-full hourglass, perhaps.”



“A lot a tits, some belly, big curves. But sweet?”



I nodded my head again. I had thrown a bunch of breast obsessed language into the script. I wondered if my fantasizing had derailed my story in some manner.



He sat back and thought before he spoke: “I tell you what. Take the rest of the week off… I’ll figure out what our film needs, and you get to know your new topic a bit better. Do some research. Think of some rewrites. Pretend you’re a real Hollywood mogul. We’re NOT going to do this the normal way.” Our normal way meant, I understood, half-assed.



One week off. That was incredibly generous. I played Hollywood mogul by not setting my alarm clock. I wore a bathrobe as I drank my coffee. I went to the gym in the middle of the day and avoided the after work crowds. My research consisted of mostly lounging around my place. I spent part of the week perusing crappy articles via the online website of Psychology Today, and reading about a segment of the American population that held a strong belief in spontaneous telephone explosions. I then rediscovered back issues of Scientific American stacked around my house – one of which had an odd article about identical twins and inherited political predispositions.



My biggest thrill came when I noticed that the Denver Post published a letter I wrote in angry-old-man-style concerning the many mattresses that fell of the backs of trucks and which I kept having to avoid while driving on I-25. My semi-serious research also found me trolling a few adult websites and posting a rambling free-advert about needing to find a curvy, busty, gorgeous red head with which to do ‘research for an up-coming adult movie’.



I received zero serious responses, except from a woman in Tallahassee, who suggested I post an advert on an actual modeling/actress website instead, with which I replied ‘…but that costs money.’ She did not reply back.



I did run across a local woman – amazingly busty and curvy, which she confirmed via the most gorgeous pictures of her torso – and a genuine red head too, but alas no interest in Corporate Concepts adult-film business, and therefore no hope of matching a gorgeous face to a gorgeous body. As I ruminated over the script as it stood, I started questioning whether there was any reason to stay with a red head, or indeed a voluptuous woman. The easy way was simply to lock-down the script, cast one of the regulars, film the bad boy, and move on. I figured this was what awaited me upon my return to work Monday morning. Grand designs were easily set aside.



Instead, when I sat down at my desk I was greeted with one of Krakov’s infamous memos, which always started with a random quote completely irrelevant to the topic at hand, and then continued to three times the length the topic required. Thus I began reading words grabbed from The Brothers Karamazov about family and honor. This then segued into a diatribe about the mediocrity of product found in today’s media conglomerates. I could tell he was building up to one of his sweeping proclamations. The last paragraph finally spelled it out in no uncertain terms. I was to meet Vada –the plump, curvy red head from the office – for lunch and we were to get to know each other. We would be finishing the script together over the coming week. Obviously he knew my inspiration-bone needed to be tickled. ‘Punch it up,’ he wrote in his memo, and then as his usual afterthought, ‘Make me believe it.’



This was my reward for the brilliance of the script ‘Blow Job Princess’: a working lunch with the girl of my lust-filled dreams. Of course, I was thrilled. ‘Punch up the script’ he said. I never really knew what that phrase meant, but I always nodded my head and pretended to consider the words carefully. I wanted to arrive early at the restaurant, naturally. Vada was an unknown to me, and so far away from my reality I didn’t let my mind wander to romantic possibilities. Instead, it was just pure lust. Every time I saw her, I undressed her in my mind – she never even had the chance to say a single sentence in my sex-starved fantasies.



On the way to lunch, I left the office from the back stairs to avoid the elevator down to the parking lot, and in so doing avoided seeing her. I needed to keep what I considered a clean slate in my estimation before we were to actually sit down together and – gulp – work on my trashy X-rated story.



The place Krakov sent us to was a not-so-good Mexican restaurant our work bunch sometimes went to for office birthdays, and I ordered their strongest margarita to settle myself. How much did she know about me? I made a note to use my name in conversation and see if it triggered mental connections for her that were older than this week. Then I realized how stupid that idea sounded, and that I shouldn’t have wasted all that time last week reading dumb Psychology Today articles that fucked with my head.



There she was. The lights were turned down low, probably because the owners thought it was classy, and so when she appeared in the entrance she stood there for an extra moment as her eyes adjusted, and she looked around for my face. In that time my eyes fell over her with every last once of energy. It was the first time I had ever seen her outside the office. And then a thought drove itself into my brain: she was preoccupied with something, and that something was me. I burned that image of her standing there – her eyes trying to penetrate the darkness for my face – and vowed to keep hold of it.



We talked, I laughed my nervous laugh, and she smiled a genuine smile. I ordered another margarita and she ordered one, as well… I tried not to get hot sauce on my shirt while listening to her voice, barely understanding her words in the normal sense. For every word there seemed a dozen meanings, and when she said “work together” all I could imagine was my vision of her in the script: Her mouth open, her red hair gathered in my hands, my body losing all control and giving itself over to some urge. It seemed at times she could read my mind, or at least the expressions which I felt must be passing across my face: I am in lust with you; you are my red headed princess…



“How long have you worked for Krakov?” I couldn’t resist trying to figure out why this sensational woman stayed in what I considered to be the least opportune office in Denver.



“Oh, it’s been years. I was the second employee to come aboard, actually.” She smiled thoughtfully as she said this. “Did you know he originally wanted to call the company Krakov Korporate Koncepts – all with ‘K’s…? I had to talk him out of it. Only when I mentioned that it would initial KKK, did he start to see the logic.”



I smiled back.



“I suppose I better get a copy of the script from you, then…” She said this like the conversation was now making its inevitable turn towards the routine of work. Even when she was all business, I loved the way her voice sounded.



“You mean you haven’t read it yet?” I didn’t expect to sound anxious, incredulous, but I knew that’s how my words came out.



“Nope. I just know that we’re working on a script together. Krakov left me a sticky note to meet you here. That’s it.”



I was wondering if she even knew it was an X-rated endeavor. His obtuseness could be overpowering. I also felt a pang of desperation. I imagined she liked me at this point. How much of that would change if she actually read the script – read the details – and saw just what kind of sex-obsessed adolescent I really was? It wouldn’t take but a moment for her to connect the dots: Real busty red head, allow me to introduce you to fictional busty red head. Or in other words, here’s a 30 page summary of how I’ve fantasized about you while hanging around your desk. Enjoy.

Later that afternoon back at work I emailed her a copy of the script, delaying the inevitable as much as possible. I made sure it was after she had left for the day. It would sit in her inbox, burning all night. I replayed our lunch conversation over and over, looking for clues that said it would be okay – that she knew what kind of smut she was going to read and yes, she would still talk to me next time I saw her. But then my thoughts wandered towards the more likely scenario: She expected to read yet another boring script on product safety – ‘Know Your Compound Miter Saw’, or something equally mind-numbing. And then she would read ‘Blow Job Princess’ on the title page and the game would be up. She would be thoroughly creeped out and have nothing to do with me or Krakov’s little porn enterprise.



The next day, I wandered into the office later than usual. It was Tuesday, which meant planning meetings. I wanted to retreat and somehow start life over. I wanted to go back in time and graduate school with the degree my family and friends thought I was born for, and which at least might have guaranteed a sane existence: Architecture. Instead, I was sulking over a self-made, high school-style disaster; walking straight into a train wreck. In short order I would be embarrassing myself in front of the one girl I truly wanted to like me. Love was far too much to ask from her. And even yesterday I would have settled for friendly, if not friend – and now even that seemed ridiculous.



Krakov took one look at me as I oozed into the conference room, and I waited for the tirade about keeping decent work hours. “Get to your desk,” was all I heard. I slinked back to my corner of the world and there, I found a sticky note waiting for me. ‘Drop by my desk. Let’s talk…’ It was signed by Vada.



She was polite and completely unreadable. I stood there, avoiding eye-contact, knowing that she knew every last piece of me, down to the many ways I had pictured her and I together, and the unoriginal way I obsessed her breasts. I was sure my upper-lip was moist with perspiration; I imagined I looked like a guilty man awaiting his verdict.



She handed me the script: “I’ve made all of my comments in red ink, because, you know, I’m a redhead.”



My eyes couldn’t help but sink into hers for the briefest moment. I smiled like a goofy teenager.



She changed her expression then, just the slightest bit. “I couldn’t help but notice” she said, “that the girl in the script has a lot in common with me.”



“Yes,” I stammered, then cleared my throat in an overly dramatic way, “that’s just a funny random accident, I suppose. As they say: this is a work of fiction, any relationship to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental.” I tried to laugh to show just how absurd the idea was – her and me – I wanted to limit the damage already done, but I was simply burying myself further.



I was about ready to excuse myself and launch into an escape orbit when she brought a bag that was sitting under her desk to my attention. She opened it and pulled out a fuzzy white bathrobe, the kind you might find at a decent hotel. I knew exactly why she was showing it to me.



“What do you think about this?” She offered it to me, and I made a little play about feeling its texture and evaluating it for costume purposes. “It’s like the one in the script, isn’t it? Will it work?”



I tried to sound professional. “Uh, yes, perfect.” I looked around to see if anyone else was there to witness my crumbling cool.



And then she brought out the high heeled slipper-shoes from the bag. “How about these? I had to go to three stores to find them in my size, but I think they look right, yes?” I avoided looking at her then, noticing instead that she had miraculously found some crazy-sexy 1950′s Hollywood starlet slippers, complete with the little feathers on the toes. I only managed an uncensored “Wow,” in response.



Back at my desk I sat still for a few minutes, waiting for my heart rate to settle and my brain to begin functioning again. I felt like a passenger in my body, watching from a distance as every last ounce of my grace-under-pressure disappeared in front of Vada. Her last words to me were what did me in: “Krakov wants us to finish the edits over the week. I guess he got excited and jumped the gun; he’s got camera equipment rented starting next Monday. I’ll be by your place around eight so we can get to work.”



The rest of the day was a blur for me, absolutely nothing was accomplished, not even a single phone call. When I got home early I quickly cleaned and threw clothes into the closet and stuffed dishes into the cabinets. There was a knock on my door just after eight, and when I went to open it, there she was standing tall and with two bags in each hand. I gathered with a wild thrill that one bag contained the goodies I saw at the office, the other kept writing material, the script, and other odds and ends. She was smiling, a bit nervous this time, which at least made me feel less the gawky outsider. Again, when I looked into her eyes I felt that instant pull of a girl I simply adored for all sorts of reasons.



We sat down at my kitchen table where I had her red-marked script open to the first page. There was the shared intimacy of an intellectual project that bound us immediately, no matter the awkward realities of the situation.



She began reading my original words. We skipped forward and back, she asked questions about the scenes, the motivations, the way I pictured the characters interacting. She took it all as seriously as Krakov, but without his misguided sense of artistic mission. She pulled me back into what I had created and complimented me simply by treating it as a worthwhile enterprise, pornography or not. I made a bold assumption – she had done this before. I wondered over the curvy, busty redhead from the adult website who wouldn’t write back and didn’t show her face. Sex seemed like it was simply a ‘thing’ to her.



“… As she reclines on the couch, her white bathrobe is open. His hands are lustily squeezing and caressing her breasts.” Her words cut through my wandering mind and focused me suddenly. She was pausing now, waiting for me to comment in some manner.



“Yes?” I looked up from the page at her; we were mere inches apart, my leg nearly touching hers and our faces only slightly further away from each other.



She spoke now. “I’m not understanding – how are they positioned in relation to each other? Are they both sitting on the couch at this point?”



I had to stop and think. “Yes, he’s sorta’ there, and she sorta’ over there.” I demonstrated with a gesture and body movements, which only confused the issue more.



“I don’t think he would be able to reach quite like that. It would be awkward at the very least. Maybe it would work if her legs were wrapped around him a little bit, resting on his lap maybe.”



I was trying to imagine what she was saying and nodded my head in agreement. “Uh, yup.” I hadn’t considered most of these details – hitting marks – or explicit positioning of the actors was something we generally ignored. The results showed when lighting was screwed up, or the most prominent physical feature in a scene was an elbow; it was amateur hour, all over again.



“Usually,” I said, “we only worry about this stuff when we’re shooting.”



The way she ignored my excuse was painful. She walked over to the couch – the script and her red pen in hand, which she then set on the coffee table – and then reclined length-wise and looked at me as if to say, ‘Are we doing this, or not?’ I understood only a little of what she expected, and so I stood up and walked over, wondering how far I dared go. Yes, we were doing this, to a point perhaps. I joined her on the couch, our legs were touching now, my breathing was obvious, my grace again leaving me and I felt like I was nothing but a mess of nerves as we sat together, just as they did in the script. I refused to make the next logical move.



“You can’t reach from there, can you?”



I twisted a bit to show her it was theoretically possible and then looked at her, trying to read in that expression of hers how she would feel if I broached that border.



“Okay,” I said, conceding a point I was happy to concede. “You’re definitely right. It will be awkward and it won’t look right. It will look stagey.” I felt with that small admission something had changed, and a weight was lifted. I scooted towards her, and I set her legs onto my lap. She circled them around my middle and held me tight, like an embrace. It was natural now, not like a movie.



“Try it again,” she said. I read everything I could possibly read into her three short little words. I told myself, “it’s just work.” I tried to calm down, and yet when I reached out and squeezed her breasts, there was nothing but lust in my touch. I stayed there far too long, my hands feeling and caressing her through her shirt and bra, as if we were in the throes of passion or in a deep long kiss. And yet she was just reclined on the couch, her eyes passively on mine, perhaps wondering what bolt of lightning was passing into my body. I returned my hands to my side. An erection the size of the Eifel Tower was suddenly trying to push its way through my pants.



“In the script,” she said with a nearly unchanged voice, “she just stays there, as if she is uninterested, yes?”



I nodded my head, wanting only to put my hands back on her and trying to ignore the obvious shock: I just felt your tits. “Yes, she’s almost just putting up with it. Sex, foreplay, and all the rest of it mean nothing to her.” My voice almost sounded normal.



“And so he continues, and she does nothing? She’s just passive?”



“Yes. And it continues like that. He, umm, does all sorts of other stuff, and she just lets him. At one point she starts reading while he’s doing his thing, which I find quite funny.”



“I remember that.” She leaned over, grabbed the script from the coffee table and with the pen made a note. Still writing, she talked with a happy voice: “I made the change. Good. She and him are now arranged thusly on the couch. Her legs are wrapped around him. His body is…” she searched for the right word, “diagonal to her.” She wrote the last bit, and then paged through the script. She kept her legs wrapped around my middle, like a tight hug. I thrilled and loved it. I wondered if she could feel the rock hard bulge in my jeans.



“I think it would be good if we included a coffee table like yours,” she said.



“Sure,” I answered. “Any reason?” I said this with a blurred curiosity – I had no idea what she was thinking – and my mind was slowly succumbing to the urges of my fantasies. I wanted simply to unzip my pants, show her my gigantic erection and have her either runaway in repulsion or climb on top of me in lust.



“Well here…” she said. She was pointing to the next part in the script.



I remembered those few lines; I wrote that part with all sorts of gusto and poetic language. He was licking her pussy. He was gorging himself on her, completely lost in the act. There was a moment of expectation as I imagined her reading those lines and seeing my passion and redhead weakness completely exposed. I thought: I am a sex-crazed lump of flesh.



And yet she read it out loud as if it were nothing but a few words in a news paper article: “Her legs are apart and his mouth is devouring her pussy.” She paused for a moment and continued on:



“We see her red bushy pubic hair wet from his tongue and his crazed licking. Her feet, still in her high heeled-slipper shoes, rest on his back. But she is indifferent and cares nothing about the act. She reads a magazine, shifting pages, scanning pictures. Occasionally she makes a slight expression as if she is enjoying it on some level, but her focus is not on him or the supposed pleasure. The camera at this point should record just how focused he is on her: his fingers pushing inside and then returning for a craven squeeze of her breasts, his tongue playing, his lips tasting… We shift to a new angle now, and see that he has moved her to all fours. Again the magazine is in front of her, and she reads it with great attention, despite his passion, despite the fact that he is throwing his entire being at her out of lust. His mouth, his lips, his tongue.”



I avoided her eyes. That is all you and me, I wanted to say. I have fantasized about licking you and tasting you since the moment I first saw you. So, now you know.



Suddenly she raised-up a bit and pulled the coffee table over closer to the couch. “See,” she said, “if her left foot rests on the coffee table instead of the couch or your back – or, oops, I mean his back – then she’s way more open and exposed. It’s just a lot more sexy, I think.”



“Wow,” I said. “Yes, I do see.” For a moment I began to believe we really could make a great film, if only those details somehow piled-up and made their way into the camera. And then my mind clouded again, overrun by my obsession for the girl in front of me.



She pushed around me and before I could make sense of it, she was positioning herself like she was describing. She reclined on the couch. Her legs were spread wide, one leg over the back of the cushion, the other supported by my coffee table. And there I was, right there, looking at her, imagining how she would look in that white robe and heels. Her pendulous tits were squished like smothered mountains against her shirt. They wanted to roll off to either side and were barely contained by her bra. She caught my eyes crawling over her, and my cock pushing insanely against my pants must have been as obvious as my undisguised stare at her. Just a moment ago you let me touch you, I wanted to say. Please, let me do it again.



She grabbed the script and started reading, paging through. There was something on her mind, and it wasn’t the craven longing in my eyes. I doubted she had any idea how much I obsessed her breasts and the rest of her.



“Why doesn’t she like sex?” Her voice was genuinely perplexed. “Here she is. She’s absolutely getting ravaged by a great, devoted guy, who is completely into her – and this goes on for pages – and yet she just doesn’t care. I’ve read it over a few times now, start to finish, and I don’t get it. That’s my one problem.”



I pondered her question for a second, wanting my answer to be clear, though I was hazy and more distracted than ever. “Well, maybe that’s part of it. She’s not really being ravaged, see… I guess I didn’t make that so clear. He thinks she is absolutely gorgeous – beautiful. He’s probably intimidated, actually. That’s why he won’t do those other things that happen later. See, that’s the ‘princess’ problem. He won’t treat her like the sex-goddess she actually is, because he thinks she’s too lovely to really – excuse my language – fuck. “



I could see she was thinking; the wheels in her mind were turning.



I continued on. “He never loses control with her. He treats her like an object to be adored and lusted after, yes, but he can’t take that last step. He can’t make her belong to him.”



She started nodding her head. The light bulb was turning on, I could see. She started speaking in a new way now, “So then, in Act Two, that’s actually what finally happens. She goes out with this other guy. He takes her home. To him, she’s just a good lay, and so he has his way with her. Completely. He takes her hands and ties them up. This guy, he really does ravage her…”



I was smiling like a smitten high school kid again, unable to ignore my conversation-killing cock, which was begging for her attention.



She continued on, following the thread. “And so there’s that scene just at the end of the act. The way you write it is pretty pornographic, I have to say.” She took the script and paged through until she found the lines she was looking for. “You have it here. He’s holding onto her head and her hair. He’s literally fucking her mouth with nothing else to hold him back. He’s absolutely using her. And then right at the end, he pulls out and sends his cum into her mouth and a little gets on her lips and cheek.”



I had nothing to say. “Yeah, that’s it.”



“And that is the moment when her inner Blow Job Princess is awakened?”



I laughed at the restatement of the idea. “I know. It’s a bit ridiculous. But at least we don’t see that immediately. It’s only when she goes back to her original guy that the change in her becomes apparent.”



She smiled at me. “I actually quite like it,” she said. “It’s not completely pornographic if there’s a bit of socially redeeming personal development in there.”



We both laughed, and I saw that I needed to do some more work on the script to get the idea through: “I think if I re-wrote some of the early scenes to show how he can’t really treat her with anything but a timid sexuality, the change afterward would be more apparent. I should cut a lot of the passionate language he feels for her. Make it more about him adoring her, rather than simply, uh…”



She filled in the missing words, “wanting to fuck her brains out?”



I smiled; she was obviously catching my own timidity. “Yes.”



There was something more I needed to say, but couldn’t quite get my mind around it. More than ever, I wanted simply to make that scene with her a reality. I wanted to live it, in all of its clichéd porno lust. I wanted to rip off our clothes, hold her down and yes – simply fuck her brains out. I wanted to cum in her mouth and see it dribble over her lips and onto her cheek. And I wanted it to somehow push a secret button in her deepest desires. It was pure, stupid smut, and yet I didn’t care.



No matter, I still found a word or two. “I wish there was a way I could figure out how to show something else that’s going on. It’s kind of complicated.” She looked at me with a wry smile, and I felt like I was finally lifting the last veil of the story. I decided to let it unravel however it wanted: “It has something to do with the way she looks.”



There was a bit of surprise in her expression and probably in my voice as well, as I continued on. “She’s voluptuous. Plump, and okay, maybe the word is ‘fat’ by some opinions. And well, because of that she has these great, huge tits. He obsesses her tits, in fact. I think that comes through pretty clear. His hands are always on them, and so is his mouth.”



She nodded her head. It was all over the script, and she got the point as clear as day. Her smile was wide now, in some kind of just-about-ready-to-bust-a-gut-laugh, and her voice said it as well, when she asked the question I couldn’t. “You’re worried about objectifying her, yes? Wanting her just for her tits, and wondering if that plays out in the script?”



“Something like that, yeah.” I picked up the pages and fiddled with them, acting as if I were looking for a particular place or phrase that captured something profound I was trying to express.



The ruse was too much now, and she let the laugh – a full on guffaw – fly out of her mouth. Between giggles she nudged me. “Let me get this straight: You’re worried that your porno script objectives a woman?” She laughed out loud. “Oh… you and Krakov. You are both so obvious. I can see why he likes your script.”



“Okay,” I answered honestly for once, “Objectifies you. It’s all about you. It’s not all about some fictitious woman and man.” I let my guard down completely and I admitted what she knew all along. My love and lust for her was simply down to the way she looked and the way I saw her: a busty sex-kitten. I felt more than a little ridiculous.



“It’s alright,” she said. “I’m used to it, I suppose.”



I tried to read her for something else, but I saw that the years had accustomed her to such things. She was the fat chick with huge tits that guys wanted to fuck. And yes, I was certainly one-of-those-guys who saw her as such. No dating, no candlelight dinners, no hand-holding, no late night phone calls just because you wanted to hear her voice. I felt like my confession netted me nothing but the scolding I deserved. I truly was obvious just like Krakov, and my weaknesses were visible a mile away.

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