Accounting for Cum

I stood, arm leaned against the bar and gazed around like a predator searching for game. The room packed with people drinking, dancing and laughing. I drowned the odor of sweat, liquor and too much perfume with the flavor of cheap whiskey.

Two things I enjoyed going to places where nobody knew me:

1. I don’t know anyone and

2. The likelihood of meeting them again is slim as a supermodel.

Before I could set my eyes on any prey, a red dress appeared in my vision and left it blurred.

“Hey,” the woman wearing it said. “Lost something?” Her smiled was intoxicating like alcohol. I stood straighter and smiled back.

“Lost myself. Now I’m waiting to be picked up.” The line was gamble, but I only had one chance. Better to play big and loose with a bang than not trying at all. She was way out of my league and we both knew it. I could count my heartbeats as she considered my words with her head tilted just a fraction.

“You’re out of my league. I don’t think I can lift that ego any further,” she said, still smiling.

“Already did by coming over. Want to have a drink?”

We settled around a table in a quieter corner of the room and talked about life. At first, her red dress was a pure distraction. It was neither short nor showed a lot of cleavage, but stirred the imagination like a vortex into the fantasy realm. And not only mine, judging by the stares of surrounding males. She was, however, an interesting person with a smart mind and quick wit.

“So, Mister. How do you pay the bills?” She asked. Being painfully aware of the sexual appeal my job description preceded, truth was never an option. Although I consider numbers as universal truth, life as an accountant taught me a thing or two about lying.

It was just a matter of how thick I would spread the butter on the toast.

“I’m a writer,” I said, hinting a fraction of embarrassment.

Her eyebrows shot up, dragging her eyelids with them.

“A writer? That’s so cool. What are you writing about?” She set her glass on the counter and seemed genuinely interested.

“That’s, well...” I stuttered and scratched the back of my neck. I gave her a weary smile and hoped for the best. “Technically, I am a screenwriter.” She took a sip of her glass.

“So,” she stretched the word into a question, “you are writing what? Movies, Television?”

I let out a sigh and slumped my shoulders. “Mostly movies, yes. But not the Hollywood movies you may expect.”

“What movies do I expect?” She asked with a quirk and poked me playfully in the ribs when I just shrugged.

“C’mon. Stop teasing me. What are these movies? Maybe I know one of them.”

Her hand still rested on my side without intention to leave.

“Thing is,” I said and took a sip of my own, “when I tell people about my profession, they raise an eyebrow and excuse themselves afterwards. It’s not a job they would talk about at the dinner table or in polite company. Which they include themselves.”

She made a show of looking around, “do you see any dinner tables?” She stared at me with a grin and reached for her own glass, never leaving my eyes. “Or polite company?”

“I am a screenwriter for adult movies,” I said with no further hesitation.

She almost choked on her drink.

“Like in porn?” Her eyes as wide as her mouth.

“Just like in porn.” I said.

After a heartbeat or two, she seemed to take a decision and took my hand. “C’mon, let’s go for a dance.”

“It’s a pandemic! Everybody works from home and they forced you to go to the office?”

“It’s not as bad as the media says. And I told you the company has strict health standards. They take pride in them.” Truth is accountants are so low in social value, it’s cheaper to lose a slave, rather than paying for home-office.

“I know, but I still don’t like it,” she said, and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Stay safe, babe.”

So much had changed in the past 2 years. What started as a one-night stand turned into the relationship men dream about. A beautiful woman who’s smart, wild and open-minded. The only problem I faced 5 days a week: I was living in a lie.

Time went by and I missed the window of opportunity to tell her the truth.

That I was a boring accountant and spent my slavery days in the corner cubicle of an over-packed office. That my salary was bad, and I had no ambition to climb the ranks. I left in the morning and returned in the afternoon, spinning stories about a job I didn’t have.

“Can I come with you for a day? I would like to see how you all work. How your writing comes into existence.” She asked one day.

“You what?”

“You know. Getting a little inspiration. Maybe your writing can profit, when I know what the ‘scene’ looks like.” I must have become a good liar over the years, because I kept my expression blank.

“I’m sorry babe, but that’s not possible.” She frowned and crossed her arms in front of her chest. I held out my hands, trying to calm the storm before thunder would growl.

“I don’t have a problem with the idea. I actually like it. But this is company policy, babe. The screenwriter's room is off limits to anyone from outside. You know, Intellectual property. The filming is,” I searched for fitting words, “well they have sex there. And although it’s their job and they are getting filmed while doing it,” I trailed off and sighed. “Look, it’s all a privacy thing. Even if 10 people are watching them, it’s like a family.”

“Like a family watching you having sex?” She asked, an eyebrow raised.

“What? No.” I said. “Gross.”

“Well, your words,” she said and smiled. “It’s okay. Company rules. I understand. But can we at least watch some of your movies together?”

And there I was. Too deep in the hole of lies I’ve dug myself into.

A new motivational message popped up in the office that morning. Be true to yourself.

I don’t think that any accountant in the history of accounting was ever true to himself doing accounting. Even the accounts are lying all the time. Accounting environment is a bad influence. With a click, I opened an incognito tab on my browser. If I want to be true to myself, I have to stop staring into the abyss but become the abyss.

First: research. There’s an endless demand for new ‘actresses’, lesser demand for ‘actors’ and none for scriptwriters. That was discouraging. So I took the high road. A quick search found multiple books and online courses for scriptwriting. I was becoming a writer.

“How’s work, dear?” She started the small talk at the dinner table.

“Great,” I said and shoveled food into my mouth. After I swallowed, I continued, “I finished another script today.” It was actually the first script, but sometimes you have to tiptoe towards the truth instead of dropkicking it in the face.

“That’s great,” she said. Her beaming face and loving smile showed more pride than I felt. “When will it become a movie?”

I pursed my lips and shrugged. “Don’t know, haven’t pitched it to the board yet. I wanted a beta reader first.” I hoped this gamble wouldn’t destroy everything, but again: you have to start somewhere.

“A beta reader? What’s that?”

“The first one to read a script, who is not the author.”

“Oh,” she said and rolled her food around the plate. “And who will be the lucky one?” she asked without looking up.

“I hoped you would.” Her head jerked up and she stared at me wide eyed.

“But I know nothing about it. How could I tell you if it’s good or not?”

“That’s the point, babe. This script differs from the others,” I said and gave her a smile.

“Different how?”

“I wrote it as an introduction. Like porn for beginners.”

“Porn for beginners? How does that work?”

I swallowed and tried to explain the concept without telling her I did not know what I was doing.

“Porn for couples,” I said, hoping it wouldn’t sound like a question.

She laid her cutlery down and furrowed her brows. “I don’t understand.” Me neither, I thought, but explained anyway. “It’s about a couple doing their first porn movie and enjoying the outcome.” Her eyebrows shot up. It was the same look she gave me years ago when I first told her about my fake job.

“I love it,” she said.

“You haven’t even read it.” I was suspicious of what might come out of this.

“And you won’t pitch it to your producers.” She said. It didn’t sound like a suggestion.

“I don’t?” I asked with caution. This was going in a wrong direction again.

“No. We’re producing the movie on our own. Then we’ll see, if we enjoy the outcome.”

They say the last thing you see is your life as a movie. I asked myself if this might be death then. What started as a hook up line at a party changed my life from being an accountant to porn actor. I really should start telling the truth more often.