Blue Movie (11 page)

She fell silent, toying with a blade of grass.

Boris, resting on one elbow, studied her celebrated profile. She was considered to have the most beautiful mouth in France, where it had been immortalized in a famous toothpaste advertisement when she was sixteen, and was still used—just the full, wet, red lips, and the strong, white perfect teeth. He felt himself getting an erection. “Tell me some more,” he said softly, “I mean, did you do it all that summer?”

“Yes, in bed at night—but we had to be careful because she couldn’t keep quiet. And then a terrible thing happened. My uncle—it was her stepfather, a gross horrible man—found out. I suppose he heard something, in our room at night, I don’t know, but then he saw us—he followed us here one day and watched. Then, that evening, he got me alone and told me he had seen. He said he would tell my parents . . . unless I let him be alone with me. I told him that I had never been with a man, that I was still virgin—but I know he didn’t believe me . . . he just kept saying he wouldn’t hurt me. I asked him how he could do it without hurting me if I was a virgin, and what if it made me pregnant—and then he said he wouldn’t make love to me, he would just embrace me, hold me close. Well, I was so frightened and confused . . . I mean, I thought it would
destroy
my parents to find out. So the next day was Saturday, which was the day we, that is, the women—Denise, and I, and my aunt—always went to the village, to do the marketing. He told me to say I was sick and couldn’t go—and to stay in bed.”

It seemed for a moment that she didn’t want to continue, but Boris now had his own reasons for pursuing it.

“Yeah?”

“Well . . . I stayed, the way he said, telling them I felt sick, so they left for the market without me . . . and I lay there, listening, waiting—it was horrible—then I heard, in another room, his shoes drop against the floor—heavy shoes that farmers wear—and I knew he was coming, I closed my eyes, it was unbearable, and he came in, very quietly, like he might be on tiptoe.

“‘Pretend you are asleep,’ he said in a whisper, as though he thought someone would hear us, but, of course, he knew there was no one for miles—and he got into bed, with his clothes on, except for his shoes . . . he unbuttoned the top of my pajamas—I just lay still while he did that, but then he began to pull off the other part, and I tried not to let him, but he kept saying, ‘I won’t hurt you, I just want to hold you’—I still had no idea what he was going to do—then he was on top of me, pulling my legs apart and pressing himself in between them . . . and his thing, his penis, was out, hard, pressing against me, already hurting, and I tried to pull away and said, ‘You promised you wouldn’t,’ and he said, ‘I just want it to touch you,’ and he was trying to force it inside, but it wouldn’t because I was dry and everything, and he put saliva on the end of it and forced it in, very hard—oh it was unbearable, it was such pain—and I was crying and he kept saying, ‘Is this how your lover does it?’ and ‘Is mine as big as your lover’s?’ and terrible things, I would gladly have died to stop it. I didn’t even have the presence of mind to ask him not to come inside me—not that he would have listened . . . so anyway he finished, and he looked at the bed, for blood, but of course there was no blood—a ballet student loses her hymen on the first
plié,
and I had been dancing for six years. Well, he was relieved that there was no blood, but I was still crying, almost hysterical, and now that it was over, he began to be afraid I would tell—so when I said I wanted to go home, he took me straight to the station. Later he told my aunt and Denise that I was sick and had insisted on going home. Afterward I saw Denise a few times, in Paris, and we made love, but I never went back to stay with her again.”

She looked over at Boris and smiled faintly. “So, Mister B., there you have my story—‘The Loves of Arabella’—or at least the first chapter.”

Boris was somewhat astonished to find himself thinking along the very lines for which he had earlier chided Sid.

“Well,” he asked, “did you ever, uh, you know, try it again? With a
man?”

“Yes. When I was still very young, before I had accepted myself. I tried it twice, as a matter of fact—and each time it should have been ideal . . . each time it was with someone I was very fond of . . . someone gentle and loving . . . someone I wanted to please. And each time it was terrible—I could feel
nothing
. . . except fear and resentment. I couldn’t even
begin
to
relax,
much less . . . to
give
anything.” She turned to Boris with her famous smile. “Well, Doctor?”

Boris shook his head. “Incredible,” he said softly.

“Incredible? You mean you don’t believe it?”

“No, no, I mean it’s . . .
astonishing
. . . it’s
great.
We’ve got to
use
it—for your sequence in the film.”

“You can’t be serious—what about the story you already had prepared?”

“Mickey Mouse compared to yours. No, we didn’t really
have
a story—just some ideas, images mostly, about two girls making love. This way we can use the
uncle
as well. It’ll be terrific—something for every taste.”

“But I couldn’t—not with the uncle, I mean, I simply couldn’t do it.”

Boris had a sudden wild notion of suggesting
Sid
as the uncle, but then thought better of it.

“But don’t you see, the
abhorrence
you would feel would be
perfect—it
would be exactly what we’d be trying for.”

She shook her head, not looking at him. “No, it is not possible. I would do anything for you, Boris—I’ll do it on camera with the girl, kiss her, make love to her, do anything you want . . . because I
believe
in it . . . I
feel
it . . . and because I know it is for
art!
But I just
cannot
do the other—please don’t ask me.”

“Hmm,” Boris considered it, then sighed. “Okay, we’ll use doubles on the inserts—when we cut to the closeups—erection, penetration, and so on, we’ll use somebody else’s. I’m sure you’ll be able to do the face stuff great.”

“Oh, I
will,”
she said, reaching out and touching him in gratitude, “I
promise
you I will, Boris.” She raised her great gray-green eyes to him, and smiled sadly. “I’m so sorry, Boris—you know how I always try to do anything you want. I love you, you know,” she added softly, lowering her eyes.

Watching Arabella closely as she went through these various changes, and still aware of his quite serious erection, Boris suddenly found himself seeing her through Sid’s eyes, recalling the intense imagery he had used—“fantastic to make a beautiful dyke come,” and so on, and he fleetingly considered the notion of trying to actually
experience
it vicariously from Sid’s attitude—but, more than that, being so genuinely fond of her, and feeling such an urgent demand between his legs, he found it almost impossible to believe that she wouldn’t enjoy it. He wondered what would happen if he asked her . . .
begged
her . . .
pleaded
. . . appealed to her friendship, loyalty . . . swore it was a matter of life and death . . . or perhaps if he said
she could be on top
—then she wouldn’t feel dominated. His erect member had arrived at the state sometimes described (by hacks) as “pulsating tumescence,” and he realized, too, with a certain disquiet, that due to the press of events of the last two weeks—the script preparation and the pre-production work generally—he had neglected to get laid during that entire period.

“Do you know why I’m so fond of you?” asked Arabella, looking at him again, “or anyway one of the reasons I’m so fond of you? It is because you have always
accepted
me for what I am. Yes?”

“Hmm,” Boris murmured, no longer too certain of this, and shifted uneasily.

“And I know you like women,” she went on, “and that sometimes you may think of
me
that way—as a woman. Well, I do have certain feminine qualities or let us more properly say, certain
Yin
qualities.” And whether through a wondrous intuitive awareness, or whether she actually perceived it, she reached out and gently rested her hand on his trousers and the taut wood-hard muscle beneath, raising her beautiful face to him with a smile that was radiant and benign. “Is that for Arabella?”

Boris, who was ordinarily rather blasé in these matters, felt an unaccountable tinge of chagrin when his member throbbed and reared at her touch as though from the slightest electric shock.

“I’m beginning to think that it is,” he admitted.

“Oh Boris, you’re wonderful,” she said with a marvelous laugh, and slowly pulled down the zipper, and took it out—holding it carefully, studying it. “Just look at it—all throbbing and eager, and no place to go.”

“No place to
come,
you mean,” said Boris, trying to maintain a cavalier mien—he was beginning to suspect her of being one of the world’s great prick-teasers.

“Why do they have to be so big?” she said, her head to one side regarding it with a little-girl pouting expression. “Maybe if they weren’t so big I could do it.”

“Sorry,” said Boris.

“No, no,
chéri,
” she laughed, “it’s
perfect,
I wish
I
had one exactly like it. And look, it’s so hungry,” she touched a small glistening drop on the head, “it’s drooling.” She sighed, and looked at him, now holding it very firmly in her right hand. “Yes, I promise you one day we will—not now, it would upset me too much, would be bad for the picture, but one day . . .” she giggled, and added, “maybe if I am on
top
. . .” Then she returned her attention to the member straining in her grasp. “But now we’ve got to stop it from throbbing and aching and everything, yes?”

“Yes,” Boris agreed hopefully.

“It
is
a beautiful thing,” she admitted, and closing her great lovely eyes, and moistening her heavy red lips, she opened her mouth and slowly, tenderly took it inside.

Boris sighed with relief that it was actually going to happen; he was ready to come immediately, but felt this would be unfair, in some absurd way, to
Sid,
and to himself, and, even more absurd, to the countless unseen Sids all over the world—so he settled back to watch this super-beautiful internationally famous face suck his cock, so to speak, trying to get some erotic mileage out of that notion, or reality.

It also occurred to him that the erotic content of the experience might be further enhanced by accentuating to the ultimate its
female
qualities (so that his id, ego, or whatever other hidden agency evaluates these things, could not possibly mistake it for some kind of madcap fag-suck) and to this end he carefully undid the two top buttons of Arabella’s cardigan, gently slipped his hand inside, and firmly cupped her no-bra perfect left breast—just holding it for a second before tenderly taking the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. At the pressure, slight as it was, she almost imperceptibly recoiled—but then relaxed, yielding, even coming forward a little, as the nipple began to swell and distend while he softly squeezed and rolled it between his fingers. This “submission”—allowing a man to fondle her breasts—as insignificant as it might seem, had an effect on Arabella that went quite beyond whatever immediate sensation it may have produced, and caused her to apply herself with obviously real and mounting excitement. While she continued, closed-eyed and breathing hard, her hands groped, opening the top of his trousers, taking them down enough to put her hands inside and grip his bare waist, and then his buttocks, urgently pulling him toward her, sucking voraciously, with gasps and moans, like a woman being made love to, almost painful—though occasionally taking so much that she gagged (but, as Boris noted, even when she gagged, she did it—consummate artist that she was—with a certain classic
élan).

And Boris now, with her breast in play and this convincing show of passion, could only think of her as
purely woman,
and wondered if this moment might not be extremely opportune for the emancipating experience (he now felt) she needed, which he wouldn’t mind performing, and his inclination toward this was heightened as he looked down on the lithe curve of her body, curled spoon-like, the black chinos taut over her perfect rounded bottom, beneath which he could faintly discern the panty-line, and wondered fleetingly if they were black too—he also wondered if she were
wet,
and his hand almost went out involuntarily to touch her there (thinking if her nipple responds, why not her clit?) but then, on a stab of intuition, he withdrew—touching her there, he was suddenly sure, might blow the whole thing . . . she probably wasn’t ready for that yet . . . and then there would be the awkward hassle of getting the slacks off
(and the sandals),
precisely the kind of untimely deal-breaking catalyst to avoid. He made a mental note to use such a situation in a film sometime, and a second note to be sure and
fuck
Arabella as soon as possible—then he returned his attention to her fabulous head, and as he did, she stopped for a second and looked up with a soft smile, all breathless, dewy-eyed, and shimmering wet lips. “Are you going to come in Arabella’s beautiful mouth?”

“Uh, something like that,” said Boris, thinking, My God is she going to stop now?

She nodded, closed her eyes, opened her mouth, then looked up at him, assuming her little-girl pout. “I guess she has to
swallow
it, doesn’t she?”

“Yep.”

She smiled her secret smile. “Good—she
wants
to swallow it.”

She resumed in earnest, Boris fondling both nipples, squeezing them hard, and she reacting more ravenously the harder he squeezed. When he started to come, he let go of her nipples and took her head in his hands, holding it and pulling it to him, wanting to come as deep inside her famous, beautiful mouth as possible, to explode against the very back of her virgin throat. And she devoured it, gulping and sucking as in some insatiable desperation, until every drop was drained—and Boris, in a state of collapse, weakly pushed her head away.