Altered Fates: The Director's Cut free porn video

Altered Fates: The Director's Cut A Tale of Deceit in Hollywood (what else is new?) by Liam Slade More at http://liamslade.com *** I remember the first time I saw a poster for Jennifer Raye. She had the kind of beauty that strikes one immediately and sort of radiates in his mind for weeks. I was walking down the street, on my way to a lunch appointment with Mitch Ruegger, the producer, when I saw her. Well, I was dreading the entire affair, since it was really my first meeting since I'd been in Hollywood (eight long years!) and I was muttering to myself some of the points I'd make. "I'm flexible on the script," I mumbled into my chest, hands stuffed into pockets as I raced down the boulevard, "the ending can go whichever way you like. Either way seems good to me." I used to fantasize about being the one director in that town with some integrity, but deep down I knew I'd do anything to get that project moving. "Sunset Dreams" was something I'd had in the works virtually my entire time in the city. I'd gotten to what I considered to be the final draft years ago, and my agent Boris, had been shopping it around. But in this muttering, incoherent haze I was in, I saw her. I passed a construction site, and her first or second Revlon ad was plastered on the boards. I had to stop, inconsiderate of passers-by. I had to take off my sunglasses to believe it, how beautiful she was! I knew there must have been some photographic trickery involved, but it was undetectable to the naked eye. There she stood, a beautiful, natural beauty, the only cosmetic noticeable was the eyeliner she was selling. I stared for a minute or two, jaw agape at that beauty. I know that gorgeous girls are a dime a dozen in tinseltown, but she was a diamond in the rough as far as I was concerned. She just rose high above the rest in terms of her sheer gorgeousness. It was ethereal, really. By the time I got to "ethereal" in my head, I realized that time was wasting, and I was due to meet Mitch any minute. I didn't want to be late for this most important meeting! "Mr. Lawrence," he said, rising from his table to extend his hand, which I eagerly took. "Please, Mr. Ruegger, call me Dave. Or Davy," I humbly replied. "Davy. Cute," he chuckled, taking his seat, "yes, and do call me Mitch. Why be so formal, am I right?" I took my seat and we had a laugh. Over the course of the lunch, we got down to business, "Dave, listen, I've read a lot of screenplays in my time. God almighty, if you could only imagine the amount of garbage that passed by my office..." he trailed off. At this, I laughed nervously. "But yours grabbed me. It had this quality, one part sexiness, two parts intrigue. I think it could really take the little gold guy home." He winked at me. "My studio isn't interested in huge blockbusters. We've got a whole division churning them out, our little wing is dedicated to prestige. Human stories, movies that the critics like and that people will be able to relate to. I really think this 'Sunset Dreams' of yours could be the picture." I couldn't believe it. This was going too perfectly. There had to be a catch. Still, I excitedly took in every word he said and just tried to avoid breaking down in tears of joy through the course of the meal. It wasn't easy, but I managed to do this while smiling like an idiot the whole way through. By the time we had finished the meal, I was set to direct my first Hollywood picture (after years of toiling away in the independent realm,) and we'd gotten off the subject of movies, as he went on about anything from his ex-wife, to his cocaine rehab, to his other ex-wife. The point is, we were in business. I won't bore you with the details that followed, but suffice it to say I dove in headfirst. There were a few months of script rewrites, location scouting, scheduling conflicts, yadda yadda... I can't tell you how uninterested I became in the entire process. I just wanted to get my film made. Finally, we dug into the meat of the production: the casting. This was to be the most exciting part, watching this movie come together into a real physical experience. All the while I'd become enchanted with this gorgeous, leggy, sandy-haired beauty I passed on the billboards and posters on my way to work each day. I did my best to put her out of my mind, but she became the girl of my fantasy. She invaded my thoughts each night - I had to find her, even if she was just a model. No, to me she represented the ideal of beauty in this world. In a city filled with phonies and con-artists, she was the only thing that seemed real. Anyway, casting turned into a long, drawn-out bummer. We were mere months away from shooting and I still didn't have a Louise. Louise, you see, was the main character of the film. It was semi-autobiographical, but I chose to make it about a woman because I thought it would add an interesting spin on the material. It was brutal - every woman that came in and read for Louise was dreadful. Too nasal, too big, too small, too glamorous. There was no perfect woman. "Why don't you cast me?" asked Simon one evening. He was my roommate. He'd moved out here with me from Cedar Rapids, aspiring to act, but was content to work in the food service industry. He'd even starred in my first picture, the little-seen "Without Anastasia" but wasn't able to find much work beyond that, apart from the occasional TV guest spot. He was also gay almost beyond comprehension. I mean, gather up every single stereotype in your head: the fashionable, designer clothes-wearing, occasionally cross-dressing, Judy Garland fanatic with the ever-so-noticeable lisp and you've pretty much got a portrait of Simon. But, the dude had been my friend for years and even though I was embarrassed by people occasionally asking, "so are you two together?" I always stuck by him. "I don't think so," I told him. "When I asked, you said no, and now all the male parts have been cast." "Well, why don't I just put on a blonde wig and some lipstick and I can be your Louise?" He was joking... I think. "Who'll know?" "I would," I replied, not playing into his shenanigans, "so forget it." "Just trying to help," he chuckled. The headache was ready to resume the next day. I'd just heard a 19- year-old flavour-of-the-month stutter and stumble her way through Louise's big scene, and was about to call it quit, when she walked in. She was dressed in blue jeans and one of those really short-sleeved white tees women sometimes wear. He hair was in a braid down her neck. I was the only one who recognized her. "Jennifer Raye," she said in her angelic soprano, "I'm here to read for Louise." I have to admit, I was far too smitten by then to care whether or not she could act. Just the fact that my dream girl was here, auditioning for the lead in my movie made me want to jump up and instantly shout out "you've got it!" But alas, there was the formality of the actual audition. She cleared her throat and flipped to the appropriate page in the script. "I wish there was a way, Devon, that I could just wave my hand and make everything better. God, how much easier life would be if I could do that. Or if I could see how everything has worked out, and go back and change the past. Well, I can't. I can only deal with what's here, what's now. This is real, Devon, and damnit, I need you. I need you with me now, more than ever, or else neither one of us is ever going to come out of that damn city alive. Do you hear me?" She got so worked up near the end that her face was a blushing red. I was nearly in tears as she breathlessly finished, "I'm going back in there. If you're a man, I think you'll join me." I was slack-jawed, just as I was the first time I'd seen her face on the street. The woman overflowed with talent. She had such passion, I knew I had to capture it on film. After some approving nods from Mitch and the others, I simply told her, "You've got it." "Really?" she gasped, seemingly in disbelief, she cried out "thank you so much! God, thank you!" In reality, it felt to me like it was she doing the favour for me. After all, it was a miracle that she had even graced my studio with her presence, let alone managed to arrive just in time to solve my casting woes. Things were looking up. It was hard, at first, for me to get over my shyness around her, but I found her to be remarkably accessible. She attributed that to being raised in the Midwest. "Whereabouts?" I asked her. "Des Moines," she said. I let out a bit of a laugh, "what's so funny?" "I'm from Cedar Rapids! I had an uncle in Des Moines!" then we both laughed. We even went out to dinner that night, to share some stories of how our boring childhoods in Iowa inspired us to come to Hollywood. "Well," she said, "I wasn't initially Hollywood-bound. No, I wanted to be on Broadway. But I just couldn't cut it; New York's a tough town. Then I lucked out and got this modelling contract, and here I am." "You know, I saw some of your ads before," I told her, in a softer tone of voice, "a few months ago when they first came out. I have to admit, I thought you were stunning." "Oh 'thought'?" she scoffed, mock-offendedly, "What happened? You met the real thing and got turned off?" "No, no!" I reasoned, playfully with her, "it's just that, at that point, you were a fantasy. Now, you're a real person. A real, talented, beautiful person." We shared a long gaze that seemed to be a tacit agreement on the outcome of the night. I walked her home and gave her a kiss full on the mouth at her building's entrance. "See you tomorrow," she cooed. I should have known a good Iowa girl wouldn't give it up on the first date. The next few days of shooting were bliss. The playful looks she'd give me between takes, the passion in her voice as she acted out my words, I think everybody could tell there was something between us. On the Thursday of that week, we went out again, and this time, it ended differently. She brought me up to her place and we spent the night together. No, it's not what you think - although there was some of that - we actually fell asleep on her couch after 1. We were almost late for that day's shoot. Well, things were going well for once. Really well. So well that I wanted to see her that Saturday night, but she wouldn't. "Sorry darling," she told me, "but some old friends flew in, I'm seeing them tonight." "Oh, from Iowa?" "No, these are people I knew in New York..." she trailed off, refusing to elaborate any further. "We'll go out another night." Well, what could I do? I was bummed, but it wasn't a big deal. Most men would die to have a delicious beauty like her in their movie, let alone be dating her. I let it slide and opted instead to watch 'Sex and the City' reruns with Simon. In between heckling Mario Cantone's performance, he went over to his desk drawer and dug something out. It was a little white cardboard box. "What's that?" I asked, wondering just what in blazes he was up to. "Get this. So, I'm walking down Ventura today, and I pass this guy on the street. He looked like Don Johnson, but he said he wasn't. Anyway, he wanted directions, so I gave them to him, and for my trouble, he gives me this." He opened the box to reveal a tattered, cheap-looking piece of jewellery and a slip of paper, neatly folded to fit inside. With a twisted grin, he said, "Isn't it tacky? I love it. It's kitsch." I was more interested in the note. As Simon fingered the merchandise, I gave that note a glance. "The Medallion of Zulo," I muttered to myself, somewhat bemused, "this amazing enchanted artifact, yadda yadda, dating back to the ancient blah blah blah, contact with another person's clothes will initiate..." I gasped. It couldn't be! It was ridiculous, unbelievable. It was an elaborate hoax, it had to be. Surely you readers must by now be aware of the power this artifact was supposed to behold, the ability to transform one person into another. But this was the first time I'd ever heard of it and as you can imagine, it sounded like bunk. "You know," Simon said to me when I told him, setting the Medallion down on the table, "I believe it." "Get outta here," I scoffed, "this is bull." "No, I'm very in touch with my spirituality, and sometimes I let my superstitious side out to play. I read my horoscopes from time to time and you know from what I can tell, this, Mister David Lawrence, is no bull." "Oh yeah?" I was still sceptical, but Simon's words were having an effect on me, "prove it." Simon dashed off to his room. He had an idea. He came back out to the living room with a black turtleneck. "This, Mr. Know-it-all, is the sweater I wore to June Warner's cocktail party last year. I haven't worn it since." He took the medallion in his hand. "So what?" I took a swig from my bottle of beer. He slipped the medallion around his neck and held the sweater to the small, tin- looking trinket. His feathered hair got a little shorter, and his beard grew into a full goatee. His skin was also more noticeably youthful, if only slightly. I'd seen a little proof, but I was still dubious. "So it made you grow a beard." "Don't you get it? This was during my beard phase! I've transformed into the me I was when I wore this sweater! Isn't that incredible?" He was ecstatic, racing over to the mirror to examine his new facial growth. "God, I looked so hot with this thing. Why did I ever shave it off?" "Your boyfriend said it tickled," I calmly told him, remembering. "Oh yeah," he stroked his beard, pensively, "Jeremy. Ugh, what was I thinking?" Of course, he followed this with a wistful sigh. Simon was prone to fits of sentimentality, I mostly humoured him. So I was left to marvel at this Medallion of Zulo. Eventually, the reality of it set in and my mind became abuzz with possibilities. I now was in possession of this astounding piece of, well, magical jewellery. There had to be some way to turn this situation to my advantage. I must've sat in contemplation for a half hour, maybe 45 minutes, when the phone rang. For no reason, out of some strange paranoia, I felt the need to stash the Medallion before picking up. "Davy," Maury said in a soft tone not befitting his gruff baritone, "we got trouble. It's Jen." My heart sank. I feared the worst. "She's gone." I couldn't reply immediately, I was stunned. I had to sit down, my legs wouldn't hold me. "Gone?" I whimpered, "Like, run off? Kidnapped? Dead? God, Maury, what happened?" "I don't know," he muttered mournfully, "I can't tell, but she's not at home, nobody knows where she is, she hasn't been seen since she left the set." Nothing was said for a long moment. "Listen, Davy," he began to console, but changed direction, "I guess I we can shut down production for a few days, but if she's... God forbid... we might have to just kill the whole thing--" he caught his faux pas and corrected himself, "I mean, cancel the whole thing." My heart sank even lower. I wanted to vomit. It couldn't be. My dream girl, my dream project, everything was crashing down around me. I muttered a nearly silent agreement into the receiver and hung up. I collapsed on the sofa and buried my head in my hands. If I had ever cried in my life, now would be the time. Instead of that, though, I began retching in a fit of dry heaves. It was a childhood habit. Simon heard the commotion. Insensitively, he was in the midst of asking, "Do you think I should keep--" when he noticed my situation, "Davy, what's the matter?" "Jen--" I sobbed, my throat swollen with grief, "Jen's missing. I don't know, but the worst-- oh, God, the worst might have happened, she might be... God! What if...?! Everything's going to shit! We might have to shut down the entire production!" Simon was about to console me, if he were the consoling type, when an idea struck him. He got this glean in his eye as he eyeballed the coffee table. "Darling," he squealed, "I have an idea." "Huh?" I sniffed and cleared my throat, producing an ugly sound. "The Medallion, stupid!" He got this look in his eyes, "Okay, take tomorrow off, yeah, give it some time, and... yes, it'll be perfect!" "What are you babbling about?" I asked, no hint of comprehension in my voice. Simon rushed off and grabbed the Medallion. "This, you idiot!" he had a manic grin on his face. "I'm sorry, I know nobody will ever replace Jen, but... think about it! It's so easy! Just go in there, take her costume and--" "What, me?!" At this, I was downright offended. "No! No, no, not you, not you..." he paused to think, "I mean, you have to direct, right? Yeah, no, not you, but obviously, someone close to you." "Yeah," I agreed. "Someone trustworthy." "Uh huh," "Someone who's sitting right here in front of you." I nearly did a spit take. I couldn't handle this roller coaster ride I'd found myself on. It was late and I was having trouble focussing, and with all the news I'd heard recently, and the demonstration I'd seen, I was about ready to just lie down and die. I sputtered, "Say what?" "Yeah, I'll do it. If you'll have me. If something has happened to Jen, God forbid... I'll understudy." He bit his upper lip and nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah!" All I could do was shake my head. "Simon, Simon, man, I don't know. I mean, I do know, and the answer... God, it's no! No! You can't do this!" "Why not?!" he raised his hands in the air theatrically, "you need a starlet, you've got half a movie, she disappears... jeez, Davy, it's like a sign from above! This is just what I need to jumpstart my career!" "Your own career, Simon, not Jennifer's!" "Well what if she's-- God forbid, but what if?! Eh? What then? She doesn't have much of a career. And neither do I! It's perfect! Why should two actors suffer when one can--" "No! No, no, no!" I paused. I gave it a moment's thought, but it was too much. I didn't want to lose Jen, or Simon, or my movie. There had to be a way out. Frustrated, I walked out. "I'm going to bed." *** The production stalled. I sat at home and no work was done for a week and a half. No word from Jen whatsoever. I was terrified, mortified, and kept awake at night by the looming possibility - becoming more apparent each day - that something terrible had happened to my lead actress. The story was run in Variety that she may have run off and that it was costing the production millions of dollars each day she was gone. The pressure was on. It was on the Wednesday of that week that I finally sat down with Simon and consented to his ridiculous plan. "How are you going to do... this... this thing, you're planning?" I stammered. "It's easy," he balked, "we go down to the warehouse, take one of her costumes, and use the medallion on it. Right? Yeah, and the longer it comes in contact, the more of her that gets transferred into me. I'll transfer enough to impersonate her fully, get all her acting talent, some of her personality... whatever's necessary." "Yeah, but, how long is this going to go on for?" "As long as necessary." There was a silent agreement between us not to cross that bridge until we came to it. "Alright," I agreed, "I guess we don't have much choice." The next day, Simon and I paid a visit to the warehouse where all the costumes were being kept. It took me a few minutes, but I managed to find the one she'd worn a few days before she'd disappeared. It was a gorgeous, low-cut sequined gown, soft to the touch and, when she wore it, easy on the eyes. "This it?" he asked. "Uh huh," I said, breathlessly. Knowing what was about to happen made me want to vomit a little, but I suppressed that. "It's fabulous," he whispered in quiet awe while fingering the fabric of the gown. "Okay, let's get busy." Simon began by taking off his shirt. "Woah, woah, woah, what are you doing?" I immediately cried out. "What?" he shrugged, "Davy, I'm about to be transformed into a whole different person. I don't want any chafing." "Whatever," I turned my back as he stripped down. "Fine, don't look, spoilsport," he quipped. He grabbed the gown off the rack and touched the medallion to it. He clutched the two items closely together. "Well?" I called toward the area behind me. "Nothing yet," he replied. "Ugh, I'm startin' to feel it. Yeah, bones are starting to... God, I don't know, I feel like I'm shrinking." Well, Simon did have a good 6 inches on Jennifer. "It's happening really slowly, I can tell you that much. I just feel really short. No, wait... my scalp." He scratched his head, "my hair is growing. Come on, you've got to see this!" Well, curiosity got the better of me, but I was damn near repulsed at what I saw when I turned around. Simon looked like he had melted. He still had stubble on his face, but his hair was growing out from his close-cropped jet-blackness into Jennifer's sandy blonde locks. His face began a long, uncomfortable-to-watch process of morphing that saw all his muscles and bones contort, expand and contract. He clutched the gown still, however, arms trembling even though they were losing muscle and deflating. The sound of his skin becoming tighter and softer created a sound not unlike a hand rubbing a balloon. Simon stared down in wonder at his own penis. "I don't know if this happens every time," he said, remarking the fact that it had become rather erect, "or if I'm just getting off on this." Despite this erection, his testes began an ascent into his body. I turned away. His neck and shoulders narrowed and slimmed. His Adam's apple faded from view. Before long I could see more of Jennifer in his face than his own. "How do I--" he cleared his throat, "how do I look?" His voice was a demure gender-neutral sing-song. His pectoral muscles became flabby and breastlike. I couldn't watch the whole thing. It was too disgusting. Before long I turned away, and he casually called updates to me in a voice that was still changing. "Okay," eventually a breathless female voice called, "I think that's over with. I don't know how much longer it's going to be." I turned and saw... her. It was Jennifer, naked and beautiful, and a little sweaty from the transformation, standing there, clutching her down to the medallion around her neck. It looked like a really bad nudie pic from a second-rate XXX-mag. She sneered a bit and grunted a rather mannish "what are you lookin' at?" Embarrassed, I turned away again, sitting on the floor with my back to her. Something must have been really stirring inside of her because she didn't speak for another 10 or 15 minutes. Eventually, I heart the sound of the gown falling to the floor of the warehouse, followed by the "tink" of the medallion following it. "Okay," she whispered, "I think I'm done." "How do you feel?" was my immediate response. "This is just, God, this is so weird, you know?" she half-whimpered, half-chuckled, amusedly, "I feel a lot more like, like Jennifer than I thought I would." She walked across the floor, naturally taking the same size of step that Jennifer would take, carrying herself with that same posture. Then she realized something, and slung one arm across her breasts and one across her crotch. "Gee, um, I wasn't expecting this, but this is really embarrassing. I mean, I know it's not really my body and all but--" she stopped herself, "no. No, it is my body. Do you think you could maybe find me something--" "Oh, right!" I shot to my feet and went in search of some costume underwear. She managed to slip into the bra and panties without fumbling, like a pro. From there, she put on Simon's jeans and shirt, giggling, "I guess we should've thought of that." On the ride home, she just stared, blankly out the window. I was a little worried because although she was a dead ringer for Jennifer, I knew as well as she did that she was Simon. At least, I hoped she did. "How do you feel?" I asked while we were stopped at a red light. "I don't know," she smiled again, strangely upbeat for such an odd situation, "I just feel like I let Jennifer invade my mind more than I intended. I have these memories... and I don't even know the whole story, they're just things that got dragged in with the other stuff. Like, when I was putting the bra on, it reminded me of the time Tristan Sawyer and I made out all night in his mom's basement, back in '96. Except I know that didn't happen to me." She sniffled a little, on the verge of tears, "and I don't feel like Simon very much. When I was him, I was so high-energy, you know?" "Yeah, I know," "But now I just feel... more relaxed. At ease, I guess." Her voice was a mournful ballad, though. She was relaxed, but at the same time, upset at her predicament. I recanted, sputtering, "I never should have let you--" "No, no, it's all right," she sniffed again, "you're my friend. That's what Simon and Jennifer had in common. This feeling of comfort around you." "Do you think you can..." I paused, considering my phrasing, "pull it off?" "What, act like Jennifer?" she laughed slightly, girlishly, "Yeah, I think it'll come naturally. I think this is gonna work." *** She wasn't kidding. The next week, we began production again, and it looked to everyone like Jennifer had never missed a beat. Occasionally, she'd get questions from crewmembers about her absence, and she'd compose on the spot some vague B.S. about a nervous breakdown, and then change the subject. Pretty soon people stopped asking. Did it trouble me that the real Jennifer was still out there somewhere, and that I had hired an impersonator - albeit a damn good one - to take her place? From time to time. But we were getting such great things accomplished that it was hard to find time for such concerns. That's why I thought nothing of it when Mitch had me brought to his office one afternoon. "Davy," he said, rather gravely, "something weird has happened." He gestured for me to take a seat. I had a strange fear that the entire scheme had been discovered and that I'd never work again. I clenched my teeth and nervously sat. Mitch continued, "Now, Davy, as you know, Jennifer has been very tight-lipped about her recent absence. I was thinking about taking legal action but that wouldn't do any good, so I decided to leave well enough alone. A fella can get into a lot of trouble if he starts asking questions, the answers to which he doesn't want to know. You dig?" I nodded, tentatively. I had no idea where he was going, but I knew I wasn't in the clear. "The New Jersey police just hauled a body out of the river near Secaucus or some shit." He looked me square in the eye, "They identified it as Jennifer." I stared, wide-eyed, across the desk, my mind not searching for a way to explain this, just frozen. At the now very real truth that my lead actress was, tragically, dead, and that there was more to this than any of us had ever intended. I just didn't move or speak until he did. "I want you to explain to me how that girl down there is... who she is... is who she says she is, is dead." I swallowed hard. To tell the truth? The unbelievable truth? To make up some bullshit story about a twin or a look-alike? I bit hard on my lower lip. He could see me sweating and shaking just a little. I blinked a few times and regained my composure before telling him flat out, "I... don't know. Obviously, they're wrong." He looked at me, keeping still, unblinking, with the eye of the tiger. Ever so slightly, he raised that right eyebrow in disbelief. Minutes passed before he said, "Are you... sure?" I could tell he didn't believe me. He knew something was up, but had no idea. He could never have guessed. It was too unreal. It was impossible. He had that deep, gleaming look of distrust buried deep in his gaze, it was unbearable to look at. I felt it grinding at my conscience, even though I had done nothing wrong. Still, he eventually let me go, and, breathing a sigh of relief, I left his office and returned to work, on unsure footing. I was having lunch later that day when "Jennifer" noticed I was out of sorts. "Penny for your thoughts?" she asked. "Ehhhh," I moaned over my chicken salad, "something bad happened. Real bad." I paused for sensitivity's sake, "they found Jennifer's body. The real one. It seems those friends of hers in New York were more than just friends." "I know," she sighed. This gave me pause. Of course, Simon had absorbed several of Jennifer's memories. Maybe she'd know something about what was going on. So, I asked, "What do you know?" "Not much," she said, reflectively, "I can't say I know too much about Jennifer's life, but I know there were a few guys. Peter and George, from New York, who were bad news. I'm guessing they're the ones behind this." "Why didn't you say anything?" I whisper-shouted, trying to keep a low profile but get the sense of urgency across. "I didn't think about it," she sighed again, presumptively taking her own fork to my salad, "I've got so many memories floating around that I can't sort them out, and most of them are of no use. I'm sorry." "I think they're going to want to ask you questions. Like, why there's two of you." Off the cuff, she remarked, with a mouthful of lettuce, "Maybe I'll tell them she's the fake. That she tried to steal my life and that's what happened." I just stared in awe. It was so simple, so brilliant. I mean, it wasn't that hard to get people to believe in the Medallion of Zulo, once they'd seen a demonstration for themselves. Sceptical though they may be, nobody can controvert such a display. It's just not an easy thing to dismiss. It was the perfect cover: simple, believable, and close enough to the truth. "That's perfect," I gasped, and blurted out, "you're beautiful." Well, she just blushed and ate more of my salad. I thought it was more than a little awkward, and decided not to say anything. Okay, I'll admit it, I pretended I had to go to the washroom and just left. I didn't mean anything by it, but the implication was just too disturbing to address. *** As you might expect, she was eventually called down to a police station to give a statement. The police informed her that it seemed impossible but that, from all tests known to man, she and the dead body were 100% identical, right down to the fingerprints, which was, they told her (as if she didn't already know,) impossible. So, she laid it out straight for them, offering a similar test to them as Simon did to me. She produced the Medallion of Zulo in a tightly-sealed Ziploc baggie. "I can't describe to you what's about to happen, because you wouldn't believe me, so I won't even try. Step one," she said, unbuttoning her blouse and laying it on the table, sitting there nonchalantly in her bra, "is that. For step two, I need a barber." "Ma'am," said the detective, groaning from irritation and a lack of lunch, "would you please--" "Okay, I've got it," she said, producing a pair of scissors from her purse. Upon seeing this, the detective became defensive. "Ms. Raye, put the scissors down. Give them to me," he commanded. Well, she had quite a bit of an attitude left in her from Simon, so she went ahead and cut her hair, roughly and unattractively, to a shorter length. It would remind you of the type of haircut a little boy gives his sister's Barbie doll. "Ma'am, what is this going to prove?" "Shh," she said, slipping the Medallion out of the baggie. "Step 3 is the fun part." She slipped it around her neck and held it to her blouse. The detective watched in awe as the woman's beautiful golden locks grew back right before his eyes. "What... the hell?" he asked. "This Medallion transforms people. It was used to make a copy of me. That's the woman you found in the river," she said, not making eye contact. She was lying, but it was so close to the truth that she could get away with it. The detective, still in shock, said nothing. She was dismissed. She told me the whole story later that night, when we were just relaxing on the couch, watching a movie. As the night went on, she slipped closer and closer to me. I didn't think anything of it, until she rested her head right on my shoulder. "Um... what are you doing?" "Watching the movie," she said, "having some popcorn. There a problem?" "Yeah," I cleared my throat, "uh, you're really close here." She smiled and giggled a soft laugh, "Hmm, when had having a beautiful woman pressed against you ever been a problem for you?" "Uh, um," I stammered, "I'm sorry, I just, I didn't know, I didn't think you were attracted to me. I mean, you even said--" "I remember," she sat up, "even though I was gay, I wasn't attracted to you. I'm not retarded, Davy." She ran her fingers through my hair playfully, making me uncomfortable, "but something weird happens when you become a new person. When I look at you, I don't see the same Dave I did when I was Simon. I see the Dave that Jennifer used to see." She resumed her position, lying with her head on my shoulder. I objected. "Simon!" I shouted, calling her by her male name for the first time virtually since her transformation, "you can't do this. You can't just usurp her identity. You're going to have to go back sometime." "Oh really?" she said with sarcasm, "just what do I have to go back to? Family? Mom's been dead for years and dad hasn't spoken to me since the funeral. My job? Shit, I was fired a month ago for disappearing. My boyfriend? Uh uh. And let's not forget, big guy, that when this movie is done, Jennifer Raye is going to have to do interviews and, you know what, I think I'm gonna get lots of offers. Yeah, I'm that damn good. And if I go back, then the world finds out that Jennifer Raye is dead, and that, my friend, is a huge loss, much bigger than some random queer waiter in LA." She was nearly in tears, sobbing, "I was nobody, Dave. More than that, I have nobody. I know Jennifer's parents... I remember them. They love her so much. They need her. And nobody needs Simon." I just sat, sullenly, listening to this monologue. I was really pretty moving. All I could do was put my arm around her to comfort this frail young lady, bawling her eyes out at this conflict of her own identity. But she was right. Not about nobody needing Simon, because he was a good friend, but about the world needing Jennifer. We had really gotten deep into this and I'd be an idiot to try and go back on it now. So there we were, me and her, on the couch, in mostly darkness. The last reel of Casablanca flickering on the TV in front of us, the lights turned down for that real movie-house atmosphere. She, cuddled up to me, sobbing gently into my chest, I, stroking her hair and softly whispering to her, "It's okay, it's all right..." and she looked at me with those tearful blue eyes, I couldn't stand to see her upset. It was unbearable. So I did what any other red-blooded American man would do. It was more or less a mutual decision. I had fought it earlier, but I still had my attraction to Jennifer from before. I was powerless against such a drive, it was only a matter of time. It started with a kiss, quick, and a little awkward, on the corner of the mouth. After that, we just looked at each other, neither knowing how to take it. So naturally, we kissed again. This time, longer, and with tongues passionately making their way into the equation. Before I knew it, we were going at it like mad, breathlessly pawing at one another like teenagers, excitedly exploring one another. I pinned her on the couch and she all but ripped her top off. Soon, we were up, and she was making me chase her to my bedroom. When I got there, and she was lying in her underwear on my bed, that was all she wrote. It was pretty much just like with any other woman, although it was incredible. I just mean that she didn't do anything special or kinky, like you might expect from a woman who had been a man (a gay man at that.) I guess having some of Jennifer's mind streamlined the idea of sex for her, so it was just a very straightforward activity. It also lasted a long time. Embarrassing though it is to admit, I used to have a problem with stamina. I was making eggs the next morning, as I often do on Sundays, when she stumbled out, fastening her bra and with a robe slung over her right arm. She slipped it on and wandered over to me, exhaustedly. "Hey you," she said softly, cutely. "Hi," I smirked. I was playing it cool, you see, and added, "so, how was it?" She smiled a big, dopey grin, kissed me on the cheek, and said, "I can't remember it ever being better." I laughed slightly, she continued, "Seriously though, part of me - as Jennifer - has been wanting that since you two had that night out. And it was really amazing. I wish you could have felt what I did." I chuckled a bit, then had a thought, "Maybe I could." "Hm?" "Well, you've still got that Medallion, don't you?" "You're not serious..." "I don't know, it's just a thought." "No," she tightened up her robe, "I actually don't. The police took it." "What? Seriously?" "Yep. I mean, obviously, right? Yeah, they made me give it to them when I spoke to that detective." "Oh," I was a little surprised. "Yep. I couldn't turn back now if I wanted to." She came back over to me and put her arms around me, "and I don't want to." She gave me a kiss. I just smiled and said, "This could work." *** Well, we finished production, just a little over schedule due to Jennifer's initial absence, but speedier than expectations. When it came out, it got some very good reviews, with Ebert even calling Jennifer the "breakout performance of the year." She did the talk show circuit, and looked fabulous doing so. There was buzz for an Oscar nomination, but that didn't materialize, although we did go to the Golden Globes, and the film, while not breaking the bank at the Box Office, exceeded predictions and became a cult hit. Jen and I still together, too. It's weird; other than when I'm telling the story, I hardly ever think about who she used to be, or how she came to be the girl I'm in love with. The only problem with our relationship is that we're both working so much that we hardly see each other. I think this is one Hollywood romance with a happy ending. The End.