2. Look At the Camera


            “Rosalie, baby, you’re so fucking hot I want to film us.”

            My eyes opened as I kept rocking on top of him as he gripped my hips. “Hmmm?”  

            “I want to film us. It would be hot.”  Jack suddenly sat up and pushed me backward onto the sheets and pinned me down and whispered in my ear. "Please. I want to try all these angles. I've been watching all this porn and have all these ideas of what to shoot and then we can watch and I can watch when you aren't here." He kissed my earlobes. 

            “For real?” I couldn’t tell if he was serious or just trying to be naughty and I opened my mouth wider to let his tongue enter.    

            Between kisses he asked, “Don’t you think it could be cool?” He smiled at me and leaned down to cup my breasts and suck my nipples. "Plus, it's research for my film project."

            “Film?” Various pornographic images raced through my head as I imagined watching myself have sex with Jack and then imagined him looking up into the camera lens as he was on top of me coming. It almost made me laugh. I wondered why he wanted to film us in the first place. To watch when he was bored? To stow away for some future date? Would it be sexy and fun or would it be scary and revolting?  I didn’t feel like a prude but I mean, film in this day and age? With the cloud and everything?

            “Are you being serious.” Was I a total killjoy if I said no?

            “It’s no big deal. I just thought it’d be hot.”  He stopped kissing me.

            I felt his penis go soft. 

            “It just got me out of the moment, that’s all.”

            “I know, forget it. It's cool. Just one of many fantasies.” He kissed my forehead and rolled over to his side of the bed.

            I scrunched up my forehead and laid in place, watching the ceiling fan go round and round, the light from the street reflecting off it every half second. I then turned my body to face Jack, to see if I could get another rise out of him, but he had begun softly snoring.  Sighing quietly, I got up, went to the bathroom, and finished myself off.


            The next morning I woke up at Jack’s, hung over, head aching, body limp. Hardly moving, I turned my head to see if he was awake. No. Curled up in the fetal position.  I looked at the clock and knew I’d be late if I didn’t hussle but Jack’s one hatred in the known universe was being woken up.

            Slowly I pulled my arm out of the sheet all the while looking at him to make sure he wasn’t showing signs of waking. He hated more than anything to be disturbed when sleeping, and because of this, I always slid out of his apartment, teeth unbrushed, hair unbrushed, face unwashed. He said it was because of having insomnia as a child and all those years of not being able to sleep, that he was now ultra protective of his sleeping pattern, afraid that his insomnia could come back if he made one false move. Slowly, with my right arm I pulled the sheet and down comforter back, quiet as a cat, taking my time, not letting anything rustle, still staring at him for signs of wakeage. My whole body was almost free of the blankets and I started to pull my legs out one by one, slowly now, I had one out and almost the other and then he exhaled loudly and turned on his side to face me.

I froze, mid-air, one leg in, one leg out, holding the sheet steady. I watched his face to see if he was coming out of a sleep pattern or just going into a new one? I had become a pro of these finer sleep-patterns on Jack’s body, I could tell when he was about to wake unprepared, no, no that could never happen, he was livid, like a zombie from a horror movie if woken before directed to by his natural sleep rhythm. His room had been carefully reconstructed, sound-proofed from outside noises, he had special wave pattern machines going, special noiseless blankets, sheets, special pillows surrounding his head and neck in a nest, special ambient lighting in the prep hours before sleep.