Chapter 21

Some seem to believe that my “book” about shooting bad boyfriends right in the nut was totally cooked up, but I’ve been a real pistolero since childhood.  I loved shooting and had plenty of no-good piney woods trash relatives to help me bang away to my heart’s content.  I’m a girl comfortable with rifle rack interior car décor, and not at all shy about tucking a little equalizer about my person when out and about.  I have found that guns are as good a bonding tool as cars and dogs.  There’s something about standing up by somebody and just blowing stuff away that fosters mutual awareness.

During my “Hollywood phase”, I used to hang out with this actress a bit.  Used to go over to her house in the Canyon sometimes.  We’d swim nekkid in her pool and do a little coke.  They told me not to use her name.  So I called her and asked her about it because I’ve never gotten on all that well with “them”.  And she said she’d rather I not, so that’s that.  That was when I was around film a lot more.  One of the few things I ever wanted that I walked off before I got it.  I could actually see it from where I was, got to feel it up a couple of times, but decided the prize wasn’t worth the weirdness.

And I wasn’t even the typical blonde bombshell who hit town wanting to be a starlet.  All I wanted to do was stunts, really.  What I did, a little, was basically Ass Double.  Body shots and close-ups for girls who are better actresses but don’t measure up in the bootylicious department.  The pinnacle, I guess, of that was a shot I did in a major medium budget.  The star was standing with his arm around my waist, my bare booty kind of profile, me on tippy toes with one knee bent.  Funny thing was, the “star” was a double, too. Because the character was supposed to be taller than me and in real life Mr. Cool wasn’t.  You probably don’t know how short this guy is, because they don’t really let you.  And unlike Cruise and Fox, they try to keep him tall, dark and hunky.  So I’m standing there with the breeze in my pubes, hanging off some other double who probably waits tables in Silverlake and he’s smirking at me and pulling faces, trying to make me laugh and blow a shot.  Ah, the tinkle of the tinsel and the roar of the greasepaint.

Being short might have cost me the stunt thing, actually.  Most of the girls I met who were actually getting blown off trains or horses wearing wardrobe for Charlize Theron or Cameron Diaz were pretty tall.  So my height shafted me for basketball, volleyball, and film.  Ah, well, I’d be a real jerk to complain.  I got into the butt double thing (actually they call it “body double”) the old-fashioned way.  I was shacking up with a guy who made a few calls.

But anyway, I met some really cool women on sets and canteens doing that stuff.  Not so much big names, but faces you’d know.  Nice people.  My usual tendency to hang around with a gang of guys changed in theHollywoodsetting.  It just wasn’t the same way.  Every non-gay guy I met was either trying to get into my pants or work some scam for his career, get introduced to somebody, preferably right after getting into my pants.  Tiresome.  But this gal I’m talking about was great, worked on a daytimer at the time, and got me to teach her how to shoot.  We went to this boutique range place, but it was silly. Like a police range with little trolleys for the targets and ear protectors.   So I got my own guns, then dropped by this guy I knew from film school to borrow some rifles.  He saw who I was with and wanted to go, too, but she said no, it was just girls shootin’ day.  He said, “Hey, they’re my guns,” but she cocked hisWinchester like a pro and said, “But who’s holding them guns now, Pilgrim?”  She talked kind of cornpone around me for some reason.  Fact is, she grew up inMichigan.

So we just drove out in the brush with some ammo from Big 5 and two cases of empties we picked up behind a bowling alley bar, and another case of “fulls” (which got emptied soon enough).  Bang, bang, shoot, shoot.  She just loved it. I had told her it felt good, and she said I was right.

We shot up the bottles and everything in sight. She did good, had the knack for freehand shooting.  It’s hard to tell somebody how to “look” the shot in,  but she figured it out right off and was mostly just honing in her eye control.  The last couple of bottles I threw up in the air and she hit all but one,  which I nailed after she missed twice, dusted it about three inches shy of the ground.  So then we were sitting on the roof of my car just hoping some varmint or terrorist cell would fly by so we could blow it away, just talking and maybe fooling around a little. She lived with this majorly gorgeous guy who worked on a cable series, and I don’t think she was really bi or anything.   But she liked contact.  Just sort of liked touching people she was talking with, getting a little cuddly, liked pretty women.  Pretty much like me.  We were sitting on the hood of her Lexus, leaning back on the windshield, arms around each other’s shoulders and she said, “Shooting kind of gets you hot, doesn’t it?”

I jumped up and grabbed my Ruger Blackhawk .38, beautiful cowboy shootin’ iron with hardwood grips.  I crouched down and held it poked out in front of me, emptied it into the sagebrush by fanning the hammer with the flat of my hand.  She sat up, legs hanging over the fender, staring at me wide-eyed.  I stepped over between her knees and put my hands on her shoulders.  She could feel the heat of the gun on the hair behind her head, and her eyes were kind of smoky, breathing kind of heavy.  I think if I’d shot off another cylinder right then, she’d have been all over me.  See, that’s why the “two-gun” set-up was so plausible back in the owlhoot day.  I was kind of looking down her cleavage in this old denim shirt, and it was quite a sight, let me tell you.  Her not much of a believer in constrictive things like bras.  It wouldn’t have taken much for me to plant a kiss right there in the gully, maybe tear off a few buttons.  Just that feeling.  She almost whispered, like six inches from my face.  Did I mention that this girl has a face that would make a blind nun skip a breath?  She said, “You’re a lot of fun, Cammy.  We should do this again.”

I said, “I know a guy who has a full automatic Czech assault rifle.”  I felt her sneaker just sort of touch me in the small of the back, her thighs tighten up a minute.   I still think all I would have had to do was make a move.  Then she fell over backward on the hood and kicked her legs up in the air, laughing like a fool.

We never did the machine gun date.  I think we both know how that would have ended up and both of us were kind of ambivalent about it.

But let me just point out for the record.  Really fine breasts and fully-automatic firearms go together than bacon and grits.