who’d asked her agent to ask the showrunner if some other assistant could drop off scripts and wardrobe at her dressing room because—and I quote—“the one with the messed-up face kind of freaks me out? Like, no offense? But it’s bad energy, y’know?”
Rob and I were sent out on script for ten days, which meant we weren’t expected in the office and could just write. It wasRob’s idea that we meet each morning at the pool at the Regent Beverly Wilshire, where I’d stayed with Grandma when we’d gotten to town and where, it turned out, he’d worked as a busboy when he was a teenager. Each morning, we’d take over one of the tables for four and order lavish brunches (charged to the show, of course): lobster eggs Benedict, bowls of fruit salad and house-made granola and yogurt, berry smoothies and iced coffees. Then, with the plates cleared and our laptops open, we’d work until we hit our seven-page-per-day quota. Our episode was entitled “Gone to the Dogs.” The premise was simple: Taryn and her classmates help out a teacher by dog-sitting her pup. On a trip to the park, they lose the dog. Hilarity ensues. The high point of the show, at least from my perspective, was that Taryn would spend the entire second act locked in a Porta-Potty. Petty, yes, but I’d take my revenge where I could find it.
“So how would she walk, exactly?” Rob asked me after I’d pitched a scene where Taryn’s character was describing a too-ambitious bikini wax.
“You just want to see me look foolish,” I said. Then I pushed my chair back, stood up, and made my way around the edge of the pool in a bow-legged waddle. Rob laughed and then grabbed my hand and waddled along with me. “Like this?”
“Perfect.” He was flirting with me. No big deal. Rob flirted reflexively with everyone, including the sixtysomething cleaning lady named Dolores who pushed her trash can into our bungalow at eight o’clock every night, and the cashier at the commissary who’d dyed her hair the color of meringue and spit when she gave you your change. But I had never had a boyfriend, had never really dated, and I was so taken with him, his handsome face, his charm, that I decided, over the ten days we spent together, we were in love.
The day we turned in our script, we went back to the office and spent an afternoon in the writers’ room, reading throughwhat we’d written, with each writer playing a part (typically, I read Taryn’s lines, in a not-nice Valley Girl drawl). “Good stuff,” said Steve, which, from him, counted as a ticker-tape parade. Rob rummaged in the pantry refrigerator until he found a bottle of wine left over from our premiere party. Together, we drank most of it as the sun went down and the lot emptied, until finally I found the courage to make the move I’d rehearsed a hundred times in my head. We’d been talking about nothing—Rob’s plans for the weekend, his parents’ upcoming anniversary—when I’d crossed the room and kissed him, first his cheek, then his neck, then his lips.
“Hey, whoa there,” he said, laughing, holding my wrists in a playful grip.
“I love you,” I told him—words that would stab at me every time I thought about that night. Before he could answer, and before I could look at the expression on his face and see if it was shocked or, worse yet, horrified, I went down on my knees on the scratchy industrial carpet and proceeded to give him the first-ever blow job of my life (I’d perfected my technique by downloading some of the soft-core movies we’d surfed in search of Taryn).
He didn’t say anything, but I heard him groaning and felt his hands in my hair, holding me in place. “Oh, God,” he sighed as his hips thrust forward and he came in my mouth. I gulped—the porn hadn’t told me that semen would taste like hot, salted Clorox—coughing and sputtering but determined to do this right. With my scarred cheek resting against his thigh, I tried not to think about how he
Rob and I were sent out on script for ten days, which meant we weren’t expected in the office and could just write. It wasRob’s idea that we meet each morning at the pool at the Regent Beverly Wilshire, where I’d stayed with Grandma when we’d gotten to town and where, it turned out, he’d worked as a busboy when he was a teenager. Each morning, we’d take over one of the tables for four and order lavish brunches (charged to the show, of course): lobster eggs Benedict, bowls of fruit salad and house-made granola and yogurt, berry smoothies and iced coffees. Then, with the plates cleared and our laptops open, we’d work until we hit our seven-page-per-day quota. Our episode was entitled “Gone to the Dogs.” The premise was simple: Taryn and her classmates help out a teacher by dog-sitting her pup. On a trip to the park, they lose the dog. Hilarity ensues. The high point of the show, at least from my perspective, was that Taryn would spend the entire second act locked in a Porta-Potty. Petty, yes, but I’d take my revenge where I could find it.
“So how would she walk, exactly?” Rob asked me after I’d pitched a scene where Taryn’s character was describing a too-ambitious bikini wax.
“You just want to see me look foolish,” I said. Then I pushed my chair back, stood up, and made my way around the edge of the pool in a bow-legged waddle. Rob laughed and then grabbed my hand and waddled along with me. “Like this?”
“Perfect.” He was flirting with me. No big deal. Rob flirted reflexively with everyone, including the sixtysomething cleaning lady named Dolores who pushed her trash can into our bungalow at eight o’clock every night, and the cashier at the commissary who’d dyed her hair the color of meringue and spit when she gave you your change. But I had never had a boyfriend, had never really dated, and I was so taken with him, his handsome face, his charm, that I decided, over the ten days we spent together, we were in love.
The day we turned in our script, we went back to the office and spent an afternoon in the writers’ room, reading throughwhat we’d written, with each writer playing a part (typically, I read Taryn’s lines, in a not-nice Valley Girl drawl). “Good stuff,” said Steve, which, from him, counted as a ticker-tape parade. Rob rummaged in the pantry refrigerator until he found a bottle of wine left over from our premiere party. Together, we drank most of it as the sun went down and the lot emptied, until finally I found the courage to make the move I’d rehearsed a hundred times in my head. We’d been talking about nothing—Rob’s plans for the weekend, his parents’ upcoming anniversary—when I’d crossed the room and kissed him, first his cheek, then his neck, then his lips.
“Hey, whoa there,” he said, laughing, holding my wrists in a playful grip.
“I love you,” I told him—words that would stab at me every time I thought about that night. Before he could answer, and before I could look at the expression on his face and see if it was shocked or, worse yet, horrified, I went down on my knees on the scratchy industrial carpet and proceeded to give him the first-ever blow job of my life (I’d perfected my technique by downloading some of the soft-core movies we’d surfed in search of Taryn).
He didn’t say anything, but I heard him groaning and felt his hands in my hair, holding me in place. “Oh, God,” he sighed as his hips thrust forward and he came in my mouth. I gulped—the porn hadn’t told me that semen would taste like hot, salted Clorox—coughing and sputtering but determined to do this right. With my scarred cheek resting against his thigh, I tried not to think about how he
Similar Books
