The Seven Confessions of Celia St. James

Starstruck

Celia St. James. To kiss her is to touch the very firmament, to caress the celestial. I find myself wrapped in white sheets beside the icon. Lying on her back, she takes a cigarette from the pack on the bedside table, lights it with a match, and, closing her eyes, takes in one long, deep, post-coital drag. I can hear the faint crackling of rice paper as it burns at her inhale. If it were anyone but her, I'd get up, fan away the smoke in disgust, and take my leave. This is Hollywood legend Celia St. James we're talking about, however, so I breathe in dreamily and smile instead. Needless to say, the high of creaming a two-time Oscar winner I've idolized since adolescence hasn't yet worn. She isn't looking in my direction. Instead, she stares at the ceiling of her hotel room, one hand behind her head, face shadowed by the glow of a distant lamp. I'm propped on one arm staring doe eyed. She is exquisite. I admire her angular jaw, her pale skin; the fine lines about her huge blue eyes betray her years only if you care to look closely, and her red hair hides just a few silver strands, but she remains ever striking. Her career spans my lifetime, but I don't want to ask about work. I want to ask about Her, whoever she might be. Or maybe there are many. I'm dying to know. What if it's a costar? What if it's a makeup artist? What if she had dozens of lovers? This obviously isn't her first time. I  figure, since she's sweet on me just now, maybe I'll tap dance around the subject, get close, graze it.

"You're staring," she says, catching me in her periphery. I can't get over that melodic voice, airy and low. She studied away the Georgia accent, molding it into a diplomatic mid-Atlantic tone.

I cover my face with my hand and apologize, "I'm sorry." I hear her chuckle as I turn on my back and let out a sigh. "I'm glad you're done shooting. Do you want another glass of wine?"

"Sure."

I spring out of bed. Now she bothers to look over. I know why she's looking. I'm all of twenty-three; nubile, dangerous, bouncy, flawless, "luxurious," directors say. I've been ogled at so much of my short life, I'm smug about it. In fact, were I having an affair with any other actor, I'd be the one in bed, staring off cool and totally removed. Instead, I trot on tiptoe to the minibar and back, hop on the bed holding a bottle, two glasses, and smirk: I feel my hot cheeks turn red. I know better than to wait for a compliment that won't come. Just three months ago, in the lobby of this very hotel, I'd said to her, "Oh, Ms. St. James, I am such a huge fan!" faint with giddiness at running into her. "Of course you are, darling," she replied, squeezing my shoulder before turning away. But tonight I have her attention.

"I can't believe I got to bed a legend," I gloat, watching her sit up, propping her pillow against the headboard.

"Oh, do go on!" she exclaims good-naturedly. I hand her a half filled glass.

"I would love to see us together on the big screen one day."

"I can definitely see it." She sips her wine and puts out her cigarette. "You're damn good!"

"You really think so? You're not just saying that because..."

"No, no. You're quite good," she affirms, raising an eyebrow, "And at acting, I might add." She chinks her glass against mine, which is empty.

"I work really hard. I mean. Wait, I'm sorry, what?" She lets out a laugh while I regain composure and continue to adulate. "You were good right away, right from the start. I've seen all your earliest films. Arsenal, Little Women, the Pride of Belgium..."

"I do recall what films I've suffered, no need to enumerate."

"I loved you in Little Women." I pour myself a thimble worth of wine, set the bottle on the floor, and take a sip.

"Thank you. Listen, you'll get yours. Just keep seeking out good roles and don't let yourself get pigeon-holed. It's like to happen with a mug like that," she surveys my body, "and everything else...anyways, take risks."

I pretend to make for the writing pad on the bedside table so she can get another look at my ass, "I'll write this down." I'm rewarded with another little chuckle. God, I love making her laugh. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You've kept quiet about, you know, this" I wave my hand over us and the bed to indicate what I'm referring to, "for, I am guessing, ever..."

"Quiet about what?" She takes out another cigarette after draining her glass and setting it on the nightstand.

"I want to know how you managed. Keeping, you know, private."

"Oh, the dyke thing?"

I am shocked at her use of the word. "So you are gay! I mean, you did have a husband..."

"Well don't you have balls asking me a thing like that! Where are your manners? Where's your sense of propriety?" the Georgia accent finally slips out, that sexy drawl she calls upon for a role here and there, or for effect when she intends it. "I suppose it's your age that's to blame, and the times we live in. Yes, of course I am. It's been hard but, in this line of work, and the world being what it is..."

"Oh, I know I'm being nosy. And obviously, no judgment...I just want to know, you know, how you kept it private." I set my glass on the floor.

"Well, you said it yourself. I had a husband."

I throw my head back melodramatically, collapsing on the bed. "Ugh, no!"

"It's not that bad if you get a nice gay boy to play Ken to your Barbie."

We say nothing for a while. She puts out her cigarette. Her mouth is on mine, her hands map my skin. I'm all chills, my nipples harden. I glance down, she's kissing my ribs. "Celia-fucking-St. James!" my brain screams.

It's 1 am and we're both spent. I make to leave but she pulls me into her like a stuffed toy. I'm soft and obedient, she's rail thin but strong. We fall asleep, her face buried in my tits.

It's past morning. We're on the terrace of the penthouse with a magnificent view of the sky line, naked under our white robes, and she's ordered a feast for breakfast. I'm wringing my hands. This is my last chance before check-out. I'm just gonna to go for it.

"Can I ask you something?"

"We went over this already. Grow a beard!" she tells me as she finishes her oatmeal.

"Oh, I'm just so curious. I mean you are so beautiful, and back then, in a big city, being a big celebrity and all, I mean...were you dating lots and lots of girls, was it total decadence, or were you seeing just one girl, like...The One?"

"Can't you just butter a biscuit, mind your brew, and ask for acting tips or something?"

"I'm sorry. I mean. Forget it. It's. It's none of my business. And of course I'll take any tips you've got."

"It's fine, don't worry about it." She sighs, sips her coffee. A minute goes by and she asks, "Aren't we taking the same flight?"

"Yep, 3 o'clock." I take her suggestion, grab a biscuit and butter it liberally before reaching for the jam. Fuck what the studio people say.

"Isn't it marvelous how we were able to line our schedules right up? Me wrapping up yesterday, you taking your final curtsy last week after, what, seven months?"

"Nine!" I rejoin, "It's been brutal."

"You know what? I think we deserve a little vacation. What do you say we skip the plane, rent a car, and drive instead?"

"Seriously?" My eyes must be the size of saucers. I'm so excited I can hardly contain myself. It would take all my energy not to do mini claps, and jump up and down in my chair, so I drop my buttered bun and just let myself do it, much to the amusement of my companion.

"Done! I'll tell you all about it on our way." She takes a slice of toast, picks up a butter knife, points it at me, and warns, "When I'm good and ready."

"About the acting?" I ask, in my best ingénue.

"The other thing. You're being silly."

I remain perfectly still as she butters her toast, but in my mind, I fist-pump and high five my inner 13 year old, who proceeds to do cartwheels around my wildest dreams.