If you want to find out more about the steamy, salacious sex in 'Too Old to be a Hooker…Too Young to be a Madam' for your beach read, you'll have to buy my novel. These are just snippets to entice you! Elissa Eaton

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHRISTOPHER
PART ONE

He sizes women up with a glance, with sexual classifications, crude images flashing into his mind and determining the way he smiles at them.
Tennessee Williams


It was a time in my life when my greatest passion and obsession was the theatre. I was a struggling, broke, resident playwright at Theater 40 in Beverly Hills and Group Repertory in the San Fernando Valley, having productions of my plays produced all over the country. It was the most inspirational, exciting chapter of my life.
I thrived on the process and the standing ovations. Even hosting openings and sweeping the stage with my peers from the repertory groups was a labor of love.
One night after one of my productions, at a cast party held in the green room, I met Christopher, a flamboyant sculptor, playwright/actor, artistic director. After having too many bubbles, I ended up at his loft located in the heart of the theatre district in Hollywood.
As the night unfolded I was so drunk that his chauffeur drove me home early the next morning. Chelsea and Yolanda had dropped by for breakfast at my house in the canyon. As we were drinking coffee, chatting and munching on Zen Bakery Blueberry Raspberry muffins, the voice of Christopher came piping out of my answering service. A baroque concerto was playing in the background.
“I painted the most erotic water color that has ever been done on a woman with my tool. It's the best of all my masterpieces. You're unbelievable, simply exquisite. I named it ‘Whore’. I want to share it with you tonight,” he rambled on. “I love your Mound of Venus. I'd like to romp through your strawberry fields forever with my long brush strokes, my love.”
Suddenly he started playing choir music, then we heard a loud crash.
“Oh darling, I just tripped over my fifteen thousand dollar drum from Istanbul,” he slurred.
“Who is that whack?” Chelsea asked.
“He's an avant-garde artist, a bit bizarre.”
“Pick up, love. My French chef is cooking couscous for supper. Chow, chow, love.”
“Oh dear, I wonder what he meant by ‘he loved my Mound of Venus’? Do you think I slept with him last night?”
“Don't get your knickers in a twist. You probably didn't shag him or he wouldn't be so enamored with you and ringing you up before noon, you couscous,” Chelsea laughed.
“You got that down right,” Yolanda said.
“Well this playboy is way over the top. He's 50, a little older than what I usually go for, but he might produce my plays. He owns the block on Santa Monica Blvd and Highland.”


CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHRISTOPHER
PART TWO

So it happened. It had been lost, all dignity, and now she was frantically digging a hand kerchief and a compact out of her bag while her breath came in sobs.
Tennessee Williams


The doorbell rang loudly. On a blue sky sunday, I opened the door escorting Christopher into my house.
“Hello, love,” he said kissing my hand, holding a bouquet of Sterling Silver roses and an opened bottle of vintage Rothschild in the other hand. “Here put these in water before they wilt.”
I put the delicate bouquet in a crystal vase handing him two glasses.
“I've missed you,” he said pouring the ruby red wine, offering me a glass.
“Last night was all sort of a blur. Did you ravage me?” I asked. “I vaguely remember your driver taking me home.”
“I wouldn't doubt it, I had to carry you to the car. Let's take a drive out to my beach house in Santa Barbara and I'll refresh your memory, darlin'. Don't forget your overnight bag.”
I slid into the plush cream colored limo. We hardly spoke as the driver wound down the scenic coastline. Christopher put a glass of champagne in my hand, sipping on his Martini. His ash brown hair tipped with gray and pasty white skin paled in the moonlight. I was feeling on edge. The not knowing, daring to ask more. This smooth operator came with a well stocked bar and condoms I hoped.

We pulled into the terra-cotta bricked driveway as the black wrought iron gate swung open.
“Welcome to my dynasty,” he said taking my arm, helping me out of the car. “I hope you like my palatial digs.”
“Sure, this is really cool,” I answered.
In Laurel Canyon, I didn't have the ocean and a chauffeur, I thought.
“Tonight we'll take a midnight swim and walk on the beach. The water's luke warm,” he said nonchalantly.
“Oh Christopher, I'm passionate about the ocean,” I smiled self consciously.
“Sugar, I'm delighted, this Indian Summer reminds me of those warm southern nights. It was like poetry lounging on the veranda, drinking mint juleps. The fireflies swarming in the swamps.”


Christopher was becoming drunk and maudlin as we perched in the trellised gazebo, mirrored by the ocean. The sky darkened as a silver moon shone on rippling waves. It was a splendid star-studded night. I breathed in the salty sea as I felt soft breezes caress my skin. Rolling hills capped the landscape like a plush green blanket framed by majestic oak trees. The butler appeared with a bottle of the Dom and a pitcher with floating green olives.
“The champagne is for you, April. I'm having martinis. My family tree was soaked in gin. I'm a decadent dilettante. I hope I'm not too eccentric for you. I own thoroughbred horses and play polo while playing with life. I have enough money to buy your world, April.” He bragged.
This setting was the perfect backdrop for romance. I started fantasizing about Antonio, the lonely lost looking Latin I'd just met with the amazing body. My thoughts were interrupted by the butler's presence and my ardent admirer bearing a halfhearted cold smile across his lips, speaking in a whiny Southern drawl.
“I put my money where my Maseratis are. Now let's talk about you,” he said.
I'll bet he's always too drunk to drive. Those poor pedestrians. This man overrates his own magnetism by the status of his sports cars as a symbol of his sexuality.

Christopher lacked the soul of the South, having been swept away in the whirlwind of Hollywood. Sade's ‘Smooth Operator’ came blaring through swaying trees. Every time I hear that song I think of him and that ethereal landscape of seascaped paradise.
I looked out at a rock blending in with the whimsical purple sunset. The whales were frolicking. The silence between us was only broken by a birdsong, an occasional wave and the pounding of the surf. Then Christopher looked at me pensively.
“Dear, the moment I first saw you I knew we'd be great together. I fell madly in love with you,” he said swirling the olive around with a glass swizzle stick, reaching for my hand.

After a lavish gourmet dinner in the gazebo, Christopher convinced me to spend the night at his guest cottage. Later that night, there was a knock on the door. He staggered into my bedroom before I could even open it, wearing a bathrobe, holding a half finished martini in one hand, a bottle of brandy and more bittersweet chocolates on a tray with the other.
“You were magnificent. A wild animal. Shaking your long strawberry blonde hair all over my body,” he said handing me a crystal decanter of Remy Martin Extra cognac. “It's four hundred dollars a bottle,” he bragged.
“I'm glad it was good for you. I can't remember!” I said taking a sip from the brandy snifter. I knew I shouldn't have spent the night here! This was very awkward.
“I can't believe you don't remember. You're the most passionate woman I've ever been with and you were very much awake. I hope you're not embarrassed being so aggressive. I can make love to you and still be your friend, love.” he said slurring his words.
I was so overwhelmed and speechless, clad in my sheer black nightgown and slippers. I slipped into my terrycloth robe. “Let’s take it slow,” I pleaded, trying to change the subject.

“You're turning on me. You've made yourself responsible for my sexual pleasures,” he said grabbing me. “Let me see your mound of Venus. Please let me see your mound of Venus,” he pleaded redundantly, starting to remove his bathrobe, moving in closer.
“No, I'm a victim of amnesia, and you expect me to feel responsible," I said angrily pushing him away.

“Come play with your warrior. You're very sexual, so am I. I wasn't like this before you, my girlfriend's a lesbian, and I've kept it all repressed so I can't minimize the moment as easily as you can.”
“Can't we talk about this tomorrow?” I pleaded.
“No woman has ever walked away after making love to me before!” he shouted.

“Put your robe on. You're making me angry.” He just didn't get it, his ego was so inflated.
“Just think of all the sensual kinetic energy yet to come. Are you afraid of my little mindless creature? You're supposed to be a woman of the world. I feel like a wounded warrior.”

This lunatic was a tormented artist. I needed his help, but it wasn’t worth the drama. “Some Southern gentleman. You're drunk. Leave me alone. You're as redundant as a Pinter Play on a slow opening night.”
Christopher slapped me across the face. I spit at him, clawing his chest as he dragged me in front of a mirror, shaking me sliding his clammy fingers up and down my breasts. My flesh cringed at his touch.

“Let go of me. You've threaded yourself into every actress and playwright in Hollywood,” I screamed as he threw me down on the chaise lounge.

‘Too Old to be a Hooker...Too Young to be a Madam’ is available at the following
Los Angeles Bookstores:
Barnes & Noble The Grove, Barnes & Noble Third Street Promenade, Barnes & Noble Bookstar Studio City, Book Soup, Skylight Books, Vroman’s, The Canyon Country Store, amazon.com, Kindle and other online retailers.