Chapter #16A Highly Cinematic Ambush by: Seuzz   You've been polishing up the masks in the garage, and your dad has asked you what they are and what they're about. "Helping a friend on his art project," you told him. When he asked what you're getting out of it, as you seem to be doing a lot of the work, you replied, "Twenty dollars for each one."
That shut him up.
By Saturday morning you have five of them polished, and you've also made three more brain bands. But who to use one on?
The answer comes indirectly. Over the last week you and Carlos's psychology have gotten very comfortable with each other. This morning, for instance, you blasted yourself unconscious when you came while imagining yourself being sucked off by Kristin Ramona who, in this particular fantasy, had just finished lubing a car and was caked with grease and grime from head to foot as she went down on you.
The oddball consequence is that you and he both feel much more confident than either of you would have probably felt with asking a girl out.
You have always been shy and skittery with girls, which is why you drifted along with Lisa Yarborough over the summer without actually ever asking her out or talking about dating. (Strange: While you have been preoccupied with magic masks, your resentment of the heartless way she dumped you has almost entirely vanished.) But the same air of cool collectedness you get from Carlos, that let you face down the Molester earlier in the week, also leaves you much less shy about calling up a girl and asking if she wants to go do something.
From the other direction: Despite the way he's slimmed down and bulked up, Carlos still thinks of himself as the fat geeky kid that he was all the way from late elementary school through the end of his sophomore year. But now, the copy of him that sits in your skull sees something dramatically different when he looks in the mirror. He sees you. And even if you are skinny, with a crooked grin and a thatch of unruly hair, it's a much more handsome image than the self-image he still struggles under. And he would certainly have an easier time asking a girl out from behind your face than his own, even with his much improved looks, for then it wouldn't feel like he's the one running the risk.
And how does all this point toward Mia DeWitt as the girl to ask out? Simple. She's in your Film as Literature class, and you've noticed her paying closer attention to her as your own comments and remarks in that class have improved. "Carlos" takes it as a reflection on his own intelligence, and you're just happy to have a girl as cute as that looking at you.
So after chasing down acquaintances of acquaintances of friends, which ultimately gets you a contact number for her, you text her a little before noon and ask if she's up for hitting the Silver Cineplex with you. It's a new horror picture called Cravenmoor, something in the Conjuring style, but it's scoring well on the review metrics. You're pleased when Mia says she'll be happy to catch the 3:15 showing with you. You're even more pleased to find that the auditorium is mostly empty.
"I hate a crowded theater," you observe as you advance down the aisle with your popcorns and Cokes.
"You do?" Mia exclaims. "I love it when it's crowded! The bigger the crowd the better!"
"But all the noise, all the talking," you complain as you follow her into the center row. "It's so distracting."
"That's what makes it great! Not the distraction, I mean. The excitement! The buzz!" You sit and arrange your snacks. "When the audience is into it, all together, like a giant party!"
You're about to argue that the movie-going experience shouldn't be a party but a rapturous immersion of the solitary consciousness into the carefully constructed mise-en-scene of the cinematic artist, but thank God you're distracted by Mia herself at that point. She has turned fully sideways in her chair to gaze at you as though ... well, as though you were a carefully constructed mise-en-scene and she was rapturously trying to immerse herself in you.
Mia DeWitt might or might not be an artist, and she might or might not be artistic. But she presents herself as one. Delightfully so.
It starts at the top of her head with a beret. Not a store-bought beret, but a hand-knit one, stitched out of brown wool, with a gold pin set in it. Today, despite an autumnal chill, she is wearing a white, sleeveless blouse that clings tightly to her curves, over which she has draped a tan, sleeveless vest of brown leather. Her jeans are black and skin tight, as you couldn't help noticing as you followed her into the theater. She's a tiny girl, and she would be smaller if it weren't for the high-heeled boots she is wearing.
She has an hourglass figure balanced at the top with torpedo-shaped breasts and at the bottom with grabbable hips. Her skin is flawless and still slightly tawny from the summer sun. She has a small nose and small mouth under large, dark eyes in a heart-shaped face. Her makeup is muted—she seems to be wearing only lip gloss, for example—and long locks of soft brown hair trail messily down past her jaw.
So as she turns sideways in the seat you are struck dumb, both by the sight of her giving you her undivided attention, and by a sudden, vivid fantasy in which she hurls her popcorn to the floor, climbs over the armrest into your lap, and takes your lips and tongue between your own while throwing her arms about your neck.
"Well, I like seeing movies with friends," you croak. You shift in your seat so as to relieve the pressure on your straining cock. "That's fun."
"But the crowd!" she insists. "Isn't that how you know you're in a really great movie? When it grabs everyone the same way, and they're surging and rolling along with it? When everyone's, oh!" She gasps. "Laughing and crying and screaming and yelling all at the same time?"
"Sounds more like a rock concert."
She puts her popcorn on the floor, then leans over the armrest at you. You're half convinced that she is about to climb into your lap as she puts her face close to yours. "Do you ever go to the Warehouse?" she asks.
"Sure," you gasp. "What's that got to do with movies?"
"Nothing. Just asking." She grins—an adorable sight, for her mouth is so small. "Are you going out tonight?"
"I, uh, haven't made any plans."
"I'm going. A bunch of us are." She grips the armrest with both hands, and for one frantic moment you are absolutely convinced she's about to loft herself over it and into your lap. But she keeps to her side, and rocks back and forth. "I'd love it if you came."
"I'd love to come with you," you blurt back.
She wags a finger in your face. "That's what you said," she chants. Your brain is burning so hot it feels it might melt, so it's not until after the lights have dimmed that you realize the double-entendre you accidentally dropped.
You're enjoying your time with Mia so much that you almost change your mind about what you're going to do. Only the fear that you might fuck things up with her, and lose her without gaining any souvenirs, causes you to persist. So after the previews are well and truly underway, you excuse yourself, saying that you want to get some nachos.
Instead you run outside to your truck and fetch one of the blank masks. Back inside the theater, after letting your eyes readjust to the dark, you creep into the row behind Mia. She's absorbed in the screen, and you get the mask onto her without difficulty.
Then, while the mask copies her, you go out to get your nachos, and your nerves so give you the munchies you almost finish eating them before the mask reappears on her face with a bluish glow. You catch it before it can fall off, and scamper back outside to return it to your truck. Back in the theater, you nestle in close to her before she can awake.
All this happens before the previews and commercials have even finished playing, so Mia wakes up before the movie has even started.
She doesn't seem to have noticed what happened, either, except to remark on how nice it is to see a movie without having to sit through twenty minutes of coming attractions.
* * * * *
She walks beside you on the way out of the theater, and bumps up against you a couple of times. You wonder if you're supposed to put your arm around her, but content yourself with asking what she's up for doing now. "Going to hang out with some girlfriends, talk about you," she says, and she laughs when you let out a squeak of surprise. "You're going to see me at the Warehouse later on," she adds.
"I am?"
"You promised you'd be there."
You don't remember making any such promise, but you ask when and how you should meet up with her. "We're gonna have a party at Eastman before we head out," she says. "Follow the noise till you find us out back of the school."
"What time?"
"Any time after seven. It'll be eleven, probably, before we head out."
* * * * *
So you're vibrating all over as you clamber into your truck, and you sit there watching with slack-jawed lust and excitement as Mia drives away. Slowly you lose all feeling from the neck down, except in your cock, which is where all the nerves in your body seem to have concentrated.
Eventually you come out of it, though, and check your texts. There's an invite from Mike for an afternoon movie at the complex, which surprises you. You text back to see what he and Carlos are doing that night. warehouse, he says.
How fortunate!
So at nine o'clock you sneak into the storage unit to check on your experiment. The fire is out again.
This time, it doesn't relight.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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