The Mammoth Book of the Best of Best New Erotica

Screen Play ^{A. F. Waddell}

In a dimly lit room I stood at the bottom of a winding staircase; the sound of wind chimes played from an upstairs porch on a hot night. I wore a white blouse, tight red skirt and spiked high heels. I watched the man walk towards my front pane-glass double doors. His brown hair was slicked back; his cheekbones were prominent; his long thin nose slightly flared over his moustache. He jiggled my door handle; the door was locked. As I watched him he searched the ground for something. Picking up a large stone, he used it to break my glass door pane; he reached inside and turned the lock. He threw open the door and approached me, holding and kissing me and unbuttoning my blouse. His hand rubbed my cunt through my silk skirt and panties.

“Maybe…” I whispered.

He lowered me to the floor. He pushed up my skirt and pulled down my white panties, slipping them over my thighs, knees and calves, and over my strapped, spiked heels. I breathlessly shook.

I awoke moaning in bed from another orgasmic dream; I’d mentally recreated a scene from the film Body Heat. I was Matty Walker: my perfect, fit-in-a-champagne-glass breasts throbbing in my perfect white blouse, my hungry cunt throbbing in my perfect red skirt. I recalled the first time I’d seen the film in the early eighties. In a cold, empty house I’d sat huddled under a blanket. I was emotionally and physically transported to the lush, warm, wet environs of South Florida – was it my imagination or did steam visibly rise from grass and earth, from Matty and Ned, as they fucked in the boathouse? I thought of my vibrator nestled in the nightstand drawer. I deferred. It was getting late. I got up, dressed in a robe, and went to the kitchen for coffee. I took a cup of Colombian into my office and checked my schedule for the day. I’d get off easy today, only one appointment, later in the day.

Driving southwest through the hills in my Jeep was relaxing, a perk before hitting the freeway. To the sound of Santana’s “Samba Pa Ti” I floated through green-hilled space. Highway 120 was winding. With my tendency to speed I had to be careful, lest I totally lose it on a curve. The hitchhiker stood on the west side of the highway. He wore a blue flannel shirt and jeans. His long dark hair was tied in a ponytail. What would he be like? I wondered. A snake-hipped stud with knowledge of the Kama Sutra and tantric sex? A masseur and sex magician? A lover who’d spend hours discovering and lingering on a woman’s sensitive spots? Did he smell of recently showered male and exotic fragrance, his hair of coconut shampoo? I imagined the male bouquet drifting from his skin and through my nostrils, into the limbic system of my brain. Get a grip, girl. He’s probably a serial killer.

Dr Wellman’s office was located on Citrus Avenue between Back, Neck and Shoulder Pain, and the Anti-Aging Clinic. I walked the maze between offices and entered the lobby at 3.50 p.m. The receptionist, Melanie, was pretty, perky and tan.

“Hi! Have a seat, Ms Waites. He’ll be right with you.”

I sat on a cream-coloured leather sofa. The decor reminded me of a Woody Allen film set, with its calming vibes of neutral shades: white, off-white, eggshell, oatmeal, beige, mushroom and sand. At 3.59 I walked into the office and took a seat opposite Barry. We sat in comfortable overstuffed chairs.

“How’ve you been, Anna?”

“Busy.”

“Anna, are you taking care of yourself? Exercising? Eating right? Socially interacting?”

“Yes, yes. Who are you, my mother?”

Barry smiled. “How’s work going?”

“I’m adapting my novel into a screenplay, remember?”

“That’s right. That’s wonderful, your novel about the female independent filmmaker?”

“Yes, that’s right! But I wonder if people will pay to see yet another inside-the-industry satire. No action figures or computer games will result. Industry accountants will likely be unenthusiastic.”

“Do the work, Anna. You must complete the work in order to get to the next work.”

“Yes .”

“Sleeping well? Dreaming?”

“I dreamed of Matty again. That I was Matty.”

“Why do you suppose you dream of being a femme fatale?”

“I suppose I’m attracted to the power. The sexuality.”

“Yes?” Barry rested his chin on his intertwined hands and leaned slightly forward; the furrow between his brows deepened.

“Dr Wellman, do you realize that Matty’s character is bad, and isn’t punished for it? Quite unusual for a story, for a film. Oh. And don’t forget Bridget in The Last Seduction. Another exception to the rule.”

“Anna… we don’t use the ‘b’ word in this office.”

I smiled. “Sorry! And this morning I fantasized about picking up a hitchhiker.”

“Yes…?”

“Spontaneous sex with a complete stranger would be hot.”

“Well, yes, but a distinction must be made between fantasy and reality. Many fantasies are meant to remain unrealized. Violating prohibition is however a strong basis for eroticism.”

I had images of forbidden fruit. Dates. Smooth and rich on the tongue. High carb. Sugary. Dangerous.

I took Citrus Ave to I-5. As I drove north through green foothills, the air quality improved; dusk gave fantastical quality to the hills and lights. Pockets of housing development imposed their squares and rectangles backing out, pushing between the natural curves of the foothills, boxes juxtaposing green jutting breasts. Driving east towards Shadow Valley, I looked forward to getting home, putting on a robe and puttering around the house. I wondered when my muse might visit and send me scurrying to my notebook or word processor. At home I reclined on the sofa and thumbed a magazine. Goddess targeted a female professional demographic. I skimmed the food section and made a mental note on the salmon and spinach diet. I skimmed the health section and noted the latest miracle supplement. I skipped ahead to Indulgences. Blurbed were spas, vacation getaways, and specialty services: Retreat caters to your special needs. Nestled in the natural environment of the Golden Haze foothills, our facility offers the utmost in comfort, privacy and natural beauty. Our select, discreet staff is here to indulge you. For more, visit our web presence at retreat.com. I went into my office, signed online and accessed the site. The design was simple, understated, clean. Shades of light blue, cream and black were accented by soft-focus photos of foothills, cabins, interior design and bodies under the hands of masseur and masseuse. I accessed the reservations page. A link provided a request form. Let us assist you in designing your experience. Interesting, I thought.

I bookmarked the website, got ready for bed, climbed between the sheets and randomly took a book from the nightstand. The Mind of Eros by Frederick Borman PhD could be a deeply psychological read, but also included sexual fantasies and experiences. I liked to skip around. I first hungrily, then sleepily, read.

The dark-haired woman sat in the centre of the small movie theatre; she seemed to be the only woman there. Men watched the screen with a focused yet wild energy. In giant close-up, a pink quivering cunt and cock devoured and attacked the other. Reminiscent of some fifties American sci-fi/horror film, sans the cheesy costumes with visible zippers in the back, slimy odd-shaped creatures wrought havoc and spewed mysterious, dangerous fluids. A large prick pumped a perfect, hairless, tanned, pink-edged wet cunt. The Maw-Creature appeared impossibly small to accommodate the Prick-Monster which inched inside it, stretching and spreading its edges.

A pink, belled tip and shaft vigorously slid through slick fingers and thumb, fingers and thumb, fingers and thumb. From its slitted tip spurted whiteness into brunette hair it ran; onto a soft tan face over heavily blushed cheeks; over cotton-candy pink lip gloss; over a delicately dimpled chin. The dark-haired female viewer looked at the screen. Recognizing her own face, her jaw slackened as the cinematic action reflected in her eyes.

I awoke and touched my face. Lying on my back in bed, I stared at the ceiling and replayed my unusual dream.

Under a skylight I crawled on the hardwood floor and arranged three-by-five cards. Breaking down a novel into key film scenes could be torture. How to effectively condense, yet retain meaning? I agonized. Many screen treatments in any case eventually suffered drastic rewrites; the further into the process one got, the less original meaning likely remained, until a work could appear unrecognizable. Casting-wise, Cate Blanchett and Jeremy Irons might devolve into… who knew? I thought the first scene would be of protagonist Claire giving direction on a film set. Scene two would begin a series of flashbacks of Claire in the early years, as continuity person and script supervisor on various low-budget location films, including the comic relief of behind-the-scenes on horror films. Relationships would be broken into love scenes, interspersed with her industry climb and disappointments, climaxing in her Cannes win for Sighs and Whispers. I gathered my three-by-five cards, mixed them up, and threw them into the air. I spun and chanted as the cards fluttered to the floor. Not bad! I thought of their reordering.

I drove west on Mountain View. It had been a while since I’d seen him – since he’d closely stood, caressed my shoulders and neck, and run his fingers through my hair. Rick was a good listener, sensitive and had a sense of humour. I’d date him, I thought, but then we’d have sex and break up, and I’d lose a damned good hairstylist.

“What are we doing today, Anna?”

“A trim and a blow-dry, please, Rick.”

Draped in plastic at the shampoo sink, I leaned back, closed my eyes and relaxed into the experience. Wet. Lather. Rick’s hands vigorously massaged my scalp, moving in circles, moving skin over bone, messaging nerves and limbs. Rinse. Condition. Rinse. Back at his work station, I sat as he precisely combed and trimmed my hair. He continuously repositioned my head, as if I were a fidgety child. At the next station a female stylist did a man’s hair. It was funny, I thought, most men came into a hair salon with a maximum of two or three inches of hair, yet the stylist could take for ever to trim a quarter-inch. She did a hair-styling dance of sorts, delicately fluttering around the man, smiling and chatting and flirting.

“Let’s blow this dry, Anna, I want to double-check the line.”

“I want volume and tousle. Every hair needn’t be in place.”

“Sure! Lean forward and flip your hair, please.” Through the fringe of my hair I noticed the intersection of his thighs and groin; his well-tailored navy cotton slacks; the tucked black cotton shirt; the thin black leather belt with the silver buckle. Stylist and patron seemed often body parts to one another, varying with the point of view.

“How is it? You like?”

I looked at my hair. It was full and wavy and not too short.

“It’s good. Thanks, Rick.” We smiled.

I drove east on Eucalyptus. Towne & Country Centre boasted an upscale grocery market. I aimed my Jeep towards the parking lot and put it in a space between a Mercedes and a BMW. Dear God, I thought, Christmas decorations were up. Red, green and gold froufrou contrasted the clean lines of the beige stucco building. The upscale neighbourhood seemed sometimes surreal, perhaps too quiet, too clean, too calm, with lurking noise and dirt and chaos threatening sudden explosion. Inside, market patrons had a weird social energy, sugary perkiness covering vitriol. Perfect suburban dolls shopped in tennis dresses, smiles drawn back over teeth that would love to bite. Suntanned champagne blondes filled their carts. Clothing fashion changed little throughout the year in Southern California; the temperature changed little, and might allow halter tops, cut-offs and platform sandals in December.

The produce department boasted obscene abundance; it seemed the vegetables had been inflated with a bicycle pump, or were futuristic monsters. The produce area smelled wonderful, I thought, as I touched Japanese eggplant, English cucumber and Italian squash. To my right a man shopped and watched me. Was it my imagination, or was he slightly smiling and smirking as I handled the green and purple vegetable shafts?

An instrumental version of “Let It Snow” played as I wandered the store aisles. At the bakery, red and green packaging contained myriad sweets. The world shimmered with candy. The muzak was seeping into my brain. I had to get out! I focused on filling my small basket. Mixed baby greens. Zucchini. Chicken breasts. Merlot. Chocolate ice cream.

At the express lane, Aileen rang up my stuff.

“Paper or plastic?” asked Kyle.

“Paper, please.”

In the kitchen I unpacked groceries and poured a glass of Merlot; it tasted fruity, plummy, spicy, low herbal. I stood and looked out my kitchen window, sipped, gulped and poured another glass. On the counter I preheated my grill. I heavily spiced a boneless chicken breast, put it on the grill and put down the lid. I mixed baby greens with extra virgin olive oil. Wine chewed at my empty gut; I drank more. My brain clicked, warmed and sweetened. I stood at the counter and wolfed down my chicken breast and salad.

I went into the living room and put a DVD into the player. I sat on the sofa. Energetic acoustic guitar began the film soundtrack.

“Garbage!” began the dialogue.

The beautiful young Southern woman discussed imagery with her therapist. Garbage. What if garbage cans were actually producing more garbage? she wondered. The doctor smiled. They’d soon be discussing masturbation, the woman blushing and stammering, denying her need. Fast-forward. The woman sat on a plaid sofa in a hot, sparsely furnished room. She wore a gold blazer, black T-shirt, black miniskirt and black leather cowboy boots. A man in T-shirt and jeans sat on the hardwood floor in front of her, looking up at her. His camera rolled. “Do you remember the first time that you saw a penis?” he began. She narrowed her eyes, parted her lips, cocked her head to the side and began to talk. As she shed her blazer and rearranged herself on the sofa, her leather boots rubbed together, making soft squeaking sounds. Fast-forward. In a bedroom, a man and woman shouted at one another. “Did you have to masturbate in front of him?” he demanded of her. “No. I wanted to. So there!”

Sex, Lies, and a Video Cam was another favourite film of mine, transporting me to yet another humid Southern clime. I’d felt voyeuristic viewing its seeming raw intimacy and dialogue; I’d thought its editing amazing; it had inspired my purchase of black leather cowboy boots. I soon slept on the sofa, in blue screen light.

I opened my eyes to filtered sun. I got up, made coffee and went to my desk. I checked my schedule: no appointments for the day. I sipped my coffee and tiredly made notes on my writing projects. A drive to the coast might be inspirational, I thought. I took a shower, dressed in a pullover scoop-neck sweater, skirt and leather sandals.

Highway 120 wound through velvet hills and grassy flats on its way to the sea. The two-lane road could be lonely, with little traffic. The dark-skinned hitchhiker stood on the north side of the road. He wore a Henley shirt and jeans. His dark hair was tied into a ponytail. I passed him, checked the rear-view, braked and pulled onto the shoulder. He smiled as he loped towards the Jeep. I unlocked the passenger door. He hoisted himself into the leather bucket seat, threw his bag to the floorboard, closed the door, and fastened his seat belt.

“Hello. Thank you very much for stopping. Gracias.” He warmly smiled, his dark-brown eyes making direct contact with mine.

“Hi. Call me Anna.”

“I’m Manuel. Manny.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Caida Del Cielo. Heaven’s Fall. The beach.”

“Where’s that?”

“Near Fuego Que Sopla. Blowing Fire.”

“It’s on my way.”

Darkness was beautiful; I thought of the deep reds of roses and blood and wine; the tan brown of bread and chocolate and exotic skins; the dark liquid of brown, drowning-pool eyes pulling one in. Contrast could be interesting. I thought of sophistication and innocence; vanilla cream swirling with caramel tan.

“Where are you coming from, Manny?”

“Palmville.”

“Do you hitch much?”

“Do you pick up much?”

We smiled.

“Would you like a beer? There’s a cooler in the back seat.”

“Thank you.”

Over a hill, the road turned and opened to the Pacific Coast. Heaven’s Fall seemed deserted. I saw no parking area. I wondered where to park.

“Don’t park too close to water. The sand is wet and deep,” Manny cautioned.

“Thanks. Do you have time for another beer? Or do you need to meet someone?” I glanced at the pier and the vast, empty shoreline.

“I’m meeting no one.”

I parked a distance from the shore, near a small dune. I scavenged a blanket from the back and spread it on the sand.

We wordlessly sat on the blanket next to the Jeep, drinking amber lager, getting stoned on nature and negative ionization and brew. I wasn’t sure whether minutes or hours had passed.

“Let me touch you…?” he asked.

“Where?” I smiled.

“Here… here…” His hands brushed my cheeks; he lightly ran his hands down my neck to my breasts. “Soft pechos… sweet pechos…” He gently pulled a bare breast from my sweater. His thickly sensual lips took my nipple; his mouth pulled. He stood and pulled me up and kissed me. “Wait,” he said, opening the rear passenger-side Jeep door. He lifted me onto the edge of the high bucket seat. He pulled down my scoop-neck sweater; my breasts lightly hung over the purple velvety material. He pushed my stretch skirt up around my waist. I sat, legs askew on the leather seat, grains of sand sticking to my skin, the sea wind blowing against me. He kneeled and placed his hands on my lower inner thighs, slowly moving up. I leaned back and more widely spread my legs. His head moved towards my centre; I held it and felt the texture of his hair, removing the tie that held it. It softly fell and draped my thighs. His finger centered the outer lips of my cunt, moving into the inner.

“Ahhh… ostra rosada… pink oyster,” he murmured.

Licking and entering me with his tongue then fingers, he moaned and intermittently gave soft voice. “Mar salado… salty sea.” The Spanish language would never be the same, I thought. It now seemed even more beautiful, if that was possible. I clenched and came around his fingers.

“Wait.” He pulled away, his erection straining against his jeans. He unzipped his fly and lowered his jeans, releasing his prick. He fumbled in his small travel sack, pulling a small square brightly coloured packet from it. Gallo read the lettering; the art was of a red rooster. He removed the white condom, held the tip, and rolled it onto his brown erection, vanilla white engulfing caramel tan. The wind grabbed and whipped the empty condom wrapper down the beach. I dripped onto the leather seat. He held my hips and slowly slid his cock into me. He moved deeply into and out of me, gliding clitoris and G-spot, clitoris and G-spot. Orgasm rolled from my wet centre, sensation becoming sound, escaping through my O-shaped mouth. I envisioned my orgasm having come from the sea and returning to it; my cries metamorphosing into ocean roar.

“Caliente caliente… hot… mojado! Anna!”

In front of my television, I drank Shiraz and ate take-out crab and shrimp enchiladas and squash with red peppers. I clicked my DVD play button. Sexo En El Camino was subtitled. Miquel entered his girlfriend’s bedroom, and her, in rapid succession, with no foreplay. The girl had long dark hair, perky breasts, a thin build. In a fascinating, non-American quality she had lots of thick, dark pubic hair. The film’s logic seemed to imply that women were in a perpetually pre-moistened state. It worked. The sex was quick and intense and hot, with penises and vaginas artistically filmed in shadow. Fast-forward. In a dilapidated motel room in Oaxaco, the young naked Sergio stood with an erection. “Drop the towel,” commanded Gabriella, from the edge of the bed. He stood in front of her and kneeled. “I’m wet for you. Eat me…” she said. He lowered his mouth to her and began to lick. “Wait! Let me take off my panties!” She laughed. He very soon fucked her, in another quick, intense scene. Miquel watched his friend from a doorway, a hurt look in his eyes. Fast-forward. The two young male friends and the older woman drove through mountainous jungles and small villages towards an allegedly mythical beach, laughing and telling stories, stopping in run-down cantinas for beer and food. At the beach the three fucked. The men fought and drove away together. She stayed at Heaven’s Mouth for the rest of her short life. Fade to black. I sighed and thought of a spontaneous, passionate man who made love in soft whispers, intense cries and beautiful words; who could have been manifesting Tourette’s or channeling spirits as he thrust and came.

I drove 120, and I-5 to the Citrus exit. The generica of strip malls seemed somehow obscene. I pulled into the medical plaza and parked. I walked the maze between offices and entered the lobby at 3.50 p.m.

I took a seat on the sofa in Dr Wellman’s lobby.

“Hi, Anna! He’ll be right with you.”