Chapter 9
Dear Diary, It's been a while since I have had the chance to get back to these diary entries. My prayers have been answered. For the last ten days, I've been consumed with my dance routines for Lars's movie, tentatively titled Naughty In New York. And what a crash course it's been.
First, I had to meet with the casting director, Larry. He helped me with all the Equity stuff-filling out applications, making phone calls, stretching the truth about my "credentials." I'm really lucky, because so many starving actors just don't get the good gigs because they don't have their Equity cards. And boy, is this a great job! Of course, I did have to put in some "overtime " with Larry, who told me he loves to have a "body lick." What's a body lick? I found out big time!
People in this city have strange fetishes, but I'd never heard of someone getting off just by being licked from head to toe. Of course, there were those special areas he wanted my tongue to concentrate on-his balls, his cock, his ass-hole-and I happily obliged. We were in his office when all this took place, and that element of danger-that anyone could walk in at any time and catch us-just raised the stakes and made everything more exciting.
Back to Naughty in New York: I'm officially the dance captain of the movie, meaning that in all the musical numbers, the choreographer-a sweet gay guy named Emmett-has appointed me head dancer. Anytime I see someone off a count or missing a beat, I put them back on their mark. Emmett says I'm star material waiting to happen.
Lars is his usual no-nonsense self on the set. Since this is my first movie (he hates it when I call Naughty in New York a "movie," reminding me to either use "cinema" or "film"), I'm having to learn a lot. But, being a dancer, I pick up the new stuff quickly and accurately. Despite attempts to be polite with Lars, he's told me that he senses Lilac thinks we 're having this torrid romance. I wouldn't mind if we did, actually, after the fantastic fuck he threw to me at my private "audition." But he hasn't made anymore overtures towards me, despite my flirting. I think Lilac has him pussy-whipped. She must be really good sex.
Lilac Veracruz was having a fit. She'd seen some rushes, or dailies, of Naughty In New York, and believed this newcomer-Sally Ann Gardner-was getting far too much exposure in the musical numbers. She insisted to Lars that he make some crucial cuts, and put more emphasis on her.
"After all," she reminded him curtly, "a lot of my own money is riding on this project. You plucked this young woman out of a restaurant, for Pete's sake. And, if you ask me-"
"No one has," Lars interrupted, realizing what she was going to say next.
"If you ask me," Lilac persisted, "she's not even that good of a dancer."
Lars reached for his silver cigarette case on the night stand. He and Lilac had just finished trying to have sex in his Tribeca loft. At first, he couldn't get hard, no matter what tricks Lilac excellently performed. The yet-to-be superstar gave good head, Lars had to admit, but tonight he was preoccupied with keeping the film on its production schedule, bringing it in on time and not overspending his menial budget.
Finally, he got it up by fantasizing about Sally Ann. Thinking about the great sex they'd had in his studio put the juice back in his balls and the starch back in his prick. He fucked Lilac so hard, the two of them fell off the bed, cumming at the same time all over his imported Belgium rug.
But now the fun was over. As usual, Lilac got what she wanted-a fast fuck-and felt obliged to criticize her lover-director. When she realized Lars was not going to budge, that Sally Ann's dance numbers would not be edited out, she tried another, more subtle, tact. "Lars, darling, no one even knows who Sally Ann Gardner is. She doesn't have one word of dialogue, sweetheart. While, on the other hand, I am an internationally known name. All it's going to take is that really special project to put me over the top, to make me the superstar we both know I am meant to be."
Lars sighed heavily. "Lilac, don't you ever look at yourself during the dailies? You are in almost every scene, front and center. You're going to get more exposure in this project than in anything you've done before. By the way, my love, there's something we have to talk about."
Lilac bristled. She intuited it was not good news, and she was right. "What might that 'something' be?"
Lars explained that during Lilac's big musical numbers, her singing voice was not exactly beguiling. "I've spent hundreds of dollars on voice lessons for you," he reminded the "international star." She abruptly rose from the bed and tightened the belt around her robe.
"I don't want to hear this," she said curtly.
"Well, sorry, sweetheart, but you're going to hear this: I've hired someone with your same speaking voice to dub your songs. She's quite good, and has agreed to accept the money without her name appearing in the film credits."
For Lilac, this revelation was her coup de grace. "How dare you hire anyone without consulting me first!" Her enormous breasts were heaving as she became more and more enraged. She returned to her former, defiant tact. "If you don't get rid of her pronto, there will be no Naughty In New York. In fact, there will be no Lars Lissaker. I'll see to it that you never work again."
"Don't threaten me, Lilac," Lars warned.
"Look at me!" She dropped her robe, examining an undeniably lush body in the floor-to-ceiling mirror at the end of the bed. "People pay to see me, to entertain them."
"Yeah, and before I met you," Lars counter attacked, "people were paying you to sleep with them. Let me remind you that you were nothing but a high-class call girl who got lucky with the right John, a low-budget, soft-porno director. You'd better hope word never gets out about that flick, honey."
It was true. Several years ago, Lilac Veracruz was Mary Fitzgerald, a twenty-eight-year-old aspiring actress from Miami. To make ends meet in New York, she took several temp jobs, but nearly every agency dropped her because, frankly, she was incompetent doing office work or, as she called it, "menial labor."
Mary Fitzgerald's closet rattled with the skeletons of her former life as a short-lived porno "star" and, later, as a prostitute. Those escort agencies were more than willing to arrange "dates" for her with well-to-do businessmen. One of them also happened to have connections in the adult entertainment industry. He pointed out to her that former porno stars like Ginger Lynn, Marilyn Chambers and Traci Lords had all started in adult videos, some of them eventually getting breaks in "legit" films, moving out of porno altogether. The director renamed her Fanny Hole, gave her top billing, and put her face, tits, and ass on the video box for her first excursion into porn: Plug That Hole.
Now, some years and a dye-job later, she was transformed into Lilac Veracruz, a dark-haired thirty-something B-movie queen looking to graduate to bigger and better films.
She'd met Jean-Claude at Chez Pierre. He'd recognized her from a straight-to-video flick called Partners In Crime, in which Lilac played a comely wench who got beheaded by a piano wire halfway through the blood-fest flick. Jean-Claude had only recently opened Chez Pierre; it was suddenly the hot spot to meet the rich and famous. And "meat" her he did!
As with Sally Ann, Jean-Claude ingratiated himself with Lilac, taking her back to his office and screwing the hell out of her on his desktop. What heterosexual male could resist those bouncing boobs ("cosmetically altered," she preferred to call her forty double-D danglers)? Sensing Jean-Claude might be able to help her career, she threw her cunt at him with complete abandon. Right before he pulled his long ramrod out of her soaking-wet "fanny hole," she cooed: "Jean-Claude, darling, we are destined to be together." He shot the biggest load of his life right down her cleavage. Ever since that fateful fuck, she made sure to be his one and only, taking advantage of every "photo opportunity" that came her way.
There was, however, a fly in the ointment. Jean-Claude, himself no monogamist, knew nothing of her torrid affair with Lars Lissaker, believing the budding German director had a strictly business relationship with his "Latina spitfire." Just as Lilac believed he could advance her career, so, too, did the restaurateur believe having Lilac on his arm would get him more media attention. It was the old "you do for me, I do for you" ploy, masquerading as a hot and heavy romance.
"Don't you dare bring up that movie," Lila said, referring to Plug That Hole. "I know you have a copy of the video stashed somewhere. But now I'm brunette and busty; back then, I was just a-"
"Fanny Hole," he laughed cruelly. "Lilac, sooner or later you've got to realize the Big Secret is going to be revealed. You might have siliconed your tits, dyed your hair and learned to enunciate words properly, but there's one telltale sign that's going to give you away."
Still naked in front of the mirror, Lilac sank back down on Lars's flaming red satin sheets and sighed wearily. That damned butterfly tattooed around my left ankle! she thought. Even before the tits and the hair and the voice lessons, I should have had it removed.
"Contrary to popular belief," Lars continued, "butterflies aren't free. Your ass is grass, sweetie, if that tattoo ever comes out in the press. And I'm just the guy you should be worried about leaking that tasty morsel of info to the press."
For the first time in her life, Lilac realized she'd met her match in Lars Lissaker. If she was threatening to pull out of the picture, he was going to take her down with him. It was a classic "catch-22" situation. Thus, she handled the threat with a tried-and-true response.
"I'm horny again," Lilac lamented, changing the subject with a cute pout. "Let's fuck!"
The heat of their confrontation had fired Lars up again. His cock fumed to fuck this bitch. She loved playing rough, he'd discovered. Whether it be a business deal or sex, Lilac Veracruz usually found a means to get her way. When talking failed, fucking prevailed. That well-used pussy was at its prime.
Lars pulled her to him and pushed her down on her knees. "Suck my cock," he demanded. "Eat my seed."
He positioned Lilac so he could both look down at her sucking his already pussy-juice-slicked dick and catch her reflection in the mirror at the same time. He shoved his cock all the way down her throat.
"Don't take it out of your mouth. You love sucking my big, fat sausage, don'tcha, Lilac?"
All the actress could do was mumble an affirmation. Lars's cock was deeply buried down her throat.
"Look up at me while you're sucking," he said, watching her go to work in the mirror. Her ass looked mighty inviting, that fabulous fat fanny deserving of its former pseudonym. Yes, indeed, he was going to take her "fanny hole" next.
"Get up and bend over the bed, cunt!"
Wobbling, slightly off balance, Lilac did as instructed. Her ass was just at the right point where it could be easily penetrated. Lars reached into the night stand drawer, extracting a tube of clear jelly lubrication. He coated it over an index finger and slid it up her Hershey Highway. If there was anything Mary Fitzgerald-aka Fanny Hole, aka Lilac Veracruz-liked the most, it was anal sex.
"Oh, Lars," she groaned, pushing her plump ass back to devour more of his finger, "you know what I need!"
He inserted a second, lubricated finger. He unrolled a condom with his free hand, and put it on his steely hard dick. "Yeah, Ms. Hole, I know exactly what you need."
Lilac tensed as his corona penetrated her ass-hole, but she knew with this special kind of pleasure, there was always a little pain-pain was part of the pleasure. Then, as Lars's cock maneuvered itself further into her rectum, she began to relax until there was nothing but pure pleasure. Nasty and hot!
Lars sensed Lilac was yielding to him. "Does Jean-Claude fuck you like this, cunt?" he demanded, reaching in front of her to pluck the already-stiff nips. "Does he fuck your ass like I do? Does he make you cum better than I can?"
But Lilac was in no mood to make comparisons. Lost in lust, she had become Lars's sex slave, if only for this moment. He slapped her ass. "Does he?"
"Shut up and fuck my ass!"
He slapped her ass again. "Don't tell me what to do. And when I butt fuck you, my name is not 'Lars', it's 'sir.' Don't forget it."
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
Despite her tendency to be a bitch, when it came to anal sex, Lilac was putty in any man's hands.
The fucking grew more intense. Lars positioned his anal slave with one leg on the bed and one off. That stance gave him better access to her ass. He diddled her clit, increasing her agonizing pleasure. Lilac's cunt was already a font of cum, so wet he considered sliding the dildo he sometimes used on her up that pussy. But he was having too much fun fucking her like this. Their reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror showed two people caught up in total rapture.
Lilac tossed her brunette mane and, over her shoulder, warned Lars she was close to "a big, bad cum, baby." Strangely, he felt he could fuck her like this for hours. And he knew down deep it was because he believed she needed to be taught a lesson in respect.
"Lilac, are you going to continue to threaten me?" He stopped his jackhammering, but left his fully erect cock deep inside her ass.
"Huh, what?"
He even slapped her ass-again, gently but firmly, bringing her back to reality. "If you ever, ever threaten me again, I will take that infamous video to every tabloid in America. Tell me, Lilac, would you like that, huh? We both know the tabloids certainly would."
She resented being so abruptly taken out of her anal reverie, but was willing to agree to anything so long as Lars would finish what he'd started. "Yes, yes, I'll do anything you want, darling." Her ass rotated around his cock. Now, his dick was ready to cum. The victory was his to savor.
Lars spread Lilac's legs further and finished the fuck.
"Oh, baby," she squealed. "My ass is yours. I'm cumming, Lars. Oh, honey, play with my clit! Feel that juice cumming!"
But Lars was enjoying his own cum too much to steer her man-in-the-boat. He blasted his load into the condom, feeling the delicious sensation of his own semen filling the tip, coating his cock. He collapsed on top of Lilac, sending both of them onto the crimson satin sheets of his bed.
For a brief moment, they lay side by side, in each other's arms.
"I'm sorry for what I said earlier," Lilac said.
"I'm sorry I lost my temper," Lars replied.
These were the inevitable post-coital apologies they always made. Yet, invariably, the promises never lasted, and Lars knew things on the set between them would only get worse. Something had to be done about Lilac Veracruz.
When Sally Ann saw her first dailies, she was overjoyed.
"That's really me," she enthused.
"Yes, Sally Ann, it's really you," Emmett, the choreographer, laughed, enjoying his dance captain's response. Because Emmett was gay, there was no sexual tension between them; it made doing good work that much easier for Sally Ann.
"Not everyone looks better on film than in person," Emmett told her. "But, I have to say, you look stunning. Can you act?"
Sally Ann was momentarily taken aback. For her, dancing was acting, just without words. "What do you mean?"
"C'mon, don't tell me you're that naive," Emmett said, shaking his head in mock dismay. "Have you ever done any non-dance work-work with dialogue,"
"No," she admitted glumly.
"Do you sing?"
"I've been told I have a nice voice."
"That's not what I'm asking." Emmett was a former "triple threat" performer some years ago, when he was in his prime: a singer-dancer-actor nominated for a Tony award. But in his vast stage experience, both as a dancer and as a choreographer, he'd seen hundreds of dancers who, while competent with movement, neither sang nor acted well enough to get out of the chorus. Sally Ann had become something of a prodigy to him. He'd taken this inexperienced young woman from the Midwest and made her look special on film. Even Lars, critical to the extreme, was taken by her ability to pick up dance combinations with a snap of the fingers.
"Well," Sally Ann replied sadly, "you know I'm new at all this. I have to admit I haven't had formal training as an actress or as a singer."
"Then get it, dear." Emmett reached into his dance bag and scribbled down two phone numbers: one for a well-known acting coach; the second, for a voice teacher. "Call them right away and tell them I recommended you to them. Otherwise, you don't have chance in hell of getting penciled into their schedules.
"These people, Sally Ann, are the best in the business. And don't worry about how much it will cost. Lars and I will take care of it. We believe in you."
Sally Ann gave Emmett a quick peck on the cheek. "You've both been so good to me. I don't know what to say. 'Thank you' hardly seems enough." Too bad Emmett's gay, she thought. Then, I could really show him my appreciation.
As if reading her mind, Emmett gave her a head-to-toe evaluation. "Just because I sleep with men doesn't mean I can't appreciate a beautiful, talented woman." It was an ambiguous statement, and Sally Ann took it at face value.
"Well, then, Emmett, always remember I'm at your disposal-in any capacity."
Sally Ann gave him a captivating smile and strode to the door. Emmett watched her firm buttocks sashay. He was against mixing business with pleasure, but it had been a long time since he'd been with a woman he was attracted to enough to fuck.
Emmett believed people were neither one hundred percent hetero-or homosexual, but that, for whatever reasons, some were attracted more to their own sex. He was one of those people.
This newcomer from Dayton reminded him of a chorus girl he knew when he first came to New York, after he landed his first Broadway gig. Her name was Moira, and they were dancing in the same show, in some of the same musical numbers. She, like Sally Ann, was blonde, blue-eyed, and had the same winning, unflappable disposition.
Although Emmett was already involved with a man at the time (who just happened to be the director of the show), he and Moira became fast friends. At the opening night party, when the first-night reviews began coming in, and it was determined that their show was a hit, Emmett and Moira had a little too much champagne to drink. His director friend, caught up in the razzle dazzle of the paparazzi, never noticed when Emmett and the bewitching Moira left the party.
Neither of them knew where they were going after they'd jumped into a cab. "Urn, Twenty-Third and Third," Moira told the driver-giving him the address to her apartment.
"Look, Moira," the tipsy Emmett told her, "you know I'm gay. You know that-"
"I know that anything is possible, and right now we have every reason to explore those intriguing possibilities." Then, Moira kissed him deeply on his mouth. It was a lingering, loving kiss he'd never forgotten.
But the rest of the night was a blur; he didn't even know if he and Moira actually had gotten it on. She assured him they had, and pulled a used condom from the trash can the following morning, waving it front of him. "And you enjoyed every minute of it, baby."
Unfortunately, Moira, his last female "conquest," met and married a Hollywood producer who'd picked her out of the chorus line. When their show closed a year later, he never saw her again, but cherished the memory of that one special night.
Now, so many years later, here he was remembering that night with Moira, recalling long-buried thoughts about making it with a woman, a woman named Sally Ann Gardner.. . .