IMDB

Another actor. Another actor but one with credentials. IMDB was ABC Family’s golden boy with blond hair, blue eyes, and a smile that would make even my lesbian mother swoon.

He is a friend of a friend like most are in the little city of Los Angeles. Just a few hours ago I thought he was a complete asshole from across the room and now I’m sitting across the table trying desperately not to drown in his eyes. He’s pretty to say the least. Pretty in a way that makes me feel, not insecure, but like he isn’t worth the bother of trying because it’s never going to happen. Clearly I’m not in his number bracket, so why would I engage with someone I would certainly fail with? I have had my ego broken enough for several lifetimes. Okay, so maybe insecure is the correct adjective.

The three of us make our way from the bar to my apartment for some hippie entertainment in the form of legal recreational drugs. He is a lightweight. A two hit wonder. I’m not surprise by his innocence. He’s so calmingly clean talking to him is like bathing in lavender soap. And I want to feel him all over me.

He isn’t a narcissistic actor. He genuinely seems interest in what I am saying, hanging on my words like studying for a part. Actors make me wary. They are the worst type of boys. They are professional, paid or not, liars. It is their job to be convincing. Actor Boy had me wrapped around his finger once upon a time, and this young blue-eyed devil had the potential of doing the same. If musicians are my bread and butter, actors are my cherry cheesecake.

The night reaches that tipping point when the packs of cigarettes are empty and we are higher than clouds. My girlfriend takes the last drag of the last cigarette and as if cued makes a prompt exit leaving me with as much confusion as delight. The dense atmosphere of “how’s-this-going-to-end” blows out the door with our third amigo since the next 30 seconds will clear up any misperception.

I lay down next to him on my day bed. Please don’t say, “I am so stoned.” That is the excuse phrase. The “get-out-of-trouble-because-of-drugs” card. If he said that he could walk out the door, make the night awkward, or be really bad at sex and be exempt because his actions are premeditatedly justified. This also came in the form of “I’m so drunk” and “I’m really tired.”

But he doesn’t. He smiles and sheepishly declares, “That was weird.” He gets it. We both get it. The “Do you want to fuck me?” moment. Time to read the lines and see where the scene leads. He looks at me with half a grin, I bite my lower lip, he smiles more. Start musical montage.

He kisses me and I realize how much his eyes have distracted me from his cupcake-sweet plump lips on a firm chiseled jaw. This is what I image it was like making out with a young Brad Pitt somewhere between Dallas and Thelma & Louise. Like tasting People magazine’s future Sexist Man Alive. It made me wet just to think about when that day would come.

Clothes peel off and that beautiful face makes its way down to between my legs. He glances up to me in and out of slow, wet kisses with a look that threatens to eat me alive. This boy is sex on a stick. He should be sold to the masses as a Ken doll sex toy promising to look like the boy who rejected you in high school but wants you more than the prom queen.  ABC Family is about to fuck the tattooed gothic girl. Talk about your adolescent television drama.

He fucks me as fast as he is young. I want to flip him over, show off, and not be one of those boring girls that I assume he’s use to fucking, but I can’t. He’s like a human vibrator. Fast, pulsing, and seemingly with never ending batteries. I want to lie there and take it but I make a move to rotate like a rotisserie pig. I want to keep him inside of me. One hand wraps around the headboard and the other takes balance against the dresser preparing for what the pretty little sexbot will pound into me next.

I am astounded with sensory pleasure. He looks, feels, tastes, and smells so overwhelmingly good that my brain forgets how much I actually enjoyed talking to him. He is a five-alarm fire and I’m satisfied from ringing that bell. Someone deserves an Emmy.

One thought on “IMDB

  1. Pingback: Act Two | Fela Rue

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