It’s the closing night party for the play, Dusty Melody. The walls are lined with LA theater types, their plus ones and the kind of actors whose faces you know but names you don’t. Blacktress is tangled within the crowd wearing a short red dress, sipping a dry red wine. But she’s more high from the successful run of the show than the libations. People are buzzing about eager to acknowledge her performance. A handsome man in his thirties taps her on the shoulder and immediately begins blowing smoke up her ass.
“I just wanted to say that you were absolutely wonderful. Won- der- ful. I saw the show twice.”
He leans in closer.
“And you were my favorite.”
“Thank you. It was a lot of fun.”
“So what’s up next for you?” He asks.