by Stacy Travis
Nikki
I knew two months was going to feel like a long time. Two months was a long time. I also knew that Chris and I had been together long enough that we could weather two months away from each other without it dooming our relationship. And lately, I’d been thinking a little bit about FaceTime sex, which I’d learned was a thing.
Chris had been in Ireland for four days, and we’d had a hard time connecting, partly because of the time difference, but mainly because Chris always went into a mental cave for the first couple weeks of a new film and worked himself to the bone, researching his character and spending every waking hour with the director to make sure he had the role down perfectly. During that time, I knew better than to expect to hear much from him. I respected his process and admired that he was so committed to acting that he gave every bit of himself to it.
The movie wasn’t an action tentpole. I’d read the script and ended up crying several times, imagining the scenes and feeling the emotion behind the characters’ words. The film was a period piece, set in the 1940s, at the beginning of World War II. The war provided the backdrop, but the movie was about the relationship between two characters, both of whom had joined the resistance against the Nazi invasion. At heart, it was a love story. Chris and his costar played star-crossed lovers who were ravaged by the war and ultimately separated. Chris’s character would end up dying for the cause and never knowing that had he lived a couple weeks longer, the war would have ended and he would have been reunited with his love.
I knew it would be a beautiful film, and I respected Chris for choosing the role, for which he did a ton of reading and research, over a lighter project about a baseball player with a feisty young niece he ends up coaching.
So I was surprised when Chris made a point of FaceTiming me when he knew I’d just be getting home from work, or two in the morning in Ireland. “Hey,” I said, happy to see his face on the screen. I refrained from telling him he looked exhausted. No one wants to hear that. But I could tell he was working hard.
“Hey. Glad I caught you.”
“Yes, just barely. I just left my smokejumper seminar with the volunteer fire department, and now I’m headed to a salsa-dancing class. You caught me just in time.”
“Haha. How was your day?”
“Lovely. And better now. How about yours?”
“Definitely better now. I’m beat, but I had to hear your voice,” he said, his own sounding raspy and tired.
“I’m glad you called. I miss you.”
“I miss a lot of things about you. I wish you were here.”
Suddenly, a small germ of an idea started bouncing around in my brain. It was small because I’d never allowed an idea like that to grow beyond a passing thought. I’d never really been the instigator of sex-related ideas. I didn’t like this fact about myself, but so far in my life, I hadn’t been motivated to change. I hadn’t cared enough. “What would you do to me if I was there?” I asked, propping my phone against a pillow so I didn’t have to hold it. I folded my hands under my chin and stared at Chris’s face on the screen. I saw his eyes widen slightly while he sorted through whether I actually meant what he thought I meant.
“You mean…?” He was a smart guy. Not much got by him.
“I mean you can tell me… or show me.”
I ran a hand down the center of my chest and over my stomach, scooting down lower on my couch, then brought the hem of my shirt up halfway, baring my midriff and stopping. I didn’t take my eyes off his face, and I saw his eyes follow every movement I made.
“I see.” He ran his tongue across his bottom lip then bit it, holding it between his teeth. I could almost feel him biting into me. I wanted to feel it. “Well, I wouldn’t put up with all that clothing, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Tell me.”
“Your shirt. Lift it higher.” I lifted it an inch. I watched his eyes grow hazy, and he shook his head. “Not what I meant. Keep going.” Slowly, I drew it up, making sure to trail my fingers across my own skin as I did it, teasing him. Then I pulled it over my head and turned onto my side, facing the screen.
“I have to say, this is much more comfortable. It’s really hot here in LA. Clothes are… troublesome.”
“You’re killing me.”
“Yeah? How badly?”
“If you really were a smokejumper, there’d be a blaze for you to put out.”
“What would you do if you were here?” I felt emboldened by the barrier between us. I knew I could say or do whatever I wanted, and it sort of wasn’t real. At the same time, it was more real, happening on a screen I could see like a mirror.
“I wouldn’t be having a conversation. I’ll tell you that much.”
“Well, this isn’t going to be much fun if we don’t talk. Do you like it when I talk?” I purposefully made my voice lower and a little more sultry.
I saw him mash his palm to his forehead. “Seriously, you will be my undoing.”
“That was my plan. You should take off your shirt.”
He didn’t hesitate. He used both hands to yank his shirt over his head and threw it across the room. He mirrored my position, and I had a full, glorious view of his Michelangelo-carved abs and his perfect pecs. His current role didn’t require him to hit the gym every day to make for a realistic character, but I knew he got up extra early to get in a workout, anyway. He’d done it every morning that we’d been in at his house in Antibes, usually in the early hours before I was awake, because it was like meditation for him. Working out was sometimes the only way he remembered to breathe. The only problem was that when I saw him lying in front of me like that, I forgot to breathe.
“You still with me?” he asked.
I realized I’d gone quiet, staring at him and imagining my hands languidly touching his skin, covering every part of his chest and running lower to his abs, that incredible, rock-hard six-pack. “Yeah. Got distracted by your abs.” I shook my head as if to snap myself back to reality.
He let out a quiet laugh. “Now you know how I feel every time I look at you… Speaking of which, I think I need to see more of you.”
“Tell me what you’d do. Imagine you were here. Tell me, and I’ll do it,” I said, not really knowing where the words were coming from. But I knew I meant them. He did that to me.
Chris ran a hand over his chin, massaging his stubble for a moment, then looked back at me with a small smirk. “You know what I’d do. I’d kiss every damn inch of your skin. That gorgeous waist, those luscious breasts. I’d kiss you through your bra, then I’d tear it off you and suck your nipple until it got hard in my mouth.” He sighed.
I was speechless and a little unsure what I’d started and whether I could finish it. “I… I can’t do any of those things… to myself.”
“Yes you can. Run your hands over your stomach. Lightly. I’d be taking my time, going very, very slowly, enjoying every curve of your body. I’d be trying to make you shiver. I’d want to make you arch your back because you couldn’t stay still.” His words were seductive enough on their own, but I obeyed and tried to imagine my hands were his. It meant I had to close my eyes, but then I was no longer trying to imagine him. I moved my hands the way he told me to. I was feeling him, even though I knew they weren’t his hands.
When I opened my eyes, I saw his heavy-lidded stare, and I knew he was feeling his own version of what I felt. “Now you. Unzip your pants. Slowly. Move them down your thighs and take them off.”
He did as I instructed.
I watched, seduced by the slow rumpling of the fabric as he pulled his pants down, revealing his black boxer briefs and his hard, muscled thighs. “I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you if I was there,” I said, my voice still an octave lower than usual, huskier and sultrier. I didn’t know where the voice was coming from. Maybe she was a function of FaceTime, and I was just a willing pawn.
He leaned back and ran a hand over the obvious swell in his boxer briefs. “No, no. Not just once. Keep going,” I said, imagining myself rubbi
ng my hand over his hard length and taking him closer to a point where he was no longer in control. He did as instructed, closing his eyes and clearly taking his time and enjoying the slow buildup.
I could have just watched him. That would have been enough of a turn-on to take me to all kinds of places I didn’t normally go. Really, I would have been fine. But he slowed down the movement of his hand and fixed his gaze on me, his almost-black eyes pouring through the lens of the camera into mine.
“Your turn,” he said, his voice husky and deep. “The rest of your clothes. Take them off.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s a very general, very vague instruction. Is there a way in which you’d like that to happen?”
He growled and shook his head like I was trying his last nerve, but I knew he loved it. “So many ways… just, so many goddamn ways. First, enough with the damn bra. I mean, it’s pretty. I like the lace. But I like what’s under it more. Take it off.”
I reached behind and unfastened the clasp. Then I peeled the straps from my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. I waited, seeing my naked upper body in the tiny square on my phone. I was glad it was small. Anything bigger would have shot my nerve, and I’d have folded.
“Oh my God. I miss you so much,” he said, his voice soft and pleading.
I couldn’t help but smile at him. His reaction was so genuine, and I knew exactly what he meant. “I miss you too. And not just because you have abs like a freaking marble sculpture.”
He smiled but his eyes stayed focused on the screen. “Can you…? I really wish I could touch you…” he said on an exhale, like he was letting go of the last bits of stress from the day. It was exactly what I wanted for him.
I ran a hand over one breast then pushed it toward the center, creating some cleavage. “Like this?” I watched his eyes waver. He bit his lower lip again. The power I had over him in those moments was intoxicating. It made me want to do whatever he wanted.
“Like that. But also… you’re still wearing too much clothing.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “So are you.”
He returned my glance with a smirk. “Fair’s fair. I will if you will.”
It was funny. We’d seen each other without clothing many times, but somehow with all the lights on and with a video screen at the ready, it felt much more personal. And hot.
Slowly, watching each other, we took off the rest of our clothes. For him, that meant sliding his boxer briefs down. For me, it meant wriggling out of my skinny jeans and rolling my thong down my legs. But we managed to accomplish both with relative ease and impressive speed. Then we were each curled up in front of a cellphone in the buff, watching each other intently.
“Maybe I should have asked you this,” I said, realizing I did want to know a vital piece of information. “Have you done this before? Phone sex or video whatever?”
“No. I’m a phone sex virgin.”
“Ah, I like that I’m your first.”
“I like that too. But I’d like it a lot more if I was the one who could slide my fingers into your soft, wet—”
“Stop! Don’t say ‘pussy’! I hate that word. I mean, I don’t, but I kind of do. It makes me think of a slutty cat, and I’m not into that.”
“I can come up with many other words for where I’d like you to slide your fingers.”
I held up my hand again. “No, no, no. I don’t need other words. No beavers, no tacos… just… no. Not into it.”
He laughed. “See, this is good, actually. The distance. I wouldn’t have known this about you otherwise.”
I covered my face with my hands, slightly embarrassed but really just needing to get the damn camera out of my line of sight. “I know. It’s a thing. Don’t judge.”
“I would never. But I might use it against you at a future date to be determined.”
“Oh, well, that wasn’t the goal.”
“How about this? I won’t talk. And maybe you don’t talk, but maybe we just… watch each other. Maybe?”
I nodded. “Yes, I think without the narration, that could be good.”
He laughed again, but then he grew more serious, because he was looking me over, I could tell. Every inch of me. And as he did it, he began moving his hands over his lower abs. I was transfixed. But at the same time, I knew we’d made a deal, and I needed to give him something good to look at. So I ran a hand over my breasts and down my abdomen, moving it slowly lower until it was where I imagined he’d want his own hand to be. He nodded and wrapped his hand around his hard length, moving it slowly over the surface.
“I would do that for you. I wish I could do that to you,” I whispered.
He held up a finger. “No talking.”
So instead I moved my hand lower and parted myself, using my fingers to do what I wished he could do. I was already slick and wet for him, but I didn’t have him. “I… I don’t think I can do this. It’s not the same. And with you right there, I just… can’t,” I said.
“I know,” he whispered. “It’s making me feel farther away from you instead of closer.”
I pulled my hand back and watched as he did the same. His eyes never left mine, and I felt more connected to him by staring into his eyes than I would have if I’d gotten myself all worked up and orgasmed alone. Maybe he felt the same way, or maybe I’d pressured him into trying to take some sort of sexual high road, but in either case, he moved his hand away and sighed. He shifted his phone screen so it was more focused on his face, and we just took in the sight of each other and stayed quiet for a while.
Eventually, he rolled in the other direction and looked at his watch. I knew it was insanely late where he was and long past the time when he should be sleeping.
“You should sleep,” I said.
“I really should,” he said. And as if to prove it, he yawned. “But I like talking to you. Feels like it’s been months instead of weeks.”
“I know. But still… I’m sorry I kept you up.”
“I’m not.”
“I mean, I know you have an early call and all that.”
“I know. I don’t care. I’m just sorry I have to go.”
“Don’t be sorry. Let’s make a deal with each other. It is what it is. Let’s stop apologizing for it. Don’t say you’re sorry unless there’s a real reason.”
“I will make that deal. But I really… regret that I have to go.” He smiled.
“That might be verbal cheating, but I’ll let it go. Call me again when you can.”
He kissed the palm of his hand and blew it toward the phone. Then he was gone. I sighed, rolled onto my back, and pulled a blanket off the arm of the couch to drape over myself. I didn’t have the energy to put my clothes back on yet, but I wasn’t sleepy. It was only seven in the evening, and I had no plans. I didn’t feel like calling a friend and meeting for a drink or a walk. But it was way too early to turn in for the night.
Thinking about Chris sleeping peacefully made me feel peaceful, and I wandered into my bedroom and pulled on a pair of old shorts and a sweatshirt I didn’t mind getting dirty. I had a few I wore when I did art projects. The strategy to keep most of my clothes paint free had mostly worked. I’d learned from experience that every time I told myself I could paint a little bit and avoid getting dirty, I’d end up with paint all over myself.
I took out my paints and a new package of flat canvases. I could always do art. I needed to set a timer for myself, or I was liable to be up all night. It had happened many times. And I had to work in the morning.
It felt good to lose myself for a few hours in the acrylic colors that could be painted over multiple times, turned from something I liked to some new experiment to something else entirely. I ended up creating three new canvases. I wasn’t sure yet whether I would want them on my walls. The colors were brighter than a lot of what I had up there, and lately, I was liking the more muted tones of the watercolors.
There was no question that art was my happy place. I loved the abstract nature of it. I rarely p
ainted portraits or anything as it existed in the world. Picturing things as they could be was much more interesting, even if that meant that reality ran a close second sometimes, and I only got to see the possibilities through art.
Chapter Eleven
Ballinascorney, Ireland
Chris
The knock on the door of my trailer was insistent. I knew that knock. “I’ll be there in a sec, Nigel,” I called. I heard a grunt on the other side of the door.
I knew he wouldn’t leave until he saw the whites of my eyes and could be sure I was coming to set. That was his job, and he took it seriously. He would wait and walk two steps behind me, as if he was trying to make sure I didn’t escape from his supervision.
Nigel was the production assistant in charge of getting me to the set. The kid had been nothing but surly toward me from the first day of preproduction, and I loved the hell out of him for it. First off, by using the word “kid,” I wasn’t belittling him. He really was a kid—seventeen years old, if that—and he was one of the hardest-working people on the set. He’d alluded to the fact that he’d foregone going to university to start working in film, so I put him at high-school-graduate age at most.
Because I’d had a dialect coach for years and had mastered a couple of different accents from different regions of the United Kingdom, I felt fairly certain he hailed from somewhere near Manchester. His vowels were the dead giveaway. But he quickly set me straight. “I’m from Liverpool. Not the same place.”
In my mind, it was close enough to have the same accent, but he took exception to my generalization. “Wales is just over the border, and they speak an entirely different language. You fixing to tell me I could be from there with my accent?”
I had to concede he was right, but only on a technicality. “All you blokes from America think you have us figured. But you don’t know shit,” he’d said. He was amusing and quickly became one of my favorite people on our Irish crew.
It wasn’t lost on me that I worked in a business I loved, but I continually gravitated toward people who didn’t give a rat’s ass about celebrities. Nigel had made that list on the first day because he shook my hand, gave me his cellphone number, and told him I could ask him for whatever I needed during the time we were on set. “But if you goddamn call me after hours, I will either not answer my phone, or if I do answer, I will rain down hell on you for disrupting my nonwork hours. I’m all yours at work, but then I insist you leave me alone.”
