Warm Milk With My Dirty, Old Nobody Agent

As an actress, you know you're in a world of trouble when you discover first-hand that your agent keeps a box of condoms and a sheet in his office. When Dirty, Old Nobody, or D.O.N. for short, invited me to dinner, it did occur to me that maybe he might want to get into my pants.

Especially when I casually mentioned it to Stripper Pimp, who gave me a hard, fixed look and some curt advice: "Make sure you have somewhere to be at 9 o'clock."

That conversation took place just hours before a clown sabotaged my final stripper audition, and I blew up at Stripper Pimp. Now that I was crystal clear that stripping was not an option, I was afraid that Stripper Pimp was going to drop me. I was a nervous wreck.

As for D.O.N., I believed the big, yellow agency book that proclaimed him to be a caring agent who got great comments from casting. I thought he was a big deal.

I'd won his representation fair and square by delivering a powerhouse emotional scene, not just once, but twice. He said he'd give me a shot because I was a "very special actress," even though he openly worried that I wasn't sexy or pretty enough, and that I was a little too timid and shy.

D.O.N. was probably old enough to be my grandfather, and he was pleasant enough on the occasions when I dropped off my proof sheets. So even though I was aware that dinner might mean much more, I didn't give it much thought.

Especially after an innocuous dinner filled with safe pleasantries and chit-chat.

When he drove me back to his office, he asked me if I wanted to come inside for a little bit. Filled with lasagna and good will, I cluelessly complied. He disappeared into the bathroom, came back freshly mouthwashed and reclined on his couch, asking me to join him.

That's when I realized, with a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, that I was going to be his after-dinner mocha cappuccino after all.

But with the same zombie-like numbness with which I had made an amateur sex tape the week before, I nervously joined him on the couch.

"That's better," he said as he began to rub my back. He asked me to take my dress off. Then my bra. Then he requested a blow job. All very polite, safe, nonthreatening.

But altogether unsettling.

I'd mostly dated older men, but he was just plain old. And I'd never been with a white man before, so let's just say the long, thick shock of corn-silk-textured pubic hair was new to me. I'd never seen so much hair down there.

I blew him. He reciprocated.

Then he went to his desk drawer and got a condom. He tried valiantly to finish what he started, but in those pre-Viagra days, old age won out.

"I've got an idea. Let's get on the floor."

He reached behind me on the couch and came up with a sheet and a pillow. What kind of agent keeps condoms, a sheet and a pillow in his office? The thought floated from some corner of my mostly shut-down mind.

But then again, what did it matter? Who was I saving it for?

He gave me a below-the-navel massage, and I came.

"Stay right there," he commanded. Standing over me, he removed the condom.

Oh my God! Is he about to ... ????

"My milk is about to come down ... arghhhhh!"

Just like that, wetness splashed my face. Some fell into my mouth. The rest I wiped off with a paper towel.

"Are you ok?"

I nodded unconvincingly, got dressed and went home.

I didn't cry. But I wanted to.

(Stripper/Casting Couch Diaries Part 13 of 17: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)

---

Please "Like" Don't Be a Slut on Facebook or follow on Twitter.