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Introduction:
I am intrigued with the history of early sound motion pictures, particularly the early “pre-code” period of Hollywood, when unbridled motion picture entertainment pushed many social, moral, and economic boundaries. This story is set in that time–early 1930’s Hollywood California. I suspect there are some errors in it, but even so, I hope it is entertaining (even if it is long, and tedious).
Call Me Lola
Wilmar Zimmermann stood by a large window in Sigmund E. Cummings’ private home office, peering through open venetian blinds, admiring several splendid automobiles sparkling in the late afternoon sunshine on the huge homes’ gritty driveway. A group of well-groomed, distinguished gentlemen gathered around the remarkable vehicles, and soon each of these strikingly handsome men had seated themselves behind the steering-wheel of one of the magnificent cars. One by one the machine’s powerful engines growled to life and with mighty roars the majestic automobiles raced down the long gravel driveway into the warm Southern California afternoon, leaving a trail of thin white dust swirling behind them.
“Wilmar…” he said aloud to himself, “one day you will own an automobile just as beautiful as any of those–I promise you.” Just then he was startled by a solid *thump* behind him.
Wheeling quickly, an electric chill ran down the length of Wilmar’s spine when he saw the legendary Lola Banks leaning against the office’s heavy wooden door, illuminated by hot slashes of radiant sunshine streaming through the room’s open window blinds.
“Missus Cummings!” Wilmar squealed in a sharp, excited high-pitched voice that made him wince with embarrassment.
“You must think I’m terribly wicked,” she said in a soft, sultry voice, a subtle *click* followed as she turned a lock and stepped away from the imposingly large, elaborately adorned mahogany door.
“Wicked? Why, no–not at all,” Wilmar replied gathering his composure, stepping away from the window into the room determined not to look star-struck–which, of course, he was.
“But I am wicked…” Lola replied fulsomely, “to call you here on such short notice on a beautiful Sunday afternoon”–she sauntered across the room, Wilmar’s pulse quickened as she approached, a queasy feeling twisted his guts–“I understand you had no objection to the non-disclosure agreement and your agent’s reviewing your contract now?” she asked, reaching the corner of a huge, elaborate mahogany desk in the middle of the richly ornate room.
“Ah, yes… uh… I mean no! Um…” Wilmar stammered. “I mean… I have no objections to the agreement…” he continued anxiously, “and yes, my contract’s being reviewed… and no, you are not wicked.”
Wilmar stood erect in alternating bands of shimmering warm and cool sunlight streaming into the room, doing his best to appear calm and confident. Lola’s thin, pale lips stretched into a narrow smile; Wilmar began to sweat nervously staring into her glaring, azure eyes.
Lola casually sat on a corner of the huge desk and opened a large silver box nearby, withdrew a cigarette from it, thumped one of its ends on the desk, then held it close to her face and waited. Wilmar gawked at her momentarily, not certain what to do, when his attention was suddenly caught by a pair of glittering wedding rings wrapped snugly around her finger, their prominent diamonds set in thick bands of gold sparkled in the brilliant sunshine. “Those rings,” he thought to himself in amazement, “undoubtedly cost far more than I’ve made in many years. One day though–one day I’ll buy jewelry just as fine.” He smiled bashfully admiring the dazzling rings.
“Oh!” Finally catching on Wilmar fumbled around the desk searching for something to light the cigarette, until at last he discovered a large silver rectangle he recognized as a Ronson touch tip lighter. Awkwardly groping the confounding device, he was eventually able to push a tall silver button, and with a solid *click*, withdrew a small flame flickering from the end of a short silver wand. She pinched the tightly packed end of the cigarette between her pallid lips while Wilmar’s trembling hand held the flaming wand to its loose, exposed end, setting it alight. She inhaled deeply and the burning tobacco glowed red. Nervously he returned the flaming wand to its place in the lighter–Lola laid her head back exhaled a plume of thin gray smoke into the room’s sun-streaked atmosphere.
“Smoke?” she asked offering him a cigarette from the box.
“Ah”–he shook his head–“I never took it up.”
“Just as well, I hear it’s not good for you… like everything else that’s fun you love to do,” she laughed, snapped the box shut, her bright blue eyes glinting in a hot slice of the afternoon sun. She took another drag from the cigarette, released more gray smoke into the room’s undulating haze, then picked something off the end of her tongue, flicked blackened ash from the smoldering end of the cigarette into an enormous crystal ash tray sitting on the desk.
“Speaking of things that are bad for you, bağcılar escort but you love to do anyway, how about a drink? I’ll get us a gin, you do like gin, don’t you?” He studied her as she strode toward a wet bar at the far side of the room. He had met her only once, very briefly, in her husband Sigmund’s studio office; this was the first time he’d had an opportunity to admire her so intimately.
Wilmar was surprised she was not taller–he’d always assumed he’d look straight into her eyes, not down into them; he’d never imagined himself being so much taller than her. Her hair was darker than he expected also–slicked-back into a tight bun at the back of her head; he’d always seen pictures of her with gentle curls of shimmering blond, shoulder length hair. Her face seemed thin and bland, cleaved into two equal halves by a long narrow nose which protruded disagreeably over a pair of thin pale lips. Little creases in the skin of her temples radiated from the corners of her slender oval eyes, and aged blemishes appeared as faint scars on her cheeks. He’d always imagined her face being soft and smooth, with high, blushing cheeks, bright-blue eyes and plump, juicy red lips.
She was wearing a large ivory colored shirt, its sleeves rolled up to her elbows; a narrow brown necktie hung loosely around her neck under an unbuttoned collar. Baggy brown trousers–at least a size too big–hung loosely at the end of plain brown suspenders which traced the curve of modest breasts. Simple, scruffy, flat, brown leather shoes completed her ensemble. Except for her hypnotic azure eyes, she bared little resemblance in the flesh to the tall, alluring, blond beauty in a shimmering satin evening gown Wilmar had always pictured her to be.
Lola approached him carrying a short, fat tumbler nearly full of ice and sparkling, clear liquid. She took a swig of the drink then handed it to Wilmar, watched him carefully as he held it up as if he were about to propose a toast, looked at her distorted image through the thick glass and its sparkling contents.
“Aren’t we all glad liquor is legal again–not that I ever let anything stop my drinking!” she laughed out loud, her dazzling blue eyes twinkling in long bands of golden light splashing across her face. Uncertain if he wanted to drink, but hoping to impress her, Wilmar hastily put the glass of bubbling liquid to his mouth and took a hearty slug.
A strong taste of juniper burned his throat and nostrils as he gulped down the harsh liquor. He choked back a cough just long enough to set the glass on the desk, hoping to draw her attention away from his sudden distress. Lola toked on the cigarette, then retrieved the tumbler from the desk and took another swig. Wilmar coughed, choked, wiped welling tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. Lola grinned–nearly laughing–in amusement at his embarrassing distress.
“I’ve been watching you mister Zimmermann,” she said grinning as Wilmar wheezed, cigarette smoke puffing from her mouth and jetting from her nostrils. “Oh, yes–watching you very closely–I think you know that.” she continued handing the large, squat tumbler back to him. Wilmar’s spirit soared with pride as she spoke despite his discomfort.
“I’m flattered missus Cumm–” he gasped trying to catch his breath.
“Lola–call me Lola…” she finally laughed gaily at his irritation, “we’re friends now, aren’t we?”
“Oh, ah… yes of course.”
She stepped close to him, staring up into his hard, hazel eyes, pressing her thin lips into a narrow smile. Wilmar gawked down at her stupidly, startled by her casualness and captivated by her glistening gaze.
Carelessly raising the glass to his mouth again, intending to take another slug of the drink to redeem himself. He tipped the glass and suddenly ice and gin tumbled into his face, splashing his nose, cheeks, and shirt with burning icy cold liquid. He jumped clumsily, instantly feeling like a fool. “Hardly a dashing suave and sophisticated gentleman!” Wilmar grumbled quietly to himself while swiping his face and shirt breast with his free hand. Lola laughed brashly in amusement at his awkwardness, which made him feel even more completely ridiculous. “Oh, damn!” he grumbled out loud.
“Not to worry,” Lola said stifling her laughter while swiping at the soaked shirt clinging to his chest. She picked up some ice cubes that had fallen to a beautiful Persian carpet on the floor, cradled them in her hand and abruptly changed the subject.
“We–Edgar and I–are taking a big risk with you, Wilmar… ah… William–you prefer William, right? We chose William Zimmer for a name, didn’t we?
“Ah, yes–“
May I call you Will?” she asked, smiling broadly. “We’re friends now, aren’t we?”
“Ah, yes of course.”
She snatched the heavy tumbler from his hand, returned to the wet bar to refresh the drink and got some towels while he wiped the gin soaked into his pale gray shirt.
“You’re a complete unknown now, Will, but Edgar and I… well–I… bahçelievler escort I believe there is real potential for you. I believe, with proper grooming of course, you could be special–quite desirable–very lucrative.”
“I’m extremely flattered missus Cumm … ah… Lola…” Wilmar replied in amazement, his hopes soaring with her confidence in him. “I’ve been working hard–very hard–and I’m certain I can handle anything, do whatever it takes; I’m ready to do anything you ask of me,” his heart pounded with enthusiastic pride as he imagined his life’s ambition being realized–all his dreams of fame and fortune within reach if Lola Banks wanted it. “I promise I won’t disappoint you,” he finally said with certainty as she returned from the wet bar carrying the towels and another drink.
“Yes… I know you’ll do whatever it takes, Will, I know you will work hard for me–very hard,” she said softly, gazing intently up at him. Handing him a towel she scrutinized him carefully as he used it to wipe the gin from his face, blotting his soaked shirt.
She drew more cigarette smoke into her lungs, exhaled it into the room’s undulating haze, flicked ash off the cigarette’s smoldering end into the enormous ashtray and set its remnants down to burn like incense in church. Wilmar suddenly felt uncomfortably self-conscious under her gaze–imagining her analyzing him as she might if he were in front of a motion picture camera–demanding perfection in his every movement, his every word, even in the cold wet shirt clinking to his chest. He took one more casual swipe at dribbles of liquid on his neck and dropped the towel next to the smoldering ashtray as calmly as his nervousness would allow, then gingerly retrieved the heavy tumbler from her slender fingers, held his breath, and carefully took a swig of the drink as if his mishap had been well rehearsed. The liquor burned in his throat, but he suppressed the irritation, so the alcohol seemed to go down like water.
“I’m willing to risk my reputation with you, Will,” Lola said bluntly stepping toward him, snatching the drink from him again, standing uncomfortably close, staring up into his hard, hazel eyes. “You wouldn’t tarnish my reputation, would you?” she asked probingly.
“Ah… NO… I could–I would… I’d NEVER do anything like that…” Wilmar stuttered in bewilderment.
“Will, we are going to be working closely with each other–intimately close–like lovers…” she pressed herself against him, wrapped her arms around his waist, held her head back to stare intently up at him, “are you ready for that?” Her voice was suddenly soft and sultry, “are you ready to be my lover, Will? Thousands, many thousands of people will be watching… believing in impossible love… our love, Will …” she squeezed her arms around him, turned her head and pressed her cheek close to his chest as if she were listening to his heartbeat. “Can you convince them we’re suffering lovers, Will? Can you BE the hopeless love they need you to be?”
Wilmar’s heart skipped a beat, suddenly nervous and unsure of himself, but desperately aiming to meet her expectations and demonstrate his devotion to her in the role he was to play in the great drama to come. Anxiously he stared blankly at vivid streaks of sunshine drawn across the dark, ornate wooden walls in the corner of the room to clear his mind, wrapped his arms around her, rested his cheek on the dark hair at the crown of her head in an embrace as passionate as his reverent admiration for her would allow.
“Will,” she said softly.
“Yes, Lola?”
“We need to get you out of this wet shirt,” she grumbled.
“Oh … yes of course.”
Lola eagerly unbuttoned Wilmar’s shirt until it lay open, exposing his lean, well-defined abdomen and muscular hirsute chest. Combing her fingers through the wiry hair covering his brawny upper body, she slipped her hands around his broad shoulders and slid the shirt from his bronzed torso so that it hung loosely around the back side of his trousers.
“There–that’s much better, isn’t it?” she said breathlessly, brusquely caressing his well-tanned, hairy, naked chest with the palms of her open hands, ogling his dusky chiseled face, staring into his hard eyes.
Wilmar felt obscenely exposed standing half naked in the hot slashes of afternoon sunlight streaming through the room’s acrid haze. He gazed uneasily into Lola’s pale face and bright blue eyes, anxious to find approval in her expression, but entirely uncertain he was going to be able to perform the part she undoubtedly expected him to play in this afternoon’s scene.
“Will,” she said looking up at him diminutively.
“Yes, Lola?”
“Kiss me.” She let her hands rest on his shoulders and razed herself to the balls of her feet to meet his lips–“kiss me Will,” she said expectantly.
“Um… W–what… ah… what about your S–Sigmund… husband Sigmund?” he mumbled softly, gulping air, his breath coming in short, stuttered bursts. “Should we–“
“Edgar–his şirinevler escort friends call him Edgar… we’re friends now, aren’t we?” she said patiently.
“Oh … yes of course.”
“Will… do you believe there are things more important than love in marriage?” she continued dramatically, “and things more important than marriage in love?” she pressed herself close to him again, staring dreamily up into his dusky face, “Do you agree, Will?”
Stupefied, Wilmar swallowed hard, gawked at her idiotically, his heart thumping wildly as he imagined his performance with her in this moment could jeopardize his every dream–make or break his entire career–set him on the road to stardom or leave him humiliated in a ditch.
“Will… you and I could be nothing more than colleagues,” she said flatly, “working together like accountants in the finance office. We could greet one another in the morning over coffee, work the day away, then go home in the evening tired and alone,” she looked up at him tenderly. “But even accountants have love affairs,” she went on, “Will, isn’t life more than the sum of our successes? Isn’t life just as much about the lust for living as it is IN living? Without a passion for life what is success? You and I will be successful, unimaginably successful–Edgar will see to that–but what will that success be except for a desire to live passionately? Wilmar, I want to live like a passionate accountant… do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Ah… yes… I think I do, Lola,” he replied gulping air nervously.
Wilmar paused, stared again blankly at the far corner of the room to clear his mind, took a deep stuttered breath and in an instant wrapped his muscular arms around her slender body, squeezed her tight and lifted her nearly off the floor to press his puckered lips to hers, thrust his stiff, rough tongue into her fetid, slimy wet mouth. Lola held on to him senselessly, her feet dangling nearly useless at the ends of her legs while Wilmar’s tongue groped the sharp, slick, rough, interior of her gaping mouth. Then, slowly he lowered her to the floor, affectionately embraced her, ignoring the rancid taste of her slimy mouth.
They stood holding each other for a moment, showered in streams of warm sunlight pouring into the hazy room through the window’s slender blinds.
Lola suddenly pushed Wilmer away until she’d pinned him against the huge desk in the middle of the room, her expression unexpectedly changed. Blushing fiercely, she ogled him in a way Wilmar had never experienced with anyone before–he saw lust in her glaring azure eyes that made his heart jump, his pulse quicken, his breath shudder. Coming close to him sitting on the edge of the desk, she cradled his strong, chiseled jaw in her hands, closed her eyes, opened her mouth and thrust her stiff tongue deep into his mouth. Wilmar gasped in bewildered astonishment at the sudden change in her; it was unlike anything he’d ever experienced with a woman before.
Frantically she pressed her fusty, sloppy-wet mouth against his mouth, seized the back of his head with one hand, abruptly descended his naked body to clasp the nascent bulge in his trousers with the other, then gasping for breath, she withdrew her slimy, raw mouth from his, desperately tugged at the buttons holding his trousers together until the fly holding his manhood captive folded open.
Wilmar was absolutely stunned. He stared unbelievingly at the woman he had always imaged to be the embodiment of grace and elegance lasciviously lunging at him like an old moving picture producer lunging at a pretty, young actress. It seemed impossible, but maybe true, Lola was in fact terribly wicked!
She dropped to her knees on the soft Persian carpet in front of him, eagerly tugging at the open fly of his trousers until she had freed his burgeoning masculinity from its under pants. Wilmar groaned in anguish as she lifted his long, thick, nearly flaccid reproductive appendage out of its confinement into the bright slashes of sunlight cutting across his naked body.
“Oh, Lola, please!” he grunted taking hold of her arm to stop her toying with him.
“Oh, Will, I will!” she replied enthusiastically.
“No, Lola, you don’t understand, I–“
“Oh, yes, I do understand, I’ve told you I’d been watching you, watching you very closely–I know everything Will!”
Lola stood up in front of him in the surging sunshine, Wilmar’s hazel eyes staring wildly as she raised herself off the floor, his mouth gaping in blatant shock. Casually she slipped her thumbs under the suspenders holding up the baggy brown trousers hanging loosely around her waist and slid them off her slender shoulders; the trousers fell to the floor around her feet, revealing thin, pale white legs and boney knees. She fixed her narrow, blazing blue eyes on him and slowly unbuttoned the shirt covering her slender torso, yanked it off to fall to the floor next to the trousers, leaving the thin brown tie hanging loosely around her neck. Then she unceremoniously raised her arms, blatantly revealing her unshaved armpits, and peeled off a grungy white tank-top undershirt, exposing her modest breasts to the slashing white light, the little brown neck tie pointed down to the dingy white knickers covering her most intimate anatomy. She paused when her dainty fingers took hold of the delicate strings holding the undergarment in place around her waist.