Call me "Ishmael." (hold on, Herman Melville estate, that was a simple typo.) Call me Emma, Emma Gravel. I own and manage a revival movie theater in glorious San Francisco, where I will go after stopping at Boudin's Bakery for a steaming bowl of butternut squash soup with walnuts and dried cranberries, all dumped into a crispy, crunchy sourdough bread bowl. (Fuck "Rice-A-Roni", this is the true San Francisco treat.) Watching the always napping sea lions on Pier 39, which cheers me every morning, tourists were now bustling about and I, again, fell in love with my new home town, even if $1,200 a month for an efficiency apartment seemed a tad extravagant.
Wiping my mouth and purchasing a dozen oatmeal raisin cookies from the aromatic bakery, I began my trek down Powell Street, lined with houses closely resembling the opening credits of "Full House," to the Bay Area Theater (original I know...sigh) where today "African Queen" is showing, a true classic, despite many newbies thinking it is a Spike Lee movie. I strolled into the empty, quiet lobby like I owned the joint. Soon the sweet aroma of ganja would waft thru the lobby and Hershey Bar sales and the diabetes rate would soar together. It was still an hour until the matinee so I had ample time to prepare. First, the projection room, making sure all was ready, then to the well-stocked concession stand where I anxiously awaited my lovely assistant manager, Zoey.
The place basically ran itself, perhaps a little touch-up occasionally since it was last Re-painted in 1927, the year "Wings" won two Oscars. Plus the EPA was being a real nuisance about asbestos falling into the popcorn...I've disliked the EPA since "Ghostbusters, "Yes, it's true. The man has no dick!" Still, this was easily the best job I would ever have, I admit happily. After each film I could be in the lobby discussing movies with patrons and not even the evening news could depress me.The only trouble we've ever had was when Paul Reubens (Pee Wee Herman) showed up alone for a screening of "Deep Throat." I had to act quickly, passing out umbrellas and HazMat suits to each customer. Regardless, the floors are still sticky. And I used Bonami! (bonus points for identifying that incredibly obscure one.)
Business was steady enough to keep me supplied with generic baloney and stale bread but had improved since I opened a Loan Dept. in a corner of the lobby. Now, our customers could afford popcorn AND a Coke. (But no fucking Pepsi. We aren't heathens!) Of course, I still incurred the additional cost of steam cleaning the plush seat cushions after an unruly group (or "labia of lesbians" as such a gathering is technically called) left huge stains while watching, "Blue is the Warmest Color." But, at least, the theater smelled...nice. With our movies changing almost daily, we have many loyal, repeat patrons, who tired of the constant bombardment of Marvel movies at the multi-theater Megaplexes.
Leaning on the fingerprint-smudged glass countertop and dropping cookie crumbs like Hansel and Gretel, I heard the door squeak open. After leaving myself a note to buy WD-40, I looked up to see the gorgeous Zoey enter. She's 19, (yet looks younger, whereas I'm 35 and look older...by maybe a week). With raven hair, dark complexion and an ass that belongs on Mt.Rushmore, right next to Titty Roosevelt! (Waving...thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I'll be here all week. Please tip your waitress.) She was so similar to Joan Jett I had to hire her because Joan was the first celebrity I had a crush on (have I mentioned my lesbianism yet?) I even learned to play guitar because of her, rather quickly learning the few power chords she displayed in each song.
Zoey has worked here for six months and I am smitten. I have noticed an interesting correlation. The more raises I give her...sometimes twice a week...the less work she does. I'm not complaining. I'm only trying to determine if she has positive thoughts on sizzling girl-on-girl lovin', preferably with me, although I can watch if it comes to that. She sighed and dropped her college textbooks on the counter, immediately causing the glass to crack.
"You can take that out of my check," she said with an adorable sneer.
"I'll take it out in trade," I thought to myself, my cheeks red as I contemplated our potentially naughty business transaction. I have had many ideas of romantic evenings we could share: walking on Fisherman's Wharf at night, enjoying a Nutella and banana crepe, visiting the Antique Vibrator Museum (Google it), a lovely picnic in Golden Gate Park. All great ideas, but I'm far too insecure to even offer her a Twizzler from the display case. I meandered over to her books and spotted a large, yellow paperback titled, "The Dummies Guide to Submissiveness." My eyes suddenly sprang open, like hearing James Brown scream, "Do you see the light?" In "The Blues Brothers."
Now the door to romance was ajar because I can definitely act all dominate, even if I am petrified doing it. "Do you like it," she asked almost shyly.
"Do I like what?" I replied with clever repartee.
"The book, silly," she clarified. Then, while waiting for my tongue to untie, she placed her warm, dainty hand on mine and continued, "You look so pretty today, Emm," accenting her compliment by caressing my hand with breathtaking ease. We both knew another raise was imminent.
"Me? Pretty? Do you have cataracts, Joan...I mean Zoe?"
She giggled and followed with, "I do love your self-deprecating humor."
I immediately corrected her. "Hold it right there, young lady! Now, I might not mind a little pee play on occasion, but no one, not even you, is going to deprecate on me!" My shame was immediate after she taught me the definition of deprecate. To hide my extreme embarrassment, I began leafing through her book, but my drenched panties made it very uncomfortable to get past the chapter on "Foot Worship." We still had time before the matinee, so I led her to the projector room for a pop quiz, hotshot. Once behind the locked, soundproof door, I told her to strip in a tone she knew wasn't a request. And it was obvious my gruff tone pleased and excited her...and your's truly!
I peeled my soaked panties off and proceeded to paint her face with my nectar. Her eyes were sparkling like a "Twilight" vampire. This was what she was searching for. I sat on a dusty desk, spread my legs and motioned her to crawl to me through pantomime. She shivered in anticipation, then came crawling excitedly. She stopped at my feet, kneeling with hands behind her back, looking up at me expectedly and, "What now, Miss Emma?" After those well-chosen words, I hyperventilated until passing out. Upon awakening and elated this all wasn't just another recurring dream, I spread my legs even wider while pointing due South. It finally dawned on her and she began slurping my juices like a Jamba Juice customer with a handful of coupons. I held her face firmly in place, legs wrapped around her head while spouting dirty talk like any Tarantino movie until I soaked her pretty face and commanded she lick me clean. Trembling, looking down at her, sharing her enthusiasm, I told her to forget the broken countertop. (That's just how kind-hearted I am).
