A Night at the Theater

"Calm down, hon," I said soothingly. "I'm sure there was some method to his madness. But the show is over now, we're done with him. Let me grab you something from my room, and we'll just get the hell out of here."

A moment later I draped my robe around her, not even bothering to have her put her arms through the sleeves in our 'haste.' I also made sure that the hem dragged a bit on the ground (as expected, given our height difference), and that the 'knot' I tied was no such thing. Then: "Come on, Marie, let's blow this joint, head home, and forget all about it."

I took her by the elbow and ushered her to one of the theater's side doors. "No one uses this exit, it should be quiet. No fans. From here it's just be a quick jaunt to my car, and then you'll be safe." I checked quickly to make sure the door would lock behind us, then opened it and bustled her through.

Outside, we stood on a slightly elevated platform in front of the side entrance, surrounded by a small sea of journalists and paparazzi who had been tipped off by some anonymous caller (wonder who that could have been?) a short while earlier. The door latched shut behind us. We were blinded by a flurry of flash bulbs. "Tom, the press, what the hell are they doing here?" Marie sounded confused and desperate—she had thought her ordeal was over. She tugged uselessly on the door handle in a rising panic.

"Don't worry," I whispered, "they don't bite. A few more minutes and it will all be over. Head down those steps over there, my car's right down the street. Hurry now! Run! We've got to move fast!"

She followed my directions, lurching forward abruptly, but of course I was standing on the hem of the robe. The belt I had 'tied' with such care easily fell free, the robe gaped open, and she just leaped right out of it. Feeling the cold night air on her skin, she froze, and again the cameras flashed, immortalizing Marie in all her naked glory—from the hint of clit poking out of her still engorged pussy, to the dried semen that glinted all over her body like Hollywood tinsel.

Now it was time for my final monologue. I cleared my throat. "THIS IS THE END MARIE!" I shouted loudly, mugging shamelessly for the journos, as she craned back over her shoulder to stare at me, bewilderment written on her face. "I'm done with it! I've tried to be supportive and understanding, but now you've taken it one step too far! I refuse to be a part of your sick exhibitionist fetish anymore!" Video-cams lit up, recorders clicked, pens scribbled frantically. "I just can't do it. If you want to show your body to anyone and everyone, to take who knows how many cocks in one day, to let casual acquaintances ejaculate inside you while the theater-going public watches, that's your business! But I can't be a party to it any longer!"

Hell, I thought, that should get me some play on TMZ. I picked up the robe, shouldered past her naked form, and strode off toward my car, leaving her alone on the platform. I looked back only once, and saw that she was still standing there, hunching slightly against the chilly breeze, transfixed by the glare of flashbulbs, wincing at the barrage of shouted questions that echoed and reechoed off the alley walls, seemingly immobilized. She hadn't even had the presence of mind to try to cover herself up. Instead, she just stood there, dazed and confused, mouth agape, tits heaving, legs akimbo, pussy hanging out.

That was the last time I ever saw Marie. I made it to the airport and jetted out of town before the sun was up. I still have the robe as a memento. I did wonder how Marie got home, though, stuck in an alley, in a crummy New York neighborhood, late at night, surrounded by a bunch of jaded press men, bare naked and without a cent. The paparazzi would be happy to drink in her naked form for as long as she cared to stand there, but I doubted any of them possessed enough chivalry to spare her an overcoat or car-fare. Did she jump a stile and take the MTA (now that's a mental image)? Did she flag down a cop and give him a blow job so he wouldn't book her for soliciting? Did she spread her thighs for some passing cab driver? That's a story I wish I knew.

* * * * *

Well, that was all a long time ago now. If you follow the showbiz news (or Mr. Skin, for that matter), you can probably guess the name Marie goes by these days, with her platinum rinse and high-end boob job. Turns out I did her career a real favor. Any woman who is a pretty good actor, with fine looks and great skin, and is also willing to strip, open her cunt wide, get fucked and creampied by multiple men in front of hundreds of people, and finish off by confessing her exhibitionist tendencies, fully naked, at an impromptu press conference, is going to catch the eye of plenty of Hollywood moguls. In Vegas that's what they call a winning combo. And once they've sucked you into their machine, and money is no object, they know how to glam you up. She's the living proof.

I suppose, after our last night together, Marie may have figured she had nothing left to hide either. Even I was surprised how darn many camera angles got posted to the web. And the resolution! Why, in some of those vids, it feels like you right there in Marie's cunt, alongside my dick. Of course, I don't need to tell you—you've seen them. I was disappointed that my supporting role got so little critical acclaim, though. Somehow I ended up portrayed as the co-dependent, enabling loser who had been hen-pecked into going along with Marie's wild, turn-it-up-to-eleven exhibitionist proclivities. How could it be that I'd fucked her brains out in public—sprayed my seed right up inside her womb on a livestream—and I was the one who ended up as an object of public pity? And then, before long, I missed being pitied, because no one even remembered who it was that had fucked her up on stage anymore.

Anyway, as I'm sure you know, Marie went on to parley enthusiastic full-frontal nudity and 'extra mile' attitude into a series of prominent and well-paying feature film and prestige-TV roles. Meanwhile, my career flamed out. These days, I'm lucky to work as an extra in a Go Daddy commercial. Life is so unfair.

I think the reason I brought up this ancient history with Marie is that she's been on my mind recently. In fact, I've been trying to get in touch with her—you know, for old times' sake. Heck, I thought maybe she'd even want to reignite the flame. Her agent says she's out of the country on a shoot, but I'm expecting her to give me a call any day now. She'll probably suggest we meet for cocktails, and we'll catch up, shoot the shit, remember the good times. Maybe there's a part for me in one of her movies, too. You never know. It'd be a hoot to work with her again.

I will admit we didn't part on the best of terms; but really, once you get some distance from it, our night at the theater was kinda funny, right? A real lark. Crazy youth. Yeah, I bet when she calls me, she'll bring it up herself, fake-mad probably, and we'll reminisce about that wild night together, and how dumb we were back then, and we'll start to laugh, and pretty soon we'll just both be in stitches. Yeah, that's how it will be.