Not In My Wildest Dreams (Dream Series)

by Isabelle Peterson

  “Uh-huh. I was kind of a tease. That wasn’t very nice.”

  I glanced sideways at the bed. “No, that wasn’t very nice.” I ran a finger along her jaw and down her neck and continued until my finger reached between her breasts…her gorgeous, round breasts “How can you make it up to me?”

  Her eyes traveled down my chest and abs. I watched her chest heave as her breathing grew heavier. When her eyes reached the top of my pants, she licked at her lips. Fuck! She wants to give me head! And I didn’t even ask. And after she was so ‘put out’ when I mentioned it the other day, calling me a Jackass. Hell yeah I was gonna let her do it.

  When she looked up at me, I glanced down at the top of my pants. She took the hint and went to work undoing the button and zipper, then dropped to her knees. She tugged down my jeans and her small, soft hands took hold of my huge, hard cock as it sprang from its confines.

  “Commando, huh?” she asked, noting that I hadn’t any underwear on.

  Truth was, I’d run out of clean ones and had to figure out how to do laundry yet, but she seemed turned on by it, so I played it off. “You know,” I said shrugging. “The ‘big guy’ needs to breathe.”

  She got right to work and sucked me off, working me good. But just as my balls started to tighten and I was ready to explode, she pulled my dick out of her mouth and pumped it with her fist until I came all over her neck and tits. Holy. Fuck! That was so hot!

  “I should probably get cleaned up. I can’t go back to the desk like this.” She untied her shirt and dropped it to the floor, then with her back to me, slid her shorts over her ass, and continued naked into my shower. Needless to say, I joined her for my first shower fuck. God, I loved being out from under my parents roof.

  Stephanie and I played all sorts of wicked little games, and just when I’d started thinking that Stephanie and I were an item, her boyfriend came home. He’d been gone for ten weeks to basic training for the Army. And when he came back, he brought a ring. He fucking proposed to Stephanie right in the motel lobby. Just my luck that I was getting a bucket of ice at that time to witness the whole sappy proposal. She quit the next day.

  It was fine. Really. I didn’t have the time for a girlfriend anyway. Especially one as high maintenance as Stephanie.

  CHAPTER 4

  September 1979

  Three months later, I was still living in the cockroach infested motel. The residents were mostly a mix of freshly divorced old guys, sleazy business types who were also cheating on their wives, and a few women—one of whom I was more than a little convinced was a hooker, and not the young, hot, hard-body kind either. She was always touching me and trying to get me to invite her in, but truthfully, she smelled like booze and Ben-Gay, and her saggy boobs didn’t do it for me. My neighbor was this guy named Gerry. He was a vet from the Vietnam War and was having a tough time getting a full time job. He said he was a drifter and hoping to find the right gig. I thought the problem was bigger than that, but I didn’t dare say a word. He was usually polishing his guns and grumbling. All I needed was to piss him off and have him unload a handgun at me. All in all, I couldn’t complain. I was staying without paying.

  Because my repair guy gig at the dumpy motel of messed up misfits didn’t pay, just gave me a place to live for free, I followed Denise’s advice and got a job at a diner, but could only get hired as a bus boy. I’d hoped it would be like Mel’s Diner on the TV show Alice. In some ways, the job was similar, the head cook was rude and gruff like Mel, but the waitresses weren’t nearly as funny. They were nice though, so that was something. The money wasn’t great. In fact, it sucked.

  I got by on cheap plates at the diner, and the tiny paycheck covered my costs of getting into the city—but barely. On my days off, two a week, I was able to make it into the city to visit modeling agencies and try to get ‘representation’ so that I could get a good paying gig and get out of the nightmare that had become my life. I never thought I’d miss my crappy job stocking shelves at Thompson’s Market. I was missing home more and more as the weeks passed. But I couldn’t go home a failure.

  Today was one of my days off, so I was headed into the city. I parked my truck for ten bucks, which left three bucks in my pocket, and made my way to an agency that had been referred to me last week. It was a newer agency, supposedly put together by some big players from established agencies that came together to create this new company, WMW Models, Inc.

  I walked up to the desk and signed in as I had grown accustomed to doing. The secretary looked up and smiled. “Headshots?” she asked.

  I handed her my envelope.

  The receptionist slid the photos out of the envelope. “You have just the test session?” she scowled.

  I shrugged. “Yeah.” Denise was great. She’d gotten permission for me to use a few of my test shots as headshots, but the reprints were not cheap. One day, I’d have to find a photographer and get a real set of shots, but at the moment, I didn’t have the money.

  “Have a seat and fill this out.” She handed me my envelope and a clipboard with the standard fill-in-the-blank sheet of basic info. I took my seat along with the other hopefuls. I surveyed the others with their fat portfolios of work and, again, felt like a fish out of water.

  A half an hour later I was about ready to ditch the place when I was called.

  “Hi, Jack, I’m William,” he said, escorting me into his office. He was a tall man, almost my height and dressed all in black, and had a beard that made him look like one of the BeeGees. He took his seat behind a large wooden desk. There was nowhere for me to sit, so I stood there nervously as William looked at my photos and read over my stats sheet.

  “This says you’re six foot four?” he asked, looking me up and down.

  “Yeah,” I nodded.

  “Have you ever done runway?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Let me see you walk,” he said leaning back in his chair.

  Nervously, I straightened up and walked from one side of the room to the other. I felt as stupid as all get out.

  “Walk to the door, turn and come back,” he instructed, folding his hands together and pointing his index fingers up and tapping them on his chin.

  Was this guy trying to look at my ass? I thought nervously. Most of the time, I walked into the office, the guy or gal looked at my stats and photos and said ‘Thanks, we’ll keep you in mind,’ they kept my photos and I left. I never had to walk around.

  “Again. Less movement in your arms and shoulders, this time. Stare straight ahead, no emotion.”

  I repeated the little walk to the door and back to his desk. He narrowed his eyes and nodded.

  “What other jobs do you have lined up in the next couple of weeks?”

  “Just bussing tables and the repairs at the motel.” He looked at me blankly. “At The Corner Diner and the motel I’m staying at in Hoboken,” I explained, pointing at my stats sheet.

  “I’m talking about modeling jobs.”

  “Oh, um—” I stammered, feeling about two inches tall. “Nothing,” I got out. “At the moment,” I added hastily.

  “So, here’s the deal. You need some coaching, but I think you’ll be a good match for walking with Rebecca. I need you to clear your schedule for this week to work with the team, next Tuesday is the fitting, and the show will be Friday night. If it goes well, there’s another show the following weekend. The pay isn’t camera work, but it’s something. You get paid after the show. No advances. It’ll get your résumé started at least. And you’ll have some photos to add to these test shots.”

  I stood shocked. I’d just gotten a booking. I was being hired for my first modeling gig. Three months of twice a week coming into the city, visiting five or six agencies every week and I was finally getting a shot. I didn’t know how to react. “Right on! Thank you, sir,” I said extending my hand to shake his and seal the deal.

  “Don’t thank me yet, kid. Runway is no picnic. See you at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Get plenty of rest, you’re
gonna need it.”

  I laughed inside, thinking to myself, Walking? How hard can it be? But I schooled the sarcasm and said, “Yes, of course. Ten o’clock. I’ll be here.”

  William pulled out papers, rattling off some contract jargon, which all seemed fine to me. I signed a three month contact, to be reviewed at the end of the term. I left the office committing the date to memory: Tuesday, September 18, 1979. My first modeling gig was booked. I was on my way.

  I got cocky with the booking and went to the diner and turned in my notice. It wasn’t two weeks, but the manager of the diner said he understood. He’d known that I’d come to New York to do just this. The waitresses were gushing and telling me they’d look for me in magazines and billboards.

  At the motel, I told the manager I wouldn’t be able to do any repairs for the next couple of weeks on account of the gig. He said he’d have to start charging me rent again. My savings was nearly gone, but I was about to get a paycheck, so I didn’t care.

  CHAPTER 5

  I showed up on time that Wednesday morning to work with the ‘team’ William mentioned. They had me walking, posing, stopping, turning, doing all sorts of queer stuff to show off clothing. I felt like a complete dork. Three days of working with this team, and every night I went home exhausted.

  The following Tuesday I showed up for the fitting and felt like the biggest moron that walked the planet. They tested all sorts of colors and outfits ultimately deciding on three different looks, each outlandish and something that you would never be caught dead in on the streets or in a club. The tailor made markings and adjustments while I stood there like a god-damned mannequin.

  Out of nowhere, a tall, beautiful blonde walked up to us with absolute conviction of her importance. I recognized her instantly from magazine covers and billboards. Strangely, I no longer felt six-four. She was almost as tall as I was, bossy, and freakishly intimidating to everyone around her. “They’ve paired us up. Lemme see your walk,” she ordered, crossing her arms in front of her.

  The man marking the bottom of the pants moved back so I could walk for this Amazon woman before me. With the team I’d been working with for the past few days in my head, I took several paces, turned, posed, and walked back to the blonde.

  She looked me up and down through narrowed eyes. “Now with me.”

  I put my arm out for her and she took it. We marched, I stood back to let her pose, I did my thing, she took my arm and we marched back.

  “Hmm,” she huffed. “I think they got it right this time. See you Friday.”

  And as quickly as she arrived, she turned and left. The tailor went back to working on my pants as if a six-foot tornado hadn’t just spun around this space. “What the hell was that?” I said.

  The tailor shook his head, “Rebecca Campbell. One of a kind.”

  On Friday, I showed up an hour early to the address William gave me for the runway show. After meeting Rebecca Campbell for less than two minutes the other day, I was in no way gonna piss her off. But wouldn’t you know it, she was a full two hours late to the event causing quite a buzz among the coordinators and other models. When she finally showed, she was clearly drunk and her eyes were red. I started to freak out. She was tanked and if she fell, surely everyone would blame me. I’d be back on the highway to Colorado before you could say ‘runway.’ Her manager was fuming, and whisked her off muttering about needing a miracle worker.

  We ran the dress rehearsal runs, but Rebecca wasn’t on the stage with me. I had to make like she was there which was so beyond awkward. I was starting to panic, but William told me I’d done well, that Rebecca was a “consummate professional,” and we’d be fine. I had nothing to go by, so I just prayed for the best at show time.

  Not sure what they did to clean her up. A lot of Visine for her eyes, I guessed. And I could smell the coffee and mint mixed with booze on her breath. Ultimately, the show went off without a hitch. Rebecca played the crowds like a pro, even giving me the center stage for my own applause. I had mixed feelings about the whole thing. There was a certain excitement about walking in front of people applauding and hundreds of flashbulbs going off in my face, but it was also rather terrifying, because all of those flashes made you rather blind. I thought back to the photo session with Pierre taking the test shots, and as awkward as that was, it was more comfortable than the live show.

  After the hoopla, back in my own clothes, I was talking to a few of the other models about heading out to get something to eat. I was starving and totally up for it when Rebecca’s manager came up to me.

  “Jack Stevens. Nice to meet you formally. William was right with this one. Gotta hand it to the man,” she said, grinning. “Frannie DiMarco,” she said, introducing herself, sticking her hand out to me, which I took and shook. “I’m Miss Campbell’s manager. Do you have a sec?”

  I looked around to see the other models stare. Some were clearly pissed, a couple were in awe. “Uh, sure,” I muttered. “I’ll catch you guys another time,” I said to the group and followed Frannie to a quiet corner.

  “So, William says you’re living in Hoboken?” she asked. Man these model industry people sure were interested in my living conditions.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you like it?”

  I scoffed, “No. It’s sh—I mean, I’ve stayed in nicer places.”

  “What is your lease like?”

  “I’m week to week.”

  “Did you secure next week yet?”

  I shook my head ‘no’. “I usually sign for the next week on Saturdays.”

  She nodded. “I have an idea. Would you mind a roommate?”

  “No, I guess not,” I shrugged, confused. Surely she wasn’t suggesting…

  She turned on her heel and I got the notion I was supposed to follow her, so I did.

  I quickly caught up to her and she led us into a lounge where Rebecca sat on a bright yellow leather sofa. She had small headphones on her head and a small device that looked like it was playing a cassette tape, with the word WALKMAN scrawled on the front of it, sitting on her lap. The music was blaring so loudly through the ridiculously small headphones that I could hear it from the doorway. I recognized the song as being one of ABBA’s. Jenny and her friend, Suzie, used to listen to those records all the time.

  Frannie walked up to Rebecca and pulled the headphones off her head. “Would you consider him?”

  Consider me for what? She was the roommate?

  “Of course you’d bring a guy,” Rebecca shot back to Frannie.

  Rebecca cocked an eyebrow and looked me up and down. I looked her over as well. She was beautiful. Her skin was bright and smooth. Her eyes were an interesting light brown, and almost clear, except for a trace of the redness and puffiness from crying. They reminded me of a necklace that Jenny used to wear. She said it was amber or something like that. Rebecca’s blonde hair was sleek and pulled back into a long pony-tail now.

  She stood and I swallowed hard. This was so bizarre. I felt like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone and that Rod Sterling was going to pop out of the hallway.

  “Tell me about yourself,” she said calmly.

  I had no idea what was happening. I looked from Frannie to Rebecca and back to Frannie. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here—”

  “Apparently I need a babysitter, or excuse me, a roommate,” Rebecca interrupted herself rolling her eyes at Frannie. “Do you have a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?” she asked.

  I almost fell over. A boyfriend? Was she serious? Rebecca sat tapping her foot at me waiting for an answer. “Right now I’m single. But girls, all the way, man.”

  “Forget it.” Rebecca said and took her seat back on the yellow leather sofa and slipped her headphones back on.

  Frannie turned to me and said, “Can you give us a minute? There’s a kitchen across the hall. Help yourself to whatever you want.”

  “Uh, sure.” I backed out of the room and went in search of the kitchen. I was starving, so it was a good thin
g. And I wasn’t going to have to pay for it, which was even better. But the kitchen was a major disappointment. The fridge only had fruits and veggies and some Sweet & Low Yogurt. Even the drinks were girly. Pink cans of TaB cola, uh – no thank you. Boyfriend. Is that what I’m going to have to put up with if I do this modeling thing? Pussy food and people thinking I was some homo?

  I swallowed my pride and grabbed a couple of carrot sticks and sat in a chair wondering if any of this made sense. I was supposed to be a fourth generation rancher and here I was sitting as a model after a runway show in New York City. I had been getting my picture taken by a guy who clearly digs other guys. I’m eating fucking carrot sticks, and considering drinking a can of TaB.

  Just then Rebecca walked into the kitchen and stood in front of me. “Fine you can move in.”

  “What if I don’t want to move in?” I shot back. I glanced behind her and saw Frannie looking at me. She placed her hands in front of her like she was praying I would say yes. What in the hell was going on here?

  “Look. It’s free. It’s clean. I’m clean. You better be.”

  Frannie nodded her head at me.

  “Where do you live?” I asked.

  “Park Avenue. You in, or what?”

  “Are you serious? I have to get my truck and my stuff.”

  “My building doesn’t have parking. You’ll have to get rid of your truck.

  “I’m not getting rid of my truck.”

  “Aw, fuck! Are you for real?” she groaned.

  I didn’t know how to answer that. For starters, nothing felt real right now. I’d just done my first real modeling gig, a fucking runway show, and now I was talking to a super-model. One loaded with attitude. Attitude I used to have in Colorado. I stood, my face set. I was not backing down. I’d had enough of this shit.

  “Fine, if you want to throw away fifty bucks or more a day parking your precious truck, that’s your business. But my building doesn’t have parking.” She turned to a drawer in the kitchen and pulled out a small note pad and pencil. She started writing furiously on it. “Here’s my address and phone number—in case you get lost. See you tomorrow,” she said, thrusting the piece of paper at me.