Being a Girl

by Chloë Thurlow

  ‘A short film?’ I asked.

  ‘Mmm,’ he replied.

  He kept Tara’s mouth running up and down the length of his cock, his fist gripping a clump of her hair. Her eyes were closed, her head was thrown back and there was a look of deep satisfaction on her finely etched features. I thought he was probably spent by now but Tara made such a good job sucking him off, when he finally slipped his cock from her mouth it was like taking a baguette from an oven, hot, crusty, stiff and hard, totally gorgeous and ready to be devoured. He still had his finger in my bum and when he pulled it out with a saucy little pop I didn’t need to ask what was going to happen next. I bent over the glass-topped desk, spread my legs and made myself comfortable.

  ‘You have an incredible mouth, Tara. C’est colossal. Here, here.’

  Tara was still on her knees, still praying in the temple, and now she leaned forward to pay her respects to the holy orifice. Her little tongue all wet with Jean-Luc’s semen snaked up my bottom and after the spanking it took the heat from my fiery back passage. She parted my bottom, got a good grip on my cheeks and pushed her tongue in and out, in and out. It was the reverse of taking Jean-Luc’s cock down her throat, the same but the other way round, and everything was a pattern, our bodies shaped to enter each other and become one.

  ‘C’est colossal.’

  Jean-Luc eased Tara aside and she clung on to my leg as his cock pressed at the fragile ring of my bottom. The sphincter, that timid little muscle at the lip of the anus, is designed for pushing outwards, but by careful manoeuvring, with patience and practice, the sphincter reverses and will entice a lubricated cock deep into the sensitive tissue where a million nerve endings wait to be ignited. It is pure ecstasy. Pure fulfilment. You are flooded with feelings of joy and contentment. Our maidenly chalice, the Holy Grail itself some say, is a yonic V designed to be pierced by the phallic ∧, the male blade, it’s all there in the Tarot cards, all so geometric, so symbolic, so precise, the back door to the castle keep holding its own special delights and triumphs. Girls want to get their clothes off, get down to some good healthy sex. They really, really do. Girls will take it any way they can get it, but given the chance, given the opportunity, given the education, girls will take it in the bottom and write poetry in the moonlight.

  Men may think of anal sex as some masculine rite of passage but what they don’t understand, what most girls don’t understand, is that it is a girl’s rite of passage, too. It is the pinnacle, the main course, the high point of human relations. When a warm cock slides in and out of your backside you are totally in touch with your inner self. If we have a soul, that’s where we will find it, I’m sure.

  I pushed up on my kitten heels to try to take more of him, all of him. I wanted Jean-Luc Cartier to vanish inside me. My bottom was an underground cavern with untold secrets, unknown places. His cock was swelling against buried treasure and, like a finger stroking the trigger on a gun, his cock hit the right combination and the key to the treasure trove turned in the lock. He exploded in another orgasm and I felt my insides turn to liquid.

  ‘Agh. Agh. Agh. Agh!’

  ‘Agh. Agh. Agh. Agh!’

  My back arched. My knees were shaking. I was coming, I was coming. I was reaching down somewhere deep, somewhere unknown. If before I had been base metal, at that moment I transformed into molten gold. I have been designed to be buggered. Spanked first, of course, but then thoroughly and deliciously sodomised. It’s important that a girl knows these things and with this in mind I would set off the following day to meet the director of Cheats with new confidence.

  4

  Cheats

  Part I

  THIS IS THE story.

  RICKY SIMMONS is forty, a copywriter who dreams of being an author or a scriptwriter. Something romantic. He’s growing plump around the belly and feels that life is passing him by. What he really wants is to find a young girl for a night of wild sex so he can feel young again. Ricky lives with Amanda.

  AMANDA is an actress, also forty, slender and gamine, feminine in a boyish sort of way. Amanda is not famous, but gets regular parts on TV and in the theatre. Amanda and Ricky have been together for more than ten years and things are dull, dull, dull.

  Amanda has a three-day job in Paris appearing in a TV commercial where she plays the English wife of a Frenchman who must learn from her French neighbour that the way to keep her husband frisky over the cooking pots is to buy the correct brand of floor cleaner; an old idea with a French twist.

  After dropping Amanda at the Eurostar terminal, Ricky drives to Greens, a Soho wine bar, and hang-out for starlets and media people. He’s drinking a beer when a stunning GIRL appears at an interior doorway looking agitated.

  By coincidence, the Girl is also named Amanda.

  THE GIRL glances at the clock behind the bar, then down at her watch. She stares directly and angrily at RICKY SIMMONS.

  I was reading the script in a clammy office thick with the exotic blend of scent wafting from eight fretful girls looking agitated and suicidal as they mumbled their lines to themselves. They stopped and glanced up with passing pleasure as a girl with hennaed streaks in her hair left the casting suite with gritted teeth and a tear in her eye. A second later Dudley, the cameraman, poked his head out and grinned like an executioner.

  ‘Next,’ he called, and closed the door again.

  As I came to my feet, the weepy girl slid from the building and the rest of the hopefuls studied me with frosty smiles and daggers in their eyes. The film was a good chance for an actress to show her range and they all wanted it so badly the tension was chipping away their self-confidence. I had no long-term plans to make movies, Cambridge was calling, but I do like to accomplish my goals and I had every intention of playing Young Amanda.

  From what I had gathered listening to the girls chatting in the office, this was a regular ordeal, a test of stamina as much as talent. They had all been to drama school and since leaving had spent weeks and months visiting photographers for head shots which they duly sent to theatrical agents before setting out on the eternal pilgrimage to auditions for parts on stage, in short films, feature films, TV soaps and corporate videos, the cattle market they called it, and it occurred to me that the way to get film roles, the way to get what you want, is to go about it in any way except the normal way, that you are more likely to get it right if you get it wrong.

  Does that make sense?

  Like wearing blue shoes with a green dress: blue and green should never be seen. So, get it wrong and you get noticed. Better than going to drama school, get your bottom tanned by a casting agent. Arrive early. Arrive late. But don’t get there on time. Be contrary. But be open. Jean-Luc Cartier had opened my mind as well as spanked my bottom. I didn’t know these things at school and I’m sure if I had done I would have been the head girl.

  We had learned in Art History that when Salvador Dali went to New York with his paintings for the first time he had the baker on board ship bake a twenty-foot loaf of bread with a hat-sized hole in the centre. When the boat docked, Dali walked down the gangplank wearing the largest baguette in the world and everyone said he was a genius. He had a weird sex life, but that’s another story. Dali knew how to get noticed. The eight girls waiting in that stuffy room with their breasts on display could have been gingerbread girls all stamped out from the same cookie cutter, a dance troupe, not the star; they were all at least twenty, a few of them must have been edging towards twenty-five, and all had the same desperate darting eyes as the teary girl with hennaed hair.

  I was the odd one out, an unknown quantity, too young for the part, at least as far as the other girls were concerned, and I wasn’t looking sexy. Quite the reverse. I was wearing a high-collared maroon velvet suit with trousers tight at the knees and black patent shoes more suitable for a funeral or an interview at the library. I also happened to be carrying my script in a pink folder with the name Agence Jean-Luc Cartier printed on the front.

  ‘Good luck,’ one of the gir
ls said.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I replied.

  Sister Theresa at school had a habit of rapping her knuckles on the desk and saying: Knock and the door shall be opened.

  I knocked.

  I waited.

  And Dudley opened the door.

  David Trevellick, the writer/director, came to his feet and smiled.

  ‘Camilla?’

  ‘Milly.’

  ‘David.’

  ‘How do you do?’

  I put out my hand and glanced away as he shook it. He smiled. I didn’t. He bobbed about for a couple of seconds looking bashful and then we both sat. While Dudley was adjusting the camera focus and Daniel, the soundman, fiddled about with the dials on a machine with blinking green lights, David explained the story, which I didn’t really think needed to be explained. I had picked up the script from Monsieur Cartier’s office and learned it by heart. It was pretty clever, with some neat twists and quite sexy, although not quite sexy enough. A ten-minute short film gives a director the opportunity to show his range, his skills, his vision, and Cheats still lacked, as Jean-Luc had said, a certain oo la la!

  Well-known actors had been cast in the roles of Ricky and Older Amanda, lending their time for the noble but poorly paid cause of the short film. David was looking for a ‘fresh young face’ for the part of Young Amanda – the Girl. He had already done castings with ‘dozens’ of contenders but only I had come recommended by a famous casting agent.

  ‘He said you have a special gift,’ he added, and I turned positively pink with embarrassment.

  ‘Did he say what?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘No, he said I’d find out soon enough,’ he replied.

  Oh, yes, I forgot to mention, David was about 23 and totally dishy. He read all the parts, except mine, of course. The sessions were filmed for David to show the producer – ‘Hermann Mann from the Film Council,’ he said in awe, not that it meant a thing to me.

  His brow fluted.

  ‘OK. Rain beats against the bar windows. The Girl enters from an interior door wearing a pink satin jacket and a low-cut white dress. Cool and sexy. Take One. The Bar.’

  THE GIRL glances at the clock behind the bar, then down at her watch. She stares directly and angrily at RICKY SIMMONS.

  I stared into David’s eyes and kept staring until he felt uncomfortable. I took a breath through my nose and hissed loudly through my teeth.

  GIRL: Do you have the time?

  RICKY: It’s a . . . just gone ten.

  GIRL: I’ve been in the other bar for an hour. I wasn’t aware there were two.

  THE GIRL drops her bag on the bar and lights a cigarette.

  GIRL: Shit!

  She stares again at Ricky and shakes her head.

  RICKY: Do you want a drink, now you’re here?

  She rolls her eyes below arched eyebrows. She’s heard it all before.

  GIRL: No.

  She glances again at her watch. Flicks her ash.

  GIRL: Red wine.

  RICKY orders a bottle of Rioja. The BARMAN fills two glasses; he sporadically refills them. RICKY leans forward to tap the rim of the GIRL’S glass.

  RICKY: Ricky Simmons.

  GIRL: Amanda . . .

  RICKY: . . . Amanda?

  GIRL (now AMANDA): Is it so weird?

  RICKY: No, no, no. Not at all.

  AMANDA: Amanda Marshall.

  RICKY recomposes himself. He’s a man of the world

  RICKY: Let me guess, you read the weather for Sky News?

  AMANDA: I’m an actress.

  FLASHBACK:

  OLDER AMANDA is looking with nostalgia around the living room in a London flat. There is a framed photograph of herself and RICKY. Also a publicity shot of a long-legged girl running through the streets clutching a bottle with the heading: You Get A Good Rum For Your Money!

  RICKY is out in the street, double-parked, looking agitated. He runs up the path and screams from the front door.

  RICKY:Amanda, for heaven’s sake, you’re going to miss your train.

  RICKY realises the girl is speaking.

  AMANDA: And you?

  RICKY:I just had a brain wave and switched from copywriting to PR. (beat)You had a date?

  AMANDA: A date? Yes. With a producer. She’s normally reliable. We did some erotica stuff.

  RICKY:Really!

  AMANDA: For the dyke market.

  RICKY watches the girl cross and recross her long legs.

  A MAN and a tough WOMAN scantily dressed bondage style are leaving. They are SPIKE NEAL, the screenwriter, and IMOGEN BLACK, nominated best director at Cannes! They pause as they pass RICKY.

  SPIKE: Early start tomorrow.

  RICKY: You’re working Sunday?

  IMOGEN: You don’t get ahead by getting behind.

  The door closes. RICKY refills the glasses.

  AMANDA: That’s Imogen Black?

  RICKY:In the flesh.

  AMANDA: I’d love to work with her . . .

  RICKY: Maybe you will. (beat) What have I seen you in? Or is that gauche to ask?

  AMANDA: Don’t they say it’s not what you’ve done but what you’re doing? I’ve just finished a costume piece for the Broken Biscuit Company, you know, all smouldering glances and heaving bosoms . . . it’s not as if I’m built for it.

  RICKY gazes at her ample breasts.

  AMANDA: Apart from some stage and the lesbo films, that’s about it. (beat) And you?

  RICKY: I’ve done a few ads. I wrote You Get A Good Rum For Your Money.

  AMANDA: You did that? (beat) It was totally brilliant!

  RICKY: I’m just setting up on my own. I need a couple of good accounts. Industry. Or politics.

  AMANDA: Politics?

  RICKY: PR is the administration and management of dissemination, distortion and lies. Politics is the big lie. It’s where the money is.

  AMANDA: Right. I don’t want to spend my life with my boobs hanging out for the BBC. (beat) You know Imogen Black?

  RICKY: I do her PR.

  AMANDA gives her body a little shake. The bar is emptying. The famous writer CHRISTIAN THOMAS passes.

  CHRISTIAN: Night.

  RICKY: Have a good one.

  AMANDA: (whispering) That’s Christian Thomas . . .

  RICKY: That’s him.

  AMANDA: He looks older in real life.

  RICKY: He’s even older in real life.

  AMANDA moves so close to RICKY he can’t help but stare down at her cleavage. The mood has grown more erotic.

  AMANDA: Did you read his last book?

  RICKY: Yeah, it was good, but . . .

  AMANDA: Not that good.

  They laugh. The BARMAN pours the last of the wine. AMANDA speaks flippantly.

  AMANDA: I suppose you’d better go home. Back to . . . whoever.

  RICKY: And if there isn’t a . . . whoever?

  AMANDA: Isn’t there?

  RICKY: We broke up. We had a few good years . . .

  AMANDA: I’m sorry.

  RICKY: It’s one of those things. She’s in LA now. (beat) She’s doing Kevin Spacey’s new film.

  AMANDA gives another involuntary shiver and stares doringly into RICKY’S eyes. There’s a long beat. The clock behind the bar strikes eleven.

  RICKY: Let’s go.

  AMANDA hesitates for the briefest moment, then slides from the bar stool.

  It was quite well written. The Girl was super sexy with her talk of lesbian films and Ricky Simmons was confidently seductive with his name-dropping and sly humour: She’s doing Kevin Spacey’s new film. He’s even older in real life.

  We recorded the second reading, then I was put on the spot having to read that scene from Magnolia where Julianne Moore is buying drugs in the pharmacy and goes ape. That was it. Someone would call me. When I left the office the hopefuls with their little tits and short skirts glared at me.

  ‘How was it?’ one of them asked.

  ‘A nightmare,’ I replied. ‘I was awful. I’ll
never get the part.’

  It’s nice to make people happy, I thought, and went straight to Jean-Luc’s office. He admired my suit, I kept my clothes on, and came away with David’s mobile phone number. Although I believe in discipline, it’s fun, there comes a time when a girl has to take the initiative. I called David later that day. I told him I thought his script was totally brilliant and was thrilled my agent had sent me to the audition.

  ‘I have some ideas for the last scene, something . . . sexy,’ I said.

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘Are you free?’ I asked.

  ‘I have a meeting with Hermann . . .’

  ‘The man from the Film Council?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Then I have to look at today’s auditions . . . you were really good, by the way.’

  ‘Do you do that at home?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’

  ‘Shall I pop round? About nine, or something?’

  ‘. . . er, yeah, OK, why not?’

  ‘Divine,’ I said. ‘Where are you?’

  There was a pause as he realised he’d been manipulated but he gave me the address.

  I dropped the clothes I was wearing among the clothes already carpeting the floor and ran into the shower. I washed my hair, perfumed my parts and showed great resolve not playing naughty games with the shampoo bottle. I was ambling naked around the bedroom taking big sighs and considering the sorry state of my wardrobe when Binky appeared in a matelot shirt and white bell bottoms. Her mouth dropped open and she stared with big eyes.

  ‘Milly, now what?’ she said.