Girl Act Read online

  Beth was originally from Alabama; she and her actor son had come out West to try their luck, and they’d had some small successes here and there. She was filled with Southern ‘gun powder,’ and never gave up. I walked into the modest room in the back of a classroom once used for the likes of Myrna Loy, and where actor Charles Laughton taught. Wow, what a Hollywood they had back then! I often think I was meant to be a 1940s or 1950s actress, but still, I can’t turn the clock back. Too bad!

  Beth was standing by a dark vintage desk with a huge stack of 8x10’s and a one sheet pitch ‘speech’ about the guest casting director. It read blankety-blankety is now casting this year’s hottest ‘reality show’. Reality TV? I tried not to show my disappointment. Beth was very excited; she wanted a packed house to impress him. The rickety fold-up chairs were already arranged. At night, the parking lot would be used as everyone’s rehearsal spot, though I couldn’t image what lines anyone would need to rehearse for.

  “Mini interviews, just tell them that’s all. And they should be themselves,” Beth chirped in her sweet, southern voice.

  I nodded and scooped up the stack and headed out the door.

  “Let’s get it full, all right?” Beth called from the doorway.

  “You got it!” I hollered as I jumped back into the car where Shadow was waiting, his tongue hanging out.

  He’s the funniest dog sometimes, the way he’ll jump into the passenger seat and act like a human, waiting to be driven somewhere. Without Shadow, I never would have been able to do Hollywood. I would have been too lonely. Because of him and his dog mutt-face, I’d met friends, men, and had somebody to do things with 24/7. In fact, in LA everybody must feel the same way, because there are so many dogs.

  I zipped back to my Los Feliz studio apartment and laughed. I had thought “yes” was about moving, not about being suddenly single for 24 hours. I plopped down on my cozy Ikea futon couch. FYI, I always have a spare bed to offer—not that futons are the most comfortable, but when in need, it’s there. I put the photo stack in front of me, all color, glossy; gone were the days of black-and-white 8x10’s (headshots) that I started out with. Every actor puts a cell phone number on the resume, if his agent isn’t ‘A-list’. I mean, we’re all dying to get that one call where Martin Scorsese, or Quentin Tarantino, or Spike Lee, or Kathryn Bigelow, or the next up-and-coming director says, “Hey, I want to cast you in my motion picture.” So, in other words, I was phoning every desperate, wanna-make-it-in-Hollywood actor. I picked up the first photo: cute guy, crew cut, ‘army-type’. Think, Zero Dark Thirty. He also had powerful dark brown eyes and yummy lips.

  I phoned him. “Yeah?” he asked and I rattled off my super, practiced ‘reality TV’ phone pitch about how this top reality casting director was giving actors the chance to be seen and make money. I added that, after a stint on the hottest reality show on network, he’d be a shoe-in for movie and TV parts. And then I waited, while he cackled loudly.

  “So, can you come tonight?” I asked.

  “I cum all the time; which picture you got in front of you?” he asked, like only a good-looking, cocky actor can do.

  “I don’t. I have your name and cell phone number on a sheet with forty others,” I lied, because technically I didn’t want to say some casting director had dumped his 8x10 along with a thousand others into a reject pile—and that I was recycling it.

  “Oh, I’m wearing the grey t-shirt. I can hear it in your voice. Right?” he asked, doubly cocky, probably with a hard-on or with his well-hung cock in his hands.

  “Listen, I don’t have your acting photo,” I said, a bit pissed off, but only a little bit.

  “You’re East Coast born and raised; you’re an actress, probably the dramatic kind; you think I’m cute, but maybe stuck up, but you’d be open to meeting me,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, because no is for negative, angry, bitter women, which I vowed not to be. Yes, because things like this never happen. I swear I had used a ‘business type’ voice, and still, he had read my flirty, provocative mind. Oh, well!

  “Good, I bet you’re something,” he said, in a really commanding voice that made me gulp. Gulp.

  “FYI, the grey shirt,” I added.

  And that’s how it happened. We agreed to meet on Vermont Avenue at the Figaro Bistro, the French café (it’s been used in several commercials), but just to swap books. He said I had to pick a book he hadn’t read, as if I knew what the hell he read, or if he could read (ha, ha). I remembered that Kenneth, the painter, had given me his copy of John Forte’s Ask the Dusk and that it had simply blown me away, and, well, Kenneth knew more than me in so many worldly ways that I figured it was my best bet to impress the actor with.

  I decided to play it casual, just regular blue jeans with my patch ‘DREAM UP’ and my classic snug brown tee (suggesting spunky, yet smart, with some class) and for sexy, my black polka dot thong (not that he was going to see it). And my lime green bra; I’m the type that likes my bra and panties not to match and to be oh-so-bright and colorful. After all, sex is serious enough these days. I wore my brown leather slip-on boots with a slight heel. If I had been in New York, I would have worn my black combat boots for the sheer gorilla-girl look, but Los Angeles is about ease and comfort. I walked; I figured why bring my car when the day was nice.

  He was wearing a grey shirt, not the one in the headshot, but a shade lighter, and loose, faded Levi blue jeans and running sneakers. Hell, he could have worn a sleeping bag: he was super striking. He was at a table a few feet from the door. He wasn’t hiding. I slid in after feeling his eyes go up and down my body. I think he would have liked a backside view as well, but he’d have to wait. We both smiled and he slid his book over first. Wow—Anais Nin’s Little Birds, a collection of erotic stories, a book I hadn’t read since college that I had figured, or hoped, no man had read because it felt so truly personal. I pushed my Forte book over and he gave me a cocky grin. Maybe he was born that way.

  “Read the first story!” he said, like he was my teacher and I was his pupil.

  “Yes, instructor,” I said.

  “Justin!” He reminded me as he opened his book.

  Justin, hmm, not a bad name. I told him mine, but he didn’t look up, that’s how cocky he was. The waitress had been instructed before I arrived. She put two Arnold Palmers and a plateful full of fresh fruit in front of us and left, but not before getting a wink from cocky Justin.

  The first story was Little Birds from which Nin’s book took its title. I wouldn’t dare spoil it by giving away any details; it’s just a naughty story and it reminded me of how my college years really were all about being the most dominating sexual woman I could be. It wasn’t just ‘in-and-out’ fornication that my college friends and I were after—it was about the greatest orgasm, the longest head banging sex one could have. And I did.

  It’s like Justin suddenly became a part of my Mr. Darcy plan. Jane Austen wasn’t just writing about ‘love’, she was explaining the attainable feeling when one finds her soul mate. Oh my. Had I found mine? I glanced up; Justin was eating a slice of apple. How Adam and Eve can you get? He was grinning at me, with wet lips and serious eyes.

  “Bonus points on the book. Can I keep it?” he asked, as he put his sexy, cute, thin lips over his straw and sucked his drink down. I had plenty of other mementos from Kenneth the famed artist; the book didn’t matter.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Thanks, and that’s for you, to get you restarted,” he said, as he filled his mouth with blueberries. Oh, so cocky. It’s not like I could roll my eyes and ask what the hell he meant by that, because I’d be admitting it. So I just nodded like a card player bluffing. When you’re an actress, so much of life is acting ‘as if’. Of course you try to figure out your next move, the right line to say, all the while not letting the other person steal your spotlight. Cocky guys, who are actors, are always jockeying for the lead role. The spotlight! He pushed the fruit plate at me, eyeing me in a forceful way, I ate some me
lon slices, so he could watch me chew. Eating can be so erotic.

  “Come on, let’s take a walk,” he said as he got up, tossing two twenty dollar bills on the table and motioning for the waitress. He had his book in hand. I gulped a quick drink, dabbed my mouth with my napkin, and pulled my book off the table, covering the title with my hand (ever so possessive). He moved quickly out onto the street in the direction of Griffith Park. Walking without Shadow felt like an act of betrayal.

  “My truck’s up the street. I was checking out a landscaping design I liked, so I parked in front of it,” he said.

  I nodded like I understood, like it was typical. He stepped back so he was now beside me.

  “I like your lips,” he said, which made me laugh.

  Oh, had he planned that line, because it worked. He hooked his arm into mine and we walked toward his Chevy pickup truck, the kind a hunter or fisherman would own. He opened the passenger door first and, as I got in, he said, “Nice hips,” and again I laughed. Maybe he wasn’t cocky, just ‘weird,’ in an appealing and very sexy way. He got in and started the truck, and then looked at me.

  “How about we make out at Zuma Beach?” he asked, like it was an everyday question between two strangers.

  “Sure,” I said, not wanting to sound too excited or horny or both.

  “I like your hips, because they swivel,” he said as he peeled out and headed onto Sunset Boulevard. I thought he would have asked the usual relationship interview questions, like, “are you single?” and “are you into an LTR?” (long-term relationship), but he didn’t.

  He played Kid Rock’s Only God Knows Why. I’d never heard it before and so I said nothing, letting the lyrics fall over me. Justin rocked to it with his hands drumming on steering wheel, as if the song was personal. So odd, I was going to Malibu after all. And to the beach, how weird was that? Really weird, but how could I knock it? I was getting what I had wished for, only I wasn’t sure if Justin was really ‘genuine,’ or if I was going to like kissing him. Zuma is a really beautiful, stunning stretch of beach in Malibu. Since it was a weekday, it wasn’t crowded.

  The great thing about an actor’s schedule is that you can end up with six days of work, followed by nothing. Of course, if you’re a bona fide working actor, you make good money and don’t care when you have free time.

  I hopped out of the truck with Justin staring at my backside. Wow. He pulled out a blanket and a beat-up water proof tote bag and we left our books in the truck; we were done with the reading ‘test’ part of the date. I had a feeling kissing was ‘test’ number two.

  “So, are you from Colorado, or Maine?” I asked, having studied him long enough. He inched closer to me as we hit the sand.

  “Maine,” he said.

  I glanced at him; he was cute and smart, though I guessed a college dropout, because he seemed to beat to his own drum. The kind of man that doesn’t want to blend in or do as other collegiates.

  “College dropout, you’ve had sex with up to 18 women, and you prefer to eat meat over fish any day. Right?” I asked; as we neared the spot he had chosen.

  “Applied, got accepted to an Ivy one, but only did a semester. As for women, 5 total, and I prefer cod or halibut over salmon and not meat unless it’s organic chicken. I can swallow mussels whole. I like seawater. Anything else?”

  I shook my head. I mean, it was fun, and it’s not like I had ever just pitched my first impression before. I felt like my art model friend McKenna, who reads astrology charts, and understands people based on their astrological signs. I mean, wow, I was reading him. I suddenly knew that after I kissed him, I’d probably know more, maybe too much.

  He spread out a navy cotton blanket and we sat down. He was fast! Like I guessed he would be. He had me pinned under him and was over me, our faces inches apart, just staring into each other’s eyes. I felt excited, scared, and a current of sadness rushing through—as if this wasn’t real or that it wouldn’t last. His lips descended on mine and we began a massive makeout scene. If only it had been filmed, I felt so picture perfect. He tasted like fruit and he had controlling, authoritative lips. His tongue explored my mouth; we were eating each other up, kiss after kiss. I felt his hands sliding under my top, and my lime green bra being pushed up and his hands on my tits, working my nipples. He moved his lips to my ears and began nibbling on them, while I giggled with delight. Then he traced my hips with his hands and we lay there looking at each other.

  “You got great eggs,” he said.

  “EGGS?” I laughed.

  “Yeah, you got pretty eggs.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  He was quiet and so was I. He didn’t answer, but I knew, somehow, I would figure out what he meant on my own over time.

  “Listen to that,” he said, and we listened to the ocean waves coming in inches from the blanket. We sprang up, and he grabbed the blanket and his water proof tote and we moved up and away from the waves. Once again, we settled onto the blanket. This time he managed to take my bra off, along with my top. We sat up and he put his arm around me. It was the quietest date I had ever been on. I stared at him, and he at me. Again we started making out and this time, his grey shirt came off and we were pressed against each other. He kissed my lips with full force and passion, and from there he went onto to kiss my breasts, tiny kisses, continual, over and over again, as I ran my hands over his ‘army’ style haircut. Then he stopped and pushed me back from him.

  “Should we swap love stories?” he asked.

  I was topless, my mouth mashed from kissing and the wetness between my legs had begun to tingle.

  “Okay,” I said; it was all I could say.

  That’s when he told me that, aside from acting, he had two other talents: one, growing organic pot and selling it for a hefty profit without ever smoking it, and two, making babies with beautiful women. He had made one son with his first and only wife, now the ex-wife, one boy and a girl with a now former ex-girlfriend. Three kids! And he wanted more. Oh, and he paid taxes and child support, so he wasn’t a bum, though it was clear that ‘his’ dream came first. He was a genuine ‘my way or the highway’ type guy. Drat!

  “Wow, you’re not exactly, Mr. Darcy,” I said, not thinking that he’d know what the hell I meant.

  “I want my fourth with you,” he said.

  “Why me?” I asked.

  “You’ve got baby-making potential. It’s the way your hips are built. Your breasts, they’re perfect for breast feeding.”

  I laughed, I mean, he wasn’t joking. There I was, peering down at my own tits, because no other guy had said that about them.

  “Perky nipples, which I like. Your breasts would swell up with milk over nine months,” he added, like I needed to hear that.

  Still, I didn’t reach for my top or my bra. I just sat there on Zuma Beach with this eye-catching, cocky, sperm-filled man looking at me like I was a baby making machine.

  “How many?” I asked.

  “Three, most likely,” he said.

  “Three?” I asked. He nodded.

  Then he traced my face with his fingers and I let him. It felt good, and I knew deep down that I’d probably never see him again. After all, I wasn’t going to agree to three babies, let alone one, when there were already three Justin-made kids crawling around.

  “Think about it, don’t tell me now,” he said. I nodded.

  “You know, I can picture us having babies. Being happy together. You can still act,” he said, as he leaned in and kissed me on the tip of my nose, and then on my cheeks, and forehead. Oh, wow! We locked lips again and kissed for a long, long time.

  The temperature changed, it wasn’t cold, but I was ready to have my top on, minus my bra, because he said “leave it off for me.”

  He pulled out a small, fuzzy cream colored blanket—not a baby blanket or I would have screamed. He put it around me. Then he pulled out a cutting board along with provolone cheese, French bread, and black olives. He made a mini sandwich that we shared, then
pulled out a bottle of sparking apple juice from Trader Joe’s—after all, we weren’t going to be drinking wine, what with my potential to produce ‘baby’ eggs.

  The day faded into night and I was still out in Malibu; luckily I had called my faithful dog walker, Sam. Shadow loves Sam because he takes him for super long walks, always in his running gear. He said, “I’m on my way,” when I called him from the seafood restaurant on Pacific Coast Highway.

  I sat side-by-side with Justin, who wanted my hips as close to him as possible. We shared a large lobster platter. Justin took extreme pleasure, dipping the lobster pieces into hot butter, and putting it in my mouth; everything he did was tender.

  We sat in his truck outside my building complex, making out one last time, and then he said, “If you want to share your eggs with me, let me know. I’ll do right by you, all the way. I give you my word, and you can meet my ex-wife and ex-girlfriend and my kids, I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Then he held my chin, so my eyes were level with his serious, dark brown eyes. Wow! I couldn’t fault him for knowing what he wanted and asking for it. Ugh. I got out and, as I headed away, he whistled. My hips, I knew he was whistling at them like no guy had ever done before.

  I looked up at my studio apartment, built over two garages, and noticed that the lights were on. Either Sam, the dog walker, had left them on, or the Tennis Actor was visiting Shadow. I went up, ready for anything, or for nothing but dog licks. There he was in my bed, under my blanket, with his shirt off. “Knock, knock,” I said, staring at him.

  “I missed you. I sent Sam home, but don’t freak out, I paid him for running over here. He had to go see his new girlfriend about something, so it was meant to be.” I nodded and sat down in front in my Ikea desk, only a few feet from my bed. Shadow lay on the floor beside him, acting more like his dog then mine.