Blue Skies, No Candy
Skin flick. My skin. Open scene inside my head. Deep nothing. Camera moves into bosky afternoon of a bedroom. I would like this a little more early Jeanne Moreau. But he alas is somewhat hardcore porno, all ego, rough, armored Michael. And I alas am not Moreau. I am just your everyday late-blooming adulteress and when this scene gets really kinky, I have to grit my teeth to keep from laughing.
Am I rushing things…beginning the scene in bed? I cannot resist. Bed is where I’m making it these days, friends, and sometimes it seems I’m only limping along elsewhere. Of course, no one would ever suspect. On paper my life is beautiful, meaningful, creative, posh. Sensitive devoted husband. Perhaps slightly anxious about my success but it scarcely shows. Good marriage. One fine offspring, our remarkable unfuckedup wise little Maggy. House and Garden real estate, overlooking Central Park and on the dunes in the fiercely stylish Hamptons. Booming career. I am a screenwriter. I am the screenwriter, Katherine Wallis Alexander. Not too many hassles these days. They are talking Redford, Fonda, Coppola and $150,000 with a very nice percentage for my next script. Everyone is thinking Woman this year and I am the woman to write it. I looked thin and not a day over thirty-two at the Zanuck-Brown party in Women’s Wear two weeks ago. Donald Brooks wants to dress me wholesale. Elaine never denies me a table. “Great Kate,” writes Vincent Canby. “Gentle Kate.” Life is spectacularly beautiful. But bed is best. I can’t seem to get enough. I’m hungry all the time. For so long I was sheltered in the nunnery of my ambition. My fantasy was Oscar the status doorstop and love letters from Pauline Kael. I was caught up in the joys of monogamy for a long time. And while I was on ice, a lot of guys seem to have learned some very fancy fucking. Even the bastards are more fun in bed than they used to be. And so am I.