Hollywood's Secret Baby

“You lasted, what, a whole ten seconds?” I say, wriggling my ass for effect, since he’s still inside me.

Cory mulls this over with a goofy smile on his face. “I thought it was at least a minute. Which is better than some of the other guys in our class back then. God, teenage boys are so stupid. Did you know they would have races in the bathroom on the overnight school trips? Like when we went to Washington D.C. in junior year.”

“Races?”

“They’d take turns and time each other to see who could jack off the fastest.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

He shrugs. “I mean, it’s just something I heard about.”

I slap his chest. “Oh, sure. Just something you heard about. Come on, it’s okay. You can tell me you didn’t win the championship. I’d actually be relieved.”

Now it’s him turning his fingers on me, gliding them up my sides and under my arms until I’m twitching with uncontrollable tickle-induced laughs. “I told you, it’s just something I heard of. You think I was cool enough to join their jerk-off games?”

I push him away. “God, guys are weird.”

The dopamine from our orgasm and naked bodies rubbing against each other is leveling off. At least it is for me. The energy expended over the past twenty-four hours is finally hitting the bottom of my tank. My hand comes up to cover my mouth as I yawn.

This in turn has Cory yawning right after me.

“So we get a few hours of sleep, land at LAX, and then what? Lizzie and I don’t exactly have a place to stay.” My statement sounded genuine in my head, but out on the sound waves, it holds the pitiful lilt of someone silently begging.

“What are you talking about?” Cory asks. His arm pulls me onto my side so we’re facing each other. Our breaths are a humid cloud between our faces. “You’re going to stay with me.”

“Are you sure? We’re not going to kill the vibe of the hotshot Hollywood director’s bachelor pad? What about when you have other girls over?”

He reaches up and pinches my nose. “You never were very good at being subtle. It’s good to see that some things never change.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” I feebly defend myself, but he’s not having any of it.

“Now, to address your hinting about other girls, I’m wondering what kind of life you think I lead over in Hollywood.” He’s silent for a few seconds, watching me expectantly. “I’m serious. Tell me what you think I do every day. I could use a good laugh.”

I take a deep breath and say, “Well, I’m guessing you work on movies in the morning. Probably have some super expensive chicken salad at an upscale restaurant that all the celebrities have decided is the hot new place. Then back to watching actors do their things in front of the camera. Then meetings with important people. Maybe drinking thousand-dollar whiskey at a bar where regular people who were lucky to be let in keep asking for your autograph. At the end of the night you pick the hottest girl to go home with. She would agree immediately, of course, because you’re Cory Flint.”

The whole time I’ve been talking, a wild smile has been blossoming between Cory’s cheeks. Finally, I have to ask, “What?”

“You think I live in the 1950s?”

“No, but you’re one of the most well-known names in movies right now.”

“People may be used to seeing my name, but I’m no actor, which means as soon as I step outside the studio, I’m pretty much just a regular guy. Remember back at the airport, there were people lining up for Sarah’s autograph? Did you see anyone ask for mine?”

This is a good point. But I’m still not seeing any downside. “That just means your life is better in my opinion. You get all the status of being a celebrity without having to beat off the paparazzi.”

“No, it means that I don’t get into expensive clubs without a star at my side, because even if I show my ID, no one cares. It means that after I finish directing, it’s hours upon hours of meetings with producers and writers and suits from the studio. It means fast food burgers or burritos for lunch because I don’t have time to go out. My face isn’t what’s earning me money; it’s my work. So if I don’t work until ten each night and read prospective scripts until two in the morning, I won’t find the next summer blockbuster. If my life is a fairy tale, then it’s closer to Cinderella’s story, and I’m definitely not the prince.”

Anyone else might feel a bit of sympathy for Cory at this point. Pat his arm or offer a consoling word. But I’ve known him since he was just a pudgy kid, and this is his modus operandi. Self-pity was always his biggest personality flaw, but back in school it was easy to agree with him. Neither of us were where we wanted to be, and in that situation, it’s always easier to complain rather than to actually do something about it. But now that we’re here in First Class, on our way to film a multi-million-dollar film, it’s impossible to take his whining seriously.

“You poor thing,” I say in a false motherly tone. “It must be so hard being a household name. Making more money from a sing

le project than I could collect in a decade. Doing something you actually love. You sad, pathetic thing.”

Cory swipes at my hand. “Oh, fuck off, you,” he says, but again, his tone doesn’t match his words. Pretty soon we’re wrestling, just like we did back in middle school.

But that was fifteen years ago. Back when we were adolescents still figuring out who we were. When Cory ends up on top of me this time, in the First Class bedroom we share on our way to California, my pussy still lightly throbbing from minutes before, there’s no hesitation in our actions.

We’re not kids anymore; we know exactly what we want, and we aren’t afraid to reach out and take it.