And the sad part? The orgasm that just ripped me to shreds wasn’t half as powerful as the ones Dean gave me in person.
I’m still shaking from the aftershocks as I fumble in the dark until my hand lands on the box of tissues atop my nightstand. I pull a couple out and use them to wipe between my legs. I can’t remember the last time I got this wet during a solo session.
Think of how much wetter you’ll be if you fuck me again…
Argh. I can practically hear Dean taunting me. Enticing me…
I take a breath. Okay. I’m a pragmatic person. And I aced that Argumentative Logic course I took in freshman year. So maybe I need to rationalize this out.
Premise I: Dean Di Laurentis is a phenomenal lay.
Premise II: He wants to have sex with me again.
Premise III: The idea of having sex with him turns me on.
Conclusion: I should have sex with Dean.
All right, that one was easy enough. Now comes the complicated part.
Premise I: Casual sex makes me uncomfortable.
Premise II: I just got out of a long-term relationship and am not ready for another one.
Premise III: Even if I was, I wouldn’t want a relationship with manwhore Dean.
Conclusion: Um…?
I try another one:
Premise I: I don’t want a relationship with Dean.
Premise II: He doesn’t want a relationship with me.
Conclusion: We should have casual sex.
Another no-brainer, but it still doesn’t solve the Casual Sex conundrum. Really, though, if I stop to think about it, the only person dishing out any judgment here is me. Will a fling with Dean make me a slut? He certainly doesn’t think so. Neither would my friends, although I certainly don’t plan on telling them about it if I choose to fling Dean. Which raises the question, why do I want to keep it a secret?
I chew on the inside of my cheek as I ponder that. The answer continues to stump me, but the idea of everyone knowing I’m screwing around with Dean still brings a rush of discomfort. Fine. It’ll have to remain a secret. Maybe tomorrow I can give some more thought as to why I feel that way.
Well…shit. Have I actually reached a decision?
I’m already grabbing my phone, so…yeah, I guess I have.
I tap Dean’s name and enter one word in the message box: Okay.
You’ve got to give the man credit—he knows exactly what I mean, because he types back, When?
Me: Tmrw nite? Hannah’s staying at your place. U can come here. 8?
Him: Kiddie game starts at 6. Won’t be free til 9.
Me: Kiddie game?
Him: Don’t worry about it. Tell u tmrw.
Him: What changed your mind?
What changed my mind… Insanity maybe? An unhealthy obsession with sex? His awesome dick?
Me: Decided it was time 2 live the Life of Dean.
Him: Took u long enuff. So. 9 o’clock work for u?
I hesitate.
Me: Yes.
God, what am I doing? Maybe I have gone insane.
There’s a long delay before his next message appears. A borderline-hysterical laugh pops out of my mouth after I read it.
Him: I’ll bring the rope.
13
Allie
I met my agent, Ira Goldstein, through a friend of my dad’s. He’s been representing me since I was twelve years old, and the very first gig he booked for me was a cereal commercial. I had only one line, which I still remember to this day:
“How could something THIS TASTY be SO GOOD for you? YUM!”
I’m pretty sure my dad still has a DVD copy of the commercial somewhere in our brownstone. I hope it’s locked up in his gun safe, because lordy, I never want that mortifying tape ever leaking.
Ira splits his time between the agency’s Manhattan and Los Angeles offices, so most of our interactions take place over the phone. Today he’s calling from LA.
“How’s my girl doing this morning?” he asks in the booming, jovial voice I’ve grown to love.
“This afternoon,” I correct. Rehearsal just finished, and I balance my phone on my shoulder as I button up my coat on the way out of the auditorium. “It’s two o’clock on the east coast.”
“Ah, right. Fucking time zones. They’re liable to make me senile. I never know where I am or what time it is.”
I laugh.
“You get a chance to read the Fox pilot I couriered over?” Ira is a no-nonsense, business-minded person, which I appreciate. He’s also a shark, but agents are supposed to be sharks, and I still adore him even when he’s trying to sell me on projects that I know he’s only chosen for the money.
“I skimmed it. It looked like it had potential.”
“Well, give it another read and don’t skim this time. I spoke to one of the producers last night. They’re really keen on having you come in to read for the part.”
“Remind me which part? Bonnie? Or was it Sarah?”
“Hold on. Let me check.” Papers shuffle over the extension. He’s back a few seconds later. “Bonnie.”
I swallow my disappointment. Damn it. I was hoping it would be Sarah. The pilot is for a thirty-minute comedy about three girls who hated each other in high school but are forced to room together in college. It follows them as they navigate their freshman year, learning about love and life and friendship while getting into many a pickle. It was described to Ira and me as an ensemble cast, but a well-known television actress has already committed to the role of Zoey, so clearly they plan for her to be the star.
The other two roles are up for grabs, but I would’ve preferred reading for Sarah, the prude who needs to learn how to let her hair down. I could’ve had some fun with that.
Bonnie, on the other hand, is the airhead of the trio. She’s got some funny lines, but she’s dumber than a bag of rocks. Her flaky personality and one-digit IQ are enough to set women’s lib back a thousand years.
But maybe I’m worrying for nothing. Maybe the writers have a meaty arc planned for Bonnie. It doesn’t make sense to have three female leads but only develop two of them, right?
“It’s the perfect role for you, sweetheart,” Ira raves. “You can play the cute ditzy type in your sleep.”
Yes. I can. But I’m not sure I want to. Every role I’ve ever had has been the cute ditzy type. It would be nice to broaden my horizons, stretch my acting muscles a bit.
Except…this is network television, for crying out loud. I have a chance to co-star in a pilot that, going by the buzz already surrounding it, will undoubtedly be picked up for a full season.
I’m still shaking from the aftershocks as I fumble in the dark until my hand lands on the box of tissues atop my nightstand. I pull a couple out and use them to wipe between my legs. I can’t remember the last time I got this wet during a solo session.
Think of how much wetter you’ll be if you fuck me again…
Argh. I can practically hear Dean taunting me. Enticing me…
I take a breath. Okay. I’m a pragmatic person. And I aced that Argumentative Logic course I took in freshman year. So maybe I need to rationalize this out.
Premise I: Dean Di Laurentis is a phenomenal lay.
Premise II: He wants to have sex with me again.
Premise III: The idea of having sex with him turns me on.
Conclusion: I should have sex with Dean.
All right, that one was easy enough. Now comes the complicated part.
Premise I: Casual sex makes me uncomfortable.
Premise II: I just got out of a long-term relationship and am not ready for another one.
Premise III: Even if I was, I wouldn’t want a relationship with manwhore Dean.
Conclusion: Um…?
I try another one:
Premise I: I don’t want a relationship with Dean.
Premise II: He doesn’t want a relationship with me.
Conclusion: We should have casual sex.
Another no-brainer, but it still doesn’t solve the Casual Sex conundrum. Really, though, if I stop to think about it, the only person dishing out any judgment here is me. Will a fling with Dean make me a slut? He certainly doesn’t think so. Neither would my friends, although I certainly don’t plan on telling them about it if I choose to fling Dean. Which raises the question, why do I want to keep it a secret?
I chew on the inside of my cheek as I ponder that. The answer continues to stump me, but the idea of everyone knowing I’m screwing around with Dean still brings a rush of discomfort. Fine. It’ll have to remain a secret. Maybe tomorrow I can give some more thought as to why I feel that way.
Well…shit. Have I actually reached a decision?
I’m already grabbing my phone, so…yeah, I guess I have.
I tap Dean’s name and enter one word in the message box: Okay.
You’ve got to give the man credit—he knows exactly what I mean, because he types back, When?
Me: Tmrw nite? Hannah’s staying at your place. U can come here. 8?
Him: Kiddie game starts at 6. Won’t be free til 9.
Me: Kiddie game?
Him: Don’t worry about it. Tell u tmrw.
Him: What changed your mind?
What changed my mind… Insanity maybe? An unhealthy obsession with sex? His awesome dick?
Me: Decided it was time 2 live the Life of Dean.
Him: Took u long enuff. So. 9 o’clock work for u?
I hesitate.
Me: Yes.
God, what am I doing? Maybe I have gone insane.
There’s a long delay before his next message appears. A borderline-hysterical laugh pops out of my mouth after I read it.
Him: I’ll bring the rope.
13
Allie
I met my agent, Ira Goldstein, through a friend of my dad’s. He’s been representing me since I was twelve years old, and the very first gig he booked for me was a cereal commercial. I had only one line, which I still remember to this day:
“How could something THIS TASTY be SO GOOD for you? YUM!”
I’m pretty sure my dad still has a DVD copy of the commercial somewhere in our brownstone. I hope it’s locked up in his gun safe, because lordy, I never want that mortifying tape ever leaking.
Ira splits his time between the agency’s Manhattan and Los Angeles offices, so most of our interactions take place over the phone. Today he’s calling from LA.
“How’s my girl doing this morning?” he asks in the booming, jovial voice I’ve grown to love.
“This afternoon,” I correct. Rehearsal just finished, and I balance my phone on my shoulder as I button up my coat on the way out of the auditorium. “It’s two o’clock on the east coast.”
“Ah, right. Fucking time zones. They’re liable to make me senile. I never know where I am or what time it is.”
I laugh.
“You get a chance to read the Fox pilot I couriered over?” Ira is a no-nonsense, business-minded person, which I appreciate. He’s also a shark, but agents are supposed to be sharks, and I still adore him even when he’s trying to sell me on projects that I know he’s only chosen for the money.
“I skimmed it. It looked like it had potential.”
“Well, give it another read and don’t skim this time. I spoke to one of the producers last night. They’re really keen on having you come in to read for the part.”
“Remind me which part? Bonnie? Or was it Sarah?”
“Hold on. Let me check.” Papers shuffle over the extension. He’s back a few seconds later. “Bonnie.”
I swallow my disappointment. Damn it. I was hoping it would be Sarah. The pilot is for a thirty-minute comedy about three girls who hated each other in high school but are forced to room together in college. It follows them as they navigate their freshman year, learning about love and life and friendship while getting into many a pickle. It was described to Ira and me as an ensemble cast, but a well-known television actress has already committed to the role of Zoey, so clearly they plan for her to be the star.
The other two roles are up for grabs, but I would’ve preferred reading for Sarah, the prude who needs to learn how to let her hair down. I could’ve had some fun with that.
Bonnie, on the other hand, is the airhead of the trio. She’s got some funny lines, but she’s dumber than a bag of rocks. Her flaky personality and one-digit IQ are enough to set women’s lib back a thousand years.
But maybe I’m worrying for nothing. Maybe the writers have a meaty arc planned for Bonnie. It doesn’t make sense to have three female leads but only develop two of them, right?
“It’s the perfect role for you, sweetheart,” Ira raves. “You can play the cute ditzy type in your sleep.”
Yes. I can. But I’m not sure I want to. Every role I’ve ever had has been the cute ditzy type. It would be nice to broaden my horizons, stretch my acting muscles a bit.
Except…this is network television, for crying out loud. I have a chance to co-star in a pilot that, going by the buzz already surrounding it, will undoubtedly be picked up for a full season.
