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October 2005

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10/24/2005: "Fame and Ambition"

music: "Life Is A Cabaret"
mood: Garish

I'm writing just to be writing, like there's something in my brain that's compelling me to put down some words, no matter how stupid they make me seem to be. David Lynch's head is chuckling in the corner, but I ignore it, as I have been doing for many days now. I suppose I could, perhaps should, bury it, but it makes a great conversation piece. Also, it gives me someone to talk to.
Right now he's saying I should rewrite my screenplay, so that instead of me being the main character, it's a woman with large breasts. "The Frenchman would give you a blank check," Dead David said. "It's the opportunity of a lifetime."
"I've decided to make an even cheaper movie first," I said. "Then I won't need the Freanchman."
"You fool. The Frenchman gets everyone he wants, everything he wants. He'll have you licking his Guccis, and that's just to start. Any weakness you have, he'll use to bring you into his grasp."
"That sounds awful, yet flattering." I began to sweat, and the room was getting hot. I unbuttoned my shirt, and rubbed my chest. I heard laughter.
I turned to see the Frenchman.
"Why don't you take it all off?" he said.
The sweat turned cold. "I'll keep it on, thank you." I turned away.
He swung my chair around, and got his face within inches of mine. "So you will do as the head suggests, I presume?"
"No," I said, but wanly. I felt strange.
"Then you must take off your clothes. If you do not change your screenplay, then you must strip."
"I shouldn't have to make that choice," I argued, but I was gettin woozy, and my voice was barely audible.
He sneered. "You are playing in my world now. You must make that choice." He put his hands on my arms, and lifted me to my feet. Do a little dance while you get naked for yor integrity."
I found my feet doing a little jig as I threw off my shirt. My silly dance continued as I reached for the button of my trousers, then the zipper, then the pulling of my pants down to my ankles. Then with a quick yank, I pulled my underpants down to my knees.
The Frenchman laughed. "Now, for your cherished integrity, masturbate and dream of me."
Sweat poured off me, but I had to obey to protect the purity of my vision. I reached down slowly, and sighed, then I grasped my penis. It was already erect, to my shame and the Frenchman's delight, and I began to stroke it. "Let me stop," I pleaded. but he would have none of that.
"Describe the fantasy of your lust for the Frenchman," he demanded (it looked like he had an erection, too).
"We're shooting a movie I wrote for you, and when I argue with the director, David, you make me take off all my clothes. You say, 'I will make you give me head in front of the woman you love', and like now, I lose my will, fall to my knees, and put your lovely penis in my mouth. When you come in my face, everyone on the set applauds." With that, I climaxed; some of the jism fell on my pants and underwear.
"Put your pants back on, just the way they are." I obeyed. "Now write me that movie, and I will make your dream come true."
With those words, he was gone as suddenly as he appeared. I turned to see the head laughing.
"I hope you enjoyed your integrity," Dead David said, then he laughed even louder.
"What's so funny?" I asked, extremely irritated.
"He owns you. You better keep writing, because he owns you."
I picked up a pen, and went to work.

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