On the Couch With Catherine Zeta Jones (sexually explicit)

WARNING: THIS BLOG IS SEXUALLY EXPLICIT!

WARNING: THIS BLOG IS SEXUALLY EXPLICIT!

Jeff enters the well appointed office of his therapist and confidant, Catherine Zeta Jones. Ms Jones offers her hand in a professional manner and they shake— then come together for what starts off as a friendly kiss on the cheek— but close to the lips— which soon slide together for a brief if passionate greeting. 

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: Have a seat Jeff.

JEFF: Thanks.

Both sit. Jeff on a beautiful red velvet couch and Catherine in a leather club chair with ottoman. 

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: How have you been?

JEFF: I’ve been fine.

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: Don’t bullshit me, how have you been?

JEFF: I’ve been fine.

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: Let’s try this again. How have you been?

JEFF: I told you, I’ve been fine!

Catherine seems to manifest a riding crop from thin air. She springs like a cheetah from the chair and is in an instant straddling Jeff on the sofa, her short gray business skirt riding high. She pops Jeff in the mouth with the riding crop and he is startled by the pain, laughs. 

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: How have you been?

JEFF: (still laughing) I’ve been fine.

Catherine pops Jeff in the mouth again with the crop, splits his lip. He gasps; the pain is exquisite, arousing. Catherine notices the blood, touches her thumb to his lip. She looks at her thumb. A perfect round deep red dot shines in the light. She places her thumb in her mouth, then covers his mouth with her own. Jeff laughs more.

JEFF: What are you doing?

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: Therapy.

JEFF: We both know reparative therapy doesn’t work.

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: We both know that’s not the kind of therapy I meant.

They kiss again, passionately. Jeff’s lip tears a little more.

JEFF: Ow!

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: (continuing to kiss him) You love it.

JEFF: I love the pain. I’d love it more if it was Jason Stratham straddling me.

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: I can get off if you like.

JEFF: I thought that’s what you were doing.

Catherine grinds into Jeff even more. 

JEFF: (laughing) Ow! What are you doing, I’m queer!

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: Really? (of his boner) Then what’s this? (she grabs it)

JEFF: I’m queer. Not dead.

Catherine stops. They look for a few seconds deeply into each other’s eyes, quivering breath. Finally…

JEFF: Well if you were ever going to do it, this would be the time.

CUT TO: ten minutes later, Catherine leans  back against the arm of the sofa, legs spread, Jeff reclines between her legs with his back to her. They share a post-coital cigarette. 

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: This is highly unprofessional, you know.

JEFF: Shut up, don’t spoil it.

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: I mean I’m either going to have to stop being your therapist or stop being your—

JEFF: I said shut up. I’m not giving up either! I’ve given up too much in this fucking life and I’m not giving up anything else I want. And I want you. I want you as my therapist and I want you as my lover.

Catherine takes the cigarette from between Jeff’s fingers, takes a long, slow drag, and articulates the next sentence through an exhalation of gray smoke:

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: Well then as your therapist, I’d like you to consider the possibility of coming out to yourself as bisexual.

JEFF: Uhuh. I’m queer, I told you that. I’m not sexually attracted to women. Just you. You’re the only one I want and I want it to always be like this. Who knows, maybe you bring out the lesbian in me.

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: (smiling, pleased with herself) I’ve brought out the lesbian in plenty of women that’s for sure. Why not one very confused queer man?

Jeff reaches up and takes the cigarette back. Takes a deep drag. Holds it in three seconds and blasts the smoke out.

JEFF: I love you, you know.

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: Don’t.

JEFF: Please let me say it. I love you.

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: It’s not allowed.

JEFF: I love you, I love you, I love you. I’d kill for you. I want to kill for you.

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: You should see a shrink.

JEFF: I’m screwing my shrink.

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: Nice. You make me feel like a whore.

Jeff rolls to face her. He is kneeling on the sofa between her spread legs. He closes in as if to kiss her.

JEFF: And how does it feel to feel like a whore?

He lowers himself between her legs. The following monologue is delivered between intermittent kisses and licks Jeff places between Catherine’s legs. It is as if he were tasked with consuming five super-ripe peaches and still having to get out what he says, delivering lines and pleasure at the same time. 

JEFF: I can tell you what it feels like, you know. I’ve been a whore of one kind or another my entire life. I’ve had to whore myself out for everything I needed. I think sometimes I hate it, then I realize that when I don’t hate it, I love it, when I get off on it, when I come to love the suffering, when I come to love the pain. I love how you hurt me, by the way.

Catherine moans. Jeff’s head is buried between her legs. 

I need to please you. I want you to control me. I want you to help me. I want to come here and let you hurt me and have you let me fuck you and I want to make you feel beautiful and important and dirty. I sold my gun yesterday, by the way. The pistol? I got rid of it. Sold it to another Marine. He’s not in danger of shooting himself with it. It’s been loaded for six months. I just thought it was a good idea to get rid of it. Not that I’d ever do it with a gun I don’t think—too boring– especially not that gun. It was my sister-in-law’s. She died. There’s no way I could have done it with that gun. It will— I mean it would already destroy my family. That’s why I can’t do it. But it would have been especially shitty to do it with her gun. I felt like she was telling me to sell it to that Marine. I’d been opening my heart to him about my plan, about the war stuff, about the depression, about Adam, he suggested that he buy the gun off me and it was like I could hear Stacy saying “yes, that’s the right thing to do.” I don’t want to kill myself. I’m not going to do it. But I still thought it was a good idea to get rid of the gun.

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: You better not kill yourself. If you kill yourself, I’ll kill you. No one eats pussy like you do.

JEFF: I’m not going to kill myself. I can’t. There’s too much shit that is fucked up. There’s too much that has to change. Too many complacent people. I have to do what I can. This shit around race is completely out of hand. Now they’re blaming the protestors for the revenge killings. Can you believe that shit? Nice try DeBlasio. Can you believe that motherfucker? And they almost got away with it. If the protests had stopped, they would have successfully linked the protests to the killing of cops. Nice fucking try. The protests are about–

Catherine places her hand on the back of Jeff’s head, presses is face into her, moans. 

JEFF: I mean the protests are about police brutality— race-based police brutality! If these motherfuckers are as “pro-cop” as they say they are, THEY’D get out there and protest WITH us because NO ONE is more ANTI-COP than racist fucking cops that shit all over the whole goddamn profession by playing by their own draconian  rules and saying ‘fuck you’ to the code of ethics and the regulations that cops are supposed to abide by! They are taking a huge shit on a profession made up of people who daily risk their lives SUPPOSEDLY to defend defenseless people. But instead these ignorant assholes who are complaining about the protest because they SAY they are on the side of the COPS are ACTUALLY sentencing the whole fucking profession to an even more horrible future because they are doing their goddamn BEST to help the evil cops get away with the SHIT THEY’VE BEEN DOING!

Catherine whimpers and squirms as Jeff’s cunnilingus gets more passionate with his rant.

JEFF: And the saddest part about it is you can’t even have an intelligent conversation with them about it. I mean it’s as if rational thought-out points of view are— fuck, I don’t know— it’s like they can’t even hear them. They’re too goddamn stupid to understand simple fucking logic. They go immediately to these Fox News sound bites that will have abso-fucking-lutley NOTHING to do which whatever you’ve just said. I want you Catherine! Please God, swear to me it will always be like this, that we can always do this, that you’ll never make me go away, please Catherine, swear it! Swear the racist fuckers are not going to win and that I’ll get to go back to New York and that I’ll get to keep eating your sweet pussy even after I meet my husband and that you will never, ever side on the side of the racist fucks that want to continue to allow the sport killing of unarmed black men because these fuckers are to goddamn stupid to— SWEAR IT, CATHERINE, GODDAMMIT I SAID SWEAR IT.

Catherine is writhing in ecstasy, tears streaming down her face. She pants, nearing hyperventilation—

CATHERINE ZETA JONES:(cumming)  ALL RIGHT I SWEAR IT! I SWEAR IT! I SWEAR!

Jeff rises to her face, bringing his sopping wet beard close to her face; she is consumed by her own smell on his breath and facial hair. 

JEFF: (powerful, mischievous, grin. proud of himself) Swear what?

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: I swear the racists won’t win. I swear you’ll get to move back to New York and continue your career. I swear you’ll marry the husband or husbands of your dreams.

JEFF: and..?

both laugh

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: and I swear I’ll still fuck you even after you do—

JEFF: Can my husbands watch?

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: Only if one of them is Jason Stratham.

JEFF: Deal. Swear more!

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: I swear that no more veterans will kill themselves and that you’ll be able to hire them to work on all the projects you conceive and that you’ll be so successful that you can basically greenlight your own fucking projects no matter how weird or revolutionary or avant-garde they are and I swear you never, ever have to hear from Adam Nelson again and that he can never hurt you again. I swear that you’re finally going to get paid what you deserve what for you’re good at and working where you’re passions lie and you’ll never, ever in your whole life have to whore yourself out for what you need again! I swear you’re going to be happy from here on out, that your body is going to stay as beautiful as it is today for the rest of your life (with maybe some wrinkles added) and that I and your husbands will find you even more attractive when that happens. Mostly, I swear that I am going to protect you from now on and that no one is ever going to hurt you again, Jeff. I am going to see to that. And it’s because—

JEFF: Say it!

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: Because you eat the best—

JEFF: Noooooo! That’s not it.

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: Because—

JEFF: Say it!! I need you to say it.

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: Because I love you, you crazy fuck. God help me, I do. And Michael and I are going to pull every metaphysical string we need to to help you out in all the ways you deserve. Because you are a sweet man, Jeff Key. And all the shitty things that have happened to you have made you stronger and more empathetic to those who suffer. And if the whole rest of the world wants to go to hell on the greedy, racist, fascist, misogynistic, homophobic, fairy-tale-religion, stick-their-heads-ups-their-stupid-asses stupid train then let them! You’ve got a ticket on the Freedom Train, brother and she’s leavin’ the station soon! Now go wash your face. There’s enough of my DNA in your beard to clone me.

Jeff rolls his eyes, smiles, then disappears through a wood paneled door marked “WC.” Catherine turns toward the camera, winks, 

CATHERINE ZETA JONES: See y’all tomorrow.