"Isn't there, um, anything I could do to persuade you that I'm the actress you want?" you ask Andrew, being sure to push your chest toward him.
Andrew blinks at you, his eyes fastening on your pointy nipples, in plain site through your white shirt thanks to the lack of bra.
"Andrew!" the assistant director calls, snapping his eyes away. "You have a meeting in ten minutes."
"Oh, right. Thanks, Julie," he says, gives you a nod, and rushes out the door, followed by the producers.
You give the woman a sour look she doesn't see as she packs thing away into a briefcase. When you turn away she speaks, catching you by surprise.
"You know, there will be call-backs."
"Callbacks?" you ask, turning around again. Was this woman, Julie, actually on your side?
Nodding the assistant explained, "For movies where there's a plethora of talent they take their favorites from the initial casting, then have them compete in smaller and smaller groups until they make a decision. You could be one of those."
"Really? Um, do you have any advice? On what I could do to make them want me?"
A smile curves across the woman's face and she shrugs. "Practice."
"Huh?"
"Practice. Stripping. And all things stripping related. It's what real actors do. They do their research, throw themselves into the role until they are what they're portraying. So practice."
"Practice?" you echo, but she simply nods.
"Nice to meet you," she says, walking toward the door. "Oh, the orgasm was a little much. You might want to leave that out next time. She's not stripping because she enjoys it, you see."
You nod numbly as she exits, your cheeks flaming red. Thank God they thought it was fake. |