Romcom: A Biopic in Five Acts

Act I

Today—it's Monday, so you know how that goes—I come home from work—I display, cut, and present snack product samples to big box store "shoppers"—to find a dozen roses waiting for me on my doorstep. There's a note: "No flower is as lovely as you, nor as sweet. Love, Charles."

He should have been a poet instead of a film school student.

I think of tossing the bouquet in the trash. Last night, I ran into him at a club that's little more than a dive and had a drink or two (or three) with Charles, or "Chuck," as he prefers to be called, and I let him drive me home. He was disappointed when I'd thanked him at my apartment's door and said goodnight. I suspect he expected more.

He is—or had been—my older sister's friend, not mine (until Raquel moved away from home a couple of years ago). With Raquel gone, I guess he sort of gravitated toward me. Maybe, since I'm a bit younger than sis, he thinks I might fall for him. He's going to be a movie director, after all, if things go as well as he hopes they might. (Things seldom do in L. A., especially in the film industry. Otherwise, I'd be an actress by now, having graduated from high school a year after Raquel left town and I'd gotten my own apartment.)

I shake my head at the flowers. Red roses symbolize romantic passion. Like his visions of Hollywood fame, Chuck's hope that our "dating" will have a passionate outcome is nothing more than a dream—or a delusion. He didn't get to first base with me last night, and, although he's all right, in his own nerdy way, he probably never will.

He'd signed the card "Love, Chuck." He's either smitten with me or desperate. Probably the latter.

Although his showing up at my place today, when I wasn't home, and his leaving red roses for me on my doorstep annoys me, I'm also admittedly touched. I decide to keep the roses. If nothing else, they'll brighten my drab apartment.

I'm in the shower when my phone chimes. I consider ignoring it, but Raquel might be calling, so I step into my terrycloth robe and answer the call.

"Di? Chuck." He mentions a chick flick playing at the Super Cinema. Would I like to go?

"With you?" I'm tempted to ask. Instead, surprising myself, I say yes. I do want to see the movie, after all—every woman in the country wants to see it. Why not let Chuck pay my way?

He seems thrilled with my answer and more than a bit incredulous. The movie, a romantic comedy, or romcom, as such fare is known in the biz, starts at 7:00 pm. He'll pick me up at 6:30, which should give us time to buy popcorn and sodas or other snacks. We can have a late dinner, after the movie. He hung up before I had time to ask him how he'd gotten my number and before I'd had a chance to thank him for the roses.

I'm ready and waiting for him when he calls, right on time. Would he be ready for me, if things get hot between us (not that they're likely to do so)?

Act II

The film isn't quite the "delight" reviewers promised. Although it has a few funny scenes, the comedy is, for the most part, contrived; the theme—basically, men are pigs—is way overstated; and the happily ever after is unconvincing. The settings, the acting, and the costumes, though, are excellent, overall, and the movie's diverting.

The dinner is good, too, and costs considerably more than the flick, even with the refreshments. For me, though, thanks to Chuck's generosity, it's all free. I don't feel bad about letting him pay my way, because I know he has ulterior motives in doing so: for the price of dinner, a movie, popcorn, and a soft drink, he hopes to get into my panties.

On the way home, I thank him for the flowers he sent me and ask him how he got my phone number. He's vague about the latter, and I suspect he used a website that, for a fee, allows users to conduct background checks on people, based on data in their public records. I don't like being spied upon—it's too much like stalking—but, since suspicion isn't proof, I bite my tongue.

At my apartment, I don't ask him in for a nightcap, though (I'm annoyed at the possibility he's been cyberstalking me), and I turn my head when he tries to kiss me goodnight, so he delivers nothing more than a peck on my cheek.

"Maybe we can do this again," he suggests, "soon."

There's always the possibility another chick flick might play that's worth seeing, and my mamma, God rest her soul, taught me never to say no to a free meal. "Maybe," I say, stepping into my home sweet home.

I change into a nightgown, catch up on a couple of episodes of a TV series on Amazon, and turn in early, after a quick shower.

Act III

The next morning, there are two dozen red roses on my doorstep, courtesy of Chuck. It seems that, simply for having had dinner and gone to a movie with him, I've doubled my esteem. His having visited my apartment like a thief in the night annoys me again. The card he's stick in the bouquet doesn't: "You belong in pictures. Want to star in my first film?"

First student film, he means. But such films become parts of film students' portfolios. In some cases, they help to launch Hollywood careers. It might not hurt to be in Chuck's first picture if the script isn't terrible.

If I'm lucky, he's written something on the order of Dark Star, THX 1138, Amblin', or The Pleasure Garden, debut productions that helped to launch the respective careers of John Carpenter and Dan O'Bannon, George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, and Alfred Hitchcock. Probably Chuck's script isn't nearly as good as any of these, which aren't all that spectacular themselves, but who knows?

He calls me about six o'clock, and I say his invitation sounds "intriguing," asking him, "What kind of movie do you plan to shoot?"

"I'll bring a copy of the script, if you like," he offers. "I wrote it myself."

"Okay."

"We'll go out, after you read it, and talk things over."

We can do that here just as easily, I think, making no commitment.

At seven sharp, he's knocking on my door.

Before he even steps across my threshold, he's looking for something. Spotting it, he smiles. "I see you got the roses."

"Yes. Thank you."

He seems to expect more.

"They're lovely."

He hands me a manila envelope. "It's called Seduction."

I invite him to take a seat, and he does, watching me as I extract the script from the envelope and begin to read. The way he studies me annoys me. I concentrate on the script, seeing myself deliver the lines as I emote for the camera, embodying the part of the heroine, Melanie Davis.

"So?" he asks eagerly, after I've returned the script to the envelope. "What do you think? Do you like it?"

"I love it."

"Really?"

"Truly."

"It's good?"

"It's fantastic!"

Each of my responses make him more excited, more eager to hear my answer to his next question.

His eyes shining, he asks, "You'll be my star, then?"

"No."

He frowns, as if he's unsure he's heard me correctly. Then, his shoulders sag. He exhales, his breath issuing from him in an audible hiss, as if he's a deflating balloon. He sits motionless. "Why not?" he asks, finally.

"It requires nudity."

Again, he frowns, as if he finds my reason ludicrous. "What?"

"I don't do nudity."

"Nel, the title of the movie's Seduction. Of course, it involves nudity."

I want to scream, "My name's Penelope, not 'Nel,'" but I don't. I'm too distracted by the damn tear meandering down my cheek, warm and wet and embarrassing as hell.

Tell him the truth, I tell myself, but I don't. He's long been friends, of a sort, with my sister, but, out of respect for me, Raquel always kept my secret from him. I won't explain myself, either. Not now, not ever.

"Will you at least tell me why?"

I shake my head, biting my lower lip. The tears are coming faster now. "No," I manage to croak.

He crosses the room, sits beside me. As I watch him, he seems to move in slow motion. He takes my hands in his. "Penelope," he says, his voice quiet, calm, reassuring, "whatever it is, you can tell me. I love you. I have since the first time I saw you. I like Raquel, but, when I saw you with her, it was you I was attracted to. I'll always love you, no matter what." He squeezes my hands in his. "I doubt you're a prude, and I know how badly you want to become an actress. You say my script's good, so tell me, please: why won't you be in my film?"

My lip trembles so badly I can't speak. Even if I could, I don't trust my voice not to break. Again, I shake my head.

"It's okay," Chuck says, holding me to himself.

My head on his shoulder, I let the tears flow, conscious of his body next to mine, of the heat between us. I feel humiliated, broken, crushed, but, as he holds me close and tight, I begin to feel better, not whole, perhaps, but better. At last, I sit up straight, and Chuck releases me.

"It doesn't matter why you won't do my movie," he says. "I respect your decision, whatever the reason."

He seems reluctant, now, to say the words I can see in his eyes, the words of love he spoke to me when I needed to hear them. I need to hear them now, again, and always. "Chuck," I say, "I'd rather show you than tell you why I can't be in your film."

"Okay, Penelope."

"I'll be right back."

As I enter my bedroom, I tell myself twenty different reasons why I shouldn't show Chuck anything, why my secret should remain my own, shared only with my sister and best friend, Raquel, who's known since I myself first knew, but I am resolved to show Chuck. He has been a good friend, a better one than I ever knew or appreciated, a true friend.

When I return to him, I'm naked.

He stares, as if he's seeing a vision. Is he enchanted, I wonder, or horrified? I watch him, as his gaze travels over my flat chest with its tiny nipples, down my slightly concave tummy and narrow waist, over my sleek, firm thighs, down my shapely calves, then up, back, to my hairless groin and the shaved, flaccid little cock and balls that hang there, more like decorations than the sex organs of a young man.

"My long, curly hair, makeup, skirts and blouses, heels, purse, earrings, necklace, and bracelet, like my indubitable poise and charm had you fooled, didn't they, Chuck?" I smile, but I feel like crying.

He rises, slowly, like a man enchanted, moves toward me, as if he's floating, his eyes never leaving my own. He takes my hands in his, and he says, "You are beautiful, Penelope."

"Worthy of your roses?"

"Yes, and of my love, but—"

"Tell me."

"You don't care for me. You never have, except, perhaps, as a casual friend, if that."

I step closer, kissing his lips, firmly, deeply, passionately.

He kisses me back, the same way, his hands around my waist.

Our kiss continues, and his hands slide down, around my buttocks, squeezing the silken globes.

We come up for air.

"Silly boy," I tell him, "I've always been as attracted to you as you are to me, but I dared not admit it, even to myself. I was afraid I'd horrify you. I was afraid you'd reject me. I feared you'd loathe me."

"Never."

I smile. "But now you see why I can't be in your movie."

"No, I don't."

"The inner me, the real me, is a woman, but the outer girl—well, I'm not really built for the part, am I?"

"You will be, after I rewrite the script."

"You don't have enough time."

"I don't have to shoot a hundred and twenty minutes minutes, or ninety, or even sixty—just enough to show what can do. I was only going to shoot a hundred-and-twenty minutes because my parents funded such a length. We can film what happened between us here, tonight. It'll make a better picture than the one I originally had in mind. I'll call it Eureka!, with an exclamation point."

"Do I still have to get naked?"

"Well, that is kind of the whole point, Penelope."

"Nel."

"Huh?"

"I prefer to be called 'Nel'—by you, at least." I held his gaze in mine. "A boyfriend should have a pet name for his girl."

He smiled. "What will you call me?"

"Chuckie."

"Please, Nel, not that! Anything but that."

"Just when we're alone. Otherwise, I'll call you Chuck or Charles or anything else you want."

"Chuck's fine in public. But back to the matter of nudity. Your becoming comfortable with yourself, just as you are, is the theme of the flick, as I envision the new project, and your willingness, without shame, to appear naked, by the end of the film, symbolizes your newly attained self-acceptance."

"I'll do it."

"You will? Just like that?"

"What can I say, Chuckie? You can be very persuasive." I smile. "Besides, I get it, the symbolism thing. It's integral to your picture's theme—or to your new picture;s theme, the one you're going to shoot, with me in the starring role, as soon as you've written it."

"I love you, Nel."

"You've seen My Fair Lady?"

"One of my all-time favorites."

"Remember what Eliza Doolittle tells Freddy Eynsford-Hill when he professes to love her?"

He smiles. "I do."

"Well?"

He takes my hand in his, and we move, together—in step, in fact—from my living room into my bedroom, where my queen-size bed awaits us.

In old movies, the scene might dissolve here, the camera opening on another place, at another time, the previous sequence of film having implied that the couple, in going into a bedroom together, hadn't done so because they wanted to catch up on their sleep.

But this next scene, the finale, is integral to the story of my self-acceptance and vital to my celebration of myself. Therefore, it must be included in unflinching detail, up close, personal, and erotic in every detail.

Act IV

Within minutes, Chuckie's naked, lying on his back, toward the end of my bed, his parted knees bent over the edge of the mattress, and I, also nude, am kneeling on the floor, between his thighs, his stiff, hard cock in my fist. I pump the taut flesh vigorously up and down upon his swollen, straining shaft. He reaches for me, placing his hand lightly upon my head, a touch that completes the connection between us as much as my hand does, around his prick.

I take his erection between my lips, into my mouth, bob my head up and down, loving the feel of his rigid manhood between my cheeks and against my tongue and the roof of my mouth. By filling me, he makes me complete.

I deepen my strokes, bouncing harder and faster, and his cock slides smoothly back and forth between the tight circle of my lips. I look him in the eye, while his cock is in my mouth, knowing how much some men—Chuckie among them, I hope—love the sight of a woman—or, in my case, a wannabe woman—sucking their pricks.

My fist grips his shaft, just below the purple dome of his cock, and I masturbate him as I plunge my mouth down, withdraw, and plunge down again. My fingers stroke and knead the taut flesh of his silken scrotum, massaging his balls through the thin, smooth pouch of flesh.

Chuckie sighs, then groans, and his thighs scissor against the sides of my face. It pleases me that I am pleasing him.

Releasing his cock, I let it slide free of my oral embrace. I lap his balls, licking hard against the ovals inside the risen pouch of his scrotum. I take one testicle into my mouth, hold it, then release it and replace it with its twin. My hand finds his cock and strokes it, pumps it, squeezes it.

Already hard, his manhood responds, stiffening further, swelling more. I welcome his responses, his groans, his heavy breathing, the way he begins to writhe upon my bed; all are proofs of my ability to arouse him, to pleasure him, to gratify and satisfy him.

I taste salt. A drop of Cowper's fluid, or pre-cum, has oozed from his glans meatus, the tiny slit in the top of the tip of his cock, a certain sign that orgasm is nigh.

I stand.

Chuckie, who's had his eyes closed, opens them, frowns. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing. I just want you inside me." I gaze at him, stare at him. "I want you to fuck me."

He grins, rolls off the bed, and I climb aboard the mattress, positioning myself upon my elbows and knees. My legs are well apart, my bottom high in the air.

I feel the mattress dip, first on one side of me, then on the other, as Chuckie places one foot on either side of me, squats above me, and guides his erection between my buttocks. His thick, hard prick slides past the inward-curving cheeks of my derriere, and I feel his rubbery glans press against the portal to my bowels.

My sphincter resists, but he shoves his way in, through the tight circle of my anus. I feel his long column of flesh penetrate and impale me. My own cock is stiff, jutting from my shaved loins.

My beloved moves, his calves and thighs flexing, as he raises his hips, drawing his cock back, through my asshole, before sending his prick deep into my ass again. Each time he thrusts his cock home, I feel as though he's entering me for the first time.

I love the way my own cock and balls are ignored, as if they're mere ornaments. Somehow, their idleness impresses upon me my passive, feminine role, just as Chuckie's cock, filling my bottom, reinforces his assertive, masculine office. I'm simply here for him, spread for him, impaled for him. I accept wholly—and whole-heartedly—his occupation of my bowels and his repeated, insistent hammering of my ass, his property.

His pace is regular, measured, deliberate, as if he's a machine set to deliver so many strokes per minute—no more and no fewer—into my bottom. His regular thrusts and plunges are as certain and reliable as the oscillation of a metronome.

There's something reassuring about such inevitability and reliability, something wonderful about it, as if each stroke is an unspoken promise fulfilled. Back and forth, in and out, up and down, his prick lunges, rises, plunges, and ascends, his hips like springs that operate according to the definite intervals of a timing device.

Chuckie begins to move his hips faster, driving his cock harder into my ass, and I feel his prick slide quickly back and forth inside my asshole, as he fucks me with a frenzy of which I'd never have suspected him capable. His prick shoves into me fast and furiously, rocking me hard against the mattress. I gasp in surprise, my hands tightening upon the pillow and sheet. He pounds me, pummels me, hammers me, as the mattress dips and sways wildly beneath us.

I greet his enthusiasm, his energy, his wild, frantic assault upon my bottom, for I know such passion indicates not merely his strong sexual desire, but also the depth and intensity of his love.

His body stiffens, and he is still. I feel his shudder, and he moans, as he empties his balls into me.

He withdraws his cock, spraying my buttocks, my perineum, the backs of my thighs, and my back with his warm semen. Volley after volley of his thick fecundating fluid splatters against my flesh. I want him to continue to brand me, to mark me, to claim me with new, endless eruptions of his cum. He comes and he comes, until, at last, spent and exhausted, he collapses atop me, and lies there, his pubes and his dwindling, semen-slick cock pressing into the cleavage of my wet, sticky buttocks; his abs resting upon my back; his heart beating, wildly, between my shoulder blades; and his breath hot against the side of my neck.

After making love, we talk. Having meaningful conversation with the man I love is as fulfilling, in its own way, as the wonderful sex we've just had.

"Without you, I'd still be doubting myself, afraid to be who I am. I'd be full of fear and insecurity and self-loathing. Do you know how many people in my situation commit suicide?"

"One is too many."

"I thought I was a freak, not because I like to dress as a woman, but because I don't want to become a woman, not completely, anyway. I like having a cock and balls, but I wouldn't mind a breast implants. I want female hormones, electrolysis, and a feminine voice. I want a feminine face and makeup and clothes. I want bras and panties and negligees, and I want a man who will take care of me, open doors for me, take me places, and love me, but I don't want to undergo a penectomy, an orchidectomy, labialasty, or vaginoplasty." I look at him. "Are you all right with that?"