It had been, just as the announcer had promised earlier that evening it would be, "a night when Tinseltown's sexiest and most famous stars come out to shine!" and by the time the Oscars were over, O. and I could barely keep our hands off each other.
"Well . . . ?" she asked with an evil grin.
"You mean . . . ?" I asked.
She nodded slowly, her hand on my thigh.
"Hunk and Starlet," she whispered in my ear.
Ten plus years into our marriage, I am proud to say, O. and I continue to have a wonderful, varied sex life, the result of hard work, open communication and above all, honesty — not just with one another, but honesty with ourselves, in here (I'm pointing to my head), and in here (now I'm pointing to my heart). Ten years, though, is ten years, and so recently, just to spice things up a bit, we've been experimenting with a little fantasy role-playing. Nothing too out there, of course, just the occasional Master/Slave, Mistress/Slave, Stewardess/Passenger, Doctor/Nurse, Nurse/Patient, Publisher/Writer, Kommandant/Jew, Egyptian/Israelite, Marine/Muslim, Police/Suspect, Warden/Prisoner, Prisoner/Prisoner (ouch), and Prisoner/Prisoner/Prisoner (thanks for pitching in, Phil). Maybe it was just the box of wine talking, but watching the Oscars that night we couldn't help but wonder: wouldn't it be fun if for just one night, just for a few hours, we non-sexiest people could have the same kind of sex as Tinseltown's sexiest? See how the other half loves, so to speak?
"I don't know," I said. "I better check with my agent."
O. gasped.
We made our way quickly to the dining room. O. sat at one end of the table, and I sat at the other, and slowly, slowly, slowly, our agents hammered out the terms of our relationship. Naturally there were a few outstanding issues concerning termination, intercourse, guarantees of public fidelity, etc., but enough preliminary points were agreed upon in principal that we commenced, as stated in Section C - Paragraph 4, to enter into what shall heretofore be referred to as "The Relationship."
Then the fantasy kicked into high gear. O. followed me to the den, where we sat on the sofa and did Oprah, The View and Regis and Whatever the New Girl's Name Is. We were really hoping for some late-night events — Letterman, Jay, whatever — but couples stuff is strictly Daytime. After that we went outside to the patio to frolic topless on the tropical beach so a photographer in the bushes could take photos of O and get them to Star (Star agreed to $25,000 for the "secret" photos, half of which would go to the photographer, half of which would go to us; we also swung ourselves a nice little percentage of the per issue cost of the magazine, in exchange for a guaranteed post-breakup interview, party to be determined later). Everything was going well — even our asking price per picture had gone up, mine by $2 million, O.'s by $4 million. Arnie, my agent, said that would change soon enough, all I needed was a hit, but something else was bothering me. I was drinking more, and talking less. I was feeling trapped — by this relationship, by the press —and so on the way to the bedroom, I punched a photographer in the nose and found myself on the cover of the every paper in the country. O. went into the bathroom, smeared makeup across her face, mussed her hair and stumbled out a few moments later with white powder on her nose.
"Don't you fucking lecture me," she said, stumbling across the room. "Do you know what it's like to be a woman in this business? Do you?"
Frankly, I'm not sure how the Sexy do it night after night.
I poured whiskey all over myself, tore my shirt open, trashed the room and started to cry. "You think you're better than me?" I said. Then I punched her in the face. Eventually the neighbors called the police, who pulled me over on Sunset Boulevard and charged me with aggravated assault and driving under the influence.
Rumors swirled. Drug abuse, violence, the inability of either one of us to land a starring role because insurers believed us to be too great a risk. "Is it over?" asked the cover of Entertainment Weekly. O checked herself into a drug rehab clinic in Europe. I checked myself into Betty Ford. Arnie issued a press release saying that I took full responsibility for my actions and that I was "taking the necessary time to deal with my issues of violence and control."
Soon, though, things got back to normal. People magazine was looking for an exclusive with Aniston, another of Arnie's clients, and he cut a deal to give them both Aniston and Pitt in exchange for one of their "Our love got us through the hard times" cover stories featuring me and O. The People photographer came by and took some photos of us in our kitchen, me hugging O. from behind as she stood at the counter with a mixing bowl. In the background was our Golden Lab. No, wait — Chocolate.
The offers for lead roles started to come in again. O felt she deserved more than 15 million a picture, and I didn't really want to co-star next to an elephant named Mr. Biggles, but an offer's an offer. Oscar night was our greatest triumph, as we strolled triumphantly down the red carpet, Hunk and Starlet, arm in arm, and the fans cheered and the flashbulbs popped. We didn't get home until late that night, and we made our way to the bedroom where we undressed in silence and each wondered how we could get out of this miserable contract without harming our favorability ratings among 18-24 year olds. O. looked at herself in the mirror, said she felt fat and wondered if she should have her tits done. She went to the bathroom and made herself puke. I climbed into bed, turned off the lights and jerked off to the ass of the winner of Best Leading Male.
To be honest, that whole fantasy didn't do much for me. Frankly, I'm not sure how the Sexy do it night after night. I guess it's because they're empty here (I'm pointing to my head), and dead here (now I'm pointing to my heart).
After a while, O. came back to bed and we held each other and talked, and I was relieved to hear that she hadn't enjoyed it much either. She hugged me tight, and rested her head on my chest.
"Tomorrow night," she said, "let's do something more romantic."
"Yeah," I said. "Like shitting on each other."
"Yeah," she said. "Shitting on each other would be nice." n°
