Wednesday, July 22, 2009

it was just for work


I met with the TV Producer because I had questions about the film I'd made with my team for the graduation project - legal questions, how-to questions, and wanted him to have a taste of it and see if he liked it.

A few months back, I'd been in his neighborhood and sent him an SMS. He said he'd met someone but would still like to see me sometime. He sent an email a month or so later that he still felt the same. But I was - ahem - tied up with Mr FD, my heart and mind wrapped around our possibilities and, in comparison and context, the TV Producer's spanks didn't seem like they could measure up. Nor did I want to try it.

But here we were. He offered me champagne to celebrate my graduation. We talked film shop and then about our lovers. I felt flushed and drunk, and like he was staring through me as I told superficial details about my homestays with Mr FD.

And then I asked him about Beatrice Ardisson's "Take Me for a Ride" album. I'd pressed upon him that I'd looked all over for the album to buy it, but couldn't find it.

He searched and searched his stacks of discs. We had listened to it every time I was over before, but now, it seemed telling that it was buried or lost or misplaced. He found it and let me burn it. He found the accompanying film - made for Audi - and played it on the TV, giving him an excuse to move from the opposite couch to my side.

When it finished, there wasn't much left to say. He was interested in viewing my film, but we didn't have much to talk about it, except to confirm that my fight for copyright was right (against the director of our program, who all of a sudden seems compelled to share it / own it / have copyright with us).

"Well, I should go," I said.

He reached over. "Let me see the scars from his cigarette burns."

I pulled my left tit out of my shirt and showed him as if he were a doctor, removed from any sentiment. He touched it and reached for the other one. He felt for the scars and rubbed my nipples until they were hard. I leaned back and sighed. Closed my eyes. It had been a month since I'd been touched. Since Mr FD. I hadn't come to the TV Producer's place with intentions of screwing, as I thought he was deep in with this other woman. I wasn't offering a move. I had resigned myself to leaving fully clothed and non-altered.

He put my hand on his pants and asked me if I could feel how hard he was.

It doesn't take much for a slut to get on her knees.

1 comment:

a said...

That seemed so familiar, I could imagine being him in the closing of your post... It's exactly what I might have done.

Lucky man.