ArchiValerie: July 2006

Ok, since I suck at revising, I've just been trying to write things a chapter at a time and then I'll go back and revise (mostly to cut out shit I'll most likely repeat). So yeah, here's the second chapter of my current project. Note: I changed the name of the lead actor from Phil (which sort of distressed the guy I based him off of) to the more obviously Jewish David.

“David, the Lead Actor: Take Two”

Midterms suck, that’s all there is to it. I didn’t even want to bother going to class that week, let alone go to filming at night, especially since after the weather got colder, the outdoor shoots had long stopped being fun. Still, in between writing papers for my English classes and studying for my intro to East Asian Culture midterm, I was out there in the cold along with the other disgruntled cast and crew members. What is even more amusing about the weather situation is that the entire movie is supposed to take place over two days at the end of summer. Cameron even had to write in some bullshit dialogue for the “zombie expert” addressing the leaves changing color and eventually completely falling off the trees.

EXT. MAIN QUAD—NIGHT

SAMANTHA

(rubbing arms)

Brr. It’s cold out here. There must be some evil in the atmosphere.

SAMANTHA claps her hands rhythmically and does a high kick as ZOMBIE EXPERT and CARL stare at her in disbelief.

CARL

So anyway, yeah, what’s the deal with that?

ZOMBIE EXPERT

(in painfully obvious fake British accent)

I’ll explain, but I don’t think you’re going to like it…

Cut to shot of ZOMBIE HORDE lurking through trees with people throwing MASSIVE AMOUNTS of LEAVES and STUFFED ANIMALS at them from off camera.

ZOMBIE EXPERT (cont’d v.o.)

Samantha, you’re not entirely wrong in your deduction, as banal as it may seem. In order to harness their undead strength to the fullest potential, zombies must drain the life of everything around them, including plants, small squirrels, and other landscape features.

Cut back to SAMANTHA, CARL, and ZOMBIE EXPERT on QUAD.

SAMANTHA

(shudders in horror, clinging to CARL)

Oh God! Those poor squirrels!

“And cut! Perfect!” Cameron gave a thumbs-up and switched off the camera.

“Finally.” Lisa muttered as I threw the flannel blanket over her shoulders. “David, where’s your flask?”

“No drinking!” Cameron shouted and then pointed at me. “You. Make sure she doesn’t drink at all tonight. I want her clear and coherent for the kidnapping scene.”

“Aye-aye captain.” I rolled my eyes and gave him the one-finger salute. Sometimes I wondered if I didn’t sleep with him later that year, would Cameron have ever even remembered my name? I reached in Carl’s jacket pocket and took the vodka. “Give me that damn flask.”

After I took a swig of the vile liquid (David was a cheap bastard), I handed it to Lisa. “Take it easy though. Just drink enough to keep you warm…or at least trick you into thinking you’re warm.”

“Thanks Mom.” She wryly smiled and took a swig before giving it back to David.

“You fucking bitches drank the last of my vodka.” Maybe David had a right to be indignant, but he was the only member of the cast allowed to wear a coat, just to maintain his “anti-heroic” image, I suppose.

I usually didn’t bother with a coat since when I’d run around getting or setting up things, I’d get so hot that a coat would just be one more thing to carry. However, during the downtime in filming, as another production assistant put it, it was “so cold my nipples are going to fall off.” If anybody notices the shadows or light wavering in the background while watching the film, that would be because I was shaking from the cold despite the heat radiating off of the cheap lighting rigs.

During the day, however, I played the part of the mild-mannered college student: going to class and trying to stay awake in large lecture halls with the heater either broken or on overdrive, choking down prison-grade cafeteria food and typing at my computer. More often than not, I was typing at somebody via AIM as opposed to typing a paper.

David [2:42 p.m.]: I’m horny

Me: and this is my problem because?

David: wanna fuck?

I had to give the guy credit for being forward. It certainly beat having a guy pretend like he was interested in a relationship with me when in all truth, he just wanted a reliable fuck. Then again, I had class in almost fifteen minutes. After either sleeping through or skipping most of the lectures, I couldn’t really afford missing out on class right before the next paper assignment.

Me: I’ve got class.

David [2:44 p.m.]: quit being such an apple polisher and just come the fuck over. I’ll be here until 4.

I slammed my laptop shut before grabbing my bookbag and running out the door. The next fifty minutes sitting in class were horrible. I had forgotten to put my American Literature anthology book in my bag, so I had to look at the passages from the book of the guy next to me. The plus side was that it gave me an excuse to lean in closer to him since I had had a crush on him since the first class I had with him a year ago. The downside was that this was probably the fifth time I had asked the same favor that semester. There was also the matter of that voice in my head. You know, the evil one who tells you to do all the things you know you shouldn’t even want to do, let alone actually go through with doing. I like to call her Vivian.

“Come on, he does have a point about you being a goody-goody. What did you get on your last paper? An A?” I could practically see her there in a bright scarlet, tight-fitted dress with a slit all the way up to the thigh sitting beside me with one arm around my shoulders.

“An A-.” I gritted my teeth as I “thought” my seething rage at her.

“Well, there you go. You’ll most likely do better on this paper since you’ve been particularly enthusiastic in discussion section lately.” She cooed slightly while making her insinuation of my growing attraction to the guy sitting next to me, an attraction which had resulted in an unusual interest in Hawthorne’s idea of sin in discussion the week before. “So why don’t you just sneak on out of class and head over to David’s…you have been getting antsy lately, right? Midterm week grinding down on you, pushing those urges to the surface after too many coffee-filled nights alone; just you and the laptop and Whitman…although I don’t think old Walt could do that thing with his tongue that David could…”

“Stop.” I blinked, and she was gone. “Fine. I’ll go after class.”

For the fifteen minutes remaining in that class period, instead of falling asleep as usual, I found myself fidgeting in my seat, constantly shifting which way my legs were crossed. I was tweaking like the one time I drank about seven cups of coffee to give me the push I needed to write a twelve page paper on the Gothic double in Poe’s short stories the semester before.

If I actually bought into the theories of that coke-headed quack Freud said about the id, ego and superego, then I was convinced that Vivian was my id. She was awfully hungry and horny a lot of the time. If she was my id, then whatever was constantly yelling “what are you doing?” in my head while the wind beat my face with ice pellets was probably my superego. Still, like my roommate Beth, my own good sense and conscience wasn’t exactly the best at keeping me at bay.

“Yo.” David gave me a nonchalant head-nod as he let me in. Sometimes I wondered if he used the “yo” or “’sup” purely out of postmodern irony or if he really was that skeezy.

“Hey.” I dropped my backpack on the floor. Before the door closed behind him, he pushed me onto the bed.

Maybe it was my midterm-week antsyness or maybe it was just the fact that I was still wearing my black wool pea coat with his heater turned up, but I was burning. Either that, or it was the intensity (whether imagined or not) of the situation. Literally, it wasn’t a case of “he had my clothes off without so much as a ‘hello’” since there was the obligatory “yo.” However, I never experienced anything like that before. In all truth, I think I felt even hotter with each article of clothing removed. Fortunately, despite my befuddled state, David wasn’t wearing his usual suit, but a more laid back t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. As soon as I undid the drawstring and pushed the pants past his ankles, he seemed to “spring into action,” as it were. In other words, he didn’t seem to like wearing underwear when he was just chilling in his room listening to music. I think that afternoon, he had Absolution by Muse on his computer playlist. We got started right around the second track, “Time is Running Out,” which seemed oddly appropriate for the situation.

Once again, I was lying on his bed naked, with David pinning my arms above my head. He was naked save for the t-shirt I couldn’t get off. It seemed that his patience had completely worn once he stripped me. Even though it was a winter afternoon, there was still a substantial amount of gray light streaming in through his blinds. I felt even more vulnerable than I had that night about a month ago, perhaps because I didn’t have the shield of inebriation to protect me. I felt his weight bearing down, mostly on my wrists, but also where our hips met. David forced my legs apart with his knees, and without so much as a kiss, he rammed his cock in completely. No foreplay=no natural lubrication=fucking ouch.

I couldn’t look anywhere except into those intense hazel eyes of his as he pounded me into the bed. He was a non-blinking fuck machine. I’ll never be able to explain exactly why I was so drawn to him. Maybe it was that look. He gave me the same looks when we were on set before and after the first encounter. It wasn’t a look of longing or any particular fondness. At first, I was convinced that he hated me for being an incompetent production assistant, despite my knowing that that was a completely unfounded insecurity. After awhile, I realized that he was sizing me up the same way I eventually did to him. I used to look at him wondering if he liked it better on top (which he did) and which of his buttons I would have to push for optimal effect (the spot behind his ear and the small of his back).

After awhile, I couldn’t even look at David when we were on set together. I had the naïve notion that I could turn invisible at will, that if I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me. I was also paranoid that someone else would notice the way he and I looked at each other and draw a fitting conclusion. The looks he gave me said so much despite the fact he never said more than two words to me on set. His eyes would scan, lingering on occasion in a couple of places as if the layers of fall clothing I had were completely nonexistent. When we made eye contact, it felt like he was asking me if I wanted to sneak off to another room to fool around while the others could set up lighting, the job I usually did. I would usually return the glare in challenge, as if I didn’t believe he would actually have the balls to do it. Sometimes hunter, sometimes prey, but either way, I did not want to be the topic of discussion as soon as I walked back to my dorm for the night after filming. At first, I attempted to only go to filming on nights when I knew Cameron was shooting scenes which didn’t need David, which were few and far between. I got a bit guilty after reading his away messages which often begged and pleaded for anybody who was “even available just for an hour” to come to filming. So, I usually went, and tried to be as quiet and invisible as possible, creeping around door frames during indoor shoots and around trees during outdoor shoots when I wasn’t setting up the light box or putting gore makeup on the zombie extras. Fortunately, it worked since David and Cameron spent most of the time talking to each other. After all, we were working on a film. I don’t think anybody knew about any of my indiscretions unless I had mentioned it off hand much later.

However, when David and I actually were alone together, as was the case here in his room, I could afford to take a little more liberties in playing my part. After a little bit more of David staking his position in the seemingly unending power play between us, I decided that I wanted to shift things and be on top, but of course, I could hardly do anything about it in my position. He even pinned me down further by moving my arms down at my side and bearing his full weight on top of me. At this point, he had been fucking me at a maniacal speed and I could feel the heat of his chest searing his sweat-soaked t-shirt to my skin. It felt like the more I struggled, the more he pushed against me. Two could play at this game. I locked my legs around his, thrusting my hips upward, riding him in reverse. This did two things: 1) it caused even further penetration along with the right alignment to simultaneously hit my clitoris, and thus resulted in my first actual orgasm by his hand, or cock, more accurately; and 2) caught him off guard enough so I could roll him onto his back and get on top.

“You fucking bitch…” I heard him mutter under his breath.

“Come on, you were losing steam anyway.” I smirked, pinning his arms over his head. “Let’s see how you like it.”

“Just shut up and ride me already.” He wrenched loose and grasped my hips with his hands.

I sat up and leaned back, undulating my hips to match his guidance. Since I generally don’t like people telling me what to do, I started slowing down the faster he wanted me to go. I could tell he was about to come because he had stopped looking at me, but I wasn’t about to let him off that easy. His hands wandered from my hips up the sides of my body to cup my breasts. His left hand continued wandering to grasp my neck. For that moment before his hand started moving again, I was terrified, but somewhat exhilarated at the idea that he was one of those guys who got off by strangling girls during sex. I felt his fingers grasp through my hair before tracing my cheek. David ran his thumb along my lips before slipping it inside. As I bit his thumb, I could feel my own climax building. The stretch in my legs stung, but it was worth it to get his cock as far inside me as possible. I could have gone for the quick explosive orgasm, but that most likely would have set him off as well. Instead, I went for the slow, aching burn. I started to moan despite myself, considering I don’t really want guys to know if I orgasm or not. Let them sweat out their own sense of inadequacy.

At this point, David had had enough of my teasing. He took my wrists, sat up and bent me backwards on the bed. Gasping, I knew I wasn’t going to have the slow burn I wanted, or much of anything but the old in-and-out routine until he got off. When I opened my eyes, I saw his lips curved wickedly, eyes gleaming in the fading afternoon light from the blinds. He pressed against me again, pinning my arms to the bed as he kissed me.

David bit my earlobe and growled, “I’m gonna come” before releasing my wrists to support himself on his arms. I already came once, but I still wanted more from him. It didn’t look like I was going to get anything more from him that day. For one thing, I don’t care what you’ve read, but the simultaneous orgasm just doesn’t happen. D.H. Lawrence lied. Maybe this occurs in some wonderful parallel universe where women always have orgasms and men can experience multiple orgasms in one sexual encounter without stopping for the refractory period. In this universe, the simultaneous orgasm doesn’t exist, at least not for me. If the guy was at least mildly courteous, he’d wait for me to get off before finding his own release. If the guy was fantastic beyond all reason (which was rare), then he’d see how many times he could get me to come before getting off. In David’s case, as in most general cases in my life, I had to take what I wanted from him before letting him finish up. I generally didn’t like it when guys would come inside me so I’d either insist on condoms or suck them off, but David caught me by surprise.

David emitted something halfway between a sigh and a grunt, perhaps to try to maintain some sort of masculine composure. I have to admit, I prefer it when the guy makes some sort of sound during sex. Otherwise I have no idea if he’s done yet. Even with the wrinkling of the forehead, tightly shut eyes, creasing of the brow and drop of the jaw, sometimes it’s hard to tell if he’s there or just almost there. When he collapsed on top of me, I could feel his heart racing, the sweat still hot on his t-shirt. By this point, I had already cooled off, so I pushed him off of me, grabbed a handful of tissues from his bedstand and cleaned myself off before dressing.

Still naked from the waist down, David took a cigarette from the crumpled pack of Parliaments on his bedstand and lit it as it stood at attention between his lips. He said nothing as I walked out the door. I don’t think he even looked at me.