The Double Egg

I was remembering my instructions carefully. His voice was deep, and more so when he talked dirty. "I want you to go to the Hustler store on Sunset. I want you to buy a double egg. I want you to come back to the Four Seasons, suite 417. The door will be ajar. I want you to undress at the bottom of my bed, slowly. I want you to bring me those eggs."

I was thirty years old, walking out of my silver BMW, which was still registered in my father's name. Down Sunset Boulevard, I could see the bright lights ahead, "Hustler Hollywood."

This was no dark alley, hide-away smut shop. This was the Virgin Mega-store of sex. It even had a cafe, like Niemans or Barneys. This was liberation at its best. Women could now go where their husbands had been for years.

I roamed through the multi-colored shelves. Rubber penises, glass penises, plastic penises, some that needed batteries, some with balls, some with suction cups, some that looked like baseball bats, plastic blow-up dolls, rubber vaginas, rubber mouths with bright red lips, big plastic rings with horn like things that resembled dog dental bones.

And there they were. Purple, plastic covered egg-shaped things with two cords leading to one battery pack. It was.... the double egg.

On my way to the register, mission almost accomplished, I paused in front of a display shelf of DVDs. It was the first time I had seen my name on a movie, at a store where people were actually paying to watch something I had directed. The name was Snowy Rivers. The movie was one of the early "Barely Legal"s. At the time, I was still saving Kat Slater for the heroine in my big budget feature. Having to choose an adult a.k.a. came all too quickly for me, and seriously analyzing those of my predecessors, I thought one was supposed to pick the cheesiest name one could dream up. So there, at the Hustler video store, I had finally realized what every aspiring filmmaker hopes. The closest person to tell was the gay male sales clerk. I skipped over to the register with my double eggs, and the Barely Legal. "That's me!"

He examined the box cover. "The braces did wonders, honey."

I realized he thought I was the girl in the photo, with the gleaming braces across her white pearlies. "No, no, I directed it. I'm Snowy Rivers."

Not only did he share in my job, but he also gave me a ten percent discount on those eggs. "Send my best to Larry for me, Snowy." I knew then that I was going to have to change my name.

I had grown up on Vogue and Elle and Town and Country, and with friends' mothers who spent more time with their personal trainers than their husbands, and designer clothes that looked best on a hanger. I undressed my one hundred twenty pound, five foot seven frame quickly, and hopped under the covers in hopes that Alexander hadn't see the slight paunch my stomach made when I bent over to untangle my "Seven" jeans from around my ankles. I'm very aware that "Paige" jeans have long since replaced "Seven", but this dates back to 2001. And in 2001 I arrived at that hotel room looking just as fabulous as any Bergdorf Blonde ready to embrace all the lusciousness of those lovely five star robes.

He rolled his broad shoulders over me. I liked a man with broad shoulders. This was a man. He was forty... a decade older than me. I was done dating the trophy boy-toys. I was over the excitement of Hollywood. I had been on the list to every cool club in the nineties, dined across the table from Oliver Stone, attended Daniela Rich's New Year's eve party in Aspen, macked out with a bunch of the hot young actors you saw on television, dated boys who owned Ferraris, and made a movie during which I passed on Katie Holmes and Mena Suvari in the lead roles. And when I sat poolside at my best friend, Bethany's sprawling home, watching her lap in the water with her daughter and this great raw-ruby necklace that was so large it looked, from a distance, that someone slit her throat, and gazing across the weed-proof lawn, past the cabana and up to the white metropolis of security, I knew... I was ready.

I remember what one of those well-kept women at Sebastian's father's four-story town house on the upper east side of Manhattan once told me, "Marry well or marry often." I started to think about the halves of the Ferraris I could have owned by now. But, I was a romantic. I couldn't fuck a man I couldn't convince myself was Prince Charming. And I couldn't marry a man I couldn't fuck. I was ready to fuck Prince Charming.

Alexander had a child, who lived in Greenwich Connecticut, with his ex-wife. His father was a famous architect... the kind who creates multi-billion dollar hotels and block long office buildings seventy-five stories high. He was a Hollywood producer who once had a beach house in Malibu and now had two houses in Greenwich. Having once been a Connecticut kid myself, I could imagine the lovely cedar Greek Revival freshly painted white, with a large porch and red front door, with a brass lion's head knocker, and gardens cleanly cut into a rich green five million dollar lawn.

I took in ever inch of his breath, as if to make it my own. His heart pounding between my naked, natural B-cup breasts, I welcomed his long fingers around the edge of my panties. I was not ready for the lawn-mower sound of the on button, to one of those eggs he was rubbing on my clit. But, I liked it.

I wondered if our kids would inherit his ice blue eyes. I remembered Bethany discussing the big "B"/ little "b" theory of being a brown eyed girl marrying a blue eyed man. My mother's Swedish blue eyes would certainly help the blue eye thing along, I thought.

He slid his penis along the wet lips of what I would later discover to be a puffy pussy... as opposed to meaty. Meaty and puffy are quite different. But, I didn't yet know any of that. I did know that I was really good at getting wet, and wet was something guys liked.

He kept his blond hair rather short, and somewhat conservative. So, just before he would penetrate, I would run my hands through it just enough to give him that Billy Idol look. Then, I really wanted to fuck him.

In all my wetness, he slid the egg in with his penis, deep inside. I can't remember if it felt good, but I do remember that I liked kissing him. I remember how his slightly receding white blond hairline offset the redness his face developed as he worked himself up over me. I remember the large platinum cross he wore around his neck that would bang into my forehead, as he was taking me in missionary. I remember watching his eyes roll back into his head as he was approaching orgasm, with his red temples and the sweat from his cross dripping into my eyes. I remember wondering if he were a devil or an angle, but that either way I would follow him.

This time our hands were pulling and holding and digging. Our hips were moving as one. I was moaning louder than a baby on an airplane. He loved that. Then, his strong chin competing with my strong chin, I gasped for air, "Did you just put that egg-thing up my butt?!"

I was about to hit my sexual peak in more ways than had ever been explained.