if i had a nickel for every time alex turner told all of glastonbury he shares a bed with miles kane, i’d have two nickels. which isn't a lot, but it's still weird that it’s happened twice…
Decided to wash the linen and bedclothes this morning! Stripped the bed, put everything in the washing machine, then laid the duvet halfway out the window in that lovely old fashioned way. It’ll smell so nice when it’s aired, I thought.
Checked the weather (bits of rain coming in!) before I took my kid to school and put the duvet back in and closed the window.
Got back home, opened the window, and put the duvet back out.
Set down to work. Deep-dive. Rain pattering softly against the window next to my desk.
Raised my head four hours later and remembered the duvet.
It’s drying now, in the sun, and it’ll smell so nice.
1 of 7 . Hey, y'all: For your pleasure. Our Alex is not perfect here, but this is such fiction since we all know that Our Alex is the epitome of perfection. Just a little fun - a literal pick me up :>) Feel free to comment - I love you all now; so let's have it.
credit for relaxed Alex (above), CREDIT: The screen cap was from Skarsjoy https://skarsjoy.tumblr.com/post/134058141533/greenpeace-sverige-posted-a-behind-the-scenes
Warning: not intended for faint of heart, dreamy-eyed youth; contains consensual, recreational sex in adult situations free from angst and heartbreak.
I have used a two-dimensional Alexander Skarsgård, inventing a partial third dimensional him, and giving him far more stamina than he would have in the true scheme of things. I have written in first person (as my “I” is easily the reader’s “I”) and content is merely fantasy fodder for those who have lived long enough to appreciate same, or those who have used their own imaginations until they are sore and out of sorts. Jump in!
It happened just as a fluke, an unexpected opportunity that I couldn’t pass up. If my “best laid” plans came to fruition, the episode would be brief and so hot that flames would lap at our naked flesh. If naught was standing proud, c’est la vie. I always had plenty else to do.
By this time, in my early 40s, I was used to concentrating my energies in two areas of my life as I had made it: my profession and my friends. My father had been a senator from Georgia and his name and reputation made it possible for me to get a good start with my own law firm after graduation from Emory Law School. I intended to practice family law to assist the down-trodden, possibly change the system from within. Now with two staff attorneys in my employ and high-profile clients, I do some pro bono work for legal aid to remember exactly why I get up in the mornings. My own reputation as an intelligent, hard-working attorney who happens to be a barracuda in the courtroom had eclipsed that of my father’s as a friendly, benevolent, smartass, good ol’ boy who’d help anyone who needed it.
I had been without family since my days in law school, and by necessity developed a close group of friends who have remained my chosen family. The demands of our respective vocations hadn’t frayed the bonds between us. We continue to look out for each other.
This sunny, summertime afternoon, I had walked from my father’s-now-my house in Ansley Park to my friend Douglas’ house just along the way. Big Dug, as I called him, was a financial wizard who’d made a few killings in high finance, all perfectly legal and above-board. He had enough dough to keep all of metro-Atlanta in doughnuts for years. He was a generous soul and did his share for one charity and another, but his wizardry thrived on making a monetary stake into a large redwood. Big Dug had invested in the “movie bidness” by funding the production of a screenplay he was particularly keen on. His demeanor and southern charm had garnered much talent for the project, and production was set to begin in the fall on location in Atlanta. Big Dug’s show biz persona was part Louis B. Mayer and part Norma Shearer. He was the perfect host for the movie crowd at his out-door cocktail party that was intended as a meet and greet for those making the picture and those acquaintances of Big Dug’s with deep pockets who were impressed with “Hollywood”. I came to the gathering to buck up Big Dug should he need it and drink mint juleps in the sunshine.
Cars were parked along our winding residential street cheek-to-jowl in both directions from Big Dug’s house, such that it seemed like a train from Peachtree all the way through to Piedmont. It would be a huge soiree. As I started up the drive to the garden gate in my sling-back sandals, I slipped on a pebble and was caught and righted by a muscled, shirtless gym-boy hired for just that purpose. He was very polite eye candy and directed me through the gate to another topless attendant holding a tray of drinks. I grinned in delight, thanking the universe for bestowing small graces, and threaded my way through the throng to find a familiar face.
I spied Big Dug waving to me, surrounded by a group of immaculately, casually dressed businessmen – just as Big Dug preferred. He was in his element. As introductions were made, a colleague in entertainment law made a comment that I had become popular with the press by divorcing society mavens from their ne’-er-do-well but wealthy husbands, some of whom were in attendance, and went on jovially to look for snipers. He got a big laugh out of it. I shrugged and said that the truth is just that, I reckon. As the conversation went back to the previous topic, I sipped my julep and happened to notice a tall, blond man eyeing me. He had a pleasant look on his face, so I assumed I had not wrested his favorite million from him in courtroom battle. I must have stared too long trying to place his face, because he sauntered over to me.
“Hi, I’m Alex,” he allowed, “I’m part of the talent for this project.” The words slithered from between his perfect rosy lips like snakes from under a rock. But then, I like snakes. Hell, he was an actor. My limited experience with that ilk as parties I had raked over the marital coals had led me to think them all vapid, narcissistic fools to whom rules of civility simply don’t apply. Still, this one was a looker – a European, bedecked just so, with the height to compliment his imperfect features perfectly put together.
I openly assessed him. He was used to being looked at, perhaps a little too much. “I’m a divorce lawyer, friend of the host,” I said.
“I’m not married, so I don’t need you there,” Alex continued, “Perhaps I can be of service to you?” He winked lasciviously and grinned, as we say here, like a ‘possum.
I’d seen some of his work. He was used to playing a scene. He was good; I was got. I allowed a twinge of desire that I knew would show on my face.
“You’ll come back to the Georgian Terrace with me. We’ll do things. You’ll like it, I promise,” he purred. He knew I knew I would.
“You must go press the flesh. I imagine you’re working here. Just find me when you’re ready.” I spoke in my most professional voice as I lightly traced the back of his hand with my fingertips and walked away. Yummy. I rarely allowed myself such zipless fucks as they’d like as not come back to bite me. Would this one come to pass? If this Skarsgård guy could get it up, I could have a fine time just looking at his face and doing all the work.
A little buzz could only help, I thought, as I got another drink from another firm-pec’ed man with a tray. I wandered through the guests, surreptitiously glancing at the Skarsgård occasionally to see how he comported himself. No worries there; he was an actor. I found Big Dug to do a little research on the guy to try to get a feel for him before I felt of him, so to speak.
Big Dug had spoken to Alex at length when Alex had expressed interest in working with others who had committed to the project. The screenplay was Big Dug’s baby and he had retained input on casting. He told me that Alex was friendly, seemed intelligent enough, lost interest quickly in that not about him. He further said that he thought it would be safe enough for me to fuck Alex since he’d have a few months to recover before shooting began. Big Dug is barely bisexual, and we’d had a raucous fling years ago. They don’t call him Big Dug for nothing. Well, I don’t at any rate. Nevertheless, I patted his cheek and reminded him that he had no lasting scars, at least no visible ones.
Time crawled. I blathered the usual niceties, catching up with acquaintances who were also a little buzzed. I was chatting to Judge Stevens when I felt a firm hand around my waist. I looked up at Alex, who blithely said, “Pardon me, I need to borrow this woman, she’s wanted elsewhere.”
I was just tipsy enough to snort at Alex’s polite declaration, which garnered a wink at me from the Judge as he said, “Of course. See you in court, counselor.”
Alex led me firmly by the elbow as we made our way through the throng. I knew I wouldn’t be missed. Alex bade goodbye all those who asked if he was leaving, “sincerely” citing one innocuous lame excuse after another. He was an actor.
Alex had apparently called for his car a while before he fetched me. It was waiting outside the garden gate, double parked and effectively blocking the road. Once quickly ensconced inside, Alex turned to me, “C’mere, beautiful. I’ve been waiting too long for this.” He put his hand to my cheek and pulled me to him. He kissed me well, thoroughly, and at length, our tongues melding insistently.
As he broke the kiss to breathe, he whispered, “So nice. You like the kissing?” I answered by leaning in for another. We arrived at the Georgian Terrace far too quickly, but not before I had learned with a glance that his dick did work. So far, so good. I straightened my sundress; he adjusted himself; we exited the car – to camera flashes. What the fuck? I admit, my mind had been elsewhere, and I never imagined this detritus stalking celebrity would rear its ugly head here, at some hotel (albeit a beautiful historic one), in the late afternoon (albeit a slight breezy one), for this Skarsgård (albeit a most handsome one). The press got me for comment outside the courthouse, and it was expected after a trial of public interest. This was smothering and intrusive and a little scary. I flinched inadvertently, but Alex smiled graciously, put a protective arm around my back and maneuvered us through the flashes and clicks and obnoxious shouts of “hey, Alex, who’s your friend?; anybody know her?; what are you doing in Atlanta?; will you sign this?; look over here!; etc.”
I heard someone shout my name and I closed my eyes, not wanting to instinctively turn toward the direction of the shout and so confirm my identity. Alex muscled us on and whispered, “sorry.” Likely, my name would be linked with his in the speculative press anyway. The doorman kept out most of the paparazzi. As we entered the quiet, cool lobby, Alex turned to me to calm me, “I should have warned you. It’s like that too much these days. Just forget those fucks. We’ll be upstairs in a minute, beautiful.” I put on my courtroom demeanor and smiled slightly as at a private joke. I used the smile I gave to the jury when opposing counsel was arguing inanely.
As the elevator doors opened and we stepped on, Alex turned to me and said, “No worries. Just look at me.” He kissed me as the elevator doors closed and we both felt rather than saw the camera flash. Alex hadn’t seen the local press that had waited in ambush in the hotel lobby.
The mood broken, just for a few moments, I turned to Alex and shrugged my shoulders, “Fuck ‘em, they ain’t nothin’ to me.” Alex laughed enough to fill the otherwise empty elevator and nodded his head in agreement. He must have had a soft spot for such a delicate southern belle who cussed like a sailor.
We nearly ran for the room. As Alex was fumbling to unlock the door, I leaned against him to take off my shoes. He sighed at the weight of me against him and flung out an arm to pull me closer, all the while holding the door open. We edged in the doorway. Alex bent to kiss me, still holding me against him, and with the other hand took my shoes from me and flung them into the suite of rooms. We managed to stagger sideways well into the room as the door closed itself, tripped over one of my shoes, and collapsed in a heap onto the rug. Obviously, he was one of those actors who did his own stunts. The fall broke the kiss and elicited a “Fuck!” from Alex. I was laughing like a loon and replied, “Well, yes, but must we do it here?”
Alex raised an eyebrow, grinned and said, “You have way too many clothes on.” He picked us up off the floor, apologizing for the somewhat muddled entrance and unzipping my dress at the same time. Perhaps he did have talent. He lifted the dress over my head, interrupting my careful but anxious unbuttoning of his shirt. I stood before him barefoot, wearing only bra and panties (that happened to match, fortunately, for those of us who have never had a wardrobe mistress). He took a step back and declared as fact, “You are absolutely beautiful.” Quickly, he closed the gap between us and kissed me hungrily. His hands lingered at my waist, then cupped my ample bum, lifting me a bit off the floor and toward his crotch. Yes, he was an actor.
I gently pushed him back with one hand on his chest, “Let me see what I’ve gotten myself into.” Alex chuckled as he took off his shirt and unfastened his pants, “I hope you find me adequate, m’lady.”
When I had copped a glance in the car, I had seen that he sported a nice package and would likely have firm cooperation. The sight of him naked was no disappointment. His cock was upright and winking at me with droplets of precum, a good nine inches of steel (measured in U.S. Standard; I can’t visualize metric; and if I’d used Dick Inches, he’d have at least a seemingly scary nineteen. We use Dick Inches to measure snowfall in the south.) I likely licked my lips as I cajoled, “This is not a screen test. You can do more than fake fucking on film, can’t you, precious? Make sure I get the part.”
If Alex didn’t like the teasing, he acted like he did. He flexed his biceps, scooped me up with a gruff “c’mere, woman”, carried me to the bed and threw me thereon like spoils of war. My giggles turned swiftly to little moans of encouragement as he hovered over me, kissing my neck, caressing my hardening nipples. He unhooked my bra and lifted it from my breasts, the sight causing him to groan with desire. He slathered kisses on them and then sent his breath across my nipples, causing them to stand up for his lips to lightly suckle. I was excitedly enjoying this performance. I wanted him inside me, all of him, right now. He knew it, so he took his time and kissed his way down the scar on my abdomen to tease me with his tongue at the band of my pushed-down-but-not-far-enough panties. Taking so much time, he eventually hooked his thumbs through the leg holes and pulled my panties down and agonizingly slowly off my feet. My hips were moving of their own volition; I was making involuntary chirpy noises; but goddamn it, I would not beg. I knew my arousal was making a puddle on the bedclothes. His dick was almost drooling and jerking uncontrollably like a cat’s tail as it falls asleep.
He must have figured that if I could form words, I wasn’t going to. He looked down and asked, “Condom?” I croaked out, “Unnecessary.” He smiled and immediately inserted two of his burly fingers into me and proceeded to rub my clit with his thumb. I believe I bleated like a lamb at the slaughter. OK, he was an actor, but if this is how he would play a love scene, I would have to have at least a few retakes if I played opposite him. I would need repetition of the practiced, capable manhandling, and yet I might never reach a faux orgasm for film. But then, I’m not an actor, not even a method one.
I was moaning softly, relishing the climb to absolute release. I hadn’t felt like this in dogs’ years as my longstanding romantic date was me. I could press all the right buttons at just the right time, but damn it, so could he. He groaned with a sort of sing-song Swedish lilt, “Fuck, you’re so wet for me.” He withdrew his fingers and giving me a questioning look to which I breathed, “god, yes.”, he stroked his cock once and buried it balls deep into my clasping, grasping walls, aching for it.
I had found a whispered repetitive mantra of “oh, fuck; oh, fuck.” He must have felt me nearing climax with every thrust. He would withdraw and then thrust in, grinding the base of his dick on my clit, while intoning, “Come for me, babe. Come for me.” His chiseled features were even more beautiful with his eyes screwed in concentration, his muscles flexing strongly, his whole being engrossed in the joining, in our consummate pleasure. Then it happened. I opened my eyes wide at the first wave of my orgasm, as did he. I was coming hard. The spasms were strong and seemed to keep coming. Alex growled his own release as he pumped into me roughly. He had been unable to control his orgasm as the insistence of mine had perhaps literally pulled it out of him. He collapsed on his elbows, leaving me breathing room that I desperately needed. As his breathing slowed, I held him close, loving the moment in the feeling of being impaled on his weapon of choice for the duel.
Alex slowly withdrew and lay beside me. He reached some bedside tissues and handed me some for the overflow. He looked at me with all seriousness, “Well, sweetheart, do you think you got the part?”
I raised onto my elbows to view my indelicately placed tissues, “Maybe. I’ll need a rehearsal in twenty to thirty minutes, just to make sure I can take proper direction.” I got up to go to the bathroom to take care of the jiz, et al. exodus, and flung over my shoulder, “I think that part was made for me. Don’t you think I’m perfect for it?” I closed the bathroom door on his laughter. Dear god, he was an actor.
To be continued – the night is young.
I decided to take a quick shower and opened the bathroom door a crack in case Alex needed the facilities. As I turned off the tap, I reached for a towel to the strains of Abba’s Dancing Queen. Wearing the generous soft towel, I stepped toward the music to see comfortably naked Alex dancing with himself, flinging his lanky limbs in every direction, oblivious to my entrance. Entrancing as it was, I had to giggle. He pivoted toward me and rushed to take me in formal dance position, ripping the towel from my immodest breasts and grandly tangoing us toward the still sunlit balcony. He playfully nipped my right earlobe and whispered, “I’ve ordered champagne, Duchess, bend me to your will.” I like a well-executed tango, nude or otherwise, and almost at any time, but we were only four floors up and I feared we would be seen cavorting on the balcony. Well, what the hell. Out we went, naked butts to the wind. He was a fucking actor and a big goof. I was having a damn good time.
We hadn’t heard the room service knock over Abba knowing me, knowing you, ahhhaaahh, but saw the waiter during a particularly adamant head flick. Alex turned me so little if any of my nudity could be seen and yelled, “Leave it; I can open it.” He turned back to me, assuming the wide-eyed waiter would quickly comply, and mumbled into my hair, “Let’s pop the cork, Duchess, I want another good come.”
Parting from the embrace, Alex took my hand, kissed it, and turned toward the room service cart inside to genteelly lead me to further riparian delights beside the flowing champagne. We came face to face with the obviously aroused waiter, who must have just lucked into his visual fantasy, and who screeched hopefully, “Will there be anything else?” as he quickly put his hands over the tent in his trousers. The look on Alex’s face was one of indecision. The waiter was an attractive enough young man over 21 (or he wouldn’t have been able to legally serve liquor). Alex pushed me behind him to minimize any embarrassment I didn’t feel, and said forcefully but sweetly, “Not now; get the fuck out.” The waiter ran for the door, but he’d be back to collect the trolley, hoping for a nice physical tip (and maybe the entire shaft as well). Hell, Alex may have winked at him. I begrudge no one a willing partner, able to consent, of any ilk. Life’s too short to refuse joy when offered or to judge those harshly who accept all the fun.
While Alex opened the champagne correctly, the cork emitting a sound like the gentle sigh of a lady – with no pop, I explained that although I enjoy my 40-year-old body, kept tolerably well, I prefer to take sustenance with some measure of covering. Alex handed me a flute of the bubbly and, clinking our glasses, toasted, “To 40-year-old nudity!”
“Yeah, I figure if I can look at this every day in the mirror, it won’t hurt you to see it. You’re fit as fuck, obviously,” I toasted back.
Alex snorted in his champagne, sending some of it up his nose. He sputtered, “Get one of my shirts or something and bring me one. We’ll dress for dinner, Duchess.”
I did as he commanded, since it didn’t hurt me a bit. It seemed that the nickname for me had stuck. Either he had forgotten my name or Duchess was the name of his first dog, I figured, and so came easily to mind. Perhaps he lit upon it as a reflective appellation and thought himself royalty. I enjoy the finer things I’ve worked for, but I don’t think I have an uppity dismissive air about me. Yet, I would take the “Duchess” in good stead. He was an actor. I just wanted to call him “Fucker”, but my mama taught me to be nice – especially since I was enjoying the bones he was throwing my way.
I donned my panties and the first t-shirt I found and snatched up my phone. I took him some underwear and a t-shirt. The room service trolley had been covered with silver warming dishes. I wondered what delicacies Alex had procured. I was suddenly ravenous. A bit of food would do well before we addressed the other appetite[s].
Alex had spread out the many choices of tastebud tickling tidbits that included strawberries, melon squares, celery and protein in the form of crab cakes with remoulade and flounder in lemon/caper sauce. He was bent over putting what looked like chocolate mousse in the bar fridge when I walked in. He had the ass of Adonis. Goddamn, I needed to get my head back in the game since I intended to give him some head before this one night of bliss was over. He was an actor, alright, but I was surely having it.
He smiled at me, and I threw him his clothes, “I love Abba, but would you like some dinner/making out music?” I was looking on my phone for a more soothing sound with which to relish the taste of it – all of it. He nodded and I set my phone on the speaker. The room filled with the soft melodies of John Coltrane’s Ballads album. Alex beamed, “No one I know even knows who Coltrane was, babe. I love it. Damn, you look good in my shirt. I can’t wait for you to be out of it again. C’mere.”
I went to his waiting embrace. He kissed me with the longing that sounded in the lazy sadness of Coltrane’s sax. Wait a minute. Was that something real? No matter, no time to fret about two ships passing in the night.
“Let’s eat,” he said, as he carelessly ran his fingers between my legs over my panties. “I hope you can find something you like,” referring to the food.
“I know what’d I like for dessert,” I teased, groping his cock through his underwear.
“I’m sure we can manage that,” he chuckled as he put a perfectly ripened piece of honeydew in my mouth.
There was little conversation during our consuming of almost every morsel. I used the time to chew and contemplate the Norse god sitting beside me feeling up my leg. Sated, Alex pulled my chair closer to his and patted his thighs for me to recline there. No need to ask twice. The champagne had long been drunk. Alex had poured a little Grand Marnier for us, an after-dinner aperitif. He took a sip and kissed me, sharing a bit of the liquid with me. I’d never had any liqueur taste that good. His cock was hardening beneath me. I slipped off his lap to my knees and placed my hands on the waist band of his briefs with the question in my eyes.
“Oh, fuck, yes.” He moaned as he lifted his sweet ass and pulled the briefs down and off. I’d had good instruction in the fellating arts from my gay/bi friends and I’d never had complaints. But never before did any dick look so perfectly edible that I doubted my ability to please as I did just then. As I cradled his balls with one hand and began to stroke the shaft of the uncut wonder, I ran my tongue around the head and gently under the edge of the foreskin, easing it back with my hand on the shaft. I must have let slip a little groan that was a question because Alex put his hands lightly in my hair and gave me encouragement, “Fuck, like that, it’s good, fuuuuck, keep doing that.” I worked my lips down the shaft, taking in all I could until he touched the back of my throat. I held him there, using my tongue along the shaft, until I had to take a deep breath. Then I repeated it.
When I came up for air, Alex had his eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep his hips still. I worked steadily, keeping a good pace, eating up his ardent cock and drinking in the irrepressible mews of the supplicant. His balls were drawing up toward his shaft. He would come soon. I took one thumb and pressed his taint (perineum), giving a bit of pressure on the prostate. He moaned and bucked in my mouth, making me gag. I came up so that I just had the head in my mouth, tonguing it like crazy and I popped him one on the butt. I jacked his shaft, winked and said, "Watch it, naughty boys don’t get to come.”
Alex was too far gone to even snicker. I went back to work, taking him deep three times and keeping the pressure on. The fourth time, I felt the tremor. I ripped his cock out of my mouth and jacked him as he groaned and shot three, four, five times on his t-shirt. I kissed his softening cock, tasting just a bit of his jiz. I swear it tasted like honeydew. Still, no one comes in my mouth.
Alex took his shirt off over his head, pulled me up and back into his lap and murmured, “Fuck, baby, so fucking good, goddamn, baby, so good.” Really, I think any head is good head to every guy. Nice compliment, though, from the actor.
His shirt came off me as we cuddled kissing, touching, caressing, until I realized that his legs must be asleep by now. “Wanna watch a movie,” I whispered in his ear, “so later you can go over my part in the climactic scene?” I helped him stagger to the couch trying to wake his legs, fetched a coverlet for us and turned off my phone. I noticed that Alex had already turned off his.
I believe it was Sunset Boulevard that Alex turned on, commenting that it was one of his favorites. He said he knew he could play Joe Gillis maybe as well as William Holden had done. Cuddled up as we were, on our sides, I between his legs with my back hugged up to his chest, I couldn’t see his face when he asked nonchalantly if I’d seen anything he’d done. I allowed as I had. Not willing to wax rhapsodic on his lovely nudity in True Blood, I told him the truth that I’d seen a few things he’d been in and my favorite by far was Diary of a Teenage Girl.
Alex seemed shocked at my opinion. Maybe he was used to his tricks or whatever exclaiming what a beautiful hunk he was with the most attractive Apollo’s Belt in the business with no comment on his work. I told him that the movie was empowering and that he was a gifted actor regardless of his “great part”. I told him I appreciated his subtlety with his characters. I had turned to speak to his face as I told him the truth of my opinion and he looked stunned. For the life of me I don’t know why. I was sure treating him like a very pretty piece of meat in every other aspect of our friendly fuck.
He got quiet then, feigning watching the movie. I turned over so we were chest to chest, “I’m sorry, Alex, if I pissed you off. I guess I don’t know how much worship you require. I’ll go. It’s been fun. You’re a sweet guy, for an actor.”
Alex held me in a bear hug. “Don’t go. I’m not used to anybody talking to me that way, saying something intelligent or that I might not want to hear, since we’d just met at a cocktail party – as we have. Stay with me.” He kissed me then and began inching down my panties.
Before I took note, I was on my back, heels on his shoulders, and he was inside me slowly moving, kissing every part of me he could reach and whispering what must have been love-talk in Swedish. Was he making love to me? Doubtful, as he was an actor. If he was, I think it was all about him. Nevertheless, I would enjoy it to the utmost. I had two lofty orgasms before he let himself come, bellowing his pleasure to the heavens. We fell asleep on the couch, wrapped up in each other, too tired to move, still connected. I’m glad I don’t have to clean that.
We were shaken awake before dawn by the telephone in the room. Neither of us had thought to turn our respective phones back on. Alex snatched it up as I stretched under the coverlet. Oh yes, I remembered, it was Sunday. No work today. Alex cussed something into the phone and hung it up. He said sadly, “I gotta plane to catch damnit. Shower, babe?” I think definitely he’d forgotten my name.
In the large shower, we soaped each other’s crevices and laughed at our fine as frog hair one night happenstance. Alex said he’d better check that we got everything off us and proceeded to orally give me one of the best orgasms I’d ever had. I told him he had a gift for sex, and he should let people know he was so multi-faceted in his talent. “Fuck you,” he deadpanned.
We ate the chocolate mousse for breakfast as we got our shit together for departure. Alex said he would call me when shooting started and have me as his dialect or “tongue” coach as he said he preferred. He told me I was certainly qualified with a big shit-eating grin on his face.
I’d had enough actors’ charm, faux or otherwise (how could you tell which?). I stood in front of the dude and said, “Look, we’re both tied to our professions. You flit around the globe. I have trouble just leaving the city for “Gwinnettia” (pronounced ‘Gwen-ee-sha’, or Gwinnett County as it is geographically). You’ll forget me in a heartbeat – at least after you’ve slept well or with the next one, you won’t give me a thought. That’s the way it should be, precious. You are an actor, for a’ that and a’ that, to misquote Robbie Burns.”
He dropped me home on his way to the airport. He gave me a thrilling goodbye kiss and said, “I will call you. I’ll be back in about three months.” I closed the car door, the tinted windows blocking my final view of his handsome self and his view of me rolling my eyes.
Hell, I won’t hold my breath. He’d asked no questions of me other than what I thought of him. He was just an actor, with not so much unscripted wonder inside.
All hail whomever fetched this shot from The Stand. It was @gaybuckybarnes!
Stay tuned for Fiction #2 in the continuing saga of Alex's Ass.
