Hollywood Coping Mechanism

We were in the car driving back from one of those promotional interviews every actor is subjected to when a new film comes out. Onscreen—playing pretend—he was, as always, electric. Talking about himself—as himself—he was once more the shy little boy who had hidden under his desk when called upon in class. I had accompanied him for moral support, my own obligatory press blitz having recently concluded. 

Tonight had started out with the old standard:  roll clip . . . discuss, banter, self-deprecate. But then I (and “the scene”) came up.

“So, I guess everyone wants to know what you really thought about those steamy scenes your girlfriend shot with her ex,” the host had intoned.  Fuck you, I thought, silently seething. Fuck you for having to bring that up.

He handled it well, giving the pat answer about two people just doing their jobs, even throwing in a joke about how, with our busy schedules, he’d seen me naked more onscreen recently than he had at home. But I could tell it rankled him.

We drove in silence for a while before I slid my hand onto his thigh and dared to ask the question I had been avoiding for so long. I knew he hadn’t been thrilled I’d been cast opposite my ex, but we’d never really discussed it. 

“So . . . is that how you really think of it? Me just doing my job?”

Though his voice was calm, his jaw clenched. His tell. “I couldn’t very well tell that son-of-a-bitch how I really deal with my jealousy, now could I?”

So he was jealous. “How do you?” I asked carefully.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Our relationship was new, untested. “You’ll have love scenes too, with pretty little things, younger and hotter than I am. Maybe I can pick up some tips,” I joked. 

“It’s not like that. I waited so long for you, pined for you even, when you were with him.” He bit off the “him” like it was a curse. “No one will ever take your place . . .”

“So tell me.”

He swallowed hard. “What the hell,” he sighed. “So, I imagine we’re all in bed together.”

I know I looked shocked, but I couldn’t help it. 


“Yeah, you, me . . . him.” There it was again. “Him” as a profanity.

“How does that help?”

“Babe . . .”

“Tell me.”

He sighed again. “I let him take his turn with you first.”

“You let him? I don’t have any agency in this scenario?”

“I told you you might not like this.”

“Okay.” I lied.

“He gets his turn, and he satisfies himself using your body. Once he’s finished, I can tell it’s been the ride of a lifetime for him. Fucking one of the most beautiful women in the world. He’s so self-satisfied. He’s like:  ‘I had her first, now you’re welcome to my sloppy seconds.’”

I cringed. He noticed. “I don’t have to go on. I don’t want to go on if this hurts you.” 

I shook my head. I needed to know how this fantasy played out.

“He raises himself on his elbow and watches as I pull you to me. Your body is hot against mine, and you smell of him, of his lust. But the way you press yourself into my hip, babe, grinding against me—and you’re not wet, not slick—I know you need me.”

“I let my hand brush down your body until I find your pussy, and when you open yourself to me, I slide a finger in. I want to finger you, make you come on my hand, but first I have to get rid of all traces of him. Not that it’s hard—despite his bravado, his seed hasn’t made it that far.”

“So I claw him out of you. His ugly clot of cum. And once his soldiers are dispensed with to die on the sheets, I put my finger back in, and find your spot, all swollen and begging for release. You arch your back as I caress it, tease it, so I give you another finger and you reward me by clutching around my hand, trapping me until I’ve pleased you.”

“Your breathing changes, and you strain against my hand, silently begging me to stretch you even further. So I do, and now all my fingers are in you, and I feel you begin to flow, coating my fingers in your arousal as they play your spot—circling, pressing, thrusting—until I feel you tense, then slacken, your nipples rigid against my side, and the flow becomes a cascade.”

I squirmed a bit in my seat. His words were igniting a fire where he imagined his fingers as being. He glanced my direction. Decided to continue.

“I slowly remove my fingers and suck them into my mouth, making sure he sees how slick they are—how I’ve done what he couldn’t do.”

“But I want more. I want to drink you in, the essence of your body, flowing just for me. So I ease you to your back, and run my hands down each of your thighs, spreading you wide, your pussy throbbing red . . . glistening . . . pulsing . . . inviting me to feast.”

“I position myself between your thighs, and as I do, I can see him. Smug. Smug because he’s comparing, playing that locker room game of superiority. And I’m not measuring up.”

“He’s hard again. Watching us has made him hard, and he’s idly stroking himself, thinking he’s twice the man I am because I’m only partially erect. And he still doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get that pleasuring you is what makes me hard. And I’m not done pleasuring you yet.”

Yes, I was undeniably on fire, and it was spreading. My nipples tightened as he spoke, my fingers gripped harder on his leg. I noticed there was less slack in the material covering his thigh—his cock bulging, straining the fabric.

“So I lower myself to taste you. To bathe in your nectar while I tease you back to the precipice. Licking and sucking . . . taking your clit between my teeth . . . pulling and making it hard, hard so it stands up beneath its hood and I can dance my tongue over it. Taking you right up to the edge . . .  the edge where it’s too much, it’s too sensitive, and you try shoving my head away. But I won’t release you. Not until you come, and bless me with another torrent to greedily suck down, drenching my tongue, my lips, my chin.”

“And when I raise myself up . . . hover above you as you grasp at me . . . needing me to give you a taste of yourself . . . needing me to bite at your neck, your ears, your breasts . . . needing me to fuck you. That’s when he sees it. My cock—massive, dwarfing   his—the only thing that will ever satisfy you. And it’s aching, weeping for its turn with you.”

“So I throw your legs over my shoulders and give both of us what we want. And he, finally knowing he’s the one who’s less than, slinks away.” He paused, his voice husky. “And that’s how I deal with seeing you onscreen in bed with him.”

“Jesus,” I whispered. “Pull over.”


“Pull over,” I commanded.

“I’m sorry . . .”  he started, thinking he had upset me, as he pulled the car over to the shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” 

I was out of my seatbelt and into his lap, fumbling at his belt, before he had even fully shifted into park.