Sex, Lies, and Ceiling Fans…
Anne L. Sachs
A few years ago, while covering the Democratic Convention, I ended up meeting a famous photographer who was also covering the rally. He had been watching me all night, but I was moving around so rapidly he didn’t have a chance to catch me until the end of the evening.
“I said to myself,” he acquiesced, “‘If she stands still long enough, I’m going to walk over, and introduce myself.'” And he did.
He was absolutely gorgeous. His skin was soft and bronzed, which led me to believe he had just returned from some exotic place — perhaps, a photo shoot in Hawaii for a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. He had that rock star “thing” going… his flowing mane tied back so he could work the floor. I could only imagine what the rest of this picturesque Adonis looked like…
He asked me out that night, and we hit it off pretty well. We talked about everything from politics, to the weather, to travel, to religion. He was intrigued by me. He watched attentively, like a little kid, with his sweet chin upon his hands, absorbing my carefully crafted spiel. I wanted to impress him, you see, because he was well-traveled — and older, by twenty years! I didn’t wanna come off as some little girl trying to be a woman.
He was interesting to me, as well. He had photographed prime ministers, presidents, rock stars, and other dignitaries. I couldn’t believe I passed him all night without noticing him, as I garnered an immediate attraction upon our meeting. I’ve been so guarded with men recently that I didn’t let on how much I reciprocated. For one, I figured he lived too far away — he’s from L.A. Why start something we can’t finish? Secondly, I’ve had my heart broken from bad boy types like him… so I didn’t wanna go there — again. What I mean by bad boy types is: He’s got long, voluptuous hair, and a sexy pout that constantly adorns his face, unless you make him blush. Then, out pop the dimples. The epitome of rebelliousness, he’s a rich kid who went against the grain, refusing to take over the family business because he had his own goals in mind. He collects motorcycles, and, from what I understand, women’s hearts! And I wasn’t ready to be on his shelf. But, the more he talked, the more I thought about becoming a bookend.
Still, I was playing hard-to-get to see how hard he would work to get me. Here’s the thing: If you’re gonna be a bad boy, you have to put down your ego long enough to show me you care about my feelings. Although that kind of bad boy is hard to find — that Lorenzo Lamas meets Jimmy Stewart type — I had the feeling he’d find some way to woo me. His deep voice caressed my ears. His eyes killed me. But you know what they say about photographers? They have to have a good eye — and both his were good!
After dinner, he asked me back to his hotel room. He said I didn’t have to sleep with him, although he wouldn’t mind if I did. I declined because I didn’t wanna be gotten too easily. (At twenty-four, that was the extent of the sophistication I could conjure up.) But I said I’d be willing to visit him in California once we got to know each other…
“I have a great idea,” he said to me over the phone the next morning. He had been up all night trying to figure out how we could spend more time together to push things further along. “I have a photo shoot back home in a week. How about driving back with me? That’ll give us some time to get to know each other before we get to L.A. Then, of course, you’d stay with me for a few days, because you will have learned something about me, then you can fly back. I’ll pay for everything. How’s that sound?”
It was so spur-of-the-moment, I didn’t know what to say. “I could use the vacation, and the adventure,” I thought to myself. What’s the worse that could happen? I’d wind up in bed with a gorgeous guy who pays for everything. What a shame…
“Look,” he said, reassuringly, sensing my apprehension, “if, at any time, you feel uncomfortable, you can leave. I’ll buy you an open-ended plane ticket so you’ll have the freedom to leave any time, without question. You have nothing to lose.”
“Except my life?” My mind started wandering. This was too good to be true: Guys this nice scare me, because I’ve never had one. But if I were really getting a bad vibe from this guy, I would’ve known by the time we finished dinner. Plus, he’s famous. Why would he kill me, and risk ruining his reputation?
My gay friend Vic always says women place too much emphasis on relationships. They don’t allow themselves to enjoy casual (sex) relationships, because when they see a guy, they wonder in that instance if he’ll be a good provider… father… or husband… even if things never progress further. “Sometimes a girl needs a one-night stand to curb her horniness. Why does it have to be with someone she loves, or is married to? Even if he’s not the marrying kind, have a little fling. That way, by the time she settles down, she’ll have all that out of her system; thus, her ability to discern between lust and love will be clearer,” Vic muses. In other words, “Let your fucking hair down, for Pete’s sake!”
He showed me a joke someone faxed to him once. I can’t remember the punch line, but there’s a naked woman in a hotel room hanging from a ceiling fan, and she’s straddling her husband. As they start up the ceiling fan, she’s conveniently spinning around on his penis as the axis. All of a sudden, she hits a speed bump — must’ve been a pimple on his dick! — and breaks momentum flying across the room… Weird… I wish I could remember the punch line… Just the very thought of it still makes me laugh. Anyway, I’ve always wanted to try that! I’d been enough of a prude all my life (due to my religious upbringing) that I was ready to experience the nasty. And who better to try it with than a swashbuckling photographer! What the hell. “When do we leave?” I asked…
As I packed my bags, I began to get excited. I didn’t know if we’d have sex, but I packed a negligee. It was the most beautiful gown I’d ever seen. It was white with lacy flowers, and had that “sexy virgin” look to it. I was saving it for a future honeymoon, but, at the rate I was going with guys, I thought I’d better use it now before it disintegrated…
At this point, we’re several hours outside city limits, right in the middle of a transition into another state that prevents the radio signal from coming in clearly. So we’re forced to converse because no one likes uncomfortable silences. I didn’t feel uncomfortable at dinner. But, suddenly, cooped up in a rental car, two inches away from his luscious thighs, with no place to escape, I feel nervous — not because I think I’m riding with Jack the Ripper, but because of the age difference. I’m also excited about the fact that he’s rich, famous, intelligent, and gorgeous. (There’s usually something wrong with a man with that many good qualities.) My parents would die if they knew this, because they’re very religious. They think I’m off on a movie shoot. (I’m also an actor, by trade.)
“It’s gonna take us about three days to make it to California.” He breaks the silence momentarily. “So we’ll have to stop and rest at a hotel.”
Not that I didn’t see that coming? Would I be here if I didn’t? Well, he’s rich, famous, and handsome. (Did I mention that?) He’s probably used to getting everything he wants. Well, he’s got me. I’m as horny as a goat, so there will be no resistance. I start to think about what it would be like to jump his bones: “He’s forty-five. Will I give him a heart attack?”
Or “Maybe he’ll give me a heart attack. I want him so badly that when I finally get him, it’ll be too much for me… “
Or “He’s almost as old as my dad. Maybe he’ll spank me for seducing him… “
These thoughts must’ve occupied most of my time, because I didn’t notice that uncomfortable silence. He’s actually a very nice guy. He was gentleman-like the whole ride. He touched me accidentally when he was looking for a map in the glove box. But how long could this “Gentle Ben” act last? I sensed that horniness we both had several hours back whilst passing a freshly-plowed field.
We stopped at a beat-up motel with only one vacancy. (Ironic, huh?) He offered to sleep in the car, but I said no. Since he had done all the driving it would only be fair if he got to sleep in a nice warm bed. The room was decent. But upon my entry, I burst into laughter. He gave me the strangest look. And I pointed upward. There was a ceiling fan in the room, and I just couldn’t contain myself… I don’t think it was so much delirium as it was releasing the tension of an eight-hour drive with a strange man who I knew wanted me. I wanted to hurry up and consummate “it” so we could get it over with, and move on… I proceeded to tell him the joke — what I could remember about it — so he wouldn’t think I was prone to fits of hysteria for no reason.
A mischievous smile came over his face. “Well, you wanna try it?” he stuttered.
Dumbstruck by his remark, I was suddenly speechless. And since I made no movement, he pulled me close to him and whispered, “You know I couldn’t keep a beautiful catch in my possession, and not take advantage of her.”
I was trying to respond, but his eyes were paralyzing me. I thought about that spanking I was gonna get from my dad, for lying and fornicating, when I got home… Further, I was looking forward to the spanking I was about to get!
We were both sweaty from the car ride. I thought we’d seize the moment right there, but he suggested we both take a shower, separately, like he was planning something afterwards. One would think the act would’ve been heightened by a shower together, but whatever…
I showered first. A half-hour later, he came out the bathroom with a silk robe on, and a champagne bottle in his hand. He looked so delectable, I started to go out of my mind with lust, again. Then he opened his robe, to show me the goodies. I started from his face, working my way dooowwwnn… He was absolutely delicious. His chest was filled with hair. I could see his six-pack tummy peeking out from underneath his robe. The bottle was strategically covering his “package,” so I skipped down to his legs. Then, he slips his robe off with the bottle still in tact, while keeping his eyes penned seductively on mine. He lingered for a moment to see how badly I wanted it. And, believe me, I wanted it. Now I’m licking my lips. “Have you ever done this before?” he asks, slowly removing the bottle from view. My eyes were still drowning in his, so I couldn’t speak, but I felt the anticipation rushing over me.
“Are you ready for the big one?” he teased, waiting for a response.
I’m thinking, “If this guy is John Holmes, I’m in (and out!) for it.”
And I looked down to see what’s about to beat me into submission… Then this French voice crept into my head: “Big one?”
His “big one” had to have been two inches — at best — erect! I’m thinking to myself, “Who’s gonna burst through the door and bang me before the photographer makes it over to the bed?”
I wasn’t a virgin, but judging from his “big one,” if I were, I doubt my status would’ve changed after the (f)act. I hate to be that shallow, but that killed it for me: Big man, little peepee. You know that saying, “If he doesn’t have it in the hips, he’d better have it in the lips”? Well, he’d better be prepared to get lockjaw!
I guess you’re wondering if I slept with him. Well, let’s just say I never made it to California…