Everybody Comes to Hollywood

PART 4: Hollywood Ending

***

"Ughh..."

"Ohh...."

"Ughh..."

"Fuck me..."

"Ughh..."

"Aaahhhh! I'm coming! I'm coming! Come with me!"

Andrea's body went rigidly still atop me, her head thrown back, her spine arched so that her firm tits thrust forwards, hot sweat mingling with my saliva upon her nipples, and her flat stomach stretched taut. For a moment she was a statue frozen in ecstasy, unmoving, her mouth gaping in a silent scream.

And then the statue began to tremble, pulsing shockwaves carrying up her body from below. Increasing and increasing in power and violence until her whole body was shaking, an effect not lost upon my shaft embedded inside of her.

And then I was geysering up inside of her, her hips quivering as she felt me exploding within her walls. My own arms were trembling as I held my grip tightly upon her hips and ass-cheeks. Her clear, violet eyes were shining brightly, a tear forming in the corner of one eye as she screamed out her release.

And then she collapsed, the graceful but uninhibited fall of a gazelle shot down mid-stride, to land upon my chest, sweating and panting and rubbing her face against my neck.

I felt the leakage of our mingled fluids dribbling out around my dick going limp inside of her. I rubbed her head, lovingly, a thankful word upon my lips.

An image of Bethany popped into my head. The words I was about to say to Andrea caught in my throat, and I found myself wondering what Bethany was doing right now. As soon as that thought came, I pushed it out of my mind. That wasn't right. Bethany had stepped aside to let me be with Andrea. She had willingly suppressed her love and desire for me in order to let my heart run its course. And now I was with Andrea, my High School sweetheart.

I caressed Andrea's dirty blonde locks, that whispered word of love once again on the tip of my tongue.

And then the phone rang.

Andrea's eyes flew open, a sigh escaping her lips as she reached for her cell phone on the table beside us, climbing off of me so that I exited her with a squishy 'plop'. She fought for a few moments to get her breathing under control, then flipped the phone open.

"Yeah? Oh, hell. I know, I know. I forgot." She looked at me and mouthed the name of her publicist. Back to work for a busy actress.

Then my cell phone rang. I reached over to grab it, reading the name of a studio producer on the caller ID, the guy who was going to pay me to write a new script. Back to work for me too.

We were a Hollywood power couple. Andrea's phone call started to get animated, and she pulled on a robe and waltzed out of our bedroom and headed for the patio. I watched her go for a moment, then hit the answer button.

***

Andrea and I had been together for over two years now, dating back to that fateful day in Hawaii shooting for "The Amazon." In June we'd be having the premiere for "Double Vision," almost two years to the day since "The Amazon" premiered. Two years in Hollywood is an eternity. And I was so happy we'd made it this far.

I moved into Andrea's Malibu palace, and was renting out my Hollywood Hills home. Excuse me, my Hollywood Hills "estate". I'd even traded in my convertible for a tricked out AMG Mercedes sedan. Every gossip magazine was talking about our wedding, speculating that I'd gotten the four-door because a baby was on the way, even though Andrea and I had never even discussed the possibility of marriage nor children.

But we were in no hurry. We were still in our twenties, and had all the time in the world. We pretty much acted married anyways, albeit, I went long weeks without seeing her. But we were firmly coupled up, and except for a few drugged-out orgies that the Hollywood elite threw from time to time, no guys ever made a play for Andrea's affections.

And hey, I couldn't complain. Who could pass up the chance to bone Carmen Electra and Cameron Diaz? Word on the grapevine was that Britney Spears would soon be attending one of our little 'get-togethers'.

I had completely made it. My name alone guaranteed entrance to the hottest restaurants. MY name. Can you believe it? I was the Hollywood hotshot.

But apparently I was a Hollywood hotshot who still had no control over his woman. I was fixing us breakfast when Andrea finally came downstairs, already fully dressed, hair and makeup done. I was still in my boxer shorts.

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey. I gotta run. I forgot I had a breakfast meeting this morning with George."

I paused over the scrambling eggs. "Which George?"

"Clooney. His people have been bugging my people for months to do his next project. So he finally just asked for a breakfast meeting with me personally."

"Oh, sure. And I've got a dinner date with Julia Roberts tonight. And then I'm getting coffee with Steven Spielberg. So I'm going to have to blow you off, too," I responded, mostly sarcastically.

She came and gave me a peck on the cheek. "I'm really sorry, but I'll still see you at the spa."

"Okay, 11 o'clock!"

"I promise!"

And then she was gone.

Well, more food for me.

***

By 11:55 AM, I was really tired of sitting alone in the lounge going commando underneath my terrycloth robe. We were supposed to be having side by side couples massage. But every minute I spent in this place I seemed to get MORE wound up, not less.

The last few months had been progressively getting worse. I saw less and less of Andrea as she got steadily busier and busier. An already famous actress, she was on the verge of super-stardom after her last A- list role. She beat out Catherine Zeta-Jones for a coveted spot opposite Brad Pitt next year, and her entire schedule had gone to hell in a hand basket.

I should have known better. But I was tired of waiting. I let the attendant know that I was switching to just a solo massage. He politely informed me that our regular masseuse had a prior appointment at twelve noon, but that he would have someone else I was familiar with ready for me shortly. But while I waited, would I care for a glass of lemonade?

Shrugging away my anger, I sighed and plopped myself back into a comfortable chair, pulling the hem of the robe closed to make sure my balls weren't peeking out in the co-ed lounge, warding away the idle conversation of the other guests. Maybe I should wait in the quiet room and just go to sleep.

"Hey, Mr. Writer!"

I turned around, already tipped off by the voice. Bethany was emerging from the hallway, her hair still wet and the thin terrycloth doing a poor job hiding her figure. I smiled at seeing my old friend, motioning for her to sit in the chair next to me. "I don't remember you ever calling me that before."

Bethany smiled, her perfect teeth glowing. "Something I picked up from the twins. How are you? And how's Andrea?"

"We're fine."

Bethany smiled her knowing smile at this, then directed the conversation on to a different subject. We chit-chatted for a little while. Mid-conversation, the attendant came to me informing me that a backup masseuse was ready. I waved him off, I was busy. Tell him to go ahead and let the masseuse take someone else. I would let him know when I was ready.

Smiling warmly despite his obvious frustration, he politely informed me that in this situation, he could not guarantee who would be working on me today. I told him not to worry, then gave a dismissive wave. I was a

Hollywood hotshot now, and he scuttled away obediently.

Meanwhile, Bethany crossed her legs and leaned forwards, speaking in a friendly manner while I did my best not to stare at her exposed cleavage and long legs. Involuntarily, memories of those legs entwined around my body in various sexual positions would flitter into my brain, and I fought to conceal a rising erection, not something easy to do in these robes.

Bethany had left Beckett sixth months ago, and was working as a production executive for a smaller studio. She had more real responsibilities and absolutely no sexual commitments to anybody, and was really making it in Hollywood for herself as well.

We caught up like old friends for about a half an hour, before she excused herself for a 12:30 facial, and I finally went up to get a massage.

***

My masseuse turned out to be a young girl named Nikki. She seemed very young for this type of job, but proved to be both pleasant to look at and excellent with her hands. Her platinum blonde hair (probably dyed) was pulled up into a business-like ponytail and contrasted nicely with her black uniform. The form-fitting shirt did little to hide a good- sized, buoyant chest, but after catching myself checking her out I

schooled my face into typical Hollywood indifference and slid myself onto the table.

She smirked a little when she noticed me staring. But then I caught her checking out my package as I got under the blanket, so I figured we were even.

For the next half an hour, she worked over my back and legs, working out a surprising number of kinks around my neck and generally turning me into a puddle of Jell-O, relaxed and half-asleep. Nikki had to gently wake me to get me to turn over so she could do my arms and face.

After some time sending me even further into a coma with well-executed relaxation techniques, I felt the creeping blackness of impeding unconsciousness clouding over my vision. I surrendered myself to the stress-free sleep, when a new sensation suddenly pierced through the fog into my brain.

Those talented masseuse hands were caressing my balls. Slicked with oils, a second hand wrapped around my flaccid penis, which was quickly becoming not-so-flaccid within Nikki's hands. My eyes popped open to see the blanket had been folded to cover my upper body while leaving my legs bare to the outside air. Nikki was upright and rubbing away as if nothing was out of the ordinary, except that her hands were in my crotch.

"What the-?" I was confused.

Nikki turned and flashed me a warm smile. "Relax... It's all part of the service."

I'd been to this spa many times, and this had never been a part of the service before. But then Nikki ducked her head and then I felt a warm tongue running the underside length of my newfound erection. And then I ceased to care about "standard" service any longer.

Her finger tips danced along my sensitive nerves, teasing and squeezing and caressing even while I felt the wet tip of her tongue playing with my hanging balls. My body cried out in anguish when she stood back up, but every other muscle except my penis was still numb.

And then she pulled the hem of her shirt up to her neck, exposing round breasts in a well-built bra. And then the front clasp of that bra was opened, and Nikki proceeded to coat herself in sweet smelling oils. When she was done, I watched as a gorgeous set of tits was lowered down to capture my erection.

Nikki kept up a slow pace, spending the next fifteen minutes alternately squeezing me in her hands, licking me, sucking me, and rubbing me between the valley of her breasts. I felt my balls gradually, inexorably getting tighter, and tighter, until our time was almost up.

My legs were quivering with built up tension, and Nikki let go of her tits and pulled off of me for a moment before wrapping her fingers around my shaft and taking the crown between her lips. And with her hands pumping me and her lips massaging the head I felt myself release into her mouth.

It was no massive explosion, but a peaceful joy that almost felt like I was pissing out a constant stream of semen down her throat. She swallowed and swallowed and swallowed for minutes, until finally she had drained me dry, letting my newly flaccid dick fall out of her mouth.

And now every single inch of me was entirely relaxed. My eyes rolled back in my head as I just basked in the afterglow of such an orgasm. I could not even comprehend the concept of stress in this state.

Nikki just grinned at me, lifting a finger to scoop up the last drops of jizz from her lips and suck them off. Then she put her bra back together and lowered her shirt. She reached back to her masseuse kit and brought out an actor's headshot card, complete with the contact information for her agent. "Let me know the next time you're casting. And have a pleasant rest of your stay here at the spa."

And then she left, leaving me naked on the table. The life of a Hollywood hotshot. I knew Nikki wasn't expecting me to call her for a real date. I knew she was just looking for an inside edge on her acting career, like most people in this town. Hollywood played by a different set of rules.

But I felt an odd guilt in the back of my head, for accepting the sexual favors of aspiring actresses without any commitment on my part in return. It felt powerful, but it felt... cheap. This Hollywood hotshot monster I had become was not the person I thought I'd grow up to be.

I lay nude on the table, staring at the ceiling, strangely contemplative in my post-ejaculate state. I longed for the idealistic days when Andrea and I cuddled in bed, dreaming of plays and stories with substance. We were going to live our dream with no compromises. But we weren't those people anymore.

She was an A-lister smack dab in the middle of Hollywood blockbuster culture. And I was the writer creating stories for the dumbed-down masses. One part of my brain told me to break away, get back to my ideals. What good was all the money and sex if I had a guilty conscience? The other part told me to shut up and enjoy myself. I didn't know what to do. In the meantime, I had an herbal bath coming up in a few minutes.

***

Andrea didn't come home until late that night. She apologized for not calling, she had just gotten wrapped up in George's little movie project. It seemed really promising.

I told her not to worry. That was one good thing about being together for so long, it seemed. All the little petty disagreements just kind of faded into the background. We were too used to being around each other and putting up with the little scheduling problems of our lives. We ordered in some Chinese delivery, and sat together at the dining table not really needing to talk to each other. We both tried to start a conversation once or twice. But those never got off the ground.

I wanted to talk to her about my little crisis of conscience. She, of all people, should understand. But for some reason I couldn't bring it up. We just didn't really have that kind of relationship anymore.

The next two days were more of the same. Ah, the stable rut of a pseudo-married relationship. There was nothing really new to find out about each other. But the lust was still there, so I at least got laid a couple more times.

Andrea left Saturday morning for New Zealand. It was apparently the hottest new filming location, and the small project would only take a month. A month apart from each other, just like that. And George would be waiting for her, oozing charm out of his ears. I surmised that he would be nailing her inside of a week.

The thrill, for each of us, of reconnecting with our high school sweetheart had burned out long ago. All that was left was the affection and attraction we felt for each other. And after two years in this town, even those thrills were fading away. And as the passion we felt for each other faded, so did our love. I mean, what future did we have if neither of us even WANTED to talk about our future with each other? Our love only lasted from day to day.

The sex was as good as ever. But the emotional connection had never gotten off the ground in two years. We were different people now than the writer-geek and theatre-chick of high school. We needed a new reason to love each other besides our high school romance. And it had never really happened. Our love had burned white hot. But that which burns so brightly, sometimes tends to burn out quickly as well.

I already knew it in my heart. Andrea wasn't ever going to come back.

***

It was a balmy late June evening, just the right temperature for Hollywood starlets to wear the skimpiest of revealing dresses. My limo

pulled up to the curb, and I was immediately dazzled by the bright strobing lights of hundreds of cameras flashing in my face as I stepped out. Schooling my face with practiced ease, I got out of the car alone.

I was sharply dressed in the latest Armani. A gift from the company so that I could be wearing their label at this premiere for "Double Vision." A studio publicist directed me to the Access Hollywood reporter.

Andrea was thousands of miles away, a half-forgotten memory of that wonderful day in Hawaii when we'd first gotten together shooting "The Amazon" in the back of my mind. Outwardly, I was calm and serene, at ease amongst the thronging crowds and paparazzi. I had been in front of the cameras before, and this was nothing new.

The twins would be coming in last, and all the cameramen were anxiously awaiting their arrival. I did my best to get through this publicity circus and out of their way as fast as possible.

A camera flash went off right in my face, and for a moment my vision was blurred and there were two reporters trying to talk to me. But I recovered without a hitch and kept up my constant chatter. A writer has to protect his verbiage reputation in this town after all.

I received the usual inquiring questions as to where my famous girlfriend was at this time. I explained that she had a busy schedule and was prepping for a new movie. Most screenwriters don't get this much press treatment, and I had no doubt I would have been across the red carpet in under two minutes if I wasn't romantically linked with Andrea. I wished that I was this famous on my own merits, and for a few moments, I toyed with the very un-Hollywood notion of rejecting this fame because it didn't really belong to me. It was Andrea's far- reaching aura calling people to me now.

But I just smiled back and let myself immerse in the chaos of a Hollywood Premiere. Surreal... but no longer as nice...

Beckett arrived with a gorgeous but vapid model hanging onto her arm.

She must have been under a hundred pounds soaking wet despite being taller than him, and her dress must have added only a few ounces to that total, revealing almost too much of her porcelain skin. She was on the cover of Vogue last week and Beckett didn't hesitate to remind me of this when he saw me.

"You dateless tonight?" he asked. He peeked back at his limo, where it seemed several other women were exiting as well, although they would not be on the red carpet.

"Yeah. It's no big deal."

"No big deal? This is a party! And you deserve to live a little." Beckett had one of his trademark grins he usually reserved for the negotiating table. It was that grin that always appeared when I realized he had an ace up his sleeve and was about to spring it on you. "It just so happens, I can remedy that situation for you."

He turned and made some sort of gesture to an attendant. A platinum blonde in a slinky dress and fantastic cleavage sashayed over to us. "I believe you've already met Nikki. I was at the spa last week and she mentioned having met you. I figured, why not bring her along for the ride? She's very good with her hands."

Only in Hollywood. Beckett's grin became even wider as he took Nikki's hand and presented her over to me.

I stifled a knowing smirk, sighed, and smiled for the cameras as I let Nikki wrap her arms around my proffered elbow and we continued along the paparazzi parade. She wisely stayed out of the way for the most part, instead of jumping at a camera and making a fool of herself, since she was rather obviously awed by her presence on the carpet. But one of the last reporters, asked me point blank, "Where is Andrea? And who is your date tonight?"

I caught the US Weekly logo on her microphone, and inwardly groaned. Most reporters knew not to attempt an interview with any of the obvious arm-candy of the Hollywood elite. But the question was already out there. "Andrea is in New Zealand, prepping for a new film. This is Nikki, a friend of mine, and an actress."