Party Favor Pt. 01

Author's note: this story contains scenes of reluctant sex and coerced lesbianism.

*****

"So. What would you do to be a star?"

After what I had just learned, the question was my opportunity to show her that I had morals, that I wasn't the type of girl that she thought I was, and that I could say no.

"Anything," I replied instead, with no hesitation or hint of shame. "I would do anything at all."

Her pleased smile at my reply was meant to be reassuring. Instead, I felt a chill run through my body.

What had I gotten myself into?

-----

Let's start at the beginning.

Hi. I'm Michelle.

This is my crazy story about how an ambitious girl from the Midwest got drawn into the kinky, sexy underbelly of Hollywood. I'm talking "A list" celebrities, media moguls, sleazy agents, and lots of dirty, filthy sex! Looking back, my adventures have been amazing and I have no regrets. I wouldn't be who I am today without the lessons I've learned in the bedrooms and casting couches of L.A.

First, a bit about myself, or rather who I was at the start of this story. Back then I was what Hollywood insiders called a triple threat: an actress, a model, and... barista! That's right, most of my income came from Starbucks and it would be fair to still put "aspiring" before both actress and model at this stage in my so-called career.

Like a lot of women in L.A., I arrived in my earlier twenties with high hopes of hitting it big. Growing up outside of Chicago, I was convinced that I was special. After all, compared to my local pool of competition I was attractive, talented, and had enormous ambition. I thought my star on the Hollywood sidewalk was practically assured!

Hollywood quickly humbled me.

Bottle blondes with great bodies like myself were a dime a dozen, literally. All of us thought we could act, many thought we could sing, and none of us realized just how much of a commodity we were. I went from being the chosen one, the star of my local theatre productions, and the hottest girl in my town, to just another pretty face. I was so deluded, like the rest of my competition, that it took me years to realize that I didn't stand out.

Finally, after five years my results spoke for themselves and I began to face harsh reality.

My modeling career was arguably my best accomplishment at that point in time. I do have an exceptional body and spent the money to get certified as a crossfit instructor right after I moved to L.A. That was probably my only wise decision as it meant I got paid to work out five days a week. Blessed with large natural breasts, a firm ass, and decent height, I've done a lot of fitness and active wear clothing photo shoots for sports bras, yoga pants, and workout devices. I can't tell you how many exercise videos I've also appeared in as a background model, they run the gamut of every fad from Zumba and Bar Method, to Pilates and Kick Boxing. Modeling helped pay the many bills I accumulated, especially my ongoing acting classes, but it wasn't exactly a full-time gig yet by any means.

Acting was my real dream, like so many other young women in this town. That meant endless casting calls, soul destroying script readings, and very little actual paying work as I hoped for my big break. I've had some credits, mostly "D" movies of the Sorority Party versus Serial Killer or Spring Break Shark Attack genre, where my tits were my most important qualification. I've even had some speaking parts in these productions, though my lines were limited to such gems as, "Hey... You're not my boyfriend! Why do you have a knife?"

Not even worth mentioning are the tons of roles as extras in big budget movies, usually uncredited, and always with no spoken lines, that I almost do for fun so I can pretend to be a real actress. Aside from one national commercial for a tampon company, who paid me ten thousand dollars for a two day shoot to be one of three girls jumping into a lake during a short montage, acting has been a labor of love rather than a moneymaker.

With so much competition and so few good roles, how does one get ahead? Well, one thing you learn quickly about as an aspiring actress are "Director's Rights." That means the quickest way to get ahead, is giving head. Many starlets got their first break auditioning on their back, and unfortunately I became no stranger to this sleazy side of Hollywood.

My first film, one month after arriving in L.A. at twenty years old, was a low budget indy made by a guy who had just graduated from USC and had a seven thousand dollar budget funded by his parents. I'm pretty sure he wrote the script and hired me for five hundred dollars just to fondle my breasts and make out on camera over the course of multiple weeks. The movie went nowhere and I learned that his artistic talent was even more minuscule than his dick, which he pathetically tried to get me to suck at the end of the shooting wrap party. I'm not sure he even finished editing the footage into a film.

It was a good lesson in what to expect and a wakeup call that anyone in Hollywood with power, however little, was likely to abuse it. I quickly learned that I had to use my body as a bargaining chip to advance my career as it was commodity in the eyes of the people who had made the decisions. There was a limitless supply of attractive young women out here with questionable morals, which meant I either played ball or never got off the bench. Let me be clear, I was not as big a whore as many of my friends. I tried to choose my moments and opportunities carefully, balancing my self-esteem with the potential career reward. Even flirting and teasing might be enough depending on the situation.

A blowjob got me the tampon commercial. Fucking a Director upgraded me to "Blonde Slut #1" in a sorority house thriller that gave me my first couple of dozen spoken lines. That film had a five hundred thousand dollar budget and was released by a dodgy, but real production company in the softcore shlock market. You might say it was my first real gig and landed me a number of similar roles without having to fuck anyone.

The worst weren't the titty movie productions, however, that market was so sleazy that generally girls felt like they were already whoring themselves out just by appearing in the film. Most of the workers there were surprisingly respectable, although directors had to be watched for taking too many liberties. The people with the real leverage were the ones involved in big Hollywood studio productions. They knew they could make or break a young actress' career.

I got burned early on. Blowjobs that led to ghosting by casting directors. A sex oriented "date" with an up and coming Director who never came through with even a casting call to his next movie. I endured a horrible multiple month "relationship" with a married, minor studio exec who made me go to his office at lunchtime to fuck on his desk. One day I realized he was never going to pull any strings for me and finally ended the farce. He hardly shed a tear as he had a replacement girl waiting in the wings.

I'm sharing all this to be honest, but despite what it sounds like I'm really not a whore. I'm a fairly normal girl that was doing what everyone did in this crazy town to get ahead. I rationalized my actions as business decisions, but regretted them badly and hated myself for what I was doing to get my break. I did get wiser and less naive over the years, whereas some of my friends just got sluttier and doubled down on fucking their way to stardom before they got too old.

I switched agents to a maternal woman who steered me clear of the worst personalities and acted as my therapist half the time. The biggest scar the industry left on me was on the personal side. It's difficult to have a boyfriend when you might have to give a blowjob the next day to get your dream role! Even worse, dating anyone in the industry came with a healthy does of cynicism that you were being used, but everyone worth dating was in the industry!

Everything came to a head on my twenty fifth birthday.

I'd been waiting to hear back on a casting for a big opportunity, at least for me. It was a titty movie still to some degree, a Spring Break rom-com with attached B-list stars, but it had a decent director that was a specialist in the teenager/college-age "raunchy comedy" market. The film also had a legit budget and a major studio producing it. I'd been angling for a minor part that had a small number of lines and enough nudity that no established actress would likely sign on. It was the kind of role that was right up my alley for my big break!

"Michelle, I heard back from casting," said Amy, my sweet and supportive agent. Her voice sounded grim over the phone and I knew immediately that it was bad news.

"Just tell me why. Did you get any feedback?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

I would have had sex with anyone to land this role, no question about it, but the casting director hadn't given me an opening and the director was way too important to come to readings for this minor of a character.

"Yes, well. They said... well, they said that they wanted someone younger," Amy said, a sad tone in her voice. She was honest to a fault and never sugarcoated bad news, but now I wished she was a liar. "I don't think you should read anything into—"

"I gotta go," I interrupted and hung up, tears already welling up in my eyes. I didn't want to cry while on the phone with her, but I let it all out now as I sat alone in my shitty apartment, in a bad neighborhood, and in a horrible city. The enormity of my failure in Hollywood hit me all at once.

Really, it was my failure in life.

The only good credits I had were from playing teenagers and college bimbos, it was my niche, and I'd just been told I was too old for that type of role. I contemplated the harsh fact that my entire career was ending before it had even really started. Granted, this was a rejection by one production, but the warning signs were there. Everyone aged and, at twenty five, I was on the wrong side of the short Hollywood starlet lifespan. If I was doing porn, I'd be switching from Teen to MILF roles at this point.

What the fuck was I doing with my life? The rejection had kicked off an existential crisis.

I mentally added "failed" to actress as I thought about my career, and then added "part-time" to model. It was suddenly clear, I was going to be a barista and crossfit instructor forever. I'm not a suicidal or depressive type, but sitting on my cheap Ikea couch I had never felt so completely bereft of hope in the future in my entire life. What was the point of anything?

Maybe I should return home to Illinois with my tail between my legs. I could transfer to a Starbucks in my home town and move back in with my parents to save money. Would death be better than serving cappuccinos to all the people that I had thought myself better than five years ago?

I was a blonde haired, blue eyed bombshell with a rocking body, a beautiful snowflake anywhere else in the world, but L.A. had a blizzard of women just like me. I was on the ground and melting in the sunshine, and still they kept drifting down to replace me.

Fortunately, Samantha called at that exact moment to wish me a happy birthday!

Samantha was my closest friend in L.A. and a former roommate. Another triple threat, Samantha had taken a sluttier route than I had which had earned her more work and credits, but her minor breaks served to underscore in my mind that she didn't have the talent to parlay her résumé into a real career. She was another fake blonde with a silicone enhanced rack that rivaled my own natural chest, but liked to party too much and her body wasn't nearly as toned as mine was.

Samantha had sort of resigned herself to partying, fucking Hollywood industry types, and taking shitty acting roles as her lifestyle. Evidently, with lower standards, and a complete abandonment of your dreams, came contentment as she always seemed happy. Her modeling included softcore pornography and I wouldn't be surprised if that turned into hardcore pornography at some point in the future. She was, after all, two years older than me and had to see the end of her ride coming.

Don't read into my description of Samantha too harshly. I was being overly bitchy and cynical about her because of my own state of mind that afternoon. Despite her career choices, Samantha was a sweet, loyal, and always fun friend.

As we talked, she sensed my angst, teased the rejection story out of me, and went right to work on consoling my injured psyche. Before I knew it, I had agreed to go to a surprise birthday party that she was throwing for me tonight. She had to blow the secret to put me in a better mood and the event did give me something to look forward to at least. The cynical part of me assumed that she hastily assembled the party right after we hung up, but I still had a fun time at the hotel bar with the usual cast of our misfit, aspiring-something friends.

"Hey, do you want to try another side job, for extra money?" Samantha asked as we stood alone on the rooftop bar and watched the L.A. nightscape twinkle around us. The city lights glittered like a million stars, all of them fake. I was drunk and in a good mood finally, but her question evoked a surge of emotion given my fragile state of mind.

Was she suggesting I give up acting?

"What do you mean?" I asked, looking at her sharply. Her morals were looser than mine and that always made me suspicious. "What kind of work? Is it for Mr. Sleazy?"

Mr. Sleazy was my nickname for her latest boyfriend. His real last name was vaguely Italian, or maybe Greek, perhaps even Turkish. Whatever his ethnicity, he was swarthy and Mediterranean in appearance, with slicked-back black hair and a preference for gold chains and exposed chest hair. Ewww. Samantha had been evasive as to his work, but implied it was some family business in real estate. I suspected pornography, although he was almost too overtly sleazy to be in big budget porn these days. Low budget porn then. Probably sick fetish stuff.

"No, not for him," Samantha said, touching my shoulder to reassure me. "He's not that sleazy either, you have the wrong impression. Anyway, you know how he is super connected with that agent?"

I raised my eyebrows skeptically, but nodded. That famous agent, married to Mr. Sleazy's cousin, had done nothing for Samantha's career, so I doubted Mr. Sleazy really had any pull with him.

"Well, I was at a party at the agent's house last weekend and he asked me if I or any of my friends wanted some side jobs," she continued. "Of course, I told him I'm not a whore, because I knew what he was implying. He sort of laughed and said, 'yeah right.' Then he said it was a modeling gig for fancy parties, basically being a sexily dressed hostess. He implied there were lots of stars and Hollywood players, so it would be good for networking. Anyway, he said he would give my number to the agency and I should talk with them."

"This sounds sketchy," I said, a dubious expression on my face. Did she think I was so desperate that I would want to get paid a hundred dollars to stand in lingerie at some poker night? Those gigs inevitably required 'earning' your tips with harder work than serving drinks.

"Yeah. Mr. Sleazy didn't think I should do it either," said Samantha, trying yet again to convince me that her boyfriend was a good guy. I sniffed. "The agency called the next day. I chatted with them, but Mr. Sleazy really put his foot down. He likes me, he really does, and gets insanely jealous. I'm serious! But they asked me about anyone else I might know that is good looking, like me, and I gave them your name! They googled your portfolio while I was on the phone, liked what they saw, and asked me to talk to you about them."

"I don't know, I've done some fucked up shit for money, but this sounds a little pathetic," I said, shaking my head.

"Me too. Do you remember when I did that nude maid service?"

"Yeah! And you tried to get me to join you, but then quit after the second day," I countered and we both erupted in laughter.

"Turns out I hate cleaning," Samantha said with a grin. That and she realized she'd have to fuck the guys to make real money and repeat business. Even she had lines apparently, although sex for direct cash, versus sex for career advancement, seemed to be the main one. "Anyway, I didn't get that sketchy vibe at all. The woman was very professional and intelligent, incredible to speak with actually with this posh British accent. She sounded very discriminating and on the up-and-up. Discretion seemed to be her big thing."

"Doing something Mr. Sleazy thinks is too risqué doesn't sound like a good idea."

"Sure, but here is the kicker. It almost made me want to break up with him when she told me. They pay ten thousand dollars for one night of hostessing at a party! Plus there are tips."

My eyes went wide. That was a lot of money. I still remembered the dinner at Nobu I splurged on with Samantha after I got that check from my tampon commercial. Ten thousand dollars would pay for months of rent and make a dent on the credit card balances I'd been carrying for years. And that was for one party.

I was at a low point in my career and seriously worrying about my longevity. That's the only excuse I can give for being interested in this mysterious line of work that had to be too good to be true.

"Hostessing? Hmm, I guess it can't hurt to talk..."

-----

"Michelle, I'm so pleased you decided to call."

Angela, the head of the agency, knew my name instantly when I phoned the next morning. She absolutely refused to discuss anything over the phone, and instead insisted that I come in person to meet her that day. Her manner was so self-assured and sophisticated, particularly with that British accent, that I found myself agreeing sycophantically despite my misgivings. Suddenly, I found myself rushing to shower, get dressed, do my makeup, and blow out my hair, all while wondering how she'd convinced me in a short phone conversation to drop everything and interview for this likely sketchy job.

Rêves d'Étoiles, as the agency was called, had an upscale address in Beverly Hills off Rodeo Drive. I arrived late, of course, as finding free parking had taken forever and the unassuming door on the second floor of a modern office building had been hard to locate. The space itself was well appointed and had an understated, but luxurious feel. I felt instantly reassured about the legitimacy of this job as I stood on the Persian rug in their lobby and studied what appeared to be an original Banksy painting on the wall.

There was simply too much money and class on display for this to be a seedy criminal operation, right?

The receptionist was a slender, almost mousy woman who didn't introduce herself, and offered me only the thinnest hint of a smile after I'd confirmed my identity. Glancing at the antique clock on the wall with a slight frown, she led me immediately into Angela's wood paneled office.

My future boss also put me at ease upon first sight. She was tall, blonde, and simply put, formidable. The word statuesque was invented for women like her! I would guess she was in her early forties, but makeup, genetics, and a incredible presence made her appear younger at first glance.

Angela held a single finger up when I entered, freezing me into silence while she finished her conversation.

She was on her phone behind a large and very solid antique desk, with her feet kicked up and resting on the top. Red soled high heels caught my eye, probably expensive Louboutins, and she pumped one toe slowly while talking on the phone. The motion caused my eyes to linger on her smooth, stockinged legs. I can't afford silk stockings as part of my regular wardrobe, but I've always loved the way they looked and felt. She seemed born to wear them.