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Romcom: A Biopic In Five Acts free porn video
Romcom: A Biopic in Five Acts
by Cal Y. Pygia
Act I
Today--it's Monday, so you know how that goes--I come home from work--I
display, cut, and present snack product samples to big box store
"shoppers"--to find a dozen roses waiting for me on my doorstep. There's
a note: "No flower is as lovely as you, nor as sweet. Love, Charles."
He should have been a poet instead of a film school student.
I think of tossing the bouquet in the trash. Last night, I ran into him
at a club that's little more than a dive and had a drink or two (or
three) with Charles, or "Chuck," as he prefers to be called, and I let
him drive me home. He was disappointed when I'd thanked him at my
apartment's door and said goodnight. I suspect he expected more.
He is--or had been--my older sister's friend, not mine (until Raquel
moved away from home a couple of years ago). With Raquel gone, I guess
he sort of gravitated toward me. Maybe, since I'm a bit younger than
sis, he thinks I might fall for him. He's going to be a movie director,
after all, if things go as well as he hopes they might. (Things seldom
do in L. A., especially in the film industry. Otherwise, I'd be an
actress by now, having graduated from high school a year after Raquel
left town and I'd gotten my own apartment.)
I shake my head at the flowers. Red roses symbolize romantic passion.
Like his visions of Hollywood fame, Chuck's hope that our "dating" will
have a passionate outcome is nothing more than a dream--or a delusion.
He didn't get to first base with me last night, and, although he's all
right, in his own nerdy way, he probably never will.
He'd signed the card "Love, Chuck." He's either smitten with me or
desperate. Probably the latter.
Although his showing up at my place today, when I wasn't home, and his
leaving red roses for me on my doorstep annoys me, I'm also admittedly
touched. I decide to keep the roses. If nothing else, they'll brighten
my drab apartment.
I'm in the shower when my phone chimes. I consider ignoring it, but
Raquel might be calling, so I step into my terrycloth robe and answer
the call.
"Di? Chuck." He mentions a chick flick playing at the Super Cinema.
Would I like to go?
"With you?" I'm tempted to ask. Instead, surprising myself, I say yes.
I do want to see the movie, after all--every woman in the country wants
to see it. Why not let Chuck pay my way?
He seems thrilled with my answer and more than a bit incredulous. The
movie, a romantic comedy, or romcom, as such fare is known in the biz,
starts at 7:00 pm. He'll pick me up at 6:30, which should give us time
to buy popcorn and sodas or other snacks. We can have a late dinner,
after the movie. He hung up before I had time to ask him how he'd
gotten my number and before I'd had a chance to thank him for the
roses.
I'm ready and waiting for him when he calls, right on time. Would he be
ready for me, if things get hot between us (not that they're likely to
do so)?
Act II
The film isn't quite the "delight" reviewers promised. Although it has
a few funny scenes, the comedy is, for the most part, contrived; the
theme--basically, men are pigs--is way overstated; and the happily ever
after is unconvincing. The settings, the acting, and the costumes,
though, are excellent, overall, and the movie's diverting.
The dinner is good, too, and costs considerably more than the flick,
even with the refreshments. For me, though, thanks to Chuck's
generosity, it's all free. I don't feel bad about letting him pay my
way, because I know he has ulterior motives in doing so: for the price
of dinner, a movie, popcorn, and a soft drink, he hopes to get into my
panties.
On the way home, I thank him for the flowers he sent me and ask him how
he got my phone number. He's vague about the latter, and I suspect he
used a website that, for a fee, allows users to conduct background
checks on people, based on data in their public records. I don't like
being spied upon--it's too much like stalking--but, since suspicion isn't
proof, I bite my tongue.
At my apartment, I don't ask him in for a nightcap, though (I'm annoyed
at the possibility he's been cyberstalking me), and I turn my head when
he tries to kiss me goodnight, so he delivers nothing more than a peck
on my cheek.
"Maybe we can do this again," he suggests, "soon."
There's always the possibility another chick flick might play that's
worth seeing, and my mamma, God rest her soul, taught me never to say
no to a free meal. "Maybe," I say, stepping into my home sweet home.
I change into a nightgown, catch up on a couple of episodes of a TV
series on Amazon, and turn in early, after a quick shower.
Act III
The next morning, there are two dozen red roses on my doorstep,
courtesy of Chuck. It seems that, simply for having had dinner and gone
to a movie with him, I've doubled my esteem. His having visited my
apartment like a thief in the night annoys me again. The card he's
stick in the bouquet doesn't: "You belong in pictures. Want to star in
my first film?"
First student film, he means. But such films become parts of film
students' portfolios. In some cases, they help to launch Hollywood
careers. It might not hurt to be in Chuck's first picture if the script
isn't terrible.
If I'm lucky, he's written something on the order of Dark Star, THX
1138, Amblin', or The Pleasure Garden, debut productions that helped to
launch the respective careers of John Carpenter and Dan O'Bannon,
George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, and Alfred Hitchcock. Probably Chuck's
script isn't nearly as good as any of these, which aren't all that
spectacular themselves, but who knows?
He calls me about six o'clock, and I say his invitation sounds
"intriguing," asking him, "What kind of movie do you plan to shoot?"
"I'll bring a copy of the script, if you like," he offers. "I wrote it
myself."
"Okay."
"We'll go out, after you read it, and talk things over."
We can do that here just as easily, I think, making no commitment.
At seven sharp, he's knocking on my door.
Before he even steps across my threshold, he's looking for something.
Spotting it, he smiles. "I see you got the roses."
"Yes. Thank you."
He seems to expect more.
"They're lovely."
He hands me a manila envelope. "It's called Seduction."
I invite him to take a seat, and he does, watching me as I extract the
script from the envelope and begin to read. The way he studies me
annoys me. I concentrate on the script, seeing myself deliver the lines
as I emote for the camera, embodying the part of the heroine, Melanie
Davis.
"So?" he asks eagerly, after I've returned the script to the envelope.
"What do you think? Do you like it?"
"I love it."
"Really?"
"Truly."
"It's good?"
"It's fantastic!"
Each of my responses make him more excited, more eager to hear my
answer to his next question.
His eyes shining, he asks, "You'll be my star, then?"
"No."
He frowns, as if he's unsure he's heard me correctly. Then, his
shoulders sag. He exhales, his breath issuing from him in an audible
hiss, as if he's a deflating balloon. He sits motionless. "Why not?" he
asks, finally.
"It requires nudity."
Again, he frowns, as if he finds my reason ludicrous. "What?"
"I don't do nudity."
"Nel, the title of the movie's Seduction. Of course, it involves
nudity."
I want to scream, "My name's Penelope, not 'Nel,'" but I don't. I'm too
distracted by the damn tear meandering down my cheek, warm and wet and
embarrassing as hell.
Tell him the truth, I tell myself, but I don't. He's long been friends,
of a sort, with my sister, but, out of respect for me, Raquel always
kept my secret from him. I won't explain myself, either. Not now, not
ever.
"Will you at least tell me why?"
I shake my head, biting my lower lip. The tears are coming faster now.
"No," I manage to croak.
He crosses the room, sits beside me. As I watch him, he seems to move
in slow motion. He takes my hands in his. "Penelope," he says, his
voice quiet, calm, reassuring, "whatever it is, you can tell me. I love
you. I have since the first time I saw you. I like Raquel, but, when I
saw you with her, it was you I was attracted to. I'll always love you,
no matter what." He squeezes my hands in his. "I doubt you're a prude,
and I know how badly you want to become an actress. You say my script's
good, so tell me, please: why won't you be in my film?"
My lip trembles so badly I can't speak. Even if I could, I don't trust
my voice not to break. Again, I shake my head.
"It's okay," Chuck says, holding me to himself.
My head on his shoulder, I let the tears flow, conscious of his body
next to mine, of the heat between us. I feel humiliated, broken,
crushed, but, as he holds me close and tight, I begin to feel better,
not whole, perhaps, but better. At last, I sit up straight, and Chuck
releases me.
"It doesn't matter why you won't do my movie," he says. "I respect your
decision, whatever the reason."
He seems reluctant, now, to say the words I can see in his eyes, the
words of love he spoke to me when I needed to hear them. I need to hear
them now, again, and always. "Chuck," I say, "I'd rather show you than
tell you why I can't be in your film."
"Okay, Penelope."
"I'll be right back."
As I enter my bedroom, I tell myself twenty different reasons why I
shouldn't show Chuck anything, why my secret should remain my own,
shared only with my sister and best friend, Raquel, who's known since I
myself first knew, but I am resolved to show Chuck. He has been a good
friend, a better one than I ever knew or appreciated, a true friend.
When I return to him, I'm naked.
He stares, as if he's seeing a vision. Is he enchanted, I wonder, or
horrified? I watch him, as his gaze travels over my flat chest with its
tiny nipples, down my slightly concave tummy and narrow waist, over my
sleek, firm thighs, down my shapely calves, then up, back, to my
hairless groin and the shaved, flaccid little cock and balls that hang
there, more like decorations than the sex organs of a young man.
"My long, curly hair, makeup, skirts and blouses, heels, purse,
earrings, necklace, and bracelet, like my indubitable poise and charm
had you fooled, didn't they, Chuck?" I smile, but I feel like crying.
He rises, slowly, like a man enchanted, moves toward me, as if he's
floating, his eyes never leaving my own. He takes my hands in his, and
he says, "You are beautiful, Penelope."
"Worthy of your roses?"
"Yes, and of my love, but--"
"Tell me."
"You don't care for me. You never have, except, perhaps, as a casual
friend, if that."
I step closer, kissing his lips, firmly, deeply, passionately.
He kisses me back, the same way, his hands around my waist.
Our kiss continues, and his hands slide down, around my buttocks,
squeezing the silken globes.
We come up for air.
"Silly boy," I tell him, "I've always been as attracted to you as you
are to me, but I dared not admit it, even to myself. I was afraid I'd
horrify you. I was afraid you'd reject me. I feared you'd loathe me."
"Never."
I smile. "But now you see why I can't be in your movie."
"No, I don't."
"The inner me, the real me, is a woman, but the outer girl--well, I'm
not really built for the part, am I?"
"You will be, after I rewrite the script."
"You don't have enough time."
"I don't have to shoot a hundred and twenty minutes minutes, or ninety,
or even sixty--just enough to show what can do. I was only going to
shoot a hundred-and-twenty minutes because my parents funded such a
length. We can film what happened between us here, tonight. It'll make
a better picture than the one I originally had in mind. I'll call it
Eureka!, with an exclamation point."
"Do I still have to get naked?"
"Well, that is kind of the whole point, Penelope."
"Nel."
"Huh?"
"I prefer to be called 'Nel'--by you, at least." I held his gaze in
mine. "A boyfriend should have a pet name for his girl."
He smiled. "What will you call me?"
"Chuckie."
"Please, Nel, not that! Anything but that."
"Just when we're alone. Otherwise, I'll call you Chuck or Charles or
anything else you want."
"Chuck's fine in public. But back to the matter of nudity. Your
becoming comfortable with yourself, just as you are, is the theme of
the flick, as I envision the new project, and your willingness, without
shame, to appear naked, by the end of the film, symbolizes your newly
attained self-acceptance."
"I'll do it."
"You will? Just like that?"
"What can I say, Chuckie? You can be very persuasive." I smile.
"Besides, I get it, the symbolism thing. It's integral to your
picture's theme--or to your new picture;s theme, the one you're going to
shoot, with me in the starring role, as soon as you've written it."
"I love you, Nel."
"You've seen My Fair Lady?"
"One of my all-time favorites."
"Remember what Eliza Doolittle tells Freddy Eynsford-Hill when he
professes to love her?"
He smiles. "I do: 'show me.'"
"Well?"
He takes my hand in his, and we move, together--in step, in fact--from my
living room into my bedroom, where my queen-size bed awaits us.
In old movies, the scene might dissolve here, the camera opening on
another place, at another time, the previous sequence of film having
implied that the couple, in going into a bedroom together, hadn't done
so because they wanted to catch up on their sleep.
But this next scene, the finale, is integral to the story of my self-
acceptance and vital to my celebration of myself. Therefore, it must be
included in unflinching detail, up close, personal, and erotic in every
detail.
Act IV
Within minutes, Chuckie's naked, lying on his back, toward the end of
my bed, his parted knees bent over the edge of the mattress, and I,
also nude, am kneeling on the floor, between his thighs, his stiff,
hard cock in my fist. I pump the taut flesh vigorously up and down upon
his swollen, straining shaft. He reaches for me, placing his hand
lightly upon my head, a touch that completes the connection between us
as much as my hand does, around his prick.
I take his erection between my lips, into my mouth, bob my head up and
down, loving the feel of his rigid manhood between my cheeks and
against my tongue and the roof of my mouth. By filling me, he makes me
complete.
I deepen my strokes, bouncing harder and faster, and his cock slides
smoothly back and forth between the tight circle of my lips. I look him
in the eye, while his cock is in my mouth, knowing how much some
men--Chuckie among them, I hope--love the sight of a woman sucking their
pricks.
My fist grips his shaft, just below the purple dome of his cock, and I
masturbate him as I plunge my mouth down, withdraw, and plunge down
again. My fingers stroke and knead the taut flesh of his silken
scrotum, massaging his balls through the thin, smooth pouch of flesh.
Chuckie sighs, then groans, and his thighs scissor against the sides of
my face. It pleases me that I am pleasing him.
Releasing his cock, I let it slide free of my oral embrace. I lap his
balls, licking hard against the ovals inside the risen pouch of his
scrotum. I take one testicle into my mouth, hold it, then release it
and replace it with its twin. My hand finds his cock and strokes it,
pumps it, squeezes it.
Already hard, his manhood responds, stiffening further, swelling more.
I welcome his responses, his groans, his heavy breathing, the way he
begins to writhe upon my bed; all are proofs of my ability to arouse
him, to pleasure him, to gratify and satisfy him.
I taste salt. A drop of Cowper's fluid, or pre-cum, has oozed from his
glans meatus, the tiny slit in the top of the tip of his cock, a
certain sign that orgasm is nigh.
I stand.
Chuckie, who's had his eyes closed, opens them, frowns. "What's wrong?"
he asks.
"Nothing. I just want you inside me." I gaze at him, stare at him. "I
want you to fuck me."
He grins, rolls off the bed, and I climb aboard the mattress,
positioning myself upon my elbows and knees. My legs are well apart, my
bottom high in the air.
I feel the mattress dip, first on one side of me, then on the other, as
Chuckie places one foot on either side of me, squats above me, and
guides his erection between my buttocks. His thick, hard prick slides
past the inward-curving cheeks of my derriere, and I feel his rubbery
glans press against the portal to my bowels.
My sphincter resists, but he shoves his way in, through the tight
circle of my anus. I feel his long column of flesh penetrate and impale
me. My own cock is stiff, jutting from my shaved loins.
My beloved moves, his calves and thighs flexing, as he raises his hips,
drawing his cock back, through my asshole, before sending his prick
deep into my ass again. Each time he thrusts his cock home, I feel as
though he's entering me for the first time.
I love the way my own cock and balls are ignored, as if they're mere
ornaments. Somehow, their idleness impresses upon me my passive,
feminine role, just as Chuckie's cock, filling my bottom, reinforces
his assertive, masculine office. I'm simply here for him, spread for
him, impaled for him. I accept wholly--and whole-heartedly--his
occupation of my bowels and his repeated, insistent hammering of my
ass, his property.
His pace is regular, measured, deliberate, as if he's a machine set to
deliver so many strokes per minute--no more and no fewer--into my bottom.
His regular thrusts and plunges are as certain and reliable as the
oscillation of a metronome.
There's something reassuring about such inevitability and reliability,
something wonderful about it, as if each stroke is an unspoken promise
fulfilled. Back and forth, in and out, up and down, his prick lunges,
rises, plunges, and ascends, his hips like springs that operate
according to the definite intervals of a timing device.
Chuckie begins to move his hips faster, driving his cock harder into my
ass, and I feel his prick slide quickly back and forth inside my
asshole, as he fucks me with a frenzy of which I'd never have suspected
him capable. His prick shoves into me fast and furiously, rocking me
hard against the mattress. I gasp in surprise, my hands tightening upon
the pillow and sheet. He pounds me, pummels me, hammers me, as the
mattress dips and sways wildly beneath us.
I greet his enthusiasm, his energy, his wild, frantic assault upon my
bottom, for I know such passion indicates not merely his strong sexual
desire, but also the depth and intensity of his love.
His body stiffens, and he is still. I feel his shudder, and he moans,
as he empties his balls into me.
He withdraws his cock, spraying my buttocks, my perineum, the backs of
my thighs, and my back with his warm semen. Volley after volley of his
thick fecundating fluid splatters against my flesh. I want him to
continue to brand me, to mark me, to claim me with new, endless
eruptions of his cum. He comes and he comes, until, at last, spent and
exhausted, he collapses atop me, and lies there, his pubes and his
dwindling, semen-slick cock pressing into the cleavage of my wet,
sticky buttocks; his abs resting upon my back; his heart beating,
wildly, between my shoulder blades; and his breath hot against the side
of my neck.
After making love, we talk. Having meaningful conversation with the
man I love is as fulfilling, in its own way, as the wonderful sex we've
just had.
"Without you, I'd still be doubting myself, afraid to be who I am. I'd
be full of fear and insecurity and self-loathing. Do you know how many
people in my situation commit suicide?"
"One is too many."
"I thought I was a freak, not because I like to dress as a woman, but
because I don't want to become a woman, not completely, anyway. I like
having a cock and balls, but I wouldn't mind a breast implants. I want
female hormones, electrolysis, and a feminine voice. I want a feminine
face and makeup and clothes. I want bras and panties and negligees, and
I want a man who will take care of me, open doors for me, take me
places, and love me, but I don't want to undergo a penectomy, an
orchidectomy, labialasty, or vaginoplasty." I look at him. "Are you all
right with that?"
He kisses me. "I love you, Nel, just the way you are."
"I didn't even know there's a word for who I am, for what I am," I say,
"until recently." I smile, embarrassed. "I thought all this talk about
genders, plural, was nonsense, but I see it's not. Until I came to
understand that gender is a social construct and that there are a
variety of gender identities, I was lost. I didn't fit the 'male'
definition, or not entirely, nor did I identify as completely 'female.'
I also didn't regard myself as entirely 'transgender.' I guess the
closest I've come to defining my own gender is 'transfeminine,' meaning
someone who's born with male genitals but who identifies with
femininity more than with masculinity."
"They're all just labels, Nel. You are who you are, and I love you,
just the way you are. If you want breasts, we'll get you a pair. We'll
get you hormones and whatever surgical procedures you want, if any. I'm
happy to have you retain your boy parts if that's what you want. I'm in
love with you, Penelope Scott, not just your anatomy."
We kiss again, and his kisses are sweeter than the roses he buys me by
the dozen.
Act V
Chuckie's new script, Eureka!, is sixty-two pages, which translates
into about the same number of minutes of film. We watch it together,
with his professor, Dr. Keating, while eating popcorn and drinking
sodas. I'm thrilled to see "Starring Penelope Scott" and proud to read
"Produced, Directed, and Written by Charles Roberts" on the screen,
during the film's opening credits.
Dr. Keating awards the film an "A" and encourages Chuckie to enter it
in a student films contest, where it takes first place and earns a
$10,000 prize.
The best news of all, though? Thanks to his mom and dad's generosity in
funding his final project, Chuckie has enough money left to shoot his
first feature-length commercial film, Seduction, starring me, of
course.
"You're going to be a big name in Hollywood," I tell Chuckie. "I want
to thank you."
"For?"
"Loving me."
"I'm the thankful one. Without you, my film would never have been the
success it's proved to be, and I wouldn't be the happiest man in the
world being your fiance's made me be."
If this were a movie, "Finis" would now appear on the screen.
I'm glad it's not a movie, though; I never want what Chuckie and I have
together to end.
Stevie
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