Sally Wilson's First Real Job

Author's note: Nothing you are about to read in this story is true, despite the author's best attempt to make you believe otherwise.

I am writing this in the year 2025. My name is Courtney. Two weeks ago my mother died unexpectedly. She was only 65. I am an only child, as was she, and my father, her husband preceded her in death by eight years. I have no surviving grandparents, aunts, uncles, or cousins. My own daughter, just 9 years old, is now the last in the family line, and much too young for the story I'm about to share.

My parents were semi-royalty in our home town of Van Meter, Iowa. Dad, Harold Backman, DDS, was the town's least feared dentist. My mom, Sally Backman, née Sally Wilson, was the longtime matron of the public library. I struggled to eulogize her at the funeral, and most others in attendance shared recollections skewed more toward politeness than anything that really spoke to her character.

I anticipated my lack of knowledge of her past (she never was the type to overshare), which is why, nearly a year earlier, I had gifted her with Storyworth. This is an online service that prompted her with questions, such as recollections about her parents, her childhood friends, hobbies she had growing up, etc., collected her responses, and compiled them in a book format. I thought that this might interest her, as I recalled past mentions about her being something of a writer, and her house was always filled with literature and poetry books. But as far as I could tell, she hadn't responded to a single prompt since the gift was given.

A week after her funeral, I met with her lawyer. We went through her estate and finances and all the surprises therein. Per the instructions in her will, he gave me her laptop computer and password. That night before I went to sleep, I logged in. Her desktop was almost entirely blank, except for a folder named "all my past life." In that folder was one text file. I've copied the content of that file below, without edit.

Now the good people at Storyworth want to know about my first job. I ignored their previous requests that I share my favorite childhood activities, or my experience in school growing up, or a memory about a fun family vacation. Several emails since then went unread, their story prompts remaining an unwanted nuisance. I had heard of this service before my daughter foisted it upon me, assuming it to be more hagiography for the Boomer generation; no thank you! In time my thoughts softened; perhaps my child wanted to learn more about me, regretted that we weren't as close as we could be. She was a mother now, too, and I'm sure this forced her to reflect on her own past.

So I've made the decision to respond to this prompt - "Tell us about your first real job." Certainly a better story than my favorite childhood activities, which were limited to bike rides to my local library, watching old movies on one of the three tv channels we picked up, and general self exploration. And as this will likely be all that Storyworth gets from me, I'll do my best to flesh out any relevant tangents that may arise.

I grew up in the same town in which I currently reside, Van Meter, Iowa, but the Iowa farm life never held much interest for me. Upon graduation from high school, in 1978, I enrolled at the University of Iowa, in their creative writing program.

It was at that same time that I made the decision to abandon the name Sally. It seemed a name for dolls who wet themselves. Sammy seemed a better fit and made for an easy transition, so that is what I was known as around campus by friends and faculty. Occasionally an older professor would refer to me as Samantha, but I would always politely correct them; just Sammy.

My time in college was all I'd hoped it would be. As soon as I could, I got a prescription for the pill and gleefully expanded my sexual horizons with any willing parter. I discovered over time a special fondness for oral sex, performing and receiving, with both men and women. Perhaps my fondness for it was because it allowed me to maintain some autonomy, some separateness, only dipping my toe in the water, so to say. But on the more primal level, I just really liked the taste, the feel, liked listening to the reactions I was eliciting.

By my fourth year on campus, I had developed something of a reputation, not that it was unwelcome. I accelerated this with some of my other behaviors. For example, I discovered from a friend who worked in the campus mailroom that I was the university's only subscriber to Hustler Magazine. I'd occasionally leave a copy sitting out in my room, oblivious to company, or bring it with me to the shared bathroom if I was in the middle of a good article. I was mesmerized by the photo spreads; real women experiencing real pleasure, raw and graphic and unashamed.

Academically, I found great value in conversing with and socializing with other aspiring young writers who'd come to Iowa from throughout the country. I loved asking other students to give feedback on my own work, and loved reading and responding to their drafts. It was as though I'd found a new society where trust and respect were automatic, and I felt my own creativity and skills expand.

Likewise, I was exposed to the works of great writers who I'd otherwise likely never heard of. One who I really connected with was the 17th century poet John Wilmot, the Second Earl of Rochester. Modern critical analysis holds him as a satirist and iconoclast, but what appealed to me was his bawdiness and unfiltered filth. His poetry was my first realization that the word "dildo" wasn't a 20th century creation. And his own death in his early 30s (brought about by VD, of course) seemed perfectly fitting to me. My advisor seemed uneasy with my decision to focus my thesis on Rochester's poetry, even remarking to me once that such subject matter was less than appropriate for "a nice girl like you..."

But I persisted, and I continued to plot my escape from Iowa, knowing from the dawn of my teenage years that I'd be moving out as soon as I could. My time spent wandering in the library and ease with which I sailed through all of my language and literature classes in school convinced me that I had a future as a writer.

I had one other advantage. My uncle Ben, my dad's brother, had somehow managed to attach himself to a blonde California girl. My aunt, Betsy, was able to stay married to my seed salesman uncle for three years before coming to her senses and hightailing it back to her family home in Los Angeles. The greatest mystery to me wasn't how he'd managed to snag a woman like her, he was a charming salesman after all, but how she ever found herself in Iowa to begin with. Was she driving through on a trip to a more glamorous destination? Did she lose a bet? Or was it just a matter of the fates aligning for a purpose that would remain a mystery to all involved?

I'd had a good relationship with her in my teen years, both of us being slender blondes. (I was often mistaken for her daughter, not looking anything like my dark haired mother.) And shortly after she moved away, I received in the mail an envelope without any indication on the outside who it was from. When I opened it, I found her note saying only that it was sunny and warm and welcoming in Los Angeles. She included her address and an invitation to stay in her pool house, "if it seems like something you'd like to do after graduation."

By the summer of 1982, I had my degree, a few stories published in literary magazines of various prestige, a new, mannish bob-style haircut (that I've mostly kept until present day), and a typewriter, ink ribbons, and paper stolen from faculty storage. I loaded up my hand-me-down Pinto station wagon with clothes, books, all the cash I could scrape together, and anything else I thought I might need, and I headed west.

Using road maps I picked up along the way, I eventually made it to California, then Los Angeles. Armed with Betsy's address, I was directed to Brentwood, then to the Crestwood Hills neighborhood, then to her street. My car limped into her driveway, and when she answered the doorbell it took her a moment to recognize me. Her face lit up and her arms wrapped around me, and I was relieved, not really having a backup plan.

While certainly not a mansion in terms of square footage, her house was by far the ritziest, most glamorous home I'd been in. The main house was three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large kitchen and large open living area perfect for hosting parties. True to the time period, there was soft shag carpeting on every floor, and Betsy even had mirrors on the ceiling above her bed, the minx! Betsy explained to me that her father and his parents, while not particularly famous themselves or involved in the entertainment industry, had bought and sold land in the right places at the right times. They'd left her with this house and a trust fund that ensured that she'd never need to work a job she didn't want to.

The pool house wasn't any bigger than a normal one bedroom apartment, but it was fully furnished and rent free and all mine! We came to an agreement about helping with the utility payments when I started making money, and otherwise helping to keep things clean and presentable. She helped me unpack everything the day after I arrived, and I was able to find a cheap desk to set up my writer's quarters. Seeing my wardrobe, she also provided me with boxes of her old clothes which I was welcome to. We were mostly the same size, and her style helped me to fully break my connection to Iowa and the life Sally left behind. She was in complete agreement with me that Sammy was a more fitting name, and even suggested that a male name might help me with my career writing for the movies.

Admittedly, most of the next few months was spent either poolside or filling a notepad with ideas for a movie script I'd had in my head since completing my senior thesis. I wanted to write a movie biography for my beloved Earl of Rochester, an unashamed look at all his debauchery. I was still in the outline phase, and had started over twice, it becoming unwieldy every time due to my inability to self edit.

I eventually picked up a job waitressing so that there was some spending money coming in. (The waitress job also gave me ample opportunities to fulfill my sexual needs. An attractive single customer was likely to be invited into the mens room for a blow job whether or not I was looking to increase my tip.) And Betsy used a friend of a friend to get me a meeting with a writing agent. His name was Tom and he was about what I expected, mid 30's, frumpy, ill fitted suit, office stained with cigarette smoke. But he was a nice guy, didn't belittle me because of my age or lack of experience, and didn't demand or expect any sexual favors. He read some of my writing samples, and we talked about my long term goals, my ideas, and what I'd be willing to do to get there. At the end of the meeting, we shook hands, and I surprised myself by telling him, only half joking, that if he found me a good gig there was a blow job in it for him. I was going through a bit of a dry spell myself, and would have dropped to my knees if he didn't politely dismiss my offer.

By the next spring, my youth and gender were paying off, as I was able to get a job writing for a new kids cartoon show. Not exactly glamorous, but it meant that I was in the writers' union and could call myself a professional writer.

The cartoon was calledMask. It was a glorified toy commercial, aGI Joe rip off; something about magical helmets and transforming cars. The writing staff consisted of me and six overweight guys in their 40s. But there was one female character on the show (two actually, one good and one bad), so that meant that there had to be one female writer to write for that character. We'd meet as a group to plan episode ideas and expand on some of the specific character features (aside from what was already in the toy catalog that was issued to each of us - each toy had to be featured in an episode). Then we'd take our assignments back to our tiny, windowless offices and write out full scripts, which were ripped apart by the group and started over.

Here I want to interject and reiterate the prompt that started this story. I was asked to write about my first "real" job. I am interpreting "real" how I want to interpret it, so I feel the need to clarify that neither this tv show writing gig nor my part time waitress job is what I consider to be my first real job. But they are part of the story that cannot be ignored, as I'll hopefully establish, eventually.

Of course I was treated like shit by the other writers. I was expected to get coffee and take notes and was frequently interrupted. Even when I turned in good scripts, there was no positive feedback, just silence.

The turning point came that next summer. There was a horrible heat wave, which triggered power outages throughout the city. Not a problem if working via typewriter, but a big problem when the AC stopped running. We as a group were sweating through a meeting, most of the guys down to undershirts and shorts or just their boxers. I had come to work that day in a light tank top and slacks. I realized that I hadn't put on a bra that morning, so taking the tank top off wasn't an option. But when the last of the guys stood to remove his pants, I did the same. I folded them, tucked them under my chair, and sat, fully prepared to continue the meeting with just my leopard print bikini style panties covering my lower half.

The room, usually boisterous and maintaining at least two conversations, grew silent. What I came to realize was that they weren't shocked, or offended, and a few of them were probably turned on, although realistically we all knew that this wouldn't be leading to anything. But what happened was that they were all scared. My casual display of sexuality was somehow intimidating them. They were all in their underwear, a few also shirtless, but their proximity to my bare thighs had somehow derailed their ability to think. We ended work early that day, but I filed away that experience, thinking that it could be used, somehow.

After that day, I found myself spending more time at the beach, bringing a notepad and pen with to jot notes or outline ideas, whether working on episodes for the cartoon or other ideas percolating in my brain. Because I was spending so much time in a bikini, I made my second major stylistic change since leaving Iowa. I started shaving my pubic hair. Trust me, in the early 1980's, that was a bold statement. Cosmo wouldn't jump on that bandwagon for a few years, and the notion of a Brazilian wax was yet to leave Brazil. Regardless, I found that I was more comfortable when hairless; I loved the sensation of my clothes rubbing against my bare skin, and appreciated not having to worry if a stray hair snuck out into view when at the beach. And the amount of time I received reciprocal oral from whomever I picked up that night definitely increased. I never heard any complaints...

I completed my year writing for the cartoon, and accepted my payment and credit under the name S. S. Wilson. Over the next year my agent got me a lot of uncredited punch up work on after school specials and teen dramas and a few sitcoms. I continued to work in fits and starts on my Earl of Rochester script. And I invested some of my earnings into my first personal computer, the Apple Macintosh (and a state of the art dot matrix printer). I stored my typewriter and a half dozen bottles of White-Out under my bed and entered the 21st century. The word processor made the writing and editing process infinitely easier, and I felt my creativity accelerate.

In May, 1985, a guy with whom I had a casual, ongoing thing, asked me out on an actual date... at least what he thought a date would be. He took me to see the new movieRambo: First Blood Part 2. I sat in the theater, horrified. This was everything I hated about American movies. So much gun violence and blood, all in service of a fascistic, jingoistic, racist message. After the movie we went to his place and fucked (I'm not a prude...), but the whole time my mind was elsewhere. When I returned to my pool house I started jotting notes: an action movie, female hero, expressing real sexuality in an unrepressed way, showcasing people of different genders, races, working together as equals. I wanted the story to be gynocentric, incorporating imagery related to female sexuality and sensuality and the female orgasm. In short, I wanted to write a mainstream Hollywood blockbuster that was the opposite of Rambo in every way.

People may not remember this, but that was nearly an impossible feat in the 1980s of Ronald Reagan and the Moral Majority. While the Christian Nationalist takeover of America may have been completed only recently, it started in 1981. Hollywood in the 80's was a regressive, repressive time for anyone who wasn't a gun-worshipping white anti-communist zealot. While there certainly was a thriving, artistic underground, that wasn't where the money was. To get my blockbuster made, I'd need to trick the moneymen.

For months I brainstormed ideas at the beach or poolside, writing down anything I thought would work. I thought back to my drive to California, passing through the desolate areas of Utah and Nevada, passing towns of no more than two dozen people, nary a tree or or plant visible. I decided that this would be my setting, a tiny town in a remote high desert valley in Nevada, surrounded by mountains and mostly cut off from the world. The audience would wonder from the first minute of the film how anyone could live there. I named my ficitonal town Libertine, Nevada.

My heroine was a local doctoral student, studying meteorology at the state university. She was in the valley with a truck full of scientific instruments to study unique weather patterns. She alone predicts a major storm about to drop a decade's worth of rain on the valley in just one day, which will lead to a flood that will wipe out the town and kill all of the inhabitants. And so she alone can save them.

The population of the town includes a range of people; two teens experiencing their first love, a married couple in their 30s, bohemian types who are hyper sexualized and appreciate the isolation for their proclivity to be nude and to make love under the stars; an older couple, empty nesters, past the age of reproduction but still affectionate and sexually active; an elderly widower and defacto head of the town who is the owner of the local general store and an unashamed voyeur, who keeps binoculars near his window and enjoys a nightly show put on by his neighbor, a single mother pushing 40, who is his exhibitionist match.

I continued to plot out the story, but knew that more characters were needed. As if answering my call for help, the universe provided inspiration once again. One afternoon I returned from the beach to Betsy's home. There was a work truck in her driveway, so I walked around the outside of the house to my pool house. I looked in through the patio door and saw that Betsy had hired two day laborers to paint her living room. They were dark skinned latino men, both appearing to be in their 20s. They wore tshirts and jeans speckled with paint. When one spotted me, I smiled and waved. He nodded and smiled and returned to work.

Rather than retreat into my pool house, I laid out on a chair by the pool, facing them, still wearing just my bikini. I watched them work, both occasionally looking toward me, their glances lingering longer as the afternoon wore on. I started to let my own mind wander, started to feel stirrings of lust, started to feel hungry. I removed my bikini top and let the sun shine down on my pale breasts. That got their attention. Both men stopped working and were now looking at me. I could see their lips moving but had no idea what they could be saying.

I wasn't in the mood for subtlety, so I pulled off my bikini bottoms and showed my freshly-shaved self to them. I spread my legs and let my fingers wander down, gently touching myself. That did the trick.

I heard the patio door slide open and then close again. I looked up and saw them standing next to the pool. They removed their shirts and started washing with a hose, staring at me the entire time. With my free hand, I motioned for them to join me, breaking through any language barrier that might exist. Soon they were standing on either side of me. I sat up and unzipped them both, reaching into their pants and pulling them out in tandem, stroking them and alternating with my mouth. They talked to themselves in Spanish, and I lamented not learning the language. I would have been content finishing them both with my hands and mouth, using their jizz as sunscreen and leaving them with a good story to tell, but inspiration struck again.

I stood and put my hands on the shoulders of one of them, guided him down into the chair so that he was laying flat. I straddled him and took him deep inside of me. I was so wet and he filled me so well. I reached for the other one, continued to stroke him, and guided him behind me. He took the hint and positioned himself. There was more talk in Spanish, then, in unison, they both slid into me, filling my wet pussy, stretching me. I moaned out loud; surely the neighbors heard us, even if the fence prevented them from seeing us.

We found the perfect rhythm, and my orgasm grew in waves, building, my moans becoming louder. One of the men grunted and spurted inside me, then the other did the same. They both withdrew and I rolled off the chair, kneeling on tile pool deck. They both stood in front of me and I grasped them, continued to stroke them and brought them back to my mouth, licking both clean. There was more talking in Spanish. They stepped back and started to get dressed. I giggled and offered a "gracias," then strutted naked into my pool house.

In the shower, I decided my heroine needed two attentive male sidekicks, local handymen, jacks of all trades. They would defer to her scientific expertise, not interrupt her when she talked, support her decisions and help her to save the town. I envisioned a scene where the three of them get caught in the raging flood waters. They pull themselves to safety on a rock outcropping, gasp for breath, peel off their wet clothes and huddle for warmth. They succumb to the adrenaline brought on by cheating death, and the three of them make love as lightning flashes in the sky, both men filling her together, setting aside their inhibitions to ensure she is fully satisfied... My fingers between my legs brought me to another orgasm as I pictured the scene, and I nearly fell in the shower.

I decided to name my handy men after two men with their own sensual, sexual backgrounds. One would be named after Rudolph Valentino, the original Latin lover and star of early Hollywood. It would be decades after his death that his own non-heteronormative activities became public knowledge. The other would be named after my favorite writer, the Earl of Rochester, whose perverse poetry was a constant source of inspiration.

The heroine of my movie would be named Rhonda, after the first woman to lick my cunt.

Over the months that followed, I spent every free minute drafting the story. When I reached the end, I moved right back to the beginning, starting the process of revising and editing. This was so much easier with the Macintosh, and I made sure to save two copies on two different floppy disks each day.

I was inspired by my cartoon writing days to have Rhonda spend the second half of the movie pantsless, leading the group to safety while sporting just skimpy leopard-skin panties, her pants having fallen victim to the flood. At the climax of the story, the group is able to repurpose a discarded California King water bed frame belonging to the hedonistic young couple (no longer needed as there wasn't a large enough population from which they could organize an orgy) as a boat that leads them through the flooded valley and to safety. I loved the idea of the arid desert valley suddenly flooded, representing a woman's vagina overcome with wetness at the point of climax, the small group in the tiny boat rowing to the northern rim of the valley representing the metaphorical clitoris. I wondered if anyone else would see it the same way.

I tenatively titled itRaging Waters, deciding that was an appropriately generic action movie title. I was proud that there were no guns and no gratuitous violence (although obviously there would be some victims in the flood - an overly religious family and a drunken former cowboy actor who was the same age as the then current president).

It was nearly a year after first conceiving of the idea that the finished draft was presented to my agent. He read it and didn't offer any feedback, then sent a copy to a midlevel executive at Universal Pictures with whom he had a friendly relationship.

A few weeks later, my agent and I met and he gave me the news. The only feedback he'd gotten from Universal was that floods are expensive to film. Would it be possible to revise it to incorporate a different disaster?

That was it. No comment on the threesome scene or the viability of a female lead or the nudists or the masturbating voyeur, or any of the other things that would have gone unmentioned in European cinema. Did I have Hollywood all wrong? Was there an appetite for actual sensuality in a mainstream movie?

Then reality hit. Taking out the flood... that would require a complete re-write. And what would I replace it with?

I spent the month that followed mostly wallowing at the beach. I racked my brain for another disaster that would be suitable. There wasn't vegetation to burn, so fire was out unless I wanted to change the location too. Soviet invasion had been done, and I couldn't do it without guns anyway. Same with alien invasion. There wouldn't be a way for a scientist and a couple of handymen to thwart a meteor strike or nuclear attack. I really wanted to keep it something natural. Would a sandstorm be cheaper to film than a flood?

I thought back to those nights when I'd be lying in the pool house, a hand between my legs, unable to ignore the moaning coming from Betsy's bedroom window. I liked to close my eyes and imagine her and whatever lover she'd brought home for the night. I thought about my favorite Hustler photo spreads and replaced the model with Betsy. But always my mind went back to the moaning, the rhythmic, almost mechanical squealing that filled the quiet night air. I thought back to my bible lessons when growing up, the end of the world being heralded by the sounding of trumpets from the sky. Was there something there? Could my heroes find safety from armageddon scored by a heavenly sound representing a woman's orgasm?

I returned home after another fruitless day of brainstorming at the beach and let myself into Betsy's house, intending to seek out her counsel. When I entered, I noticed a man sitting on her couch. I saw him from behind, his balding head facing away from me, his bare shoulders visible and his arms extended out over the back of the couch. I quietly took a few steps closer and saw Betsy in front of him kneeling, smiling, eyes wide. There was something between them, like he was demonstrating some hardware. Was he a vacuum salesman?

I quickly stopped just as Betsy caught sight of me. She cocked her head sideways and shrugged, then motioned me to come around to the other side of the couch. I approached tenatively, unable to move my eyes from what she was holding. It was the biggest dick I'd ever seen. At least 13 inches, but also thick, thicker than my forearm, and it seemed to get wider as it approached the tip. Betsy gripped it in both hands, neither hand able to wrap completely around it. I realized then that she was nude, they were both nude, neither making an effort to cover themselves.

My gaze moved to the man's face. He was in his 40's, thinning brown hair, decent build, certainly not an actor or movie star, he looked more like an accountant. But my God that cock! He proudly smiled but otherwise didn't move.

Betsy broke the silence. "Biggest one I've ever seen. How about you?"

I could only nod in agreement. I felt my mouth water, felt my legs shake. Without thinking I pulled my tshirt over my head and let my shorts fall to the floor, leaving me in just my bikini. I knelt next to Betsy and tenatively reached for it, letting my finger just graze it before pulling back.

"Let's see how I do," she said, then opened her mouth wide and engulfed the tip. I could see her struggle and heard her gag. The man let out a soft groan and reached a hand out, tenderly touched Betsy's cheek and the back of her head, offered some encouragement. Her saliva dripped down his shaft as she pushed in further, taking another inch before gagging again and withdrawing. She stroked him as she wiped the spit from her chin.

I stared, my mouth hanging open, I could feel myself drooling. I couldn't move, but realized that my own hand had moved between my legs. I was overcome with lust, desperate for satisfaction, and unashamed of how my aunt or the nameless man would react. His monster had completely captured me and wasn't letting go.

Betsy tried again, took him in deeper, loudly and messily gagging on him and leaving a trail of spit between her lips and his tip as she withdrew. She scooped it up in her hand and with both hands stroked him.

I eagerly wanted to try, wanted to challenge myself, wanted to compare my own performance against hers. As if she was reading my thoughts, she turned to me and said "your turn." I looked at her, then him, and saw only smiling faces.

I took him in my hands as Betsy moved to the side. She rested her cheek on his thigh and watched me. I started stroking him, feeling the weight in my hands. It was obviously similar to other cocks I'd had, but large enough as to feel unnatural, or supernatural. I made the decision to attack it. I opened as wide as I could and took him in, closing my eyes in process. I felt him fill my mouth, then rocked my entire body, taking him in deeper with each cycle. I felt him against the back of my throat, gagged slightly, remembered to try to breathe, then moved further. I heard him groan and heard Betsy remark "oh, my." With that encouragement, I attacked again, not caring if I was breathing, just eager to leave him with a memory as noteworthy as the one he'd already given me.

I slurped and sucked and stroked until it felt like my lungs would burst. When I withdrew, I realized just how deep he'd gone, as I felt my throat contract in his wake. I'd never felt anything like it before, and when he was clear I loudly gasped. I opened my eyes and saw him there, right in front of me. I grabbed him, stroked him, rubbed him against my face. I looked to Betsy and we shared goofy smiles.

"One more?" I asked her. She nodded. I braced myself and took him back into my mouth. I pushed myself as far as I could, heard the sounds of him moaning, felt him throbbing deep inside me. I stroked and slobbered and gagged loudly, and felt my fingers slide into my bikini bottom, rub against my bare pussy, encouraging me to keep going. I realized that both my hands were around his cock, so those couldn't be my fingers, but kept going, just letting myself enjoy the sensation.

I fell back with another loud gasp. My face and chest were soaked with spit. I was panting for air and giggling and wondering if I could do it again. Betsy took him from me, licked the spit still clinging to his tip, then politely dismissed me with "Well done, dear, but we're going to go upstairs now."

They stood and disappeared up the stairs, to her bedroom. I picked up my clothes and retreated to the pool house. I left the window open and lay on the couch, listening to Betsy moaning while I frantically fingered myself. Just before my orgasm struck, I had my eureka moment. It was so overwhelming that I immediately pulled back my fingers, licked them clean, and grabbed a notepad and pen.

I recalled something I had read as a child, probably from a Ripley's Believe it or Not compendium. The Mongolian death worm. A giant cryptid, snake-like or worm-like, speedily burrowing through the sands of the Gobi desert, surfacing beneath unsuspecting cattle, taking whole yaks or maybe even an unfortunate nomad as it's meal.

Maybe my movie couldn't give the audience a flood symbolizing the female orgasm, but how about a subterranean monster symbolizing an erect male penis?

I spent months reworking the script to feature a previously unknown species of giant, carnivorous, burrowing worm monsters. Instead of being a meteorologist, my heroine was now a seismologist, using seismic waves to track the monsters as they moved through the sand floor of the valley. Instead of a waterbed converted into a boat, the group was brought to safety by a military surplus hovercraft that the swinging young couple had christened "The Lover Craft" which glided above the sand. My heroine still loses her pants, but now it was to the monster's grabbing tongue. And the threesome in the desert still happens, but now was under a star filled sky and was heightened by the monster continuing to prowl below, attracted by the vibrations of their thrusting echoing through the rocks, their passion enflamed by what they think will be their last night alive. I gave it a new title too, something more seismically themed.

Months after inspiration struck, I presented a printed copy to my agent, asked him to read it while I sat in his office. I wanted to see him react to it. He was immediately engrossed, never stopping to ask questions or offering other comment. When he reached the end, he looked up at me, smiled, and said "I'll call Universal." I hugged him and again offered him a blow job, which he again politely declined.

I left his office and encountered his secretary, a woman in her thirties fond of big shoulder pads and with short hair matching my own. I asked her if she had plans for lunch. She said she didn't, then I took her hand and pulled her into the nearest ladies room. I furiously kissed and fingered her, then went down on her and licked her to orgasm. I came too, not from any contact, but just from the stimulation of being with her, the joy I felt at completing the script, at accomplishing my mission.

Things moved quickly after that, then slowly, as per normal in the industry. Universal made an offer, my agent countered, they came to an agreement and paperwork was signed. I decided to open a new bank account, calling it my "Blockbuster" account, and deposited all earnings, present and future, from this script into that account. I was earmarking that for a house - I couldn't live in Betsy's pool house forever. And I was still making enough from waitressing and the other punch up jobs to get by.

But even with the deal done, it took a few years to get to a finished product. As I was warned, there would be another writer, and there would need to be some rewrites based on what was actually filmable. I wondered if they would hire Jim Henson to do the sand monsters. After a long time I heard that they'd cast Kevin Bacon as one of the sidekicks, that meant a bigger budget.

While all of that was happening, I was making real progress on my long gestating script about the Earl of Rochester. I titled itThe Young Libertine and had finally settled on a structure and tone. I decided to center it around his time as a teenager and his relationship with King Charles II, focusing on his time in prison in the tower of London and offering hints at the inspiration for his future works. It was a bawdy period comedy, and, I was sure, a crowd pleaser.

Eventually I started seeing promotions for the new movie from Universal, featuring monsters from under the ground attacking a small town in the Nevada desert. I received an invitation to the premier, and on the big night my heart fluttered when I saw on the screen "Screenplay by S. S. Wilson." I was so excited that I ignored the other names beneath mine.

But as I watched the finished movie my heart sank. My female hero had her role cut short. Now she was the sidekick. Rather than being pantsless for the second half of the movie, her pants were quickly replaced by stiff, boxy denim in the next scene. All traces of sex or sensuality were removed. The swinging young couple were re-written as gun stockpiling doomsday preppers. And in what I could only perceive as a personal insult, the name of the town was changed from Libertine to Perfection.

I felt queasy all night. As I drove home from the theater that night a thought occurred to me, and it refused to leave as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

The next day I printed a copy of my script forThe Young Libertine and read through it once more. Then I placed it on Betsy's backyard charcoal grill along with both floppy disks and soaked them in lighter fluid. I watched it burn and instantly felt five years younger. Sure, I could have just cut the floppys in half, but this seemed appropriately dramatic.

I let my agent know that I would be leaving town, that any payments could continue to be deposited into my Blockbuster account, and that I'd be in touch. That was the last time we spoke.

I sat down with Betsy, explained to her how I felt. The 80s were over now, and my next birthday would be my 30th. I didn't have it in me to spend another decade at the beach and making compromises. We hugged and cried and no matter how much I thanked her it still seemed insufficient. She helped me pack up my Pinto, still hanging in there, almost a classic now, and we prayed that it would get me back to Iowa.

I knew that there was no one waiting for me in Iowa. No one in my family lineage had yet made it long enough to collect a Social Security check. But it was the only other place I knew. So when I arrived in Van Meter, I found a small house to rent (for pennies, compared to LA housing costs), and quickly landed a job in the library that I'd spent my youth exploring. The town had just gotten funds for a new library, tripling the size, and was staffing up for the move. I accepted the job using the name Sally; I assume Sammy is still on a beach somewhere.

Now employed, I had health insurance again, so made an appointment with the local dentist to celebrate. He was about a decade older than me, clean cut, in good shape, with a calm demeanor. He found plenty of work to do in my mouth, but didn't make me feel bad about it. We scheduled a follow-up visit for the next week, and he surprised me by putting his arm around my shoulders as he walked me out of the office. I'd experienced a lot of human contact in my years, but this felt different somehow. Different enough to inspire me to dress up for my next visit. His assistant got me situated, the gas was applied, and when I woke up I was alone, my cheeks still stuffed with cotton, my arms still heavy. He came into the room a few minutes later, looked at me, smiled, and in a smooth voice asked "Would you let an old man buy you a cup of coffee?"

We were married less than a year later. We made quite the picture together, giving off vibes of Frank Sinatra and Mia Farrow, but with less of an age gap. He helped me to age up, to feel like a real adult, and I helped to keep him young and playful. We fucked, and it was amazing, but more importantly we also made love, which was new for me and even more amazing. And when I became pregnant a few years later, there was no doubt from either of us that this was the right thing. (Just felt the need to add that, in case Courtney is still reading this far into it. So brave, I would have turned back pages ago...)

And that brings me back to the matter at hand. I found myself really excelling at the library, taking on a leadership role and getting promoted to Director in just a few years. I handled hiring and firing, decisions on events and organization and content. I raced to make public internet access available in the mid 90s when that was still a mystery to most. And I championed summer youth programs and teen internships so that the next generation wouldn't be left out.

Youth outreach really became my calling, and in the last handful of years I relished in swatting down any community attempts to ban books in the name of protecting children. Whenever a call came in to ban a certain book, I made sure we had extra copies of it available, and would recommend it when given the chance.

More subversively, I started hiding copies of some of the questionable books in the stacks where teen lit and young adult books were located. At a flea market I stumbled across a well kept and complete collection of 1970sNational Lampoon magazines and quickly shelved them next toKids Sports Illustrated. Seeing a group of 13 year olds huddled around an issue filled me with pride. (The same flea market vendor had some vintage 70'sHustlers for sale, but they weren't in nearly as good condition, so I passed.)

It's been so long since I abandoned and burned my script forThe Young Libertine that I can't remember how it went exactly (and having written so many versions of it doesn't help), but I can still recall that I wanted the movie to start on a black screen with white text, the opening of his poem "Love and Life":

All my past life is mine no more,

The flying hours are gone,

Like transitory dreams giv'n o'er,

Whose images are kept in store

By memory alone.

That one always got me, and I recently updated my will to ensure that the same verse would be included on my tombstone. I repeat that wish here now, just in case my lawyer turns out to be a crook or a fool.

The money from my blockbuster continues to trickle in. The movie was a surprise hit and led to sequels and a tv show and video games and comic books, and by union rules I still get a cut of all of it. It was more than enough for my daughter's college education, and every time I check the balance I'm surprised by how much is in there. It serves as a melancholy reminder that I was wrong and the Hollywood moneymen were right.

So that's it, the story of my first real job. My God, 8000 words! I'm sure I can edit it down to half of that.

That's where she ended it. The file was last saved two days before she died. I still wonder what parts of this she intended for me to actually read and what she intended to remove. I've read it all at least a half dozen times, blushing through the spicier scenes with every re-read, and making notes about things I could potentially verify. I confirmed that my mom's uncle, Ben Wilson, was briefly married to a woman named Betsy in the 1970s. The copy of their marriage certificate I was able to locate in the County records includes a hand written maiden name that could be Jones or Janes or Jonas or James. So not enough there to compare to Los Angeles property records.

Obviously the money left to me includes the separate bank account she mentioned, into which residuals continue to trickle. There hasn't been a withdrawal from that account since I completed my own college career. I never asked where my tuition payments came from, but just assumed that dentists, even in a small town, weren't hurting for money. The balance of the account she and my father shared confirmed that.

The IMDB credits for S. S. Wilson don't exactly contradict her story. Sally Sammy Wilson? Perhaps I could reach out to the WGA, but would hate to do anything that might hamper those continued residuals. Probably best for all that I leave that rock unturned.

Yesterday, while considering whether to publicly share her story, I spent some time wandering through the library where she worked for the second half of her life. It is a three story building, bright and clean and quiet, with presentation rooms and areas of overstuffed couches and chairs, and a separated young readers section on the upper floor, in the corner, where she trusted teens with a comfortable, safe, private place to congregate. It looks as nice now as it did when first built, when I was a little kid. I browsed the stacks where most of the teen and young adult literature was found, and, true to her word, found a copy of Tropic of Cancer mixed in with The Hardy Boys, The Handmaid's Tale with The Babysitters Club, and the collected works of her favorite, the Earl of Rochester, next to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Tomorrow I have an appointment with a local stone mason about a headstone. I've got the text already sketched out, along with her wished-for epitaph. But I know that her legacy won't be measured by words in stone or words on a page, but in the minds of all the young people who she worked so hard to steer toward irreverence and indecency and disobedience and acceptance.

But tonight my plan is to pop some popcorn and watch a movie with my daughter. She hasn't seen Tremors yet, as far as I know, but kids grow up faster these days, so I think she's ready.