actor said enthusiastically.
‘So am I,’ she replied evenly. ‘Realize, though, that anticipation is not enough. When we interact on screen it has to be real. We have to generate excitement and passion and longing .’ She paused. He coughed. ‘So,’ she continued matter-of-factly, ‘I believe in working our roles through before we get in front of the camera. That way we are never caught with our pants down – metaphorically speaking, of course.’
He tried for a laugh and wondered why he was beginning to perspire.
‘Let’s make love and get it out of the way,’ she said, her intense brown eyes challenging his.
Who was he to argue? He forgot about his California blonde perfect girlfriend with thirty-six-inch boobs and the longest legs in town.
Clarissa reached over, unzipped his Levis, and they went to work. Even though he was somewhat shell-shocked that he was sticking it to Clarissa Browning. The Clarissa Browning! Who would believe it?!
When they were finished she said briskly, ‘Now we’ll both be able to concentrate and make an excellent film. Just know your lines backwards. Listen to our admirable director, and become the character you’re playing. Live the role. I’ll see you on the set.’
Just like that, he was dismissed.
As the young actor left her dressing room, Clarissa reached for a thermos of vegetable juice and poured herself a small glass of the nourishing liquid. She sipped it thoughtfully. Interaction with her fellow actors, that’s what real theatre was all about. Making love to the young man had put him at ease, given him the confidence he would need for the difficult role. He would no longer be in awe of her – Clarissa Browning – Oscar-winning actress. He would see her as a passionate woman – flesh and blood – and react accordingly! This was very important, although some people would think she was mad if she confided that she always made love to her on-screen lovers. It worked – and she had an Oscar to prove it.
Jack Python would throw a fit if he ever found out. Macho chauvinist. All-male stud. Did he honestly believe she didn’t know about his little dalliances?
She laughed quietly to herself. Jack Python – the man with the wandering cock…
Ah well… as long as it didn’t wander too far. Right now it suited her to have Jack as her permanent lover. Who knew what the future held…
* * *
‘I got a friggin’ heart palpitation yesterday,’ Howard Soloman announced with a grim expression.
‘What?’ Jack wasn’t quite sure he’d heard correctly.
‘My friggin’ heart,’ Howard continued in outraged tones, ‘started bouncin’ around like a ping-pong ball.’
Jack had long ago decided Howard was a hypochondriac. He changed the subject. ‘Where’s Mannon?’ he asked. ‘Is he coming?’
‘Mannon would come every day of his life if he could,’ Howard said slyly.
‘We all know that,’ Jack agreed.
Mannon Cable – movie star, director, producer, hot property (in Hollywood when you’re hot you’re hot, when you’re not you may as well be dead) – made his entrance. As with Jack before him, every pair of eyes swivelled to get a better look. In fact Mannon actually stopped conversation. He was handsome. If you threw Clint Eastwood, Burt Reynolds and Paul Newman into a blender, you would come up with Mannon Cable. His eyes were cobalt blue; his skin sunkissed to a sexy leather brown; his hair a dark, dirty blond; his body powerful. Six feet four inches tall – ‘Every inch a winner,’ he would mock when he made frequent guest appearances on the Carson show.
He was forty-two years old – fit, fast, and right up there box-office-wise with Stallone and Eastwood. Mannon Cable was hitting a peak.
‘Hey – I’m one hungry sonofabitch,’ he said, sliding into the booth. He grinned. He had the I am a big movie star grin down pat. He also had a great set of caps (lost the shine on his originals when he laboured as a stunt man for a couple of
‘So am I,’ she replied evenly. ‘Realize, though, that anticipation is not enough. When we interact on screen it has to be real. We have to generate excitement and passion and longing .’ She paused. He coughed. ‘So,’ she continued matter-of-factly, ‘I believe in working our roles through before we get in front of the camera. That way we are never caught with our pants down – metaphorically speaking, of course.’
He tried for a laugh and wondered why he was beginning to perspire.
‘Let’s make love and get it out of the way,’ she said, her intense brown eyes challenging his.
Who was he to argue? He forgot about his California blonde perfect girlfriend with thirty-six-inch boobs and the longest legs in town.
Clarissa reached over, unzipped his Levis, and they went to work. Even though he was somewhat shell-shocked that he was sticking it to Clarissa Browning. The Clarissa Browning! Who would believe it?!
When they were finished she said briskly, ‘Now we’ll both be able to concentrate and make an excellent film. Just know your lines backwards. Listen to our admirable director, and become the character you’re playing. Live the role. I’ll see you on the set.’
Just like that, he was dismissed.
As the young actor left her dressing room, Clarissa reached for a thermos of vegetable juice and poured herself a small glass of the nourishing liquid. She sipped it thoughtfully. Interaction with her fellow actors, that’s what real theatre was all about. Making love to the young man had put him at ease, given him the confidence he would need for the difficult role. He would no longer be in awe of her – Clarissa Browning – Oscar-winning actress. He would see her as a passionate woman – flesh and blood – and react accordingly! This was very important, although some people would think she was mad if she confided that she always made love to her on-screen lovers. It worked – and she had an Oscar to prove it.
Jack Python would throw a fit if he ever found out. Macho chauvinist. All-male stud. Did he honestly believe she didn’t know about his little dalliances?
She laughed quietly to herself. Jack Python – the man with the wandering cock…
Ah well… as long as it didn’t wander too far. Right now it suited her to have Jack as her permanent lover. Who knew what the future held…
* * *
‘I got a friggin’ heart palpitation yesterday,’ Howard Soloman announced with a grim expression.
‘What?’ Jack wasn’t quite sure he’d heard correctly.
‘My friggin’ heart,’ Howard continued in outraged tones, ‘started bouncin’ around like a ping-pong ball.’
Jack had long ago decided Howard was a hypochondriac. He changed the subject. ‘Where’s Mannon?’ he asked. ‘Is he coming?’
‘Mannon would come every day of his life if he could,’ Howard said slyly.
‘We all know that,’ Jack agreed.
Mannon Cable – movie star, director, producer, hot property (in Hollywood when you’re hot you’re hot, when you’re not you may as well be dead) – made his entrance. As with Jack before him, every pair of eyes swivelled to get a better look. In fact Mannon actually stopped conversation. He was handsome. If you threw Clint Eastwood, Burt Reynolds and Paul Newman into a blender, you would come up with Mannon Cable. His eyes were cobalt blue; his skin sunkissed to a sexy leather brown; his hair a dark, dirty blond; his body powerful. Six feet four inches tall – ‘Every inch a winner,’ he would mock when he made frequent guest appearances on the Carson show.
He was forty-two years old – fit, fast, and right up there box-office-wise with Stallone and Eastwood. Mannon Cable was hitting a peak.
‘Hey – I’m one hungry sonofabitch,’ he said, sliding into the booth. He grinned. He had the I am a big movie star grin down pat. He also had a great set of caps (lost the shine on his originals when he laboured as a stunt man for a couple of
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