This Time

This Time

October 18, 2024

The part called for patience. I rehearsed with at least a dozen men. According to the director, none of them were right for the role. According to the director, I was.

The scene in question occurs at a formal inauguration. The Czech Ambassador invited his friends and they (in turn) could invite a friend. The purpose was to celebrate his promotion to ambassador and to satisfy his curiosity about the taste of those in close proximity.

I was to stand near the bar. He was to move close, make eye contact, and sweep me off my feet. I needed to be smitten. I needed to be taken willingly. Just a simple touch and my dress straps would succumb. I was to offer no resistance. At best, I could hold my breath and bite my lip.

The script called for me only to react.

The camera moved in close.

My chest heaved. I gave him access to my neck. I was ready. I was willing. I was able.

Then, nothing.

Time and time again, nothing happened. The batter came up to the plate. The pitch was delivered. Then, the strikeout was recorded.

I was beginning to get worried.

So,

I suggested a change. I suggested that the last gent switch places with me. I wanted to keep the camera rolling. I took the alpha lead and made my move on him.

I walked over to him, catching him by surprise. I demanded the camera remained focused on his face while my hands improvised elsewhere. The viewer watched my prey emit a surprised yelp as he jumped from the contact. The crew knew I pinched his rear and poked him with a nearby fork. The potential audience would wonder otherwise.

The director signaled for the camera to keep rolling.

I pushed him away and then pulled him back. He yelled in pain as I grabbed him by his perfect hair (for the audience) and stepped on his instep with my stiletto heels (for the crew).

On camera, I turned my leading man into a wussy. All it took was a slap across his face, his chance to react in horror, and a sidestep to use him as a shield against the obviously armed intruder interjected for a poor plot twist to save the production.

To finish the shot, I took his bourbon, took a sip, and took him for the chump who needed to wear the last few drops.

The crew applauded the change. The director didn’t. He helped the ego bruised leading man to his feet and told him to go freshen up.

The man left the room silent.

When the door closed, all eyes were on the director. Then on me. Then back to the director.

“It’s a wrap. Make the change to the script. I’ll cut him a check and give him a letter of recommendation. You (pointing to me), by tomorrow morning, learn a few phrases in Czech and how to throw a knife.”

I adjusted my dress straps back to their proper position. The set had a mirror and I checked my appearance. This time, the crew saw a woman wearing little, showing much. The audience (soon) would see the same woman in the same dress kicking ass and taking names.

This time.