NOVEMBER 14, 2002
MY SUMMER WITH THE MOVIE STAR
CHAPTER NINETEEN
By the time the masseuse showed up, I had typed almost the whole stack he left by the typewriter. Boy, he had been a real sausage factory last night. One of the things I failed to mention is that it was all rather awkwardly written; all the parts that weren't just notes. So I thought if was fortunate that he had made the decision early to become a movie star first and a writer second. I thought of quietly suggesting to him that he have someone else do the actual writing and just sign his name, but, then I thought, what if the ghost writer types? I would be out of a job and out of contact. So I concentrated on the typing for which I was hired and forgot the content. My neck and back really did pain me from sitting in one position typing, and squinting down at his terrible handwriting, while he checked my progress about every five minutes, like I was typing the original Bible just in time to save a billion souls.
The masseuse came bounding into the house about eleven, all tan and ready to pound us into some semblance of humanity. She was wearing white pants, white tennies, and a sweat shirt. She also carried a little zippered bag with Beverly Hills Health Club lettered on it. Prior to this, I had assumed that a masseuse was a man, but that's a masseur. As you can see I was really getting up on how to live life to the fullest, learning all the differences I could talk about.
"Come with me, Sylvia," Carol said, "And let's talk while I have mine. She can leave her work a little ahead of time, can't she?" she asked Ezra. He didn't look too thrilled, but nodded his head.
Half of the pool house was, as Carol Stone called it, Ezra's body culture center. But I never saw him go in it all the time I was up there typing and getting into serious trouble. I thought Ezra was basically a much more mind-oriented person anyway, and probably built it and put in the equipment strictly for show.
There was a steam room in it, with two small seats facing each other, a massage table, a bunch of bar bells and parallel bars in one corner, a regulation size punching bag, and a built-in round pool in the very center with a motor that agitated the water. I sat there with my feet in the foaming surge while she had her massage.
I guessed Carol was in heaven now that she could forget all the buttons and display her entire body for us. She couldn't wait to come skipping out of the other room, nude, and not even holding a towel up. I tried to avoid giving her the satisfaction of looking, but it was difficult, mainly because I wanted to make a few comparisons.
So I looked at her once or twice, fast. I don't know what she needed a massage for except as a chance to run around naked. As I have told you too many times already, she had the best breasts God ever put on a woman, at which point He probably said to Himself, "I have finally done it, created the ultimate female breast, and I am going to stop and rest for a change and to hell with Sylvia Dormir, who came in late. She can just wait."
Her breasts were big, but not disgusting, and the nipples were exceptionally tiny, not spread out all over, and they were a deep pink, and really sticking out there because she was busy showing off. She had a neat navel, the kind that pokes out, not just goes in, and something else that came as a surprise to me, hardly any hair down there, because when I looked the second time, fast, I could see she kept it shaved and trimmed. What an original idea! I never occurred to me to trim and edge the area like a front lawn. She had quite a pronounced hollow between her thighs. Mine meet when I put my legs together, though I am not fat, far from it. She did have one tiny flaw, or flaws, though. There were these very thin white lines on her stomach and on the outsides of her thighs, hardly noticeable to anyone except Old Eagle Eyes Sylvia. I wondered if she ever had a baby.
When she finally got around to approaching the table and lying down, I felt she could have kept her legs together a little better, just for the sake of appearances. Anyway, the masseuse covered her up, and kept moving the towel around as she pounded on her. She didn't even carry on a conversation with me which was the whole reason I was supposed to be there, ahead of my own massage.
I just sat there looking at my feet in the foamy water, while the actual massage was going on, trying to avoid feeling sexy because that's how suggestible I am. All somebody has to do is take off their clothes, and start running around, and I imagine myself in their place, and we're off to the races.
When my turn came, we all argued for about ten minutes because I wouldn't remove my bra and underpants. Carol kept maintaining that I couldn't relax with all the restrictions and the circulation wouldn't flow beneficially and all that, but I said I was about to disrobe, and I didn't care whether or not I had a massage. They finally threw in the towel (ha!), and I had the massage wearing both items.
(To be Continued)
