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When they get Hugh Jackman or Tom Hardy in their movies, what do they do?
They don’t put Tom Hardy in pair of thin white pants and dump buckets of water on him while they find some half-assed reason to turn his dick into a plot point, that’s for fucking sure.
No—when female directors are on set, they make their male leads give passionate monologues and sacrifice it all for the women they adore. It’s a problem I know all too fucking well, being a hot-ass actor myself.
So sometimes, it’s fucking nice to be objectified for a change.
And the kinky little slut across the street at the Bradford indulges me in that desire twice a day—morning and night.
Call me an exhibitionist—actually, really, you should.
That’s right on the fucking money, baby.
I know I’m fine as hell, and I like to be seen. Wouldn’t have gone into acting otherwise.
But the fact of the matter is there’s so much pressure on male actors to be more than just a chiseled jawline and a smoldering set of eyes.
I can’t think of the last time I was allowed to play something so simple as the sexy husband. The hot main squeeze to the badass female lead. I can’t think of the last time, because it’s never fucking happened to me.
Instead, I fucking monologue. I play the same hardened action heroes,
day in and day out. I crash motorcycles through windows, because you bet your ass I do my own stunts.
In the beginning, it was fun, sure. But that shit got old so fucking quickly.
I thought that taking a sabbatical from the big screen to tread the boards on Broadway might give a little relief, but if anything…it’s fucking worse.
For once—just fucking once—I’d like a role where I don’t have to throw myself into the damn thing so completely. The leading lady can carry the film for once, and I’ll just be the eye candy hired to put lusty female asses into movie theater seats.
Until then…mmm.
The pretty brunette across the street will have to be the audience that I so desperately fucking need. Is it wrong to be playing her like this? Probably.
Christ, the way she watches me, it must be fucking torture. To look at a cock as amazing as mine, as big as mine, and just not be able to take it…
If I could, I’d lift these blinds and give her the show of her fucking life.
But then she’d see my face and match it to the one staring up at her on the newsstands from this month’s issue of GQ. And if word got out that Felix fucking Fitzgerald was masturbating in the window of his New York high rise…
Well, I’d have a lot of happy fucking fans, at least.
The hot little piece from across the street could sell tickets and make a fortune—which, living in the Bradford, I doubt she even needs.
Jesus, if wasn’t for the fact that no one in Hollywood would hire me ever again…I’d fucking go for it. I’d jack off for them with a smile and wink.
A non-verbal message: Enjoy the fucking view.
But since that’s off the table… I toss the script I’m supposed to be studying onto my desk. I might not have the audience that my dick deserves…but I have her.
And I know that whatever I do at this point, she’ll be enjoying more than just the view.
It’s not the first time I’ve stroked my cock for her. I’ve taken it into my fist before, just to see if I might be able to tease her into doing something she might regret…or something she might enjoy even more.
It worked, too.
Almost.
Christ, the way I fucking held my breath as I watched her in the hallway through my peephole, praying that she’d get the fucking courage to knock on my door…
