I never saw Becca again after those few lovely days, even when we were both in the USA. I can’t explain why but our paths simply never crossed. I often thought about her, of course, and we did call each other a few times but my work and hers seemed to conspire to prevent us.

I signed the contract with Michael Gordon and my life seemed to change with the drying of the ink. I may not have been quite A-List but I was definitely up there and all of a sudden I had an entourage: a secretary, a driver and limo, my own hairdresser (when needed) and so on.

Felicity Caterham, Flick, my agent and her sister, my oldest friend Lilly and Flick’s number one right-hand woman, Hattie, decided I needed some moral support. Over drinks, in Flick’s sumptuous office I sat with the three of them and it might have been the old days. I was in jeans and a sloppy shirt, legs curled up on the long sofa while Hattie poured the whisky and Flick and Lilly consoled me.

Why, I hear you ask, was consolation needed? I was scared. No, actually, I was absolutely terrified.

“Why can’t I go back to Grimethorpe Rep?” I asked plaintively, referring to one of the worst jobs Flick had ever got me.

A draughty rehearsal room which doubled as a scout hut and a theatre that had lost any splendour the Victorians might have given it. Lights that sometimes worked, a curtain with moth holes and one dressing room for all the cast. Add to that the worst set of lodgings I’d ever had because the widow Boycott, landlady, was mean, had a nasty dog and occasional hot water. She was also inclined to take a nip from my cached bottle of Scotch when I was out working.

“We know it’s all daunting, darling,” said Flick, “but you’ve made it so stop whingeing.” That was Flick’s idea of providing moral support.

Hattie almost shushed her. She put her arm around my shoulders and for once my libido lacked the power to make some quick innuendo. “You’ll get used to it and we’ll look after you. You’re going to be loaded and have a ball and women will hurl themselves at you.”

“I don’t want women to hurl themselves at me. I want to be left alone. I’m Faye Millerton, not fucking Elizabeth Taylor.”

“Not that you’d have minded fucking Liz Taylor,” said Lilly unhelpfully.

“Fuck's sake. You get the big break and start blubbing like an infant.” That was Flick. Such a loss to the caring community!

Hattie re-filled my glass and handed it to me. Now that helped.

“Look, I’m not being ungrateful, I know how hard you’ve worked for this, for me. I’m just finding it all so, well, so intrusive; like my life’s been taken away and I’ve been given someone else’s.”

“We know,” said Hattie. “But we’ll look after you.”

“How can you look after me in America?”

“Because,” said Flick with an exasperated sigh, “Hattie’s going to be there. We’ve already rented an office and a skeleton staff. Hat’s done her apprenticeship with me and she’s going to manage our LA office.” I was dumbfounded. “If you thought I was going to let you loose on America without someone to keep you on the straight and narrow you’re thicker than I thought.”

Over the ensuing days and weeks, I sort of got used to it and had, now and then, to pinch myself that is was all real. First class travel, first-class hotels and rubbing shoulders with real celebs? Me? Faye Millerton the girl who played a tea bag in an advert? But the reality soon became the norm and I became acclimatised if not entirely sure it was not a dream.

Reading back over my chronicles reported to you in my earlier chapters I am conscious that my life must have seemed a long string of sexual encounters but it really wasn’t. I guess I have simply given you highlights. My life was not a porn film. Stardom, of a sort, did, however, mean that if I wanted anything, almost anything the production company would supply it.

I was offered drugs, no thanks, men, no thanks. At Hollywood parties, there was every kind of indulgence and temptation but somehow I didn’t succumb. I worked hard and learned lines, followed Michael Gordon’s direction and the film continued to make progress.

One evening several weeks into the schedule and after we had shot a scene in which I, dressed like a classy lawyer in a dark blue skirt suit with a white blouse beneath the jacket, had strangled a member of the US Secret Service, played by an athletic young guy who had realised early on that flirting me cut no ice and who became a good mate instead. We’d gone to the studio bar for a drink and Michael Gordon had joined us. He looked horrible but in truth, I had grown to like him. He was very particular and demanding but always kindly and helpful.

“You’re doing great, Faye. I tell you now, this is going to be huge.”

‘It’ was called ‘Trade Secrets’ and I was a Russian spy and anti-hero. “The public are going to sympathise with you, like your character, understand why you do what you do. I watched the rushes and that scene you and Jamie did today is good, really good.” He hefted a large cut glass of scotch to his mean mouth. “We’re going to work again, you and me when this is all over. I’ve told Felicity. She wants to speak to you this evening.

Later, in my hotel suite, I stripped off and wandered about naked, holding a glass of wine. My phone warbled and it was Flick.

“You’re obviously not as dim as I thought.”

Thanks, Flick.

“Gordon’s ok, isn’t he?”

“Actually, for an odious creep, he is, yes.”

“Don’t bite the hand that feeds. Hattie’s taking you out for dinner tomorrow so you can stand down all your entourage and, for god’s sake wear something respectable. Actually, I’m rather proud of you.”

Hattie came to the hotel and my limo took us to one of the most famous restaurants in the world. Hat was wearing beautifully cut trousers, flats and a linen blouse that didn’t show off her fabulous chest. I’d chosen a little black dress and she said I’d chosen wisely. She even took a pic and sent it to Flick whose reply was, “Thank Christ! Stay sober and don’t try to bed the waitresses!”

“On that note,” said Hattie, “you’ve been rather celibate since you got here.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Oh?”
 

“I’ve been totally celibate.”

“By choice?”

“When have I had a moment to go and pull? Where would I go without being followed by my carers? How could I not end up on the front pages?”

“Darling,” she said, “there are dozens of gay actors and they all manage.”

“Well, I haven’t. Have you?”

“Mind your own business but yes, actually, I have. But that’s not the point.” Our starters arrived; yummy. “The point is I have been making enquiries.”

“Escort services for the imprisoned film star?”

“No, halfwit. I’ve been speaking to a friend. Her name is Eleanor Krantz.”

“The Eleanor Krantz?” A famous gay actress and television presenter, Krantz was about thirty years older than I and one of the first to ‘come out.’ “She’s a friend?”

“She is and she wants to meet you.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, she wants you to appear on her chat show and for another she knows what you’re going through and thinks she can help.”

“She’s about seventy! Hardly my type.”

“Not help like that, you ass. She knows what you’re going through. She’s a joy and she’ll love you and vice versa. And she’s sixty actually. I want you to do her show. I’ve cleared it with the production company and they’re letting us have a note of what you can and cannot say.”

“See? I might as well wear a gag or have a ventriloquist’s hand up my bum.”

“It’s not like that. It’s simply to avoid fucking up the publicity for ‘Trade Secrets.’ Behave.”

“OK. I’ll do the bloody show. Tell me what to wear.”

“Oh, I will. You’re a star and you have to look like one.”

*

At that time I was thirty-five, so not the sort of actress who wears high-rise skirts and flashes legs and tits even if I had any worth the name. I met Krantz for the first time in the bar of one of the exclusive hotels that abound in Hollywood. I wore a pale blue dress which had seemed incredibly expensive when I’d bought it but didn’t feel so when surrounded by people wearing ten thousand dollar frocks. Krantz (‘call me Ellie”) was delightful. She wore jeans and a tee and looked great. Her short hair was golden and looked real. Her eyes were as blue as the ocean.

“Welcome to the big time, Faye.” I smiled and shook her hand. “You’re doing great. Morgan says so and so do I. I’m glad you’re going to come on my show.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

She ran through how she thought it would work and I listened and absorbed it all. It was something entirely new to me and she appreciated that. “I won't be hostile, it’s not that sort of show. Do you want to talk about being gay?”

“What’s your advice?”

She smiled. “It’s already out there and being open is always best. I heard your radio interview after your adventure with the German girl and I thought you handled it beautifully.”

“Thanks, she was American!”

Why do I bother?

“Right – handsome too.”

“Oh, yes.”

Business over we got down to the other business of becoming friends which she seemed to want. “You’ll need to be discreet. The media are wolves here and love to titillate their readers and viewers with salacious gossip. But, of course, we all have our needs and desires. I can help.” I looked at her quizzically. “Oh,” she laughed, “I didn’t mean that. I meant I can introduce you to a couple of places where the journos can't get in and women like us can let our hair down a bit. My wife and I often go out to these clubs and bars. We’re not looking but we can be easy in them.”
 

“I’d like that. Perhaps after I’ve done your show we might fix a date?”

“Clever girl. Don’t let me too close until you know I can be trusted. We’re going to get along.”

And we did. The show was comfortable and she proved a kindly, sensitive interviewer. The ratings were good and Hattie said I’d done well so did Morgan. Flick said, “Well, you didn’t make too much of a tit of yourself.” High praise indeed.

Ellie Krantz and her wife Norma took me out a week after the Saturday of the show. They were almost the epitome of the public’s stereotypical view of a gay couple; Krantz the butch, Norma the femme, but they were witty funny and I had a ball.

We visited two bars and a fabulous dining club with a cabaret featuring a couple of gay standups. Ellie had told me that if I met anyone I liked I should be frank, and tell her.

“The community here likes openness. If you want to fuck, say so. If she’s available, she’ll tell you. Don’t be shocked if some dyke says ‘Wanna fuck,’ to you either.”

“Such eloquence.”
 

“It saves time, girl.”

I confess that evening out set my mind to thinking about sex which, for a while and unusually for me, I hadn’t. I saw some hot women and decided I’d go back to one of the bars where I’d seen several and hang out, see what happened. Before I did, however, Ellie and Norma invited me to their house for dinner. It was a small gathering by their standards of about twenty people, mostly women.

Dinner was a buffet in the garden, sumptuous and beautifully presented. I’d worn a pale yellow and blue silk-mix dress that I liked a lot with strappy sandals with low heels. Norma looked glamorous in a floaty number and Ellie was slightly softer butch than she’d been when we went out together. They both looked great. It was fun and there was music – a live string quartet – and booze aplenty. I stuck to champagne. ‘I’m a star,’ I thought, ‘might as well drink like one.’

A tall, slender African American woman touched my arm as I walked past her. Her long dress was a mix of greens and golds, high necked and a discreet slit to the knee from the hem. It did nothing to hide a chest that was high and proud or her rather lovely, shapely arse. Her hair was cut short, tight to her skull and her cheeks were well defined. She was a vision.

“I saw you on the Krantz show. Just wanted to say how much I enjoyed it.”

“Thank you so much.”

“I’m Charlie, Charlie Staddon. I’m a casting director.” I shook her hand.

We chatted for a while, discussing my new life in Hollywood (at least for the time being) and how I was adjusting to living there. I told her that Ellie and Norma were being kind.

“Yeah, they do kind.” She smiled. “They are the gay fairy godmothers. They love hooking people up. After what Ellie went through in her early days she’s on a mission to make life easier for the likes of us.”

She told me about the vilification Ellie had suffered, almost losing her career when she’d come out. How she’d fought like a lion and, it seemed, won.

As we were speaking, Ellie arrived alongside me. “So, you’ve met Charlie. Don’t be taken in by her dress, she’s as butch as me, maybe more so.” They kissed. “Charlie is a doll. I have to watch her when Norma’s around. Norma thinks she’s gorgeous.” It was all said kindly and humorously.

“You keep your reins tight on that girl, Ellie,” said Charlie. “One chance and I’m going to steal her away.” Norma arrived then and the banter continued, some gentle flirting going on too. Our hosts wandered off and Charlie led me to the bar and refilled our glasses.

“So, why the dress tonight?”

“Because I felt like it. I’m a woman, I can wear what I like and tonight I like this.”

“So do I.”

“You wouldn’t prefer me in leather pants and a wife beater?”

“Leather pants I like. Never been keen on the wife beater.”

“Nor me. How about we have a drink one night?”

A few nights later we met at a bar called “Terri’s,” one of those I had visited with Ellie and Norma. Charlie had selected leather pants, dark blue, with a pale blue silk shirt. She looked scrummy. I’d gone for ‘inviting,’ which made me think of Becca as I’d dressed in the bedroom of my new apartment. Not the dress I’d worn that evening in Berlin but something not too dissimilar. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit,’ I’d thought.

“Cocktails,” she said and I agreed. Two Manhattans later and we were sitting at a small table, knees touching, fingertips touching on the table.

“You know what, Faye? I feel like an early night tonight.”

“It’s 1 am.”

“That’s early.”

My limo arrived at the door as we stepped out into the night. I checked for photographers but just as Ellie had promised, there were none. We settled in the back and she gave my driver her address. The drive took about five minutes. During that time she’d chatted away, her hand resting unselfconsciously on my thigh. I told my driver that I’d call her in the morning. She was, apparently, ex-military and was a driver-cum-bodyguard. Don’t get excited. She was straight.

Charlie’s single-storey house was set in a gated community and was one of four houses. It was large with an impressive entrance hall, tiled floors and sumptuous rugs. She led me through to her bedroom and I realised this wasn’t going to be a romantic encounter, this was about sex, pure and simple. That worked for me!

Charlie kissed me hard on the mouth, one arm behind my head, the other on my hip. I made it clear that her kiss was welcome and allowed myself to cup one large breast through her shirt and bra. I almost had to stand on tiptoe for the kiss and the hand on my hip moved round to hold me up by my buttock underneath my skirt. Charlie was hard, strong and when the shirt and bra came off with a certain urgency, the body revealed was toned, flat stomach, strong arms. We had stepped apart for her to take those items off and I watched, salivating.

“Undo my pants.”

I popped the button and pulled the zip down and was rewarded with a view of tight, curly hair (no knickers for this girl) trimmed into a neat triangle. While I was wrestling with the leather trousers I kissed each exposed nipple and enjoyed the sensation of her fingers in my hair, holding me to her. I squatted to help the trousers down and when her long legs were finally revealed I licked up each thigh, Charlie’s fingers still lightly gripping my hair. She gasped a little when my tongue found her and she opened her legs a little wider so, arching my neck, I could make firmer contact with her. She tasted musky, sweet and was very, very wet. That always turns me on. I was lifted up to stand in front of her.

“Lose the dress.”

Charlie was totally in control, firm but not aggressive. She had, I think, read me and was being herself, knowing I loved it. I lost the dress. My tits, braless, seemed to interest her because once exposed they were subjected to a detailed analysis by her lips and tongue while her hands roamed freely over my back and arse.

She lifted me effortlessly and laid me on the bed and, standing beside it she pulled my knickers down so I was totally naked as was she and she mounted me, kneeling between my spread legs and letting her breasts press on mine as once more her tongue ravished my mouth. I felt her mound pressing against mine, rubbing, her coarse her against my softer, downier fur.

Then she moved so that our cunts were touching and we were sitting, arm's length and tribbing, grinding, panting and almost cumming. She wasn’t having that though and I was flipped onto my back, my hips lifted and her tongue licked between my buttocks, my arse hole, perineum and cunt until I was gripping the sheets and moaning, almost yelling.

She straddled my face and we sixty-nined, tongues and fingers doing all they could for the pleasure of each other. She came first, suddenly lifting her head, her neck bent and let out a scream of pure animal pleasure that made me want to keep licking, sucking, probing until she was spent. As she subsided so my orgasm flooded and, generous lover that she was, she revived herself enough to tongue me through it, one slippery finger suddenly in my arse as if she’d read my manual!

I writhed, bellowed, squirmed and flooded as the climax overwhelmed me.

We lay side by side, sweaty and exhausted but lips touching, hands holding until we had both recovered.

“Fuck, Faye, that was good.”

“It was ok.”
 

Her eyes opened wide. “Ok? You’ll pay for that girl.”

Good-oh.