There is a knock on the door.
“Pizza Delivery.” The deep, muffled voice rouses the young woman, sitting on the edge of a large, tightly made bed. She is a bottle blonde with slender calves and a tasteful D cup. She might have just stepped from the bath, though her hair is wrapped carefully on top of her head in a loose knot and her mascara is perfect. The robe that she wears is sheer and purple, revealing a black bra and panties.
The door is unlocked and she has no trouble swinging it open to reveal a tall man wearing khaki shorts, a baseball cap and a windbreaker, all three articles emblazoned with a fat slice of pepperoni pizza. He is, inexplicably, barefoot. “You ordered an extra large, extra sausage?”
The blonde titters and lets her manicured hand rest on the top of the box the deliveryman is holding. “Thank God you’re here—I’m starving,” she says, bending her knees and bobbing in emphasis. There is a no exchange of money. There are no paper plates or packets of red pepper flakes. The blonde lifts the lid of the pizza box and pulls out a slice, dripping with melted cheese and fat chunks of onion.
But aren’t we thinking of her breath now? How sexy is cheese dribbling down even the most perfect of chins? Perhaps for college students. Food fetishists?
The deliveryman hands the woman a huge bouquet of red roses.
Too obvious.
The deliveryman hands the woman crystal vase filled with yellow roses. “You must not be short on secret admirers,” he says as she turns to place the vase on the table next to the bed. He steps into the room and closes the door, causing the woman to turn sharply, her dark veil of hair sent spinning around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry, did you need something else?” she asks, one hand perched professionally on her towel-swathed hip.
“I thought you might like some company—special occasion?” He points to the flowers.
“They are from my boyfriend,” she says, pulling one of the long stems out of the bunch and brushing the yellow petals along her top lip. “It’s our anniversary.”
“Lucky man,” he says, stepping toward the bed to take the flower from the dark-haired woman. “You must be busy getting ready for him.”
This is taking too long.
The deliveryman glances around the room, noticing the redhead’s flight attendant uniform hanging over the closet door and a dainty piece of rolling luggage next to the bed. As he moves to hand her the vase of white roses, he pretends to slip and pours water down the front of his pants. “Oh god, what an idiot,” he says.
The water has made a suggestive stain from his navel to the bottom hem of his khaki shorts. “Better takes those wet things off,” the woman says, artfully pulling a pencil out of her loose chignon and whipping her head from side to side. She kneels in front of him, pulling the shorts down his broad thighs, revealing his cock: pink and perky.
Is the cock really what we want to see here? Let’s face it, this guy is unremarkable in looks, the cock, average to above average in size, as silken as a well worn glove. Even the erection is underwhelming. We’ve seen this before.
The redhead slowly unbuttons the blonde’s jean skirt as she feigns distress. “My boss is gonna kill me,” she says, not seeming to notice that she is now standing in only her pink dotted panties. “Oh who cares, I hate this job. Do you know how many perverts send flowers to themselves just so they can stare at my ass?” The question goes unanswered. The blonde has now noticed that the redhead’s apple green dressing robe has slipped to the floor. She is now busy unbuttoning the blonde’s blouse, pushing it off her shoulders. “Oh,” the blonde says, her pink mouth delicate and glossed.
Two gorgeous women: the experienced sexpot seduces the frilly ingénue, who forgets to take of her striped socks before she is spread eagle on that bed, the red head between her legs. I’m bored.
“Are you ready?” A slight, brown-haired woman stares into the camera for a moment before turning toward another woman, also brunette, sitting on the edge of a futon. They smile at each other, laugh softly, a little nervously, and slide closer together, their thighs bare against the paisley print of the futon cover. There is no music played over this clip, and we can hear a fan somewhere in the room, oscillating. They spend a few minutes smoothing the skin on the tops of their hands, collar bones, brushing their messy, fashionable haircuts out of each other's eyes. They are similar in looks—delicate but sensibly beautiful, both wearing bikini cut underwear in solid colors and white undershirts. They are unfettered by socks or plot lines.
When they kiss, someone off camera begins to deliver quiet direction to the women, which they slowly, artfully incorporate into the scene. The voice is low and sexless, but not disinterested.
“The sun is shining,” it says. “And you have no place to be.”
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