Method Acting 101

Method Acting 101

(an imperfect fantasy)

*INT. INTERROGATION ROOM, PRECINCT 44—NIGHT

A hard-boiled cop smokes a cigarette and stares into the eyes of the Writer. The Writer stares back, cold and aloof. A game of cat and mouse, except that it's being played between two cats and there was no mouse, not in the house, or here, or anywhere...or something like that...you get the picture.

COP: Why'd you do it? Why'd you do what you did to that girl?

The Writer turns away, trying to remember...as WE DISSOLVE into a MONTAGE of visuals that coincide with:

WRITER (VOICE-OVER):

It had been six weeks since I started seeing F. Sweet, sweet F. I won't bother with some schmaltzy romantic back story here—suffice it to say F was an incredible girl. Sweet and shy and intelligent, but with great lips and a beautiful pussy that I just couldn't get enough of. After six weeks being with anyone else I would've already bailed. I'm not much for the monogamy game, or for answering all those questions that so many girls feel they need to ask. That's not to say I'm a "player," though. I genuinely like women and just prefer to have sex with girls who are into the same thing as me: two or three weeks of fucking each other and then move on to the next—the world is too big and life is too short to limit yourself with one partner. Mostly I had been lucky. Only a few women have ever ignored me when I've said to them "I'm not into anything serious," and then wound up becoming the kind of Kling-ons that make guys like me feel guilty...for approximately three seconds, that is.

But F was different. She still is. F is generous without being overbearing. She's quiet without being submissive. She isn't needy or possessive, or ready to pull out the "victim" card every time I go out with my friends on a Friday night. She talks only when something needs to be said and isn't uncomfortable with silence—not like all those perky chicks I've been with who can't go five minutes without hearing their own voice. Oh yeah, I almost forgot: she's also got an unending appetite for my cock and my tongue and my fingers. That last point is the real rainmaker, I guess.

Me: I'm an actor. Living the dream—struggling like a common whore trying to make rent on my East Village apartment, which—if you've never lived in New York—is no easy task, let me tell you. Mostly I had done a couple of movies of the week (MOWs is what the call them) and little spots on stupid television shows that nobody I know ever watches. My roles have always been a bit edgy, though. I wasn't one of those model-types, those pretty boys with straight noses and the abs of what Margaret Cho calls a "cocksucker." I'm a bit rough trade, I guess. Still in my early 30s, but with the lines and the eyes of someone who's done this life a few too many times. Even in this lifetime, I feel—at times—that I've seen too much. I was in good enough shape, I guess, but my face had gone all Mickey Rourke before its time. So, to make a long story even more self-indulgent, as an actor I had only ever played psychopaths, and schizophrenics; killers and drug dealers; stalkers and rapists. And that was fine for me, you know. Those roles were fun to play and I had long lost any misunderstanding that I was going to be a Brad Pitt or a Scott Speedman. I wasn't going to be a star. I was the dark horse. I was the guy you get if you want someone to scare the shit out of Brad Pitt, but not in a movie...in real life. Even in movies the bad guys are pretty boys or some kind of cliché. Archetypical-looking bad-asses, who are bald or scarred, who really knit and play Rumoli in their spare time.

In any case, as I was saying, F and I had been going out for more than a month now—and we were having a lot of fun. We'd go out and talk and talk in restaurants and bars and then wind up at her place or my place, 69-ing our way to heaven—one lick at a time. As I said, F was shy, but in the bedroom she was nothing like the librarian she sometimes appeared to be. She was a tiger and in my own sweet way I would tell her as much—except I would phrase it differently: "You're such a dirty little slut," I would say to her. And I knew, as much as that might have offended her more feminist sensibilities, it also made her pussy drip that much more.

Before long it had become a custom, I guess, for me to call her a dirty slut and then I started writing her emails at work—she worked with deaf people, which was so convenient at times—telling her to masturbate in the washroom on her lunch break. I would come up with these scenarios and write them out for her, kind of like stories...Kind of like these stories here, the ones you find on this site. I'd start with the premise that she's such a dirty, horny slut that she can't help but finger herself in the washroom on her lunch break and while doing that one day, the janitor walks in on her and sees her—three fingers deep into her own soaking wet pussy...bent over the sink, moaning and groaning for a cock to fuck her...and, sure enough, the janitor pulls out his own throbbing dick and pulls her off the sink on to her knees and forces her to suck up his bulbous, purple head right between her lips...and she stops resisting and does it, starts sucking on it like she's been bitten by a snake and the dude's cock has the antidote...meanwhile she's rubbing her clit like it's a blood stain and she's Lady Macbeth, rubbing her own pussy with wild abandon while this dirty, musky janitor finally cums a full bucket into the back of her throat

That kind of shit.

And she was in to it. Or at least she never said she wasn't. We'd send each other stuff like that and every time she masturbated somewhere in public (to a fantasy that I had helped come up with), afterwards I'd want her to tell me every detail—not just where she was (usually in a bathroom), but how she was standing, where here stockings were, and if she was holding onto the toilet or the stall door...if anyone had come into the washroom while she was doing it and if she stopped or if she kept going...

And whenever she would tell me all these details, I couldn't help but get off. Her voice and her shy way of telling me that she fantasized about the janitor "being in her mouth" at work today, I would just start stroking myself and we'd end up going at it—totally slaves to some kind of sexual addiction that untied us. Yeah. It was like that. I don't know how else to describe it.

In a lot of the fantasies she confessed to me, though, F would invariably mention a certain amount of coercion. Sex would have a non-consensual vibe about it and she would often be "forced" to her knees, or "flipped" on to her stomach and the cock would "push" into her pussy and she would essentially get raped by someone who she eventually wanted to rape her. All of which I found incredibly exciting. I wanted to be the guy who would do that to her. Grab her by the hair and force my dick into her mouth, make her suck it and then flip her over and shove my cock into her wet and wanton pussy...her screams and moans...her "no don't" turning into "please, fuck me harder."

Then one day, my agent calls me. Tells me I got an audition for some new and improved rip-off of that Jodie Foster flick, The Accused. An up and coming actress (who I can't mention) went and got herself a vehicle playing a rape victim who hunts down and tortures her rapist...and I, that's me, was going in for that role. The audition was a week away and outside of the creepy dialogue (mostly creepy because it was so "normal") I had to—my agent told me—fake "rape" a mannequin during the audition. Weird, right? Not only having to show that you can be a "good rapist," but doing it in front of a director, a producer and a casting agent in a room no bigger than a Domino's Pizza?

For this, I thought, I'm really going to have to commit. I'm going to have to go all the way and lose myself in the music and the moment of the role. Just like Eminem, I was going to have to give it my all. Not just for the money—which was sweet—but for the future of my career and being able to do bigger and better bad guy roles that might even eventually lead to roles that had nothing to do with being fucking nuts. Nice roles. The kind of roles that Phillip Seymour Hoffman gets.

And that's when it happened, I guess. I don't really know actually. Most of the in-between is a blank to me. I just remember the thought and how it turned me on. The thought of forcing myself on F, and not telling her it was me. The thought of going to her work during her lunch break when I had told her to go and masturbate in the washroom and sneaking in there and kicking the stall door open—wearing a mask—and puching her down and holding a knife to her throat and telling her to shut the fuck up as I split her open with my cock...all of it...all of it was so damn intoxicating that I must have gone into a trance.

I don't even remember how I got there, to her work. Did I take a bus, or a cab? I had no idea. I just remember opening the doors to that washroom...and then...seeing what I saw...

*INT. INTERROGATION ROOM, PRECINCT 44—NIGHT

The Cop looks up at the Writer, who is perspiring. There's a glazed, half-crazy look in his eyes.

COP: What did you see?

The Writer doesn't respond. He's staring at the Cop's cigarettes. The Cop notices and pulls one out of the packet for him. He pushes it across the table and the Writer hurriedly lights up and takes a deep drag. A wave of calm rolls over him before he looks the Cop in the eye.

WRITER: I saw her on her knees, rubbing her own pussy, with this 40-year-old, black janitor's cock in her mouth....They didn't even notice that I had come in. His eyes were shut and his head tilted back at the ceiling and she was sucking on him something fierce. The sounds of it...all those squishy suction sounds... My beautiful little...my... It was supposed to just be a fantasy, right? She wasn't supposed to go off and do that with that guy. Suck him like that. ...Was she?

COP: What did you do?

WRITER: At first I didn't know what to do. I just...watched. Half of me was hard, the other half was one big belly full of fire. My gut was churning and I ...I felt afraid. I remember I had the knife in my hand and the heat from my own breath was making the mask all hot and sweaty. My face was like a sauna underneath it. I'm not sure, but I think I was crying...maybe...I dunno...but I remember the grip of the knife and I remember feeling it and that made me feel safe. Just holding it. And then, then she stopped sucking him and looked up at him and she said...she said...

COP: What did she say?

The Writer stares at his cigarette, the smoke dancing up into the light above him, as WE DISSOLVE INTO—

*INT. WASHROOM, F's WORK—DAY

WE TILT DOWN from the light above to find F, on her knees, looking up at the black janitor.

F: I want you to fuck my dirty pussy.

ANGLE ON the JANITOR, who looks down at her, smiling.

JANITOR: Of course you do.

The janitor offers his hand, to help her up from her kneeling position, but—

--JUST THEN, the janitor is struck from behind and falls to the floor unconscious. F turns and sees a masked figure, with a knife in his hand, staring down at her. She tries to scream, but nothing comes out.

The masked Writer lunges at her, covering her mouth with his hand and pressing the knife's blade against the skin beneath her right eye.

WRITER: You dirty slut. You sucking off every janitor that walks in here?

Terrified, F shakes her head "no." But the Writer doesn't care, he pulls her up to her feet and slams her back against a stall.

WRITER: If you even think of screaming, I am going to cut your dirty fucking throat, do you hear me?

F nods, shaking like a leaf as the masked figure pushes her inside the washroom stall, turns her around and presses her down so that her face is on the toilet's back tank. Her ass is facing him and he presses himself up against it while grabbing a fist full of her hair.

WRITER: Say it!

But F doesn't know what she supposed to say.

WRITER: Tell me what a dirty slut you are.... SAY IT!!

With tears streaming down her cheeks, F manages to get her voice together enough to tremble out the words.

F: I'm a dirty slut.

WRITER: LOUDER!!

F: I'm a dirty slut.

WRITER: You want my cock inside you, don't you?

F: ...Y-Yes.

WRITER: Say it!

F: I want your cock inside me.

WRITER: AGAIN!

F: I want your cock inside me.

And with that, the Writer pulls up F's skirt and, using his knife, cuts open a hole in the back of her panties big enough so he can see her dirty little pussy, absolutely soaking wet with anticipation. With his other hand he runs his fingers along her swollen pussy lips until he finds her clit. A soft involuntary moan escapes F's lips, which she tries to bite back...but it's too late. The Writer has heard it. He begins rubbing her clit harder and harder—his hands making circling motions and then intermittently diving back down, dipping his fingertips ever so slightly into her pussy.

The sensation is too much for F and the Writer can sense it. But he isn't satisfied with just sensing it. He wants to hear her beg him—truly beg him for his cock and so, holding the knife above on her lower back, he drops to his knees and spreads her legs open and begins licking the length of her dripping pussy hole.

After a few minutes of darting his tongue in and out of her he notices her breathing has become louder and sees that she is biting on her own hand, trying not to let out another moan—not wanting to give this masked pervert the satisfaction of knowing how good his tongue feels. But the Writer knows how good it feels.

It's his tongue, afterall, and her pussy and they have been here—albeit under different circumstances—many times before.

"Soon enough," he thinks and continues licking her—and then pushes two of his fingers inside her. F continues trying to hide her pleasure, but when the Writer starts pumping her with his fingers her resolve turns liquid and she begins moaning louder and louder...

WRITER: What do you want?

F: Uhn, uhn...

WRITER: Tell me what you want.

F: Ohmigo—ohn...

WRITER: Say it.

F: No...

WRITER: You want me to fuck you.

F: Please...please don't...

WRITER: Say it.

And then, finally, in more of a grunt than an actual sentence, F relinquishes fully and manages to let slip what the Writer wants to hear—

F: FuckmewithyourCOCK!

WRITER: Say please.

F: Please.

WRITER: Please what?

F: Please...please fuck me with your big fucking cock.

A smile spreads across the Writer's face as he stands back up behind her and opens his belt. He pulls his cock out, the head of which is throbbing, almost pulsating and purple. He strokes it a few times and then presses the head of it against her glistening pussy lips which almost open automatically, spreading themselves instinctually for his arrival. But he doesn't push into her yet. He waits, teasing her on the outside for a moment, before taking a breath and then ramming every last inch of himself into her with one fell thrust. F screams out her pleasure...moans loudly, begs him to fuck her harder...finally her fantasy has become a reality.

The Writer fucks her, pounds her pussy without any regard for her pleasure. Just pistons himself in and out, like a dog in heat, for no more than a minute or two, until he let's out a groan and empties his balls inside her...her pussy muscles tensing around his head, squeezing every last drop of his cum inside her...she too is coming, it seems. Not because he fucked her deep, or hard, or in that place where cocks go to die—the g-spot, I think—no. She cums because her rapist has cum. And knowing this makes her cum even more.

They both moan together now. Grunting and breathing...a film of sweat on their brows as he just leaves his cock inside her, so that the walls of her vagina are sufficiently coated with his seed...

He looks down at her: her head turned to the side, breathing heavily, tears in the corner of her eyes...so beautiful like this...

He loves her.

Yeah, you heard me: He loves her...he thinks

He thinks he loves her...and is about to tell her so, WHEN--

8 uniformed COPS storm the washroom, guns ready, yelling and shouting—followed by the black janitor, who's pointing at the Writer.

F is safe now and she collapses to the washroom floor, sobbing to herself as the cops throw the Writer to the ground and cuff him. They tear off his mask and reveal his face.

F looks over at him, shocked to see her boyfriend and not some stranger. Speechless.

And the Writer: rather than plead with her to tell the cops who he is, that he didn't really rape her so much as fulfill her darkest secrets...he just smiles at her. He smiles the whole time, even as they carry him away, reading him his rights. But just before he loses sight of her, the Writer speaks up. He stares F in the eye and tells her:

WRITER: You deserved that, you dirty little slut. You fucking desrved that.

They drag him away as F stares, shell-shocked and her mouth ajar, not knowing how to explain any of it. Not knowing how to feel.

---

And the Writer, who was supposed to audition for the role in that new vehicle, starring the hot new actress that everyone wants to make a star?

He never got the part.

THE END (for now)