shots, but it’s an illusion. My cock threatens to explode as I envision what is in her future—in our future.
Staring through the lens at the screen before me, I watch as her tits bounce and her perfect white teeth shine surrounded by those full, glossy, red lips. My teeth clench at the sound of her laughter. How am I supposed to keep the camera steady as she giggles at something her co-anchor says? The man in makeup beside her is a prick. He doesn’t deserve her laughter or her words.
It isn’t a real laugh, I reassure myself. It’s part of her act, part of her TV personality. It’s simply for the cameras, for the audience. Her real rings of laughter, moans of desire, and screams of pain are for my ears only.
My chest fills with pride. I love that I’m the only one to hear those, and the only one to love her. Let the chorus begin.
“ T hat’s a wrap ,” Lonnie, the producer, says as his hand drops and the red lights fade from the multitude of cameras.
“Ms. Ellis, Ms. Ellis,” Jackie, Lonnie’s assistant, calls as she rushes past the cameras in my direction.
I can’t help but notice how the cameraman on camera three scowls at her as she calls my name.
“Yes, Jackie,” I answer as stagehands unclip my microphone, pull wires, and remove a small box from my waist. Sometimes it feels as if I’m bound by a million tethers as I sit appearing carefree, discussing the day’s events. If only they weren’t delicate wires, but unbreakable bindings.
I sigh. That’s not who I am.
Erika Ellis—news at five-thirty and six on channel fifty-three—that’s me. Milwaukee’s sweetheart. I can tell you about a school bus crash with the same smile upon my face as the one I wear when discussing the Future Farmers of America annual fund drive. I have a degree in broadcasting, but I sit behind the glass desk with my legs poised in heels too high to walk in, because the shoes make my calves appear sexier. That’s what the people who crunch the numbers say. Our ratings drop every time my heel length goes below four inches.
They’ve worked my skirt length to the centimeter—above my knees, but not showing too much thigh. It’s the female demographic over the age of forty that gets upset if the skirt is too short or accidently rides up. That’s what the number people tell me. In my opinion, it’s the tired moms who can’t keep their husbands happy and are jealous of my body. Keeping it in shape is part of my job.
Know the material. Stay current. Pronounce every name, even foreign dignitaries’, correctly and above all, stay in perfect ‘for TV’ shape. I’m glad there’s no pressure.
Keeping the balancing act going with each ball precisely in the air is an exhausting art and one I’m ready to set aside for a few days. Thankfully it’s Friday, and I’m not due back in front of the cameras until Monday. That doesn’t mean I can totally walk away. I have preparation for next week and the never-ending workouts. But for a few days, I can take off the plastic smile and relax.
It’s something my husband is always trying to get me to do. You’d think he’d understand the pressure it takes to be me, but he never has. Even this morning he was harping on and on. I didn’t have time or the energy to listen. We probably need some time to talk about each other’s desires. As if either of us has time for that. Nevertheless, that’s what our marriage counselor says we need to do. She encourages us to be honest with one another.
I never intended to be dishonest. What I’m starting to understand, after nearly five years of marriage, is that honesty isn’t only about telling the truth, but also about not withholding the truth.
“Ms. Ellis,” Jackie says, “I just got the call—Tamara is ill.”
Shit! Our talk will need to wait .
My shoulders straighten. I don’t want to stay and do the eleven o’clock news. I want to go home—not to talk, but to wash off the makeup and curl up with my Kindle. However,
Staring through the lens at the screen before me, I watch as her tits bounce and her perfect white teeth shine surrounded by those full, glossy, red lips. My teeth clench at the sound of her laughter. How am I supposed to keep the camera steady as she giggles at something her co-anchor says? The man in makeup beside her is a prick. He doesn’t deserve her laughter or her words.
It isn’t a real laugh, I reassure myself. It’s part of her act, part of her TV personality. It’s simply for the cameras, for the audience. Her real rings of laughter, moans of desire, and screams of pain are for my ears only.
My chest fills with pride. I love that I’m the only one to hear those, and the only one to love her. Let the chorus begin.
“ T hat’s a wrap ,” Lonnie, the producer, says as his hand drops and the red lights fade from the multitude of cameras.
“Ms. Ellis, Ms. Ellis,” Jackie, Lonnie’s assistant, calls as she rushes past the cameras in my direction.
I can’t help but notice how the cameraman on camera three scowls at her as she calls my name.
“Yes, Jackie,” I answer as stagehands unclip my microphone, pull wires, and remove a small box from my waist. Sometimes it feels as if I’m bound by a million tethers as I sit appearing carefree, discussing the day’s events. If only they weren’t delicate wires, but unbreakable bindings.
I sigh. That’s not who I am.
Erika Ellis—news at five-thirty and six on channel fifty-three—that’s me. Milwaukee’s sweetheart. I can tell you about a school bus crash with the same smile upon my face as the one I wear when discussing the Future Farmers of America annual fund drive. I have a degree in broadcasting, but I sit behind the glass desk with my legs poised in heels too high to walk in, because the shoes make my calves appear sexier. That’s what the people who crunch the numbers say. Our ratings drop every time my heel length goes below four inches.
They’ve worked my skirt length to the centimeter—above my knees, but not showing too much thigh. It’s the female demographic over the age of forty that gets upset if the skirt is too short or accidently rides up. That’s what the number people tell me. In my opinion, it’s the tired moms who can’t keep their husbands happy and are jealous of my body. Keeping it in shape is part of my job.
Know the material. Stay current. Pronounce every name, even foreign dignitaries’, correctly and above all, stay in perfect ‘for TV’ shape. I’m glad there’s no pressure.
Keeping the balancing act going with each ball precisely in the air is an exhausting art and one I’m ready to set aside for a few days. Thankfully it’s Friday, and I’m not due back in front of the cameras until Monday. That doesn’t mean I can totally walk away. I have preparation for next week and the never-ending workouts. But for a few days, I can take off the plastic smile and relax.
It’s something my husband is always trying to get me to do. You’d think he’d understand the pressure it takes to be me, but he never has. Even this morning he was harping on and on. I didn’t have time or the energy to listen. We probably need some time to talk about each other’s desires. As if either of us has time for that. Nevertheless, that’s what our marriage counselor says we need to do. She encourages us to be honest with one another.
I never intended to be dishonest. What I’m starting to understand, after nearly five years of marriage, is that honesty isn’t only about telling the truth, but also about not withholding the truth.
“Ms. Ellis,” Jackie says, “I just got the call—Tamara is ill.”
Shit! Our talk will need to wait .
My shoulders straighten. I don’t want to stay and do the eleven o’clock news. I want to go home—not to talk, but to wash off the makeup and curl up with my Kindle. However,
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