Bad Boy Boss (9 page)

Peter – I guess because he grew up with it – knew I’d be exhausted. He fed me. Put me in bed, stripped me and then massaged me with talcum powder on his hands until the knots got loosened, the tension sagged and I fell asleep.

Rob Carey came in to watch me a lot. He wrote a lot of double entendre and malapropisms for Vicky and we seemed to have a style between the two of us, with his writing and my delivery. For example, Vicky was talking to a couple of contractors, and they were there to fix the furnace, so I said, totally straight faced, “Wouldn’t be a good idea to put more installation in the attic.” When the scene ended, he walked over and kissed my cheek.

“Perfect,” he said.

I got through the first week basically collapsing into bed, getting up, showering, going to work, coming home and collapsing into bed. This technique works best when, after you collapse into bed, someone gently massages you to sleep. Luckily, I had someone who not only did that for me, but held me safe and warm all night long too. I mean, if you really must act, that is the best way to do it.

That weekend Peter and I stayed in town. Pauley and Anabelle had a Disney party on Saturday, and most of them had caught me twice on the show, and said some nice things. The trades liked me too. I’d gotten a couple nice reviews; one even compared me to Judy Holliday: “…and she has the likable vulnerability of Judy Holliday.”

Dillon came to the party. He said that he had gotten a couple cat’s paws on the initial round of resumes, but nothing he’d recommend. Pasadena Playhouse was in the beginning stages of a production of
Born Yesterday
and he sent them my resume with a copy of the best review.

If you are a famous person and happen to be in Lincoln, Nebraska, you’ll be mobbed. If you are a famous person and happen to be in New York City or Los Angeles, the waiters will be just as nasty, the cashiers just as snotty, and the average person just as dismissive as if you were a nobody. The difference is the fact that in Los Angeles or New York, a bunch of people will follow you around to record your every bowel movement in a photograph that will be available when you check out at the supermarket. So, if you ever go to Lincoln, Nebraska, you will be mobbed.

Peter had actually lived with this his entire life, but for me it was a new experience. An actor in LA is like a lettuce picker in Salinas during growing season. Some are quick with the knife and make a good buck on the piecework; some play in the basements of churches and collect food stamps to eat. I knew this; I’d been on the other end, taking a shot in the tit to pay the rent. I guess the best were like Harrison. He packed his lunch box, went to work, make the whole damn world believe in someone who didn’t exist and never had, and then went home and waited for someone else to ask him to pack his lunch. But that was so much easier when Granddaddy dug up some oil. The same actress who played Terrible Tara was playing Sister Anne Victoria, the audience and the response were legions apart, but what the actress did was essentially the same.

Saturday night, Peter put me to bed and started to massage me, but I’d had a day off, so I massaged back. Then I put my mouth on his neck, which I knew was a turn on and, well, what can I say? When the woman really wants to take the lead in sex, touch all the right places and get him under her, the whole definition of “weaker sex” sort of gets transposed. I exhausted him, twice, before I let him go. And even then, when I turned away to sleep, his hands were snaked over and under me, and I knew I was safe and warm and loved.

Sunday morning I woke with an orgasm. Peter’s hand was between my legs, his thumb on my clit and his fingers rubbing the inside of my pelvic bone while flicking my G-spot. I was squealing before I knew it was morning. Sort of transference of dominance from the previous night; I was helpless. He took complete advantage of this, placed me firmly on my back and demonstrated the advantages of the missionary position for both parties involved.

In the mountains we were early to bed, early to rise types. If we watched anything, it was old movies because Peter firmly refused to pay for TV of any kind. My cabin had an old TV and a VHS player.

Peter put together a version of Eggs Benedict with corned beef hash and Béarnaise sauce.

The second week was just as exhausting as the first; worse, in fact. Rob started writing an extra scene for me and everyone seemed to approve. We finished the ‘season’, which is thirteen shows, on Thursday. If the show got picked up and I went through this again, I’d say, ‘the season wrapped.’ But just a couple weeks in the business didn’t give me full copyrighted use of all the jargon.

On Friday, we all went to a party at Jeremy’s in Malibu. The series was a solid number two as a comedy and the second week popped up to number one, though it did drop back in week three. The punch packed a punch; you could tell with the first sip, so the party broke up early for about half the participants. I later heard it finally ended about sunrise on Saturday for the rest of the crowd.

Neither Peter nor I really were into drinking a lot and we were part of what was called the AA group. Movie people were rather notorious for being a pretty hard partying group and that leaked down into TV. So this created a few AA groups among the actors, et cetera. After many years, it sort of became tradition that when the serious drinking started, the people who weren’t into it left. Because so many of them belonged to AA, they became known as the AA group, whether or not they belonged.

We ate at a seafood restaurant that was either in Santa Monica or Venice; it sat sort of on the border. The waitress there asked me to sign a menu and became the first person to ask for my autograph.

As with the previous Saturday, I was horny as all hell and just attacked Peter as soon as we got in the house. I noticed that his neck was really sensitive when I cried into it in Santa Barbara, and I could usually use it to coax a second performance out of him. I didn’t stand on ceremony and just jumped him. He usually took this as license to light up every erogenous zone he could find. The first time he chose my spine and ran his hands down it as I shivered with the thrills on top of him. The orgasm was a pretty big one and drained me long enough to get over on our sides and let him go to work on the insides of my arms and legs. I got a couple squeals out, then found his neck with my tongue again and turned him on his back again so I could really bear down and squirm around, getting my spot rubbed. This accounted for a couple orgasms before he came and I collapsed on top of him.

The next morning, I was half gone again by the time I was awake enough to realize it. Peter just went straight after it in the morning and I was squealing out an orgasm half asleep like it was a wet dream. This time, however, I got to his neck and climbed on top of him before he got his hand out, so I pretty much got even.

We had a quick shower and breakfast and headed back up the mountain in both cars. We were a bit behind on our fairies and needed to get back to work out in the woods.

We’d done a lot of shopping – or rather Peter had – in LA, so it took us a while to unload into both the cabins. With that and the drive, we sort of lost the light for the day and just sat next to each other, kissing before dinner. We hadn’t known each other as teenagers, so we’d never parked. I’d never straddled his leg to rub myself into cumming, never had my nipples go hard against the inside of my padded bra against his chest. He’d never tried to slip his hand under my blouse or felt my nylons against his hand as he tried to decide just how high he could get away with moving it. So we sat on the couch and did that for a while.

On Sunday, we went right to work and finished up the third to last fairy, one of the indistinct ones from the final plate. Before digital photography, the final three fairies would have taken a long time and a really talented photographer. They were probably a double and even possibly a triple exposure, so all sorts of different exposures, apertures and settings, along with some lab work would be needed to get some of their feel. But Peter was able to take the first one and get a really good copy the first night he worked on them. The cover story for the last three is that they were hummingbird fairies, too fast to get a good clear picture of.

We were actually done by Wednesday evening, but we’d worked pretty hard getting there. Tuesday night was the only time we didn’t just collapse in the bedroom at the end of the day. And Tuesday was pretty tame in the sex department; he turned me toward him, usually he held me from behind, and started kissing. One thing led to another, well, I don’t really have to tell you; by now you know what he does and how much I like it.

Thursday, Peter called Dillon in Burbank for a ‘family’ to work with: a mom, dad and two girls, sixteen and nine. Dillon arranged it for the weekend and asked to talk to me.

“Your show’s number one again this week and the critics are attributing it to you. Everyone would appreciate it if you could make it down for a couple days next week.”

I conveyed the show’s standings excitedly to Peter. He took the phone from me and said, “Tell Jerry that I will have a draft of
Clap Your Hands
ready on Wednesday. We both know I can deliver it electronically and I will, probably Monday or Tuesday, depending on how the family works out. Wednesday we can make a show of me giving you the hard copy and you can make a little announcement that the book will be
Clap Your Hands
by Peter Baker with Edi Malone. That will undoubtedly make everyone happy from the Redwood Forests to the New York Island.”

“That was a surprise,” I said after Peter got off the phone.

“What was?”

“Peter Baker with Mary Conner.”

“I was ordered to be Peter, and I told you I follow orders well. Are you mad I’m capitalizing on your new-found fame?”

“No. I’m flattered you acknowledged my insignificant contribution.”

He walked up to me, brushed the sides of my breasts as he pulled me close and kissed me. “You are a lot of things,” he said. “None of them insignificant.” And he kissed me again.

The extras Dillon sent worked out perfectly and the manuscript was ready Sunday night. That evening, we celebrated a bit with a martini and a bottle of Pomerol with entrecote and caramelized shallots. Peter had bought the entrecote, knowing we’d finish that week. He made sure the butcher, who was at the specialty grocery in Glendale, cut it from between the ninth and tenth ribs and paid about double for it. True entrecote, I learned, is the fillet between the ninth and tenth ribs, basically a rib steak or even a rib eye steak.

After dinner, Peter asked what I wanted for dessert, and I just said, “Grrrr.”

Usually in our lovemaking, one or the other took the lead. I think this was the first time we both seriously tried to get to the other. In the sense I remember it, anyway; it was a bit of a blur. I got to his neck, and I squeezed him into cumming, and he got inside me and I had some orgasms, and he got inside my arms and legs and I was squealing. Okay, we rolled around half the night like two rutting pigs and as soon as one of us took a breather, the other started everything all over again. Eventually we exhausted ourselves to sleep, and didn’t get up until almost ten o’clock in the morning which, for us, was about three hours later than normal.

We sent everything off Monday and headed down to Glendale on Tuesday. We got a late start Tuesday as well, for pretty much the same reasons. Finishing up the job made us hot as hell for each other and that was just that. Most of Monday, something was inside of me and I was really tripping on it. Mickey was getting an earful.

On Tuesday it was really too late to cook when we hit Glendale, so we went out to eat. Peter should have warned me that they would be lying in wait to ambush me, but I think he rather enjoyed my little baptism of fire. Paparazzi, and legit reporters all had some stringer on the Glendale house. I mean, Harrison was news even before I started at Sisters; I just doubled the reasons to keep an eye out.

I had about three hundred questions barked at me before I got to the door of the restaurant. I figured out a good answer on the spot and it eventually worked out to a successful bit I did with Rob Carey for quite a while.

I said, “Well, I’m just an actress.” Then I’d keep moving my mouth, but not saying anything and ended that with “…unless I have a writer to write it for me.” The second time I did it, it ended up on TV.

So Wednesday morning everyone was very pleased with me. Thursday and Friday I was booked on to two talk shows, so I called Rob with my idea and here is how the first show went.

“Mary Conner has made a big impression as Sister Anne Victoria on the DBC sitcom,
Clara and her Sisters
; please welcome her to All Things Considered,” said Bethany Greening, the hostess of the show. We clued her in and she set me up with the first question.

“They told me you pronounce your name ‘Mary’ like the male nickname for Edward, how did you get such an interesting name?”

I sat there and smiled at the audience until I knew I had them and signaled Rob, who then ran on stage, whispered in my ear and ran off again.

“Well, Bethany my name is Martha, and that was also the name of my boyfriend’s favorite aunt. As a joke they used to call her Mary, so that’s what he started calling me.”

“Speaking of boyfriends,” said Bethany, “the rumors are saying that your boyfriend is Alex Baker, Harrison Baker’s artist son; true?”

This time, when I looked out at the audience and smiled, they started to laugh. Rob ran on stage whispered in my ear, and off again.