The Intimacy Coordinator Pt. 01

Friendly heads up, this is a slow burn. This has been bubbling in me for a few months and every character is over 18. Dependent on a response I will write part 1.

Chapter 1 -- The Backstory

The average American uses anywhere from 6000 to 16000 words a day and uses about 150 words on average for every minute they speak. Meaning an average American speaks anywhere from forty minutes a day, up to about an hour forty-seven tops. All these studies sound so generic, but they were from credible sources so here we are. There is probably some deviation from those numbers depending on education and upbringing, but let's be honest... No one finds themselves at Literotica because they are average. You wouldn't be reading this story and I wouldn't be writing this story if we were just average.

I skew a little outside of the average amounts of words used per day. I actually average about 40000 words, upwards to about 60,000 if I am riled up. However, don't be fooled. I meant using words, not speaking them. You see I was never much for speaking, instead I wrote... or I write I should say.

I was that girl who would silently observe and verbally use about 100 words a day... My conversations were best on the page, and since I never really cared to say much, I never really did.

I've been named many things, silent, mute, soft-spoken, and in an unsurprising fashion I chose writing as my profession. Just the type of job that would mean my voice was heard on my terms, and not on the terms of society, which often valued speed over content.

I was always bullied for my lack of using spoken words, but I didn't mind.

"Dell, dear why don't you ever speak up?"

"Dell, come on say more than a few words?"

"Dell, you need to say something! Engage boys so they know you are interested in them..."

That last one was from my patriarchy-loving, Trump-thumping, middle-American, never will do anything impressive in life mother. She was the queen of microaggressions.

Oh, and Dell is my name, it's actually Adele, but everyone calls me Dell, and I truly never spoke up against it... The literal mantra of my fucking life. But once again, I didn't mind.

I was born in the 90's when technology was finally catching up with the needs of closeted little writers like me.

Through the years we made away with clunky computers or landlines and introduced portable computers and cell phones.

Whether it be the sidekick, the Blackberry, the iPhone... the desktop, the laptop to the iPad... technology was on my side, and clearly every step forward meant I was being equipped with the arsenal that would propel me into being best at what I do... write.

It was a little bit of a surprise when the daughter of an Iowa dentist got into Bard College for creative writing, but I always knew I could thread that needle. I left my shitty little suburb of Des Moines, on a two-day drive to NY and never looked back.

I did however have my dad come up to me at my goodbye party, only to ask in a concerned manner "If I was a dyke". But he was the son of Christmas tree farmers, and someone of the stature who had no idea that there was a feminist movement, let alone that majoring in creative writing in a liberal college didn't automatically mean I was a dyke.

I suppose I didn't know how to answer him, as I had never tasted pussy, so I kindly just nodded my head in a disapproving manner, having him assume the rest.

Come to think about it I never did have a female OR male lover during the 18 years I spent in Iowa, nor did any of those Nascar-addicted losers deserve the tight virginal pussy that I had. The first person to sail through my seas had to be loving, caring, intellectually stimulating, and most of all, a feminist at heart who didn't see consent to be anything less than a verbal "please fuck me" coming out of my silent but seductive lips as his well-endowed but respectful penis entered my cunt.

I was in the heart of the action in a campus town of upper New York state, and my classmates were all the hippie, liberal, communist, earth-loving, intellectuals that I had dreamed them to be... but I didn't quite find that magical dick.

I must admit... I am not what most people call "hot". I am very much in shape and keep a well-manicured body, but my looks have always been classified as nerdy. Sadly, I never did fill into that girl next door body that deep down inside I hoped for, and I had the tiniest pair of A breasts, with almost no butt. I did however have the pussy of an angel and was the slightest little outie, with rose petal lips, and the cutest manicured V bush.

I am also a redhead in case you were wondering, and the carpet does match the drapes.

Come Junior year at Bard, I almost succumbed to my carnal desires and made it to second base with a rising star in the slam poetry circles, but his skills in poetry sadly did not transfer to kissing. During the entirety of the ordeal, he was too nice, he smelled of Abercrombie cologne and the thought of having his average cock be the first in my pussy was equal parts dread and disgust.

He was respectful as he should have been when I declined further advances, but I was branded as a nun after this experience and was regarded as asexual by both men and women of College Park, New York.

It wasn't until my Auteur Studies course that I had a shift in my career choice. Up until that point, writing short stories, poems and essays were all to attain the ultimate goal of writing a book or writing essays for Mayrevue on the morality crisis of someone heterosexual discovering the sudden re-awakening of their gay self.

In this course, we had a quack professor named Ms. Dumas, who showed us three movies a week by auteur filmmakers. The twist was that each film we watched was a movie with gratuitous nudity - bordering pornographic, and Ms. Dumas asked us to discuss "if not for the male gaze" how this feature would have been filmed. We would even theorize how actresses felt about being exposed so intimately. These discussions were invigorating.

We had an entire week dedicated to Kubric, Bertolucci, Verhoeven, Cronenberg, Hamilton, and Noé... each. We had lessons dedicated to the impact of nudity in movies like Pretty Baby or Romeo and Juliet and juxtaposed it with Animal House and Porky's. We talked about how our modern-day society has been so hooked on sex and provocation, that storytellers had corrupted the medium and were polluting the very identity of filmmaking.

Ms. Dumas argued that we needed entertainment and that nudity had room in art, but the closer the content came to porn in a studio film, the more likely it was made by a man.

Never mind Cannes, Oscar, or Venice recognition that these features received, Bard College was ready to wage war on the male-centric auteurs, and Ms. Dumas was ready to lead the charge.

I would leave those classes both pent up with rage surrounding Hollywood, and its indifference or even encouragement towards these rampant male directors, and their abuse of the artform.

I had nothing left to do but take to the modern-day public square of the internet and catalog these feelings in my blog. YES MY BLOG.

I had quite the reputation as a neo-liberal feminist who could critique any feature or series into guilt, and all I needed was a bottle of cabaret sauvignon and a three-hour-long lecture from Ms. Dumas on what should be and what shouldn't. I was righteous and I was motivated. I wrote my thoughts on everything from Tinto Brass to Steven Spielberg, and even though my monologues had a twinge of bias, my blog quickly became a go-to list on campus of movie critiques where I would tear anything white and male to shreds.

Things truly escalated in the classroom, and I even started emailing Ms. Dumas to have our extra-curricular digital trysts. It was glorious.

I never thought I would have such excitement from telling others what to think and enlightening the world on how sexualized everything was. Having discovered this class senior year was a shame and my wonderful teacher knew it too.

Ms. Dumas went as far as to quote me as the most silently vocal student she had ever met, and I actually even thanked her for it.

After my audible "Thank You" the class gasped, as most of the students had never heard me speak and might have even believed me to be a mute.

It was not until my second-semester senior year that Ms. Dumas asked me if I would be intrigued to stay a fifth year and finish a second major in Film Theory. The sixty grand it cost would be nothing in comparison to all the knowledge I was about to gain. I even became her TA and graded all the papers... But nothing could have prepared for what was about to happen next.

It was 2017 when Twitter gained traction on a certain trending topic titled #metoo.

This was the pinnacle of reckoning. All these good-for-nothing "artists" were being outed by the women they had so blatantly preyed upon.

One by one these monsters were cancelled.

I don't know what was better, the fact that these influential yet terrible men were all proverbially dead to the world, or that all the other men had their wings clipped so deep that so much as a wrong smirk and I could threaten them with abuse.

There was a solid week where all Ms. Dumas and I would do was send each other articles of newly canceled men. The Hollywood Reporter, Deadline, Variety, The Times... One expose after another.

My blog of course was always trending, and I was asked to interview by a few journalists - all of which I kindly declined. I did however keep writing away on how difficult it is to be a female artist in this day and age, let alone how hard it was to work in the arts at all. This line of rhetoric was if anything, my specialty.

While nearing the end of my tenth semester, Ms. Dumas came to me with a very interesting proposal.

"Dell dear, I have the wildest, most exciting piece of news for you. You should go to Hollywood and be the change that I could never be in this world." She said.

I was shocked. Here was my mentor who stewarded my life for the past eighteen months, and she was saying I should move across the country.

"But why?" I asked.

"I'll tell you. It is only through bright young women like yourself that this society will ever change... And I am presented with a door that will lead you down that path."

Intrigued I asked, "What door?"

"I have an old student who has since moved to Hollywood and works as a talent agent." Said Ms. Dumas

"A talent agent..." I said! One of the crummiest professions known to man.

"But don't worry she is respectable and had the same dialogue you and I had back in her college years. She is one of us." Said Ms Dumas.

I about gasped as Ms. Dumas honored me with being a part of this "us" crowd.

"She works at a place called FTA, and just reached out regarding a new role that her development executive friends were looking to fill. This role is to be a guiding voice in the efforts revolving around the current climate of Hollywood." Said Ms. Dumas.

"Guiding voice?" I asked.

"Yes. This job is on the side of the actors, this position will make sure they always feel comfortable, and don't have any dirty, pervy, inappropriate situation get in the way of performing their art." Said Ms. Dumas.

"So, I would be like an assistant?" I asked.

Fighting a chuckle, "No dear, you went to Bard. You were nothing short of an assistant to me here and you should no longer be shackled to that subservient title. You, my lovely Dell, if you should wish to take this role will be something more."

I leaned in "And what would that be?" I asked.

"You will be one of the most necessary weapons against the modern-day patriarchy. You will be morality police armed with your blog and the official power to stop directors or producers from making anyone feel uncomfortable ever again on set!

You will be... the Intimacy Coordinator."

Needless to say, I was sold.

Chapter 2 -- Hollywood

I would delve deep into my graduation and all the fun I had with my classmates, but truthfully all I could wait for was for the day I boarded a Jet Blue flight and landed at LAX. My parents even came out to NY for the first time and watched me graduate, but I spent most of my last moments with Ms. Dumas, enjoying what precious time we had left.

"You must show them, Dell. You must make sure anything intimate on set has to be checked by you, approved by you, and if abusive -- be stopped by you. We have the power now, and you have all the knowledge my class and Bard thought, and if all else fails... Expose them for all they are worth on your blog and cancel those bastards for thinking they could cross you."

This woman was my idol and all I could do was smile.

I packed my bags and landed in LAX the next Monday, and my meeting with FTA was on Tuesday.

It was that morning when I walked into FTA that I understood what progress really meant. It was the Female Talent Agency, and it was run by women for women. Never had I been this happy to see so many defenders of social justice in one place, and the attitude in the office was terrifically vibrant. I was greeted in the lobby and escorted to a grand meeting room. In walked this giant hunk of a woman, positively beaming with self-confidence. She had a fairly masculine voice and towered over me. She must have been 6, 6" with the high heels she was wearing.

"Hello, you must be Dell." She said.

"Hi," I responded.

"I'm Max, born Maxwell, but now Maxine. Ms. Dumas told me you weren't much for words, so I'll keep it quick." She said.

"Firstly, fuck JK Rowling for all of her tweets. That came out of left field" she said.

She was clearly making this remark as just the previous night JK was ousted for her transphobic remarks, which would have clearly pissed Max off.

"What are your thoughts about that?" She asked. Fishing for a remark that would determine my destiny. Thankfully I came prepared.

"She shouldn't be allowed to write" I answered, which received a subtle smile from Max for I figured I'd play to my crowd. "Who knows what that bitch will say next" I added, which received an immediate laugh from Max.

"HAH, oh dear you couldn't be more right." She then got up and gracefully walked to the window, glancing down at Avenue of the Stars.

"Dell, you and I seem on the same page. We both were taught by a legend in some circles, who was quite possibly before her time. But one town Dumas couldn't impact is this one, and I plan on remedying that problem."

She turned around and slammed her well-manicured hands on the table.

"I want for there to be a well-mannered, well-educated, morally correct person in every room where an actress is expected to be nude."

I felt like I was in the 1976 feature NETWORK, and I was the Howard Beale to Max's Arthur Jensen.

"I want you to break every rule known to set and make sure that this town is aware that there can no longer be free reign for male directors, producers, or actors. I need you to supervise every sex scene my clients will be in, and I want you to slam your power over the head of any executive who dares challenge your authority. Sub in as the model if you must and show exactly what you want these scummy A-lister pigs to do."

Max came towards me and grabbed my arms squeezing each bicep hard.

"I need you to be a guiding light for how things ought to be. So many poor souls have been physically and emotionally abused due to the negligence of this town and with these shifting tides you now have the power to make these abusers uncomfortable. You will be the voice who will corner these men into submission. If they can't control themselves in a sex scene, then you need to make the world aware, that if a nude scene gets out of control you will be able to interfere. So often there is a closed set where it's only the DP, the Director, and the actors, where the most intimate of intimate takes occur, and that is nothing but problematic."

"Yes," I said!

"You will now carve out this role of intimacy coordinator to mean what you want it to mean and shove yourself into those situations. If these people can't behave around my actresses, they will need to pay the price. By taking this role you will make sure that no female ever feels uncomfortable again and you will be the voice of reason where it has been lacking for so long. Do you feel up for this task" She asked.

"I do," I responded.

"Good because my actress Missy Lovelace has a scene filming later today and as the newly appointed intimacy coordinator you will now have to be there." She said.

And so, my journey began. I didn't even read the paperwork that Max had me sign, as her monologue in the conference room instilled in me the confidence that she had to be Mrs. Dumas's student and that she was cut from the same cloth that I was. The cloth of retribution.

Chapter 3 -- Set

I found myself on the soundstage of F Studios. It was magical to see how these television shows all came together. I didn't care for many modern-day actors as I was naturally more a gal who critiqued and consumed the classics, but Missy Lovelace sure had a presence about her. After the driver dropped me off on set, a PA took me straight to Missy's trailer. Her trailer was the size of my apartment. I came up to the door and gently knocked.

"Hello," I said

"Come in," said a voice from the inside.

I walked in and closed the door behind me.

"Hello Missy, I'm your intimacy coordinator Dell. Max Sent m-" I was cut short by the person turning around. It was Missy, who struck me as the most captivating form of beauty I had seen since my arrival. She was a buxom blonde, with the lightest blue eyes, and the slightest Southern charm, and she was wearing a robe that was entirely open. I had been idealizing the job for so long that I didn't quite think of the amount of nudity I would probably be exposed to.

"Hi there Dell, Max told me all about you."

Missy had pasties on her nipples and a skin-colored appendage covering her pussy and ass hole that made her look like one big nude blob with none of the goods on display. She was certifiably a human Barbie doll.

"I was just putting my cup on and attaching my pasties. I have a scene with Kirk, and our characters get into it."

"Get into it," I asked.

"Yeah, It's a sex scene. The script covers it for only two lines, but the director wants to make it as authentic as possible. And Kirk is a serious actor, which is why you are here."

"I see" I muttered.

"I have Shannon back here doing the last touch-ups before we walk over to set. Want to come to the back while I run some lines?"

"Of course," said.

Missy walked me to the back room of the trailer where a make-up artist was seated on the floor.

"Ok dear, bend over," said Shannon, and Missy removed the banana-shaped cup that went over her pussy and asshole, exposing her privates to the both of us. Her glistening folds were clearly half-shaven and Shannon was shaving the rest. It was clearly for the cup to hold tighter, and not fall off during the intimate scenes, and I -- on a separate note - was a little more fired up than I thought I would be.

After they were done Missy put her cup back on with her robe and we walked over to set towards costume.

The scene was where Missy and Kirk the other lead actor, were going to fuck.

I received a text from Max saying, "Don't let that asshole Trent, or the fuck tard producer Mike put my Missy into a bad position. You got this!"

"I got this," I said.

Upon entering, I was greeted by the Assistant Director (AD) who immediately asked me.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm the intimacy coordinator and I am sent by FTA" I said, I then added "And who might you be."

"I'm the AD." He said.

"No, you idiot, what is your name?" I snapped.

"Will," he said in a snappy tone.