It’s not very often that I’ll have two shots right on top of each other, but there’s not a lot of time before Damian will be here, and I really don’t want to be slamming them back when he gets here.
I take shot three and realize that because the vodka I’m drinking is flavored, it’s got a lower alcohol content.
I suppose I could justify having just one more shot. Sure, the difference in alcohol content is only like five percent, but that adds up over three shots.
By the time I’m pouring my fifth shot, I’ve dropped the charade and I’m just glad to be getting some relief from the insanity my life has been ever since Flashing Lights started filming.
After shot number three, I look at the clock.
It’s so funny. There are thousands of women out there who would completely lose their shit if they had a night of dry humping with Damian Jones ahead of them. Me, well I just made sure to wear an extra pair of panties to avoid chafing.
This really is a strange line of work when you think about it.
Not only are we people who make a living pretending to be other people, the things we have to know and learn, the ways in which we have to go out of the box in order to get the best possible performance for a scene…we spend so much of our lives learning how to act and react to people and situations, but when that camera’s off, the only people that seem to know who we are want something from us, and the only situations we get into are either work-related or related to escaping the side effects of this career path.
That said, the pay’s phenomenal and the perks are incredible.
I’m sitting on my couch now and I’ve stopped counting shots.
This is supposed to be my time. This is supposed to be the point in my life I look back at fondly, years from now, and delight in how magical it was to make my first major picture.
Everything’s not so bad, I guess. I mean, I’m financially secure, I’m doing something that I love and I’ve even made friends with a famous actor. At the end of the day, it’s not a bad line of work.
I hadn’t counted on the blackmail.
I take another shot.
You know, Damian’s pretty attractive.
I’m halfway through an infomercial with a product that claims to remove the need for sharpening your knives permanently, when a voice speaks just behind me. “You know they just replace the knife if it ever actually does go dull.”
I whip around to find Damian standing in my living room right behind my couch.
“The door was open,” he says. “I thought you’d see me when I came to the doorway, but you looked like you were pretty engrossed in whatever it was that you’re watching.”
“I’m not watching it,” I tell him, and turn off the TV.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
If anything, I’m a little too ready.
It could be the fact that we’ve been growing closer over these past weeks, or perhaps it’s that he’s a famous Hollywood actor I’ve had a crush on for years; it’s even possible that just having a handsome man standing in my home is enough to do it, regardless. But Damian Jones, actor extraordinaire and Hollywood’s eighth sexie
st man, is looking pretty damn good tonight.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m good.”
“Great,” he says. “Now, what I’ve done in the past is to start with some kissing, and kind of just take it from there. Obviously we’re not going to do anything, but if we’re going to get this down, there’s going to have to be some touching.”
“Okay,” I tell him. “I’m ready.”
“Would you like to get something to drink?” he asks. “We don’t have to go right into it.”
I nod, take another shot, and set the bottle back on the end table. By “set the bottle back on the end table,” what I mean to say is that I drop the bottle and rush over to Damian, quite literally throwing myself at him.
His arms enfold me and we kiss. My hands are already in his hair, and I’m ready for more.
His taste is sweet, fresh. He must have brushed or popped a mint before he came.