Starstruck Romance and Other Hollywood Tails

by Julia Dumont

  “Even better,” he said. “Right this way.” They walked across the room and exited once more into the sunlight, then down a winding stone path to another building. This one was more modern, like a small concrete bunker inset into the hillside. Its roof was covered by the most beautiful flower garden Cynthia had ever seen. They descended a small stairway and entered through an arched door.

  “The screening room,” he said.

  It was dark and blue in there. Dim sconces lined the midnight-velvety walls and the theater seats were the same velvety blue. Everything in the room was elegant and understated, designed to disappear when the lights went out.

  Jack led her to the back row, where they sat on a velvety blue chaise, obviously designed for maximum movie coziness for two.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said, “you’re not kidding.” He pressed a button on the armrest and a panel opened. He typed something in with a few quick keystrokes. The large screen glowed. “Steven believes that whatever else good movies are, they are only as great as their great moments. He has organized all his favorite films into moments, like best fight moments, best inspirational moments, best sex moments, etcetera. Watch this.” He pushed a few more keys. “Best romantic moments. We can just watch it for a minute or two.”

  Talk about romantic moments. Cynthia was fully aware that she was being romanced. She wanted to restate her need to keep their relationship platonic and professional, but the elements of this day——the party, the people, being cast in a movie for god’s sake——were conspiring against her.

  He put his arm around her and they slipped down a bit, getting comfortable, preparing for an ocean of romance to roll over them. And roll it did. The very first scene that came up was from The Apartment, Cynthia’s all-time favorite romantic moment: Shirley Maclaine running through the streets of Manhattan on New Year’s Eve. Next: Chaplin, City Lights. Paulette Goddard, recently having had her eyesight restored by a benefactor whom she had never seen, now realizes it was the little tramp who sacrificed everything for her. North by Northwest, the stolen kiss in the wine cellar. Say Anything, the boom box scene. The moment when Zoey Deschenal kisses Joseph Gordon-Levitt at the copy machine in 500 Days of Summer. Joseph Fiennes unwrapping Gwyneth Paltrow’s forbidden femininity in Shakespeare in Love.

  This was an amazing way to watch movies. Here, at this house, in this theater, sitting next to Jack Stone. This was one of those moments. She felt swept up in it, in spite of herself.

  Jack shut the sound off, but kept the picture running. They turned toward each other. A lock of hair fell down across her face ala Veronica Lake. He reached over, tucked the strand behind her ear, and kissed her forehead. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know what you want. I haven’t even really known what I’ve wanted for a long, long time. That’s why I contacted Second Acts. But I couldn’t possibly find anyone I’d like more than you. I’ve never felt like this in my life.”

  “I know, Jack, I like you too, but . . .”

  She did like him too. She had a burning curiosity about what it would be like to really know him, his body, his mind, and his heart. She had imagined being in that house of his, living that life, but more importantly, it felt like maybe she could really love him. She didn’t know what she’d be feeling if Pete were still in the picture, but he wasn’t. He was gone.

  Jack’s hand was on her cheek, his face so close, their noses gently touched. She didn’t want to want him, but she did. He parted his lips, but spoke instead: “So, what did you want to talk about?”

  “Just about you,” she said. “We need to figure out exactly what you’re looking for.”

  “There’s nothing to figure out,” he said. “I know exactly what I’m looking for.” He kissed her. And it was good. The kind of kiss you think about later and remember forever.

  As adamant as Cynthia was about keeping a professional distance, the physical distance between them had disappeared. Her head could not contact the rest of her. Bathed only in the flickering glow of silent celluloid romance, she felt herself slipping into an unavoidable denouement of a dizzying three-act structure. Act one had started the moment they’d met——their characters developing, their desire growing. Jack had known exactly what he wanted and——plot point one——he decided to get it. Throughout act two there were obstacles——his reputation, other suitors, a policeman, and a crazy mother on the phone——but they were summarily dismissed, overcome, vanquished, and left behind along the road, or high on a mountain top. Act three arrived with the party and, somewhere in there, Cynthia’s dramatic and carnal needs had joined forces with Jack’s.

  They got up and Jack’s clothes were suddenly off. He pulled her close. The rumors were more than true. He pressed his magnificent hard-on gently against her stomach, his heat seeming to melt the thin fabric of her summer dress away. He kissed her neck and shoulder, sliding his hand down, in and out of the small of her back, up and over her bottom to her thigh, pulling her dress up effortlessly, then delving down again under her panties and over her ass. He softly squeezed one cheek just right and held it there for a moment while sending his index finger on a scouting mission, delving gently, firmly into the delicate crevice between thigh and labia. He traced and retraced that lovely spot, never venturing over the lip, but instantly making her warm. And wet. And dizzy. She wondered if she would swoon. Her knees buckled slightly, but he held her firmly with his other arm and she felt confident that he would not let her fall. His fingertips circled around again, teasing the tender line between leg and lust. She felt something she’d never felt before. At first she thought it was his hand, but then realized the difference in their height and the length of his phallus made it possible. His harder-than-hard-on had poked through the opening between two of her dress’s buttons and was nudging, caressing the underside of her left breast. As he slowly eased up onto his tiptoes, it reached her nipple, the meeting a hard and soft slippery kiss . . . lubricated by a generous pre-ejaculatory bead of semen. He was unbelievably adept at this. It was obviously not the first time he’d done it. She was so startled she wanted to back away to see it with her own eyes. But since both of his hands were accounted for——one still threatening to steal home, the other caressing her neck, then her cheek, then her trembling lips——she had all the confirmation she needed.

  Cynthia felt his shaft against her belly, and imagined that length and that breadth inside her. It was something all right . . . like a separate being unto itself, his well-trained partner in this extraordinary assault upon her senses.

  “Baby,” he whispered, “I’ve never felt this way before.”

  This gave her pause.

  He’d said almost the same thing moments earlier and she had sort of believed it the first time. Now, for Cynthia, something was off, not quite right. She didn’t exactly doubt Jack’s sincerity, but it all seemed too inevitable. Calling her Baby had rung untrue. Cynthia realized her hesitation wasn’t even about him really. He was, without a doubt, a magnificent specimen. But during this final countdown, her thoughts had drifted to another place, far away, soaring 20,000 feet above the Pacific Ocean somewhere. Despite all the money and fame and fantastic surroundings, despite Jack being the one and only Jack Stone and all that came with that, Cynthia was thinking of Pete.

  She pictured the freckly kid from high school, someone who wasn’t even really her sweetheart--just a kid she really liked and with whom she shared a wonderfully embarrassing intimate afternoon twenty years ago. And she thought of the grown-up Pete, who she liked even more. Sweet Pete.

  She reached down, intending to gently, politely push Jack away. But in the process, her palm grazed his famously massive missile and he instantly pressed himself more firmly against her, trapping her hand between this rock and hard place. This created the impression that she was grasping it. In fact, she was grasping it, less to further along his agenda and more to just hold it still, to contain it for a moment while she politely explained that she was sorry, but tha
t Cynthia Amas, against all odds, was, that’s right, was turning down the one and only Jack Stone for a second time.

  But there it was. And despite the fact that she had decided not to continue, if truth be told, she was fine with holding onto it, if only for a moment. God, it was impressive. It seemed unreal. In the split second before she spoke, she automatically measured the circumference with her thumb and index finger. It was an unavoidable, instinctual calculation. And a strange sensation. Her thumb and fingertips did not meet. Did. Not. Meet. Again she was tempted to step away and take it in visually in all its glory, but she fought mightily against that impulse. This had to stop. It had already gone too far.

  “Jack,” she whispered, swaying a bit, holding him tightly but matter-of-factly too, trying desperately to sound clinically detached from the phallic phenom her fingers were currently clinging to like a mighty mast in a storm . . . this Moby Dick of dicks, this Titanic of Testosterone, this Rock of Fucking Gibraltar. She eased up on her grip, causing him to sigh ever so slightly, and making her realize that any movement at all would be interpreted as an intentionally erotic gesture. So she just froze where she was, her fingertips resting gingerly upon the head of his penis, the velvet hammerhead . . . business end of the gorgeously mammoth battering ram that would sadly, but necessarily, not be pounding mercilessly upon her castle gate, nor crossing her moat, nor coaxing her sweet surrender. But this too of course made him twitch with pleasure, inhaling quickly, then again and again . . . then releasing the word “Cynthia,” like a man crying out for help, but in a whisper, like someone drowning in a library or church . . . desperate, but full of reverence, almost worship.

  “Jack,” she repeated, “I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible mistake. I can’t do this. I can’t make love to you. I can’t do this to the man I love.”

  “But Cynthia,” he murmured, sliding one hand up and over her hip, to her belly and breast.

  “I know,” she said, gliding her palm back down to the epicenter of his quaking, aching manhood, steadying him momentarily, as if attempting to calm a rocket mid-liftoff. “Listen. I realize this is beyond ridiculous and I’m sorry. But I can help you out. You know, with this.”

  She felt bad about it, but, then again, he would be getting the better end of the bargain. She was as turned on as he was . . . as ready to receive as he was to give. She was dripping for it. Aching for it. But she had decided it wasn’t for her. Not here, not now, not with Jack Stone. She wanted it to be Pete. She wanted the cock in her hand, not to mention in her bush, to be Pete’s.

  She patted Jack’s prodigious pulsating pistol from tip-top to stem to family jewels——a long, hard journey to be sure——as if trying to tame a wildness that was far beyond taming. She was positive about ending things with Jack, but she had never been a cock tease. And at this stage it was becoming cock torture. She was a good person. She felt a sense of responsibility. And she was a big girl. She wasn’t opposed to manually finishing a job she had clearly helped to start. Someone certainly had to do it. And it had all the telltale signs of a temporary term of employment. Not to mention that it would be kind of thrilling to witness. Like New Year’s Eve in Times Square or a moonshot at Cape Canaveral. She and half the world would be more than willing to camp out for this sort of spectacle. Of course, there was also an element of Florence Nightingale to it . . . a selfless willingness to provide urgent care in a dire situation. Like administering first aid to a dying man. Which is what Jack picked up on.

  “Help me out?” he shrieked, pulling away, his locked and loaded love cannon springing from her fingers and thwacking hard against his stomach. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m sorry. That’s the way it is. But really,” she said, touching his chest tenderly with her open palm, “let me at least give you this nice parting gift.”

  He was hurt. But not so hurt to decline what she was offering. In his present state he would have accepted an invitation from anyone or anything.

  And it didn’t take long. Jack shuddered and collapsed onto the theater chaise in a rush of moans and cries and ungodly, quaking howls. It was extremely loud, incredibly close, and unbelievably messy. Cynthia thoughtfully sheltered the immaculate surroundings with the first thing she saw, a pink and black silk ‘50’s-style bowling shirt with the word “Molly” embroidered on the chest.

  Cynthia gazed upon him still writhing in pleasure, his arms wrapped around his chest as if trying to ensure that his upper half wouldn’t explode like his lower half had. She was pleased to have accommodated him. He really was positively Rodinesque to behold and, despite the fact that she was elated to have called whatever they’d started quits, she was also quite happy to have this moment with him. Not just because of the look of angelic bliss that graced his perfect features, nor the post-orgasmic aftershocks still rippling through him from head to toe. It also effectively freed her from the guilt she’d have inevitably felt if she’d simply left him hanging there. A hand job, even one of this size and caliber, is a very small price to pay for peace of mind. Of course, she’d left herself hanging there. She was on fire. She realized she was on the verge of ecstasy herself. She contemplated the possibility of excusing herself to “powder her nose” or “reapply lipstick,” but ended up daydreaming for a moment about Pete instead, the warm ache down below merging with the larger one in her heart.

  Day 2, Chapter 21

  Molly Hannigan, Steven Sternberg’s wife, passing by the theater door, heard what she thought was an animal in distress. She burst into the theater and turned on the lights.

  “Hello! Who is it? Are you all right?”

  “Molly!?” Jack cried, rolling off the chaise and running to her, his legendary phallus still partially erect, bobbing and weaving like a frightened garden snake.

  It took Molly a second to focus on the nature of the scenario that was unfolding before her.

  “Jack? What the hell? Jack? Why are . . . are . . . you . . .” she stuttered, then screamed, “Jack Stone is screwing some nobody in my theater?!”

  “Hold on,” he said, taking her hand, “let’s not be hasty here.”

  “Wait a minute, Jack,” said Cynthia, standing up and crossing her arms across her breasts, “how are your first words not ‘Cynthia is not a nobody!’?”

  “Oh, come on, Cynthia! You know how I feel about you!” cried Jack, putting his arms around Molly, trying to comfort her, as she arched her back, trying to get away, squawking like an ostrich and pounding a drum solo on his chest. “But look at poor Molly here. This is no time to quibble about semantics.”

  Semantics? Poor Molly? Cynthia repeated in her head——stunned, but somehow not surprised. This was Jack Stone. What did one expect? Sure, you can choose to dive into a convenient delusion with someone like him, or Max, but that’s your choice. Ultimately she never really thought it could be any other way. And somehow, unlike Max, Jack still saw himself as innocent. He was so used to women throwing themselves at him, he had rationalized away his role and responsibility. Cynthia realized that he sincerely believed that all the women in his life were at fault. Of course he was fucking his best friend’s wife. She had wanted it. She had asked for it. Like every other woman on the planet. Obviously.

  It was also obvious to Sternberg, who was the next one through the door and whose nose was bleeding profusely, Jackson Pollock-ing all over his vintage Hawaiian shirt. Max was close behind, sporting a big black eye. More guests crowded in the doorway, rubbernecking for a view.

  “Max?” said Cynthia, utterly dumbfounded. “What are you doing here? What happened to your eye?”

  “A Steven Sternberg production,” he said.

  “Yes, well, as it turns out,” said Steven, “I’ve been cuckolded by two——count ‘em, two——of my guests. That I know of anyway.”

  “Wait,” said Jack, releasing Molly from his arms, “Cynthia’s brother was screwing you too?”

  Max, no, everyone, looked at Jack like he was nuts. The impression was exacerbated when
a line of semen dripped from the head of his half-mast monstrosity like a sad, slow-motion, milky teardrop. Everyone stared for a moment as the pearl-like weight of this viscous pendulum dangled at ankle level, dancing in response to Jack’s every gesture.

  “Can someone find this moron some pants?” asked Sternberg. “Or a home castration kit?”

  Max turned to Cynthia. “Listen, darling. Sure, I had a little fling with Molly, here.”

  “A little fling?” shrieked Molly, “You call five years, two months, and eighteen days a little fling?”

  That pretty much stopped all conversation, as everyone in the room considered the precision with which she described their history, while calculating what that history meant to them personally.

  Cynthia smiled. “I feel like I should be taking notes for a tell-all something or other.”

  “Hold on,” said Jack, turning to Max. “You’re screwing Molly and your sister?”

  But Jack was not even on Max’s radar now. Neither was Molly, nor Steven Sternberg. Max was focused on Cynthia.

  “Sin, please, listen to me, “he whimpered with hard-to-believe earnestness. “I’m the one who loves you. Jack Stone is a lying idiot.”

  “No I’m not!” said Jack. “I think I love her too. And at least I’m not screwing my sister!” The guy was genuinely confused.

  Sternberg didn’t know which of them to kill first. He glared at his wife, then Jack. “Stone, you can forget about those two movies in development. They’re gone.” Then he turned to Max. “I’m sorry. Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m your wife’s broker, Mr. Sternberg. Nice to finally meet you.” Even now, under these dire circumstances, the irrepressible Max’s lust for life was still intact.

  It turned out that Steven Sternberg had only discovered that his wife even had a separate broker the night before. It had come to light that a little more than twenty-three million dollars had vanished. Poof.