Chapter 2 - Night of the Giving Head
The incessant buzzing invades my sleep, pulling me from a dream involving not just one, but two lifeguards, performing the kiss of life in places that wouldn't revive anything other than my evasive orgasm.
"God damn it!" I slap the offensive noise, rolling back into the covers and chasing after the tanned muscle-bound fantasies. I squeeze my eyes shut, visualizing the white sand beach and rolling crystal blue waves. The buzzing begins again in earnest.
Flinging every curse I know into the quiet room, I grab the phone and squint at the screen, focusing while the words arrange themselves into some sort of semblance. My roommates name flashes up, accompanying the vibration in my hand. An inappropriate use for the humming device enters my mind, but before it can develop, the screen darkens, and I see there's ten missed calls and five texts from Alice. I scroll for her number, but it rings again before I can blink.
"What the hell, Alice. I'm trying to sleep." I groan, sitting up and cringing at the reflection looking back at me in my mirror. A late night of hostessing and failure to locate my makeup remover results in a zombie-raccoon hybrid peering back at me.
"I forgot my brushes!" she screeches down the ear-piece, the sound reverberating around my skull like a pinball.
"What?" I slump back into the covers, pissed she's woke me up for this. I spent the early hours of this morning shucking off my ex. Mike was a limpet, who'd been clamped on my body from the regrettable moment we met. The burly bouncers of the bar I worked at had removed him when his attentions became embarrassing. We're talking an acoustic version of the Wind Beneath My Wings-with flapping actions. I'd wanted to curl up and die, but I flashed my perfect hostess smile and imagined murdering him with jagged, rusting instruments- over and over.
"The shoot I'm on today starts in half an hour and I've left my kit at home. Can you bring it? Please? I'll owe you big time," she begs.
"You'll do my make-up whenever I want it, and I need you to come and help me with my latest piece. I need someone to hold the ladder and make me coffee on demand."
My exhibit for the student show was getting a little out of hand. I'm majoring in art at UCLA, but my passion lies in moulding wet, cold clay into something that would pass for art. A veritable challenge since my professor views everything I sculpt with barely concealed distaste.
"Deal, just get here quick. It's on the floor next to my bed in the black leather case." Alice ends the call before I can ask where the shoot is. I call her back, but it goes straight to her ridiculous singing voicemail.
I get ready at a snail's pace, throwing on athin green vest, the only thing I can find not covered in clay-dust, and dark denim cutoffs. I give up searching for my bras.
We don't have a washer in our shoebox apartment so laundry is an epic monthly trip. The overflowing wicker basket tells me it's time to visit the laundromat. Alice thrives on the outings, basing her expectations on romantic movies and episodes of Friends. She's always disappointed when the only heartthrob she sees is Gary, a walking heart attack in a string vest.
I remember her mentioning Studio Eclipse, and as she's still not answering her phone, I hedge my bets and drive my beloved, beat-up, powder-blue Beetle, Bettie, into the Hollywood Hills.
The security guard takes the "guarding" part of his title very seriously and interrogates me until the cool breeze alerts him to my braless state. Every question on his tongue disappears into his underpants, and he grants me immediate entry. As the barriers lift, I roll my eyes at him and drive into the parking lot of the glorified warehouses that make up the studios, parking haphazardly in a tight spot.
My car's decrepit door flies open quicker than I expect and smacks into the shiny black paintwork of a 1970's Chevelle SS 454, leaving a rusty scratch. Cringing, I scope out the lot for any witnesses, but the stars have fallen in my favor today, and it's empty.
I pull up the bottom of my vest and tenderly wipe the mark off. "I'm sorry, beauty." I whisper to the car, wincing at the minuscule scratch left behind. Having a classic car salesman for a dad has taught me plenty of useful things. The most important being to treat these old cars like you would a beautiful woman-or in my case a gorgeous man-not that I'd been caressing any of those lately.
I breathe a sigh of relief there's no damage a little touch up can't fix, and lock up Bettie, giving her a reassuring pat. "We were lucky there. I know she's gorgeous, but don't worry, I still love you."
I can't help running my eyes over the Chevy one more time as I leave the parking lot, nearly choking on my horror when I spot the license plate- 1 RUDE FK. Some people have no taste.
Of the three huge warehouses glinting under the morning sun, I head for the one with crew members smoking outside. Having given up only two months ago, I inhale deeply as I pass them. The nicotine floods my head, and I'm woozy in seconds. Bliss.
A petite, scantily clad redhead opens the door, before I can reach for the handle.
"Hey, sugar," she drawls.
I can't look away from the dark, spidery lashes surrounding her green eyes. They're stuck on lopsided and are so heavy, they flutter hopelessly when she tries to look at me. She gives up and tilts her head instead. "Are you lost?"
"I'm looking for Hair and Makeup. I've got something to drop off for a friend." I brandish the kit in front of her. My eyes linger on her huge plastic tits, that also seem to have a tilt, as she gives me directions. I congratulate myself on my symmetrical boobs as I step into the open doorway. They might not be the size of honeydews, but they're not migrating to my armpits, and you've got to see the silver lining where you can.
I walk down the dark corridors, dodging out of the way of people who all seem to have a purpose. It tires me out just watching them, so I formulate a plan for my afternoon. It involves my bed and a smutty book.
I poke my head into one room: a cramped costume department. A kaleidoscope of skimpy outfits dangle on hangers. The cheap, shiny material makes me itch just thinking of it next to my skin. Perspex skyscrapers, disguised as shoes, set off a niggle at the back of my mind that I might be in the wrong place.
A pair of hands grasp my bare shoulders. "There you are. You're late. We've got about two minutes before Rosalie flips her fucking lid."
I open my mouth, holding up the brush kit, but the dirty-blond haired man with steel grey eyes ignores it and manhandles me down the corridor. He pushes down the handle of a red painted door and shoves me in.
"Ed, you've got one minute," he shouts over my shoulder, shutting me in.
I'm stunned into silence at the scene in front of me. The reality of the situation slowly dawns, and I scream and cover my eyes. "What the fuck!"
I scramble for the door handle, squeezing my eyes shut, but the image flashes in my memory. The most jaw droppingly attractive man I've ever laid eyes on is lounging naked on a leather couch. Dark, perfectly tousled hair, a face straight out of GQ, marble chiseled abs, and the cherry on top, his long, perfectly straight cock is cradled in his hand.
"This needs to be quick. Come over here with those pretty lips and suc-"
"What the actual fuck is happening right now?" I turn the handle, tugging on the sticking door.
"Keep saying fuck." His low honeyed voice drifts across the room.
I drop my hands and glare at the pervert draped on the couch, forcing my gaze level with his lust-lidded eyes, flickering between my chest and bare legs. "Are you serious? Stop doing that you absolute fucking weirdo!"
His reaction is to throw his head back, a gutteral moan pouring from this throat as he palms his now fully erect cock from top to bottom. He stands at the end of the caress and stalks over to me.
"I knew Jasper would find me a winner. You're fucking perfect," he whispers, holding his wood like he's going to pole vault with it, as he walks out the door.
I open and close my mouth, wondering what fucked up fantasy I've walked into now. Was I still asleep? I pinch my arm and it hurts like a bitch. No such luck.
"What the hell, Alice." I say to the empty room.
I can feel the burning flush on my cheeks, but it's not from embarrassment.
It's from shock-cock shock.
A/N Thanks for reading, and for all your reviews. We hope you are having as much fun as we are.
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