Smile for the Camera

Chapter One:

Time for a Little Exposition

By Pendragon

I have made a living out of exploiting the personal affairs of the rich and famous. I have ruined careers, rejuvenated a few others, been sued more times than the LAPD, and have generally been looked at with contempt for most of my professional life. Hi, I’m Steve Murdoch. I’m a paparazzo.

Most people think that it’s paparazzi, but those people are wrong. That’s the plural. By myself, I’m a paparazzo. Well, enough with the faux modesty, I’m the paparazzo. The shots of Meryl Streep spilling wine on her blouse, causing her dinner partner to tap her bosoms with a damp napkin in a of-so-sensual manner? That was me. Drew Barrymore giving Tom Green a BJ in their yacht? Me. Paris Hilton being…well…being Paris Hilton? If it involves her pubic hair (or in Lindsay Lohan's case, a famous lack thereof), it probably was captured by my camera. I get the shots that no one else can get. Publicists wake up at 4 AM in a cold sweat screaming my name. I am the toast and the terror of Tinseltown. And the best part? No one knows who I am.

Most paparazzi make the mistake of just following celebrities around. Their targets get to know who they are and, more likely than not, they eventually wind up with a broken camera or a broken nose. Their shots are limited to Red Carpet glam shots, and perhaps the eventual walk to the courthouse. Sometimes they stumble upon something good, something juicy, something to justify the years spent waiting with a camera outside the Sunset Boulevard In and Out, but this is the exception that proves the rule. Not for me. I get the real dirt. Always. I invade privacy like it was an oil rich Middle Eastern country. And I get results, profitable results, to the tune of $10,000 a roll.

What’s my secret? Well, you probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

You really want to know? Alrighty. Here goes.

*Ahem* Had to clear my throat. This is a long one.

*Hack hack hack*

God I need to give up smoking.

It started quite innocently. I was an artistic kid in High School. Same at college. Things were pretty normal for me. I got decent grades, excelled in photography, and spent my afternoons taking candids in the girl’s locker rooms. I loved it. The thrill of seeing what no other guy could see, of risking a knee in the balls or a thirty day suspension or a trip to the dean's office to get my kicks. And, for the longest time, I didn’t get caught. Things went well until the field hockey team heard a puttering fart coming from the “out of order” stall in front of the showers. Once I got my cast removed and I figured out a way to smooth things over with the dean (bribes are never a bad start, shots of him fucking a girl on the field hockey team is an even better one), I dedicated my afternoons to finding a way to remove this painful, embarrassing hurdle from my path to pure voyeurism. As much of a jolt of pleasure I got from the omnipresent danger of being caught, I decided it wasn’t worth 2 months in traction and getting my food fed to me intravenously. The sponge baths I liked. Except when Herman was on call, of course. Oy, that image is going to be stuck in there for a while.

Claire Danes. Nicole Kidman. Eva Longoria. Desperate Housewives. The Desperate Housewives cast party. The hot tub at the Desperate Housewives cast party. The effects of a jug of sangria on the cast of Desperate Housewives while they frolic naked in the hot tub... Ahhhh. OK, mind clear. Panicky repressed homosexual childhood memories filed back in the “do not open” section of my cerebrum.

Anywho, right. I looked for a way to make my innocent picture taking as safe as photographing a sedated kitten. A really sexy kitten. A sexy coed kit…alright, the kitten metaphor was unfortunate. Anyway, this took a while. The rest of college came and went. Classes, beer, exams, beer, all-nighters, bad acid trips, and lots of dorm room masturbation. And sometimes, there was beer. Before I knew it, I woke up with a job doing web design for the DOD in D.C. (this was long before my paparazzi work made it imperative for me to move to L.A.), and I still hadn’t found a solution to my problem.

Long story short, while I was setting up a couple of web cams under the desk of my boss, Ms. Schilling, I found, hidden in a false drawer, the confidential schematics to a very promising device, of which I promptly took several very detailed photos. After a few months of tinkering, I had my workable prototype. After a few successful trial runs, I tendered my resignation for the last 9-5 job I’d ever hold. The very next day, I took the device out in the field. It was a day that would change my life forever. That was about 8 years ago.

Being the ceremonial sort, I returned to my old university, thinking it would be the perfect place to usher in my new life. But when I got to the campus and saw the kids, I realized how much time had passed. I was a rather conspicuous twenty something in the midst of kids. And dear god, they looked young. Too young. Scarily young. Not sexual at all young. Well, yeah, they were sexual. But. Well, it’s weird. When you’re smoking pot in the dorms, you’re convinced that you’re an adult. Now that I was an adult, a real one with a mortgage and everything, I couldn’t see them as anything besides kids. I won’t say that girls in short skirts and halter-tops can’t get my engine going. It just didn’t feel right. Plus, the security guard was coming in my direction, stroking his nightstick. So I decided it would be prudent to fuck ceremony and find a much less conspicuous target. After all, this was my first time. I was a novice. And a novice doesn’t go to a place with so many variables. I needed something…more controlled.

So, I went where every twenty something goes when they have to blow off some sexual steam. I went to the local strip club, the one by the airport.

I parked my Civic hatchback in the parking lot of the grocery store across the street from the club. Less conspicuous that way. I began to cross the street when I realized that it was still about 11 in the morning. Somehow, I doubted that entering a strip club while the sun was still out was going to help out on the conspicuousness front. So, I decided to head back to my car, opened up a flask, and took another look at my equipment.

First, there was my old high school Nikon. Not the best out there, but I had owned it for so long, it felt like another part of me. With it, I had a camera bag which I could secure around my chest like Chewbacca’s chest belt thingy. The bag also held about 5 rolls of film (and a jar of lube) and had space for an extra lens, a super nice 10x zoom which, with all the digital shit I'm using now, is now so incredibly obsolete it's not even funny. It had gotten me a shot of Brenda Butler’s camel toe from the bleachers while she was cheering at the homecoming game during my junior year. Good times. But I was so comfortable with my lenses it that I could attach them blindfolded. Then there was the device. I won’t bore you with the details. It would take pages upon pages to give you the inner workings and, frankly, I don’t want to risk giving up any trade secrets. I’ll just give you the basics on how to use it, but not on how it works. It fits on the belt, like a cell phone holder. There’s a series of scans and sensors that required weeks of mind numbing busy work before hand to set a containment field around my person, my equipment, and my clothing. And, with a couple of knobs twisted and a full battery and a press of a clichéd red button, I can shrink myself downwards of about 2 millimeters tall.

That’s how I do it. Makes sense, huh? Now you know why my photos usually have a very unique perspective to them. That’s not artistic, that’s just the way it works. I can shrink myself down, get into a celebrity’s inner sanctum, and take photos that give the people at Star, Us Weekly, and hundreds of other publications raging hard-ons.

Here’s the one drawback. As you can probably guess, this thingy requires massive amounts of electricity. Much more so to reenlarge than to shrink. And devices that are as portable as this can’t have huge ass battery packs attached. That would just erase any benefits of portability. The solution? The device has a solar charger. That makes it pretty easy for me, seeing as a good 70% of my pics are outside, at the beach, at a cafe, on the street, whatever. I can shrink down, take my pics, charge up for about 5 or 6 hours, get big again, and then run off to develop my film. Nowadays I can just upload my pics, sometimes before reenlargement, but back in the day I had to develop them the old fashioned way. So, you got the basics down? Good, I don’t want to have to explain it again.

So where was I? Oh yes, sitting in my Honda in the parking lot of the Giant grocery store across from the Girls Room strip club, about a mile away from Dulles Airport, taking swigs of SoCo from my flask and listening to WHFS as I waited for a more decent time to enter the club. In my rearview mirror, I saw a single limo pull up in front of the club and a shadowy figure stepped out, surrounded by two giant muscle-bound thugs. The figure entered the club, the limo pulled away, and the two thugs stood guard outside the club door. It was 4 PM. The girls had probably just shown up. Something was going on. If only I could see what.

Oh yeah.

I stepped out of my car and casually crossed the street, making it look like I was just headed to the 7/11. Once I was out of the sight of the guards, I made my way to the side of the strip club, took a deep breath, and shrunk myself to 1/4 an inch tall.

The first couple of times I shrunk myself back at my apartment, I threw up. A lot.

Luckily, the throw up was microscopic in size, so I didn’t have to clean it up. Outside the club I still felt sick, but I was able to keep my lunch safely inside of my stomach. Not knowing how much time I would have I ran over to the back door of the club, a 20 foot run that now was about a mile long. However, not too long after I shrunk myself, I saw a car park in the back of the lot and a girl in sweats and jean shorts step out. She walked over to where I was, pausing mere yards (my scale) from me as she finished her cigarette. One of the strippers. I had just found my ride. Throwing caution to the wind, I dashed to her foot and jumped a good inch or so onto the toe section of her sandals. Now, a one-inch vertical may not seem like much to you, but at 1/4 an inch, it’s like being on the moon and getting a nice 25-foot jump. One of the nice side effects of the shrinking.

After nearly being thrown off the foot as the girl stomped out her cigarette, I held on as she entered through the back door and walked into the dressing room. She opened the door, stepped in, and gasped, too shocked to take another step.

A gruff voice barked out. “Private party, girl. Stupid bitch. Knock next time. Fucking whore. Oh yeah. That’s the way I like it. Ohhhhh. Let me call you Mammie…”

I looked up to see who my ride had interrupted. It was the shadowy figure from before. Except, under the harsh fluorescents of the dressing room, he was no longer shadowy. Instead, he was the senior Senator from Alabama. The famously racist senior Senator from Alabama. The famously happily married and famously racist senior Senator from Alabama. The famously happily married and famously racist senior Senator from Alabama sticking his 3-inch cock into the mouth of an incredibly bored looking African-American woman. I hopped off the departing sandal and raised my camera. I wasn't even thinking about going into the celeb shooting biz, I just started clicking. It wasn't until I was safe back home that the idea of faxing them to the Enquirer first entered my mind. That roll alone netted me about $25k and more than established my name among paparazzi industry insiders (and a more sad and depressing group you'll never find) as a guy to watch.

That part of the day, the watching a 65-year-old man get sucked off part, was pretty boring, rather disturbing, and really not very much fun for me. It was just sad, really. Profitable, but sad. An old, stupid relic of the past getting his jollies off in an ironically amusing manner. It only took a few more minutes for him to finish up, slap down a few grand, and head back to shore up support with his party so he could pass some sort of bill to stave off our country’s moral decay. My day was looking much more strenuous. I still had to make it outside, charge up the device, and re-enlarge. Why leave now, just because I had accidentally stumbled upon a hugely embarrassing political scandal? I was 1/4 an inch tall in the dressing room of a strip club. There was no way in hell I was going home now. A ran to a nice corner of the dressing room, one with some nice ambient lighting, and prepared to fill my next four rolls with naked stripper flesh.

As the women started filing in, giving condolences to the poor demeaned girl, undressing and preparing to go on stage, my camera flashed. I shot my film wad early. 4 rolls in about 27 minutes. My trigger finger and my left hand were pretty sore. And my lube jar was empty. But I wasn’t sated. Something was missing. Something that had been impossible as a lurking perv in the bathroom stall. I wanted to get closer. I had to get closer. I would get closer. I secured my camera in its bag and set off to make contact.

It was ironic, really. The girls at the university, most in their late teens, early twenties, didn’t feel right. Even when I was still their age. And the women at the club weren’t any older, really. Maybe they were ages 19-23 instead of 18-22. But there was something about what they did, their dancing on stage, the theatrics, that made them older. Sexual maturity? At a strip club? They had a need for attention that was remarkable. It aged them without altering them physically. They felt old, no matter how young their bodies were. And I was going to give them all the attention they could crave. They just wouldn’t know about it. Weird, huh? I think that’s why I’ve gotten so good with photographing celebrities, especially those of the female variety. I can feed into their need to be loved without them knowing how much I loved them for wanting to be loved.

Man. I really need to lay off the reefer. If that made any sense to you, then I have a fence that I’m sure you’d love whitewashing. And then…pirate gold and Injun Joe and my best friend will have a pseudo sexual with his slave friend raft ride down the Mississippi and…uh…

Anywho, with my equipment firmly secured, I screwed my courage and took a couple of my NASA leaps towards the stiletto heel of the closest stripper. When I reached it, finding a temporary resting point between her big and second toes, I swore at myself for having used all my film. I was getting angles and distortions that created a vertigo in my head and a stirring in my crotch. From the shiny truck sized toenails to the skyscrapers of leg above me, I just wanted to take picture after picture. But, with no film, I instead began the long climb up what appeared to be a mountainous 21-year-old girl in a leather nurse’s outfit.

Luckily, I had developed a nice little way of speeding up the process. I would grab onto something- a tiny piece of leg stubble, the beginnings of her leggings, whatever gave me a handhold, and would use the normally weak, now proportionally strong muscles in my arms to hurl my tiny mass up into the air. This way, I could travel about an inch or so at a time up the girl, sometimes sliding a bit farther down when I couldn’t find a handhold. It was still slow, but going an inch at a time on a girl who is a couple of shades over 60 inches isn’t a bad deal. The physics of my situation definitely made me feel like Spider-Man, sans totally revealing costume and any vestige of a moral compass. With great power came great responsibility to abuse said power. A few weeks later, I would even later develop a glove with climbing spikes that would let me create a handhold anywhere on a woman without her feeling anything more than a hint of a slight itch. My moral compass…that’s still in development. I’d A&R it more, but I’m having much more fun being a giant perv photographer who’s filthy fucking rich. But that’s just me.

Getting back to the story, I had just found my way into the leather panties of the nurse costume when my stripper host began her short walk from the dressing room to the stage.

I had only a moment or two, as the girl waited for her selected stripping music to start, to figure out what I was going to do. The leather panties she wore covered an even skimpier thong. Should I stay here in the panties or try and hide myself in the tighter confines of the thong? Oh, the choices men must make. Before I could make up my mind, though, Talk Dirty to Me began to blare on the loudspeakers and my attention became consumed by the wild gyrations of the stripper’s ample hips. The hips that zigged when I thought that they were going to zag. The hips that soon became smaller and smaller in my vision as I was flung off of them into the house of the gradually filling girlie club. I landed someplace hard and promptly passed the fuck out.

When I awoke, I was sore, but none the worse for wear. The sounds around me were deafening. The strip club was in full gear. I could hear the sounds of working guys shoving hard earned bills into g-strings. A subtle sound, but easy to hear when you're friggin microscopic. I still had no idea where I had landed. So I got on my groggy knees, then to my feet, and tried my best to get my bearings.

I was on one of the patron's tables, which was, luckily, vacant at the moment. From the lack of bottles or condensation on the table, I don't think anyone had been sitting there all night. Which was odd, because the joint was packed. Well, it was odd until I saw the sign with Reserved stenciled on it in stuck between the salt and peppershakers. Reserved for who?

I heard the faintest rumblings behind me and a group of men in black suits, muscle-bound all to hell, came into the club, all in a circle, surrounding a mysterious figure in black. No, this wasn't the aforementioned Senator. This was someone else. Someone shorter. With long black hair. I couldn't see any more at the time. Until the mass of suited thugs made a beeline for the very table where I was situated. I was going to get a very good luck at who this well guarded figure was. I rushed over to the two-story saltshaker, to try and make my tiny form as unnoticeable as possible.

The group of men parted and a very curvaceous figure, wearing what looked to be a five-figure tailored suit, sat herself down in the chair directly in front of me. The bodyguards immediately reformed ranks in a semicircle, letting their employer get an unhindered view of the stage, whilst anyone one else in the club would only see bulging biceps and ear pieces. I drank in what was in front of me.

The subtly pinstriped suit contained, but did not attempt to subdue, the massive breasts kept locked under Italian silk and a wispily thin white dress shirt, opened 4 buttons down to give the most erotic suggestion of cleavage. One perfectly manicured hand held a bottle of tequila, the other was motioning towards a dancer with a hundred dollar bill rolled up tightly in a cylinder between her fingers. Her hair was pulled back in a bun. Her lips so fuller than the moon in Neil Armstrong's wildest dreams. Yet her features were so massive, I couldn't quite place her...

A dancer, panting from her pole set, wearing garters and heels and nothing more, sashayed next to this still unidentified, freakishly familiar figure. The mystery woman took a Hoover dam swig of tequila, offered the bottle to the woman, and snapped her then empty hands fingers. A grunt reached into his pocket and took out a shiny metal case.

I couldn't tell what the case contained, because the stripper, before taking her swig of tequila, had grabbed at the very same saltshaker that I had been hiding behind. It lifted away so she could tap some salt onto the back of her hand to act as a chaser for the amber colored liquid. I was exposed in the middle of a table, with a stripper, an obviously rich and powerful woman, and a gaggle of goons. I couldn't be found. I'd never make it out of there, except as a smudge on the table. So I did the only thing I could think of. I used the little juice that was left in my device to shrink to the limit - 2 millimeters. If I could avoid getting seen now, I'd figure out escaping later.

Unfortunately, as I activated my machine, the mysterious metal case opened up. Tons of white crystals poured out onto the table. Cocaine, natch. As the table and my surroundings got even bigger than their already insane proportions, I finally figured out who that woman was. She was in the news, having just been named a UN Goodwill ambassador. She was in town to meet the President before going on her first humanitarian tour to Somalia.

It was Angelina Jolie. I was looking up at Angelina Jolie. Who had a rolled up Benjamin up her nose. Which was coming down right over my current location.

Seriously, I had never been more bummed to be out of film. If I had been able to get just one shot of that, I'd have my own Caribbean island right now.

I really can't tell you what it's like being shoved up someone's nose. One second I was in a snowstorm of blow. The next, I was weightless. Then, I was in a damp black abyss. The sinus cavities of a 20 mill a picture superstar. A very drunk, very high superstar.

The next few hours...well, all I could hear were feminine moans and all I could smell was pussy and booze. I was kinda pissed I was missing it all, but I was happy enough to be safe. Well, as safe as being lodged next to a woman's brain can really be. After she left the club, she got a phone call from her husband, which I could kinda hear from my vantage point. At that time she was still married to that Sling Blade guy...what's his name...Billy Joe? Billy Bob? Something.

After she hung up, I remember wondering out loud, "What's a hot piece of ass like Angelina Jolie doing with that scrub? I thought she'd be with, I dunno, Brad Pitt or something."

So. Yeah. My bad, America.

Eventually, Jolie had to sneeze, and I was propelled from my hiding place into her gigantic hands. Which she then wiped against the front of her multi thousand-dollar skirt. The snot hardened around me and I could only laugh about the absurdity of my situation. I was where no man had ever been before. And by that, I mean stuck to Angelina Jolie's skirt, not stuck between her legs. Because many many men had been there before. I took a moment to let it sink in. This whole aura of celebrity, of being closer to it than anyone else ever could be...it was exhilarating. I mean, I had been up Jolie's nose! I had gotten that sick feeling of pleasure from this one-way intimacy, this surreal closeness in proximity. I knew that if I could do this all the time, I'd be a happy man.

It was then that I realized we were on a plane. To Mogadishu.

Many many many hours later, (after seeing Jolie join the mile high club with one of her bodyguards while lying on the bottom of an airplane restroom, still stuck with dried mucus to her skirt) we deplaned in the blazing heat of Somalia's capital city. I eventually detached from my host and was able to recharge my device's battery with a few hours in the sun.

So there I was, an American without a passport in Somalia, with little money, no contacts, smelling vaguely of alcohol, mucus, and cocaine. And I had never been happier.

I won't bore you with how I got back to the States. Suffice it to say, it would have been easier to stay shrunken and stuck to Angelina's skirt as she toured sub-Saharan Africa for the better part of the month. But I did get back. And within two weeks of my return, I was 25k richer, and had brought down one of the most powerful Senators in the country. And I had my bags packed for what I thought was going to be a quick trip to LA to make a couple more bucks. That quick trip has lasted 8 years. And I haven't gotten sick of it yet.

I'm Steve Murdoch. And I take pictures.

Smile for the Camera

Chapter Two Part One:

Frankly Scarlett

By Pendragon

So, you know about my beginnings. If you haven’t. Or you haven‘t given it a read in a while because I‘ve taken fucking forever to continue this, go back and read it. I’ll wait.

…

Wonder if the Cubs are on?

Gonna make me a sandwich.

Mmm, mayo.

Done?

Much better. I hate repeating myself. It's nice that that's out of the way. It's like we've now had our first date, and I am free to be my real self in front of you. You already know my general past, my background, how I came to be. Fantastic. Though, this isn't really like a date, since I know jack shit about any of you people. Well...actually, that would be a lot like my last few dates. Me talking about my self ad nauseum, the twiggy chick just sitting there, silently not eating a $150 salad. A few vodka red bulls, maybe a parking lot hummer, then the ol' downtown grind off at the local Hilton. Or with the local Hilton. God, LA. Whatta town.

See, I'm OK with that kinda love life. Purely in out, in out. No phone calls. No parent’s weekends. Life spans of two weeks, tops. Because any intimacy issues I have get worked out in the course of my job. Yeah, it ain't anything that your everyday rent-a-shrink would classify as an "emotionally fulfilling, bidirectional physio-psychic bond," but fuck, I'm happy-ish. Hell, I'm fucking loaded. That counts for something. I got a 36 inch plasma screen in front of my shitter. Nothing like dropping a deuce whilst watching reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. In-Laws be crazy.

I know that you all are out there saying, "Wow, Steve, you sound like a guy in denial about his romantically and physically unfulfilling life."

To that, I'll counter, "Yeah, but you sound like a guy who's never wacked off inside Scarlett Johansson."

Stumped ya, didn’t I?

Wanna hear more?

Well. That's a long story.

So, here goes.

*Hack hack haaaaaack*

Seriously, gotta cut out the Lucky Strikes. They’re gonna kill me.

Summer of 2002. I had been doing the whole paparazzi thing for about a year. I was starting to get a serious reputation with the gossip mags. Jolie was still with Billy Bob. Most Americans were still too freaked out to travel internationally. Things had slowed a tad, professionally, though. People were pretending to be ultra serious after the thing with the towers and the airplanes, and they were a little less interested in celebrity pics. For a little while, at least. I was getting a bit burnt out. I was trying to take the whole picture taking thing way too seriously. Too many boring candid shots, not enough scandal. I was young and foolish. But I had a ton of cash and a need to reboot with some style.

So I flew to Japan. I had been on a serious eastern kick. Was watching a shit load of anime, keeping my hair in a top knot and wearing kimonos, basically acting like a complete douche. Like Tom Cruise in that samurai movie. But, unlike Mr. Cruise, I got a deep desire to swim in the sushi of young Japanese women. Tommy, well, let’s just say he prefers sausage to sushi. The four days I spent in the Cruise/Holmes estate saw lots of pool boys and a very bored, sexually unsatisfied former cast member of Dawson’s Creek take solace in a little plastic friend.

But I digress. Anywho, I packed up my device, my camera, and a few changes of clothes, and lastly my passport (not needed for my way of travel, but necessary for booking a hotel room). After my Mogadishu debacle, I vowed never to get stuck without my good old government ID. Try explaining to the American consulate of some third world backwater country how exactly you wound up in the middle of Africa with no ID and no flight records. Let’s just say, their solution to that quandary involved a full cavity search.

Shudder.

OK, anywho, this is the only way to travel if you have loose morals and access to a portable shrinking machine.

Cab it to the airport. Find a nice single young thing on her way to your destination. Find a quiet corner/bathroom stall to miniaturize oneself. Hitch a ride in said young thing’s purse/clothing. Take a Zoloft. Snooze. Before you know it, you’re there.

During one of my early flights using this method, I had decided to try and do a little extracurricular spelunking beneath my host’s jean skirt. However, my ministrations inadvertently inspired the girl to ask her seat partner to aid her in joining that exclusive aviation society, the infamous Mile High Club. After a cramped and uncomfortable fuck in the first class lavatory, in which I had a rather unwelcome and uncircumcised visitor repeatedly enter and exit my temporary abode for about nine and a half minutes, I decided, on further flights, to keep it in my pants (and out of hers) until we were both safely on the ground. Or, at the very least, make sure my unwitting transporter is seated next to some troll unlikely to garner membership to that most selective of societies.

Anywho, Japan. Land of sumo and every sexual kink that can be drawn in black and white. Mmm. Once in Tokyo, I regrew to my normal stature and wended my way to the Park Hyatt Tokyo, smack dab in the middle of the Tokyo’s not inconsequential entertainment district. I checked into my room, which I had reserved for a week, dropped off my small carry on, and took a nap. Travel, even at microbe size, can still leave you with a killer case of jet lag.

I woke up, put on a tight t shirt and some acid washed jean, and went down to reception. A slight man, maybe 35 or so with spiked hair and black rim glasses, was working customer relations. Realizing I knew jack shit about what to do in Tokyo, I decided to try and figure out where one might find some action.

“Hey, so, I just got into town. Crazy, huh? Though probably not crazy for you. I mean, you live here and all.”

I tend to ramble.

“Sorry, sir?”

“Never mind.” I can be a moron sometimes. “So, where does a guy like me go to get a little action around this town?”

“Action, sir?”

He looked me up and down, taking in my outfit. On further review, that might have been a clue.

“Yeah, you know. Action?”

I made a regrettable gesture, shoving the pointer finger of my right hand into the slightly open fist of my left. Again. Mistake.

“Ooooh. Action. Yes sir!”

He reached into his jacket, withdrew a pen, and wrote something down on one of the hotel’s business cards.

“There you go sir. Much…uh…how you say, action.”

I looked at the characters on the card.

“Uh…what’s this called?”

“Shinjuku ni-chome”

“Shin juke oo knee cho mi?”

“Just show card to taxi, they take you.”

So I did just that.

And wound up spending my afternoon in Tokyo’s gay club neighborhood.

No more tight t shirts for me.

Wasn’t all bad. Met some very nice guys who thought I could support them financially if they supported me orally. Was very nice for the ol’ self esteem. Too bad I love the puss, cuz I guess young, trim, wealthy Americans are pretty popular with gay Japanese guys. So. I’ve got that going for me. Which is nice.

So, I got hit on, got drunk off my ass, then hitched a ride in another taxi back to the hotel. The same guy was working at reception. He gave me a wink and a blown kiss. I caught it and put it in my pocket. No harm stringing him along. But he’s so not my type. For starters, he has a penis. But he did send a bottle of Moet up to my room.

Weird day. Fun. Absolutely not sexually gratifying at all, but fun. And a huge part of my story. Because if I hadn’t had that little mix up with the receptionist, I never would have been in the hotel bar that night. And I never would have found another American guy drinking a scotch, looking pretty bored. And I wouldn’t have been able to strike up a conversation with the guy, in which I related said tale of my day in the gay clubs, which ended with my exclaiming, a bit too loud, “So, basically, I was lost in translation.”

“Lost in translation, huh?”

I turned to see who had been eavesdropping. The voice was smoky, like a jazz club past closing. She was pale. Red headed. A perfectly oval face. Breasts that more than filled out her ironic tee (with the words “t shirt” written across her bosoms). And jean clad long legs that belied her rather short stature. She was drop dead gorgeous. And couldn’t be a day over 19. I hoped.

“Uh…yeah. Lost in translation.”

“That’s so funny, that’s the name of the movie we’re filming. Hi, I’m Scarlett.”

“Uh…Steve. I’m Steve.”

“Well, Steve, nice to meet you. Well, I gotta get to set, we’re filming tonight. Guess I’ll see you around.” She skipped out of the bar and off to the elevator.

“Dude…she’s hot,” said the blitzed other half of my conversation.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

And just like that, my reasons for coming to Japan changed. Goodbye vaguely condescending Asian fetish. Hello Scarlett. God I hope you’re 18.

I went back to my room. Did a quick google.

Oh thank god, she’s legal.

I took out my camera and slipped on my device. I had a mission.

God do I love missions.

Chapter Two Part Two:

I Do Give a Damn

By Pendragon

Sorry for the delays, ladies and gents.  Aw, who am I kidding?  No ladies are reading this.  Anyways, yeah, blah blah been busy blah.  You may have noticed that my pictures have been out of the fish wrappers recently.  Well, been on a sabbatical.  You see, I decided to see how much affect a 2 millimeter man can have in the ear of a highly impressionable and stupid A list celebrity.  Call it a science project.  So I’ve spent the last 9 months in Charlie Sheen’s ear.  That mother fucker said and did every fucking thing that I told him to do.  I felt like John Cusack in Being John Malkovich, but instead of a puppeteer inside of the body of a highly respected actor, I was a paparazzo inside the ear of a second-generation rich douche bag with a penchant for cocaine and hookers.

Anyway, enough about me, how’ve you been?

Wait, I don’t give a fuck.

Back to the story.  Japan, 2002, I met Scarlett Jo in a hotel bar and instantly wanted to plumb her depths.  Only problem was, how the fuck was I going to find her again?  Tokyo is a big fucking city with plenty of gorgeous scenery to film.  It’s not like this movie was going to be filmed in my hotel.  Where was I going to start my search?  So I went back to the hotel bar, ordered a tequila, and plotted.

Which is when Bill Fucking Murray sat down next to me.

“Tequila?” he asked, as he took the stool next to me.  “My kind of asshole.  Hi, I once played a Ghostbuster.”  He motioned to the bartender and set up four tequilas, pushing one my way.

I said nothing.  I mean, it’s my job to make celebrities look like assholes.  I really don’t get star struck.  But this was Bill Fucking Murray.

“I’ll take it from your stunned silence that this is a big moment for you.  I get it, I’m kinda a big deal.”

Still mute, I kept drinking my tequila.

“Anyways, I’m here in Tokyo for some indie flick.  I don’t know what’s going on.  The director is about 12.  But the lead actress is a fucking atom bomb of breasts and sex.  Red hair.  Named Scarlett.  And most of the shoot is in this very hotel, so I get to sleep in and walk about nine yards to get to make up.”

I turned towards him.  I couldn’t be so lucky.

“Anyways, I think that’s about all the information you need.  You can figure out the rest.”

I finished my tequila, still physically incapable of speech.

“By the way, kid, in case you didn’t notice, I’m basically acting as the easy exposition here.  Some cheap story telling device to cut through plot holes and get you to the good stuff.  The god in the machine.  The Deus ex Machina.  Speaking of which, DX says hi.  He’s not a big fan of the rampant misogyny and latent homosexuality of your work, but he thinks you might be useful someday.”

“DX?” I found myself forcing out my first syllables of the last 5 minutes.

“Eh, don’t worry about it, kid.  Besides, no one will ever believe you. I’m going to head back to my room and get a blowjob from a girl dressed as Sailor Moon.  I don’t know what that means, but it sounds fun.”

He finished his three drinks and turned to go.

“Oh, she’s in room 1932, by the way.  And she has an ass that won’t quit.”

I’ll tell ya, sometimes it’s better to be lucky than smart.

It took me a while to wrap my agave-soaked brain around what had just happened.  I met Carl Spackler, and he happened to basically read my mind and tell me the room number of the incredibly hot ass actress with whom I was currently obsessed.

Horse.  Gift.  Avoid the mouth.

I paid for my drinks, then headed back to my room to get my things.  Once night fell, I made my way to the elevator and headed for the 19th floor.  I felt at my belt, checking my device, making sure it was charged and ready to go.  Because I sure as hell was.

I stood outside of the door until the coast was clear.  Fiddling with the device at my belt, I set my height for one inch tall.  Small enough to go unnoticed and crawl underneath the door, large enough to navigate a foreign hotel room.

Her suite was nice.  Bamboo floors, a standing mini bar, modern and ethnically ambiguous furniture.  And a queen sized bed with a lounging, naked queen of a woman half-heartedly fingering herself above the covers as she read the sides for the next day’s filming.  She looked lonely.  I intended to remedy that.

It didn’t take too long, as my modified gloves and heightened jumping abilities made scaling the sheets of the bed a minor inconvenience.  As I walked between those titanic, well-shaped knees, I placed my hand back on the device, ready to shrink down to avoid detection.  I plodded on, like Frodo, on my way to place the ring inside of her volcano of Oroduin.  And by ring, I mean my penis.  And my volcano of Oroduin, I mean her building-sized pussy.

Scarlett’s lips were only slightly wet.  She seemed to be slapping the clam as a way to pass the time, nothing more.  It was breathtaking to watch.  Her downy red muff was simply breathtaking to see up close.  So inviting.  So, when she withdrew her hand towards her mouth to get a little saliva for lubrication, I jumped up, set my device for the minimum height, and braced for impact.

As I shrank down to two millimeters, my back was hit by a rapidly growing index finger, destination: cervix.  Once deep inside, I pushed off the massive digit and landed in Scarlett’s moist cave of awesomeness.  Still on my back, I took out my camera, turned on the flash, and took some nice personal shots of one, two, and sometimes three perfectly manicured fingers pump in and out of my rapidly wettening landscape.  Sure, I wouldn’t be able to sell these to any tabloid.  Without faces, my pictures are pretty worthless.  But maybe I could sell them to some shitty modern art museum as an avant-garde set.  If nothing else, I’d have some nice mementos of my trip.

Once my rolls ran out, I placed my camera to my side and brought out my bottle of lube.  I then proceeded to fap fap fap fap fap.  I must have cum at least four times.  I was exhausted.  It’s hard work, man.

I was so exhausted, I must have missed Scarlett withdrawing her fingers and making a phone call.  I missed the hotel room door opening.  And I missed Scarlett spreading her legs and priming her pubic mound for impact.

I didn’t miss the thousand foot long penis ramming it’s spongy head into me.

In the fuck session that followed, I never got a good look at the owner of the luckiest cock in Japan.  Was it a cast member?  A friend from America?  A surprisingly well-endowed local?  Who knows.  And who the fuck cares.

The initial impact with the precum covered cock head was more than enough for me to get lodged inside the lucky dude’s piss slit.  As such, I had a cock-eye’s view of fucking Scarlett Johansson.  After getting started with a couple more pumps inside her honey hole, my dick-host pulled out and made a bee-line for another pair or plumpy red lips.  Here, I burrowed deeper into the fleshy cock head, not wanting to be unceremoniously shot out and find myself in a cum and gastric juice cocktail.

As luck would have it, this guy had Sting-like tantric abilities and was able to keep his hard-on as he withdrew from her mouth, brushed against her lower lip and chin, and nestled firmly between her peachy, healthy tits.  From my vantage point, I could still make out, in the distance, like a way hotter version of Mount Rushmore, Scarlett’s flushed, thoroughly sex-hungry face as it gazed right at me with intense desire.  She wasn’t going to be content with tit fucking for long.  And soon, my world began to shake as her right hand grabbed my temporary dick house and pushed it past her perfect stomach, her seemingly cavernous belly button, and back deep into her cunt.

When the guy did jizz, I joined several hundred gallons of cum on the silky floor of Scarlett’s twat.  I laid there, exhausted, happy to be alive.  I was ready to sleep.

That’s when a cock reentered her and began the process all over again.  Was it the same guy?  Someone new?  Who knows.  All I know is that Scarlett likes to get fucked and fucked hard.  For these following fucks, I did manage to find a fold of flesh to hide behind that kept me from getting caught back in the action.  Which was definitely preferable.  In fact, the best was when she came without a dick inside of her, which I’m assuming came from some rather vigorous cunnilingus.  It was like being inside of an x-rated bounce house.  My head even hit the ceiling once or twice.  By the time the fucking ended, I felt like I had survived a 9.0 earthquake.  Or, at the very least, a brawly at a Pistons game.  My body was sore all over and I think I cracked a rib.

But holy Christ was that fun.

Hours passed.  I’m assuming Scarlett had a good night’s sleep.  I’m sure her fuck buddy (buddies?) did.  Me, I was content to let my bones heal and soak just enjoy the environment.  A starlet’s vagina is not dissimilar to a sauna.  Hot, steamy, and likely full of communicable diseases.  I just hoped that Ms. Johansson and the anonymous penis I had recently been introduced to were clean.  I narrowly escaped Hep B during my romp inside of Pamela Anderson, but had a really embarrassing conversation with my GP after catching full body chlamydia from Monica Lewinsky.  I know, I know, that one was more about the money than my own personal jollies.  I must disagree with Bill, though.  After having spent several hours cigar deep inside her, I can honestly say she don’t taste good.

I was wondering how long my oblivious host would remain in bed when, from my cramped coital enclosure, I heard a thunderous banging from seemingly miles away.  I could hear Scarlett’s words reverberate through her entire being, causing miniature tremors deep inside her love cave.

“Scarlett, it’s me, Sophia!” rumbled the intruding voice.  “We need you back on set, we finally figured out the lighting for the opening scene.”

“If you think I’m wearing those stupid panties, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Just open the door, Scarlett.”

I braced myself as my hostess kicked her legs over the side of her bed and wrapped a bathrobe around herself.  Luckily, she was lax about wrapping it tight, so I was given a slight slit of vision of the outside world from between her slim labial minora.  She opened the door tentatively.

A cute, somewhat alternative looking woman in her early 30’s stood before us, wearing the same hotel provided robe.  She made her way in, shut the door, and made herself a drink at the room’s wet bar.

“Look, Scarlett honey, I know you’re having misgivings.  I mean, we’ll be projecting your ass at like 60 times it’s normal size.  You’re sure to be nervous.”

Scarlett took a seat on her bed, letting her legs spread.  “Let me just say I’m not a big fan of your description of ‘sheer’ panties.”

Sophia, who I assumed was the costume girl on the shoot, then took a gander at my hiding place, which Scarlett had just exposed to the room of 2.

“From what I can see, girl, you’d rather do this shot commando!”

“Whoops!” Scarlett giggled.  With that, she crossed her legs, squeezing me tightly deep inside of her.  Her inner walls were beginning to feel my presence and they were getting oh so moist.  “I don’t know what’s getting into me, I’m just…whew…feeling flush.”

“It’s the elevation, girl.  It happens to everyone.  Look, I’m going to take my robe off and you’re going to tell me what you see.”

I heard cloth dropping to the floor.  And then the vaginal walls moistened even more.

“Those are the some damn cute panties, Soph.  Hell, I’d wear ‘em.”

“Good.  Because these are the one’s you’ll be wearing on screen.”

From what I could tell, the other woman was shimmying out of her undergarments and tossing them over to lovely Ms. Johansson, who then stood and pulled them neatly on, taking my perfect view into the crotch level world obstructed by fine pink gauzy material.

“Damn, Soph, you’re way too hot to be a director.”

“I must take after my old man.”

“Gross, girl!  Go get dressed and tell the crew I’ll be down in a sec.  I’ll wear these things.  I’m getting hot and bothered just having them on.”

“Thinking about my dad can do that to a girl.”

The walls around me dried up.

“OK, it’s official, picturing Francis Ford Coppola makes me drier than the Gobi.  Thanks a lot.”

“It’s my job, my little ingénue.  You have no idea how much post-production time it would take to edit out your pre-cum from a final cut.  Now don’t be naughty and I’ll see you in five.  We’re all set up in room 3241.”

“Roger Dodger.”

“If you weren’t so cute, you’d be such a dork.”

“Look who’s talking, Mary Corleone.”

“Ugh, please don’t bring that up again.  Remind me to NEVER cast any of my future progeny in any of my films.”

“Go and direct, you miss director person.  I need to get in character.”

Ach, filmmaking.  It can really ruin a day spent lounging around with a microscopic visitor in your va jay jay.

So, I had to wait a while before I had a bit more fun.  As much as I love to mess around with my celebrity hosts, I don’t like to get in the way of their next paycheck.  It’s a vicious cycle, you see.  A photo ain’t worth shit unless the subject of said photo is drawing some major bank.  And if I were to fuck with Scarlett on set, well, let’s just say I don’t want to devalue some of the candids I was planning on taking in the next few days.  So I was good.  I kept the exploring to outside of her funbox.  For the time being.

By the way, if you project the final film big enough and are looking at the right place, I make a cameo in “Lost in Translation.”  In the opening scene, you might be able to see a tiny speck crawl out of that perfect, perfect curve of an ass.  And if you look REALLY close, you can see the happiest man on the face of the earth.

Filming didn’t wrap for hours, but it’s amazing how quickly time passes when you’re mere millimeters from the ass that launched a thousand rip-off ‘oh so precious’ indie films about ennui and disassociated youth.

Anyways, I spent most of the rest of my week in Japan in and around Scarlett Johansson’s vagina.  I simply lost track of time.  My clothing became seeped through with girl fluid and roughed up from my host’s more aggressive climaxes.  I didn’t care.  I was in heaven.

Until Scarlett took a trip to Shinjuku ni-chome and I made her cum so hard that I was shot out of her cunt and, with what seemed like gallons of her juices, dripped down her leg onto the pavement outside of a sex shop that specialized in dildos shaped like Power Rangers.  And, as luck would have it, my device was once again out of juice.  I scurried into the sex shop and found a corner by the window in direct sunlight.

And so I found myself back in Tokyo’s bustling gay district, my clothes in tatters, coated in the vaginal fluids of Hollywood’s next big thing.  I could only try my best to stay in the sun as my device charged.  As the sun finally went down, my device slowly charged, and Scarlett’s scent ripened, I could finally, secretly, re-enlarge myself and get back to the hotel.

A boytoy, all of 19, feathered hair, jacket, skinny jeans, approached me.  He looked me up and down, his nostrils flared.

“Mistah, mistah!  You…” he sniffed.  “You smell like toro sashimi!  Raw, bad fishy!”

I smiled. 

“Kid, you have no idea.”

*          *            *

So, that was Japan.  Nice town.  Oh, and I left my camera somewhere inside of Scarlett.  I’ve been meaning to pick it up someday.

Anywho, I got hundreds of these stories. I’ve been trying to decide what to tell you about next.  Maybe my visit to the set of Black Swan.  Mila Kunis is quite the method actress.  And Natalie Portman squirts.