Ever felt like you were on some sort of adventure that’s being filmed by some cosmic director, as if your whole life in one particular instance was a solo scene out of “Thelma and Louise”?
That summed up my feelings at the moment quite well.
I stepped out of my old 1976 Buick Skylark convertible, which was coated in a blanket of desert dust. The sun was merciless and beat down like an alcoholic drill sergeant, but I couldn’t flip on an AC switch because–surprise, surprise–it didn’t have one that worked. The open air was all I had to cool me.
Needless to say, it wasn’t much.
When I finally came upon an old terra cotta-looking structure, I felt blessed. Perhaps it was a diner, or a bar, and I could catch something cool to drink. Either that or a lovely case of Montezuma’s revenge.
I wasn’t entirely across the border, though. I had a couple hundred miles to go, but for the time being, I was in some tiny Arizona town, one so small that I didn’t even catch it on an interstate road sign. It was the 2nd of May, and I was heading down to Mexico City to participate in the Cinco de Mayo celebrations. I had a few friends who were already vacationing around that area, and I was to meet up with them there.
So, with my sunglasses glued to my face and my boots generously slathered in the dust, I headed into the little clay establishment, praying they had some sort of liquor there. I wasn’t meaning to get drunk, for I still had a ways to drive, but I did need to take the edge off.
It felt like a scene from some 70’s spaghetti western, and that I was the lone cowboy (girl), heading into the saloon.
I laughed out loud, for it was so trite. My head practically lived in Hollywood.
I shook my head and pushed aside the double doors (just like a saloon! Hell, why not?). There was a modest little gathering that looked up upon my entrance. A man halted in the midst of a pool shot, a few looked up from their booze to catch a glimpse–I felt like I had been sent before a firing squad, just by some of the stares I was receiving. I obviously was not a local, and they could sniff me out without any trouble. I decided to just walk in there, order as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, and get the hell out.
I chose a bar stool next to a tall, lanky girl with long, messy honey blond hair, bordering on a brownish tint. She was huddled over a glass, and from my vantage point, I couldn’t make out any facial features. Which was just as well. She’d have probably voiced what most everyone in there was thinking: go to hell.
I looked at the bartender, who was half-smiling (leering) at me. “Shot of the house wine, please?” I asked, knowing that would most likely be the strongest tequila they had. The bartender nodded and grabbed a shot glass and a handmade, liter-sized flask bearing no label. He poured me a stout shot and was about to walk off.
The girl beside me spoke up. “Miguel! Another, please?” she said, holding up her shot glass and giving it a small, obstinate shake. He immediately obliged.
I was impressed. Her cocksure voice had definitely driven her point across that she was not to be fucked with. I admired such poise. She then looked over at me, and I got my first glimpse at the stranger with the no-nonsense attitude.
My pulse nearly froze. I immediately recognized the almond-shaped, close set eyes. Those pouty, mesmerizing, full lips. That gaze that said both “come hither” and “fuck you” at the same time.
What in the hell was Angelina Jolie doing in a little rat shack like this? Shouldn’t she have been wining and dining somewhere with her Hollywood cohorts, or snuggling with Billy Bob in some booth in an elite Beverly Hills restaurant? I nearly slapped myself in the head to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. The coincidence to end all coincidences!
Now, normally, I view “stars” as just normal human beings, like myself and the next guy, that just happen to have extraordinary jobs. But Angelina–something just seemed otherworldly about Angelina. Not only was she stunningly gorgeous, but she also appeared not to really fit into all of the cliches associated with her occupation. Of course, I guess that was reason enough to rationalize the fact that she was in this smoky, dark shanty of a watering hole. Perhaps she felt comfortable in the rare small, earthy establishments still left in the industrial world. I had to admit that even I was feeling inspired by a sense of adventure in this of all places. Running across her, however, seemed to be like finding a doubloon in a sand trap.
So of course one couldn’t expect me to keep my mouth shut.
I cleared my throat and ran through about twelve different greetings, all of which seemed completely inappropriate and awkward. ‘Shit, Lisa,’ I told myself. ‘Just say hello.’ Innocent enough.
“Hi,” I said meekly.
Without even so much as an upward glance, she grunted, “Fuck off.”
“Okay,” I said quickly, looking down to my untouched drink. “Sorry.”
I felt her eyes on me again. “Who the hell are you?” She demanded.
“I’m Lisa,” I offered politely, still having a little trouble looking her in the eyes after such a strong rebuff.
“Yeah, so what, did ‘Weekly World’ send you or something?” Angelina pressed, scathingly.
It finally dawned on me. “Weekly Wor–you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not a reporter,” I said softly. “Just a big fan.”
“Right, and after I down a few drinks, you’re going to be asking me my life’s story. I can smell all of you from miles away,” she said, gazing back down into her half-full shot.
I shook my head. “Seriously. Search anything of mine you want. You won’t find even a book of a matches with a tabloid logo,” I said solemnly. “I’m really not a reporter. I’m just…shocked to see you here.”
Her expression softened a bit. “Fine. I’ll bite,” she said a bit skeptically. She then offered her hand. “Angelina. Blah, blah, blah. I’m sure I don’t have to go through the whole preliminary routine.”
I smiled, and grasped her hand. “Lisa. Blah, blah, blah. I think I’ll spare you the boredom as well.”
Angelina’s dour expression finally burst, like the first ray of dawn’s light, into a soft smile. “Forgive the rudeness earlier. I think it’s just Miguel’s lighter fluid talking,” she said, glaring at the bartender and then her shot glass.
“No problem. If it was every day that I got mistaken for Lois Lane, I wouldn’t have so many self-esteem issues,” I said jokingly. “So, would I be completely out of line if I asked you why you’re in some place like this?”
She shook her head. “Just traveling. Taking a break. Drove out from California.”
I nodded. “I just thought most of the Hollywood A-List would be out vacationing at some fancy schmancy resort in the mountains.”
Angelina replied with a snort that would’ve made a Clydesdale proud. “Shit. I can’t think of anything more boring than standing around in the sub-zero fucking cold trying to careen down a mountain with two little poles in my hands. I mean, Sonny Bono bit it that way. No thanks,” she said.
I laughed. “Hear hear,” I replied, raising my as yet untouched shot of tequila.
“So, why are you heading through?” Angelina asked, looking soberly at me.
“Joining some friends for Cinco de Mayo,” I answered, downing the shot. I immediately felt a sharp sting of warmth slide down my gullet and all through my chest. I grimaced and immediately said, “Fuck! That’s stout.”
“Shit’ll knock you on your ass,” she said with a chuckle.
“Then I think I’ll just quit while I’m ahead,” I replied, pushing the glass away from me. Miguel came over and swiped the glass into his massive paw of a hand. “Water?” I asked politely. Miguel gave a knowing grin and nodded, not saying a word as he poured a glass of fresh iced water.
“You sure you wanna do that?” Angelina asked ominously. “That water might be worse than the teq.”
Miguel set the glass in front of me and walked off. I shrugged. “If I’m not going to win either way…,” I said, taking a healthy swig of the water.
Time folded into itself, with Angelina and I chatting away. We covered almost every topic imaginable, from pets to music to sports to politics…just everything. Finally, the conversation turned to relationships, and more specifically, her marriage to Billy Bob Thornton.
“Man…,” she started contemplatively, looking into her empty glass, having just polished off her fourth shot in an hour and a half. “Everyone’s got a fuckin’ opinion about us. They just have to speculate it so much. First of all, it’s none of their goddamned business. That’s foremost. But then, even if it was, they don’t know. They’re not there, and they don’t see the things in him that I do. I’m a big girl, I can handle a relationship, and Jesus Christ, I’m aware of how much older than me he is. But the question is, do I give a fuck? The answer, you can guess, is no. I don’t.”
I nodded, understanding perfectly. “Gotta do what trips your trigger.”
“Exactly,” she said. “And Billy Bob trips the living hell out of MY trigger.” She paused, fiddling with a paper coaster, soaked with condensation, that lay on the counter. “What I really love about him is that he’s fun. He’s such a fun guy. I mean, never a boring moment around him. He’s just crazy. And he’s not judgmental. He accepts everything about me. Everything I am. Hell, everything I’ve DONE.”
“Done? Like what?” I asked, feeling a tired buzz sweep over me. The heat and that one shot of Miguel’s version of engine degreaser was starting to get to me.
“Well…I was always pretty wild before I met him. I still am. And I’m bisexual, but of course, everyone knows that by now. He doesn’t turn his nose up. In fact, he embraces it. I think he’s just trying to push for a three-way, though,” Angelina said fondly with a soft, reminiscent laugh.
I raised my eyebrows. “Sounds like an awesome guy,” I said at last, thoroughly impressed. More by the fact that she was bisexual rather than by Billy Bob, but he did sound like good people.
Angelina was silent again for a few moments before she hopped off the barstool and grabbed my arm. “C’mon,” she said, unceremoniously tugging at my hand.
I rose, a bit confused and a tiny bit tipsy. “Where are we going?”
“I’m staying in one of those lovely locally-owned roach motels. I’ve got some things I want to show you. We’ll take my car,” Angelina said, pulling me behind her. Before she could completely drag me out, I threw a few bucks on the counter to pay for the drinks. Then I tried to focus on the situation. Angelina Jolie was dragging me back to her room, at a MOTEL.
Angelina flicked on the light in a sparsely furnished room with a double-sized bed, a small TV, and a tiny table with two chairs. An air conditioning unit that obstructed the room’s only window clamored like a diesel engine and didn’t do a lot to keep the room cool. Still, it was better than the bar.
Angelina immediately ran to a boom box sitting on the dresser and flicked a switch to turn on a local FM radio station that played Top 40. “I love music,” she said, kicking her shoes off. “Have to have it. I don’t even watch the TV that much. But I’ve got to have the radio, at least.”
She bent down to rummage in a bag that lay neatly made bed. As she craned downward, I got a look at her fabulous ass. Granted, it wasn’t the fullest and roundest I had ever seen, but it made my mouth water nonetheless. When she straightened up, I saw that she was holding a couple of photo wallets.
She gave an earnest grin. “Pictures. These’ll help you understand Billy Bob and I, if a picture really IS worth a thousand words.” She plopped down on the bed, resting her lithe frame up against the old, dark stained wooden headboard. She patted the spot next to her. “Sit. Look.”
I did as told, and happily. She flipped through what must have been over a hundred different pictures of Billy Bob, herself, and the two of them posing together. They did look immensely happy, as if each moment they had captured was the happiest one of either of their lives. Some shots were spontaneous; others were obviously staged. But all conveyed how much the lovebirds adored one another. Denying the existence of a perfectly healthy relationship between the two, after seeing those pictures, was damn near next to impossible.
Angelina looked through each picture as if she was seeing it for the first time. She seemed to notice things in them that she perhaps hadn’t caught before. After she had gone through every one, some twice, she fished out one picture of herself alone, flashing her beautiful pout for Billy Bob’s eager shutter.
She grabbed a pen from off the night stand by the bed and scribbled something on the back. She then thrust the picture in my direction.
In scrolling, loopy handwriting, she had written, “You will remember tonight. Angelina.”
Before the words could fully register, she leapt off the bed with such gusto that I nearly toppled off. “Ooh! I love this song! C’mon,” she said, grabbing my hand insistently yet again. “You dance, don’t you?”
My feeble “not really” didn’t faze her. I expected her to just start bogeying in front of me, and I was thoroughly surprised when she began to slither around me, dancing seductively to a song with a moderate, pulsing groove; I believe it was a song by Aaliyah. She swayed fluidly to the music, and for a moment, I paused to watch.
Angelina’s exquisitely boyish body was absolutely crafted for such dancing. Her hips swayed in perfect motion, the rest of her body flowing in response as if made of water. Her beautiful straw- blonde hair swung back and forth as she moved, and in her eyes was a smoldering, from-under expression of inherent lust for the dance, that seductive gaze that most dancers give their partners. I could see her gorgeous breasts bob beneath her thin, white camisole. Her slim thighs looked as if they’d been melted and poured into her worn jeans.
She was absolutely breathtaking.
Despite my lack of natural rhythm and technical knowhow, I had to join her. She grinned when I began to move, too. She came up, consistent in her gypsy-like movements, and put her arms around me as if we were slow dancing. I immediately slid my hands around her waist, and I felt her body press into mine. She then dipped low in some elaborate dance move, and I instinctively followed. We both slithered downward, pressed tightly against each other, and back up again. I laughed with the exhilaration of it all; my body was a race of adrenaline and hormones, not to mention that I was genuinely enjoying myself.
Suddenly, Angelina let go of me, and whirled around so that she was now behind me, her breasts pressed into my back. I stiffened up immediately; I had no idea what she was doing.
“Just relax,” she said. “Do what you were doing. It’s the same thing, only I’m behind you.”
I shrugged. Sounded simple enough.
It was anything but; I was so tense and aroused at the same time that I couldn’t concentrate on anything she or I was doing. By the time the song had ended, we were a chorused eruption of giggles.
“I just realized that I am a PATHETIC dancer!” I exclaimed unabashedly.
“So did I,” Angelina chimed, her singsong laugh only serving to tickle me further.
“You’re an amazing dancer, Angie,” I said in awe, realizing that I had just nicknamed her. “It’s okay to call you Angie, right?”
Angelina’s expression softened from one of hysterical laughter to one of pleased complacence. “Yeah. Billy Bob calls me that.”
I nodded. “Okay. Angie.”
She seemed overcome for a moment, then snapped back into her perky, energetic self. “Whew!” She said, tugging at the neckline of her tank top. “It is HOT!” With that, she lifted her shirt over her head with the grace of a ballerina and tossed it to the floor.
She was wearing no bra.
I felt my breath catch in my throat. My eyes were then fixated; Jack the Ripper could have emerged from the washroom and I wouldn’t have even blinked. I gazed at Angelina’s breasts, so full and tanned and heavy. Exquisite.
She must have known right off. “Get a little nervous, did you? You’ve seen naked women before, huh?”
“No…I mean, I have, but I never…,” I said, blushing profusely.
“Never?” Angelina prompted.
“Never like you,” I forced out. “I was just a little stunned.”© Nude Icons.