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.
