I feel like an imposter. But it's ok. This isn't actually happening to me. Sitting here, across from Kate Winslet in the outdoor seating area of an upscale Los Angeles café, I figure she can probably hear my heart pounding through my chest. She's chain smoking in a casual summer blouse and designer slacks, her dark red lipstick perfectly unmarred on her full lips. She turns her head occasionally to blow a strand of beautiful auburn hair off her cheek. It smells like herbal shampoo. I can detect the scent of her perfume lingering on the breeze, and it's driving me crazy. I ask her if my writing distracts her, and she shakes her head no. My hands are unsure as I awkwardly place a burgundy cloth napkin on my lap to hide the beginnings of an erection. The sun is shining too brightly in my eyes when I try to look at her, and squinting isn't exactly my most flattering facial expression. I guess you could say I'm nervous.
She's wearing sunglasses that look expensive, and I can see my reflection in them before I lower my gaze. I hear the clinking sound of silverware and delicate plates on metal trays in the background as the serving men and women hurry about their business. There's a gentle hum of cars passing on the street to our right, occasionally punctuated by a honking horn, or someone yelling. Or both. Everyone's always yelling at someone in this city. Thankfully none of the passers-by have recognized her. Yet. That's one of the things about LA. Everyone's either too damn busy or self-important to take any notice of what's going on in the world around them. Too trendy. Too stoned. Or just too jaded. Well, today at least, I'm grateful for that. I feel like I'll be sick if I have to look at anything or anyone right now so I'm keeping a steady focus on my shoelaces and praying that I look like I know what I'm fucking doing. I'm an imposter sitting here though. If anyone would so much as glance at me they'd know it too. 'What's that kid doing sitting with a movie star?' someone must be thinking. 'Does he think he's some kind of reporter or something? He looks like he's about to hurl.' But the mindless herd of fake important people just walk on by.
I'm a journalist major, ok? But this doesn't seem real. My newsletter doesn't get interviews with A-list celebrities, so this obviously isn't happening. My hands are sweaty. My head is spinning. My left shoelaces are slightly longer than my right, and I'm having lunch with Kate Winslet. This is what passes for a professional interview in this city. She's saying something now so I'm forced to look up and meet her eyes. She looks at me in a way that might make some people uncomfortable. It's like we're old friends, perhaps, like we've shared secrets and had sleep-overs. She looks like she wants me, I realize, shocked. I force the notion from my mind, trying to concentrate on my notes.
"...to start?"
"I'm sorry, what was that?" I'm blushing already god dammit.
"I said, we can begin whenever you're ready, Mr..."
"Please, call me Jack."
"Mr Jack." She smiles sweetly at me. I'm already fumbling for words in my head, but nothing comes out straight.
The waiter comes and she orders a salad that's not on the menu and some wine. He's a tall fellow, the waiter, with olive skin and slick black hair. I can see in his eyes that he's asking himself why her face looks so familiar. It'll come to him. The billboards and TV spots might help. I don't think I can eat anything right now, but I order a turkey sandwich to be polite and count myself lucky for the brief interruption, as I pause to collect my thoughts. But what I'm thinking is this; I'm thinking how I used to get off to this picture in a magazine I had of her back in high school, and it's not helping my situation here at all. I mean this is really sad, you know? Here I am, dressed in my best clothes trying to fake my way through the most anxious moment of my life, and the only thing I can think of is that damn photo and the number of times I've sprayed my load over her gorgeous face. The face that's looking at me right now. We watch the waiter take our menus away in silence.
"Are you alright, Jack?" She sounds sincere. And the way she says my name has me thinking "Titanic" and Kate's line 'I'll never let go, Jack.' I can't help but laugh.
"I'm fine, really. Just a little..." I want to cum on your face. "...anxious."
"Would you like to do this another time, maybe?"
"No, please. I think I just need to eat something." I lie.
"God, me too." she declares. "I'd kill for something real to eat. Everything is low-carb nowadays. I'm dieting at the moment, of course, 'cause I'm such a bloody cow." You quickly learn that everyone in Hollywood is on a diet of some form or another.
"Jesus! You're shitting me, Kate. You look amazing." I'm starting to get harder, making a tent of that poor burgundy cloth napkin.
"You just called me Kate." She looks me right in the eyes as she says it and I go numb. Dizzy. I'm wishing I could crawl under the table and hide. I'm starting to really think that this was a mistake coming here, and trying to sputter out an apology, when she laughs and gently touches my arm. "I like that," she giggles, smiling her flawless smile, "it's refreshing." She's touching my arm, and my cock's aching beneath the taut fabric of my corduroys.
She lights another cigarette just before the waiter returns with our food, and I steal a quick glance at the shape of her breasts beneath her shirt, watching them rise softly as she inhales. We're sitting right under a no-smoking sign, but I'm pretty sure the waiter recognizes who she is by now, because he lets it slide without so much as a word. I can just make out the faint impressions that her nipples are making on the front of her blouse before she thanks him in her proper British accent and turns back to me. I avert my eyes hastily, but she might've caught me staring. "So, you wanted to ask me about my last film, yeah?" she says, eying me with a slight eloquent smirk.
"Well..." She's in this new film, right? And everyone who's seen it is saying it's her best role yet. They're saying she'll finally get that Oscar. I'm supposed to ask her all the typical questions. You know, what was it like to work with director so and so? What was the most challenging aspect of the filming process for you? That's the idea here, but the truth is I've already seen the film four times and the review is typed, edited and saved on my PC at home. I'd rather ask her why she chose to have this interview with my small-beans newsletter when the one she did with Rolling Stone is hitting the shelves next month. I'm also far more interested in determining the best way to excuse myself from the table without shooting off in my pants.
She's noticed that something's amiss but covers my falter remarkably well. "Well, I'm starving." she announces, reaching right across the table for my untouched sandwich. She takes a rather large bite and speaks with her mouth full. You're totally allowed to do things like that when you're a celebrity. "God, that's nearly orgasmic." she moans. I notice that I'm suddenly very hungry for that lucky sandwich. "You can't tell anyone that I'm eating this, ok?" She says this as if we weren't sitting outside a fancy restaurant on a public street. I nod, transfixed. Her secrets are safe with me. Someone walking on the other side of the street sees her and points, turning to their friend excitedly, but I'm not paying any attention. I'm having lunch with my high school wet-dream and she's eating my turkey sandwich. And she's staring at my crotch I realize in horror. She's got some mayo on her lip that could pass for a dribble of my cum when I relive this moment in my fantasies, and there's an unreadable expression on her face. I ignore the tingles in my cock as my mind races for a way out of this. Frantically, I search my brain for an excuse of any kind. And then I have it.
"W-What's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you?" I manage to stammer while taking a sip of water and nearly spilling the whole glass in my trembling hands. I'm really trying to be a professional here. She looks up at me, puzzled for a moment, but at least her mind is startled away from my enormous hard-on.
"I...That's the most unusual question I've been asked on an interview in some time." she says, but I notice a smile starting to form on her lips. "But then why else did I agree to this, right?"
"I expect an honest answer" I say, sounding braver than I really feel. In fact, I'm feeling a sudden wave of excited courage come over me.
