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The Feature Presentation

Showtime

By Viola BlackPublished about a year ago Updated 9 months ago 19 min read
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The Feature Presentation
Photo by Kyle Smith on Unsplash

The Roxy used to sit just off Leicester Square, on the outskirts of Soho.

We'd only shown 'classic' films. At least, that's what the marketing had said. The opposite was actually true.

Given the dubious taste of the manager (which - to put it politely - sucked), our schedule had been clogged up with movies that no cinephile would ever have dreamed of labelling 'classic.'

In one particularly bad week, our clueless leader had foisted 'Revenge of the Nerds', 'Jaws 3-D,' and 'Hawk the Slayer' on us. Unsurprisingly, no one came to watch any of them.

Luckily for him, the owners didn't mind. At least, not initially.

In the two years I'd worked here, I'd never met them. But, given their lack of interest in what we showed, how the cinema was run, or even if it made any profit, I'd always assumed that it was a front for something else.

However, I couldn't care less. As long as they paid me on time each week, they could've been using The Roxy to launder drug money for all the difference it would've made to me.

The only drawback had been the uniform they'd made me wear.

The blouse, short skirt, and small hat (worn at a jaunty angle) were all a bright, garish red, with the occasional white stripe. It was supposed to echo a 1950's drive-in, in keeping with the retro feel the Roxy had.

The only problem was that my costume had been at least two sizes too small; I looked like I'd just walked off the set of a porno set at an aforementioned 1950s drive-in. Luckily, we never had that many customers to be embarrassed in front of.

Don't get me wrong, uniform aside, I liked working there. For a start, given that our audience could often be counted using the fingers of one hand, I was never rushed off my feet. I'd had friends who'd worked for some of the big cinema chains, schlepping their arses cleaning toilets, and serving popcorn for twelve hours a day on minimum wage.

I had done no such thing.

I wasn't lazy. In fact, I was pretty industrious. At that time, I was also in the last year of my law degree, and working my backside off to get that First that would open up doors that my working-class background wouldn't open for me. Given the effort I put into my studies, I didn't feel guilty about having a part-time job that didn't stretch me.

The fact that my boss, and his owners, didn't care about me being stretched either, salved my conscience.

There was another reason why I had enjoyed working there. Despite my manager having had almost zero cinematic taste, he did (sometimes) get it right. I'm fairly certain he'd done this by accident, but - occasionally - he would schedule a copper-bottomed classic. One such instance was Charles Laughton's 'Night of the Hunter' starring a terrifying, and, let's be honest, sexy Robert Mitchum.

Yes - it started to wear after the fifth showing. But, watching it for the first time was one of the single most enjoyable experiences of my life. It was simply wondrous.

However, the film was also - indirectly - responsible for the second most enjoyable experience of my life.

He had been a regular customer. I didn't know his name, nor had I - in my mind - given him a name. But, after 'Night of the Hunter', I christened him Mitchum.

It wasn't that he was a doppelganger, though, with his dimpled chin, dark eyes, and black, slicked-back hair, there had been similarities; the name just seemed to fit. He could've easily been an actor himself - maybe he was; I didn't know. If he was, I'd never seen him in anything.

But, given what I did at The Roxy, I didn't watch a lot of TV when I got home. That place gave me all the screen time I needed. For all I knew, my Mitchum could've been a regular in a soap opera, and I still wouldn't have known.

He was tall, broad, and dark. Not classically handsome, more like Bogart: Not good-looking but - boy - there was something about him. And there was certainly something about my Mitchum.

Like his namesake and any old-school Hollywood star, he had always been dressed in a suit. I liked the fact that whilst everyone else was wearing skin-tight, single-breasted Tom Ford numbers, and trying to be like Daniel Craig, my Mitchum instead chose double-breasted suits, normally in understated charcoal, or unobtrusive chalk stripes. He was a bit of a throwback, and I liked him even more for it.

I had fantasised about him, I'll admit.

Between the Roxy and my studies, I didn't have the time for a relationship. A few drunken fondles with various people off my course had been the sum total of my sexual adventures since moving to the Capital. But, all of my recent conquests had been… well, boys.

I'm sure that a few have matured into decent examples of manhood. However, they hadn't been at that present moment in time. They were students, no more than kids. Immature, and awkward.

My Mitchum was different.

It wasn't just the age, it was the way he carried himself.

Although I'd never seen him with anyone else, he didn't seem lonely, or even a loner. He appeared to come to the Roxy simply because he enjoyed coming here. Far from the self-consciousness that normally accompanied people when attending the cinema alone, he seemed at ease. With himself.

Compared with the awkwardness of the men on my course, I'd found my Mitchum's self-assuredness so, so (so) fucking sexy.

More than once, I'd masturbated whilst imagining his strong hands holding me.

Was there 'anything' between us? Honestly, no.

We'd exchanged polite greetings, but it was cursory and professional. I'd watched him run his eyes over my body more than once, but given the amount of flesh I had on display, that wasn't exactly significant of anything. You couldn't help but look.

And, you've got to remember, I wasn't the self-confident lawyer I am now. A few years later I would've asked him out on a date without flinching. Back then, I was in my early twenties, still very much in my shell.

Well, not entirely in my shell as what happened next proves.

However, everything changed the night they closed us down.

It was always going to happen; even if we were a front for something nefarious, we made a very bad one. Even the dimmest tax inspector could've seen that we made no money.

Whatever the reason, the owners had decided enough was enough, and it was time to cash in on the piece of prime real estate they held in London's West End. There was no protracted severance; I simply came into work one night and got told that it was my last shift.

Given the shoddiness of the cinema, the manager wasn't even there that final night to inform me. Simon, the projectionist/assistant manager / general dogsbody told me. He'd been a lovely man, though a bit too fond of the whiskey. He was in his mid-forties, but the booze had aged him. The projection booth always reeked of it. Anyway, that night, he'd shared.

After three glasses of Johnnie Walker, I stumbled in to watch 'Night of the Hunter' one last, final time.

And, given that I'd been manning the ticket counter, I knew we only had one customer; my Mitchum.

As to what happened next, I blame the whiskey.

Instead of instantly taking up residence on the seat reserved for the ushers, I'd - unsteadily - walked over to him.

"Hello," I said, wearing my most professional smile.

"Hello," he'd replied. His deep, baritone voice stirred something inside of me, and I'd regretted leaving it so, so late to converse with him. "Is there something wrong?"

"Depends on how you look at it, really," I'd said. "After tonight's showing, the cinema is closing. I thought, as one of our few regulars, you'd like to know."

"That's a shame," he said, slowly. "I like this place. Old-fashioned. Homely."

"I know," I'd said. "I think I'll miss it."

"Me too," he'd replied. "Thank you for taking the time to inform me."

However, although his words appeared to be a polite dismissal, his dark eyes suggested otherwise.

You know when someone likes you, you know how you just 'feel' it? It's like each of your pheromones leap out ahead of you, and became entangled in an invisible dance out there in the ether, connecting you.

Well, I was fairly certain that had just happened.

Either that or I really couldn't handle the whiskey.

"Anyway, I'll be over there if you need anything," I'd said, gesturing to the seat that was affixed to the wall to our right. It was supposed to give me an unobstructed view of the auditorium, so I could keep watch on the customers. However, given we rarely had any, my eyes spent more time pointing at the screen than the rows of empty, plush-velvet seats.

"Anything?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow quizzically.

"Yep - anything," I replied.

Looking back, my emphasis on the word 'anything' was probably way too obvious. I was hardly being subtle, and the salaciousness in my voice was blatant. Whether it was the booze or the thought that tonight might be the last time I saw my Mitchum or just the simple fact I was horny, I wasn't hiding anything.

Not anymore.

I span and tottered over to my seat. I'm not sure if Simon was watching us from the booth, but as soon as my backside hit the chair, the lights came down, and the screen flickered into life.

We didn't bother with trailers - we always proceeded straight to the main feature. Within seconds of sitting, the auditorium was filled with Walter Schumann's haunting score. I turned my head and began watching the opening credits of Laughton's masterpiece.

But, my mind was elsewhere. It was still with my Mitchum.

Should I do… well, something?

The combination of the whiskey, and the Roxy closing, had freed me. I had that same Devil-may-care attitude I'd always had on the last day of term. Except, that night, I hadn't had to worry about future consequences. Once the film finished, that was it; my days at the Roxy were over.

Also, I lived in the East End, miles away from Soho, and rarely travelled into the middle of London. My university was near my home, as were the bars and pubs I frequented. I never minded the commute to the Roxy, but - the next time I looked for a part-time job - I was going to seek something closer to my cramped apartment. I wasn't going to get another job in the West End.

And, given that my socializing was also done in the East, the chances of bumping into my Mitchum - either personally or professionally - were slim.

It could be a case of what happens in the Roxy, stays in the Roxy.

Should I…?

I turned my head, hoping to grab a sneaky look at him. I wasn't expecting to see him staring right at me.

Boldly, he didn't turn away. He continued to look at me. Even in the almost-gloom, I could feel his dark eyes boring into me. My heart upped its beating, and my breath momentarily caught in my throat.

Coolly, like him, I maintained eye contact.

And I knew - knew - that we were on the verge of that 'anything' becoming a 'something.' All we needed was a push. A gentle shove…

So I spread my legs.

It wasn't subtle, but - screw it - we were way beyond the need for hints now. Subtlety had left the building a long time ago.

Looking back now, I'm amazed I was so overt, so brazen. But the combination of knowing this was my last shift here, and the whiskey, had shattered any inhibitions. And as for the risk of being caught, doing something sexual in a public space? It only added an extra layer of decadence to the whole affair. I couldn't give a damn about someone seeing us. Hell, at that moment, I would have invited them to join in.

I was in full slut mode.

And, quite frankly, I loved it.

The projected beam of the movie spilt out into the auditorium, intermittently piercing through the darkness. During one of those moments, the white cotton of my panties would have been clearly visible to my Mitchum.

I watched as he lifted his arm, and placed his hand in his lap. Unlike me, who was sitting at an angle to the projection booth, and with nothing shielding me from the occasional halo of light, his upper body meant the area by his groin still remained in relative darkness.

The darkness of the auditorium merged with his black suit, so I couldn't be sure, but I was pretty certain he was currently massaging his erect cock. Yeah - I was feeling so cocky that I assumed any hard-on he had was due to me. That's where my head was that night.

However…

No, no, no - that wouldn't do at all. Not tonight. This evening the normal rules didn't apply. Anything was possible. And it was time to extend an invitation.

Slowly, I stood up. Teasingly, I raised the hem of my (already) short skirt; my panties were now on full display. Hooking my thumbs and index fingers around the waistband of my underwear, I pulled them down over my thighs. Gravity took over and my panties fell to the floor.

I felt the fresh air kiss my pussy, and a wave of excitement crashed over me.

I lifted my left foot away from my panties, but - for the moment - kept my right foot where it was. Mentally, I calculated the distance from him. Twenty feet, maximum. I flicked my right foot, and my underwear sailed across the empty space between us. My panties landed on the edge of the seat in front of him.

I could have done this a hundred times and never got them as close to him as I did that night; my luck seemed to be in. It seemed a waste not to exploit it.

I sat back down and spread my legs again.

Slowly, I raised my right arm and placed it in my lap. I inched my feet wider apart and moved my hand downwards until my fingertips touched my moist pussy. I knew what worked for me - it might have been weird, but I knew I preferred the right side of my clit to be massaged. Why the left side never did it for me I'll never know.

Using the tip of my index finger, I began to gently rub my clit. Up and down. Up and down. I could feel that fizzy excitement start to bubble and boil in the pit of my tummy and around my spine. Leisurely, I played with myself, all the time staring at my Mitchum.

Suddenly, a horrid thought erupted in my brain: What if he didn't do anything? What if he just sat there watching me? What if…?

He stood.

Without taking his eyes off me, he edged his way out of the row. He appeared to be in no rush. He moved elegantly, lithely, like a glorious wild canine. An inner-city jaguar. His eyes continued to be fixed on mine. I felt as if I was prey being slowly stalked. Purposefully, he strode down the few stairs until he was on the same level as me.

He stood there, towering over me. Watching me. Occasionally his dark eyes would flick down towards my lap. What would he…?

Smoothly, he lowered himself to the ground, kneeling in front of me,

He leaned forward and kissed my stomach. Another burst of electricity washed over me. I felt his large hands slowly lower onto my knees. I don't know why, but - given his overt masculinity - I'd assumed his skin would be tough, rough. It wasn't. His hands were soft.

Another kiss at the base of my belly; another frisson of energy exploded within me. Gently, his palms moved - almost floated - along my thighs. As they did, his head lowered. Slowly, his lips were inching nearer to my pussy. Suddenly, the sound of the film ceased to exist; all I could think of was the man below me.

I shuddered as his wet lips touched the folds of my labia.

I wasn't an expert on oral sex, but he seemed to be. His lips and tongue didn't make a beeline straight for my clit. He treated my private regions as a diner would approach the layout of cutlery at a fancy restaurant; starting from the outside and working his way in, my Mitchum initially focused o my labia, pecking, and running the tip of his tongue along the outer, and then inner folds of my vulva.

With each touch, my arousal grew. I know it was an illusion, I knew that I couldn't really feel it, but the more his mouth caressed me, the faster the blood seemed to flow to my clit. I felt my toes curling at the end of my pumps. Felt the muscles in my calves contract.

Instinctively, my body slid down the chair. Opening myself up further for him.

I was already wet; his tongue only added more moisture. If I had been at home, going solo, I might have coated my pussy in lube - it definitely wasn't needed tonight.

I was eager. My impatience was at a fever pitch, in tune with my heartbeat.

But still, he maintained his languid progress.

He was lightly licking me as if his tongue was chasing errant ice cream dripping down the side of a cone.

Then…

Finally, he moved inwards.

I sighed as his tongue circled my clit in a slow figure-of-eight motion. With each circuit, he increased his intensity. I was panting now; I was certain that my laboured breathing could be heard, even over the sound of the film.

But I didn't care.

I raised my arms and grabbed a handful of his dark, thick hair in each hand. He wasn't going anywhere. Not yet.

His tongue started to move more quickly around my clit. I pulled on his hair more firmly. Now, I wanted to shout. Move inwards. Now!

Finally, his tongue kissed my clit.

I sighed again and slid even lower. My arse was on the very edge of the seat, my pussy rammed firmly against Mitchum's beautiful face.

I knew me: Normally, I'd still need a lot of work from this point on to even get myself close to climax. Not tonight.

The whiskey… my final shift… the sheer audacity of doing all of this so publicly…

It was a heady, potent brew that had heightened my horniness.

My Mitchum targeted my clit, circling it more intensely. Finally, the tip of his tongue focused on it. His rapid licking matched my staccato heartbeat and my fevered breathing.

With every contact, I came closer…

Fast and faster his tongue pecked at my clit…

I closed my eyes…

I pulled his hair…

I felt the muscles in my legs contract, tighten…

His tongue continued to work on me…

Like a champagne cork suddenly flying free, my horniness reached the point of no return. I came. Loudly and gloriously.

The first wave forced my legs to involuntarily close, trapping my Mitchum in place. I groaned, as the ripples extended from my lap and outwards, making my limbs shudder and jerk.

The second wave brought another contraction; my thighs tightened again, holding him even more tightly against me.

After a few seconds, my body relaxed. I opened my eyes and groggily stared downwards. Tiny pinpricks of light partially obscured my vision, but I could also clearly see him looking at me, wearing a lopsided smile.

Slowly, he stood. I watched him flatten down his hair, and adjust his suit. Smiling, he turned and leisurely made his way back to his seat.

Neither one of us had said a word.

I sat there, trying to comprehend what has just happened, debating if I should say anything…

Except at some point, I fell asleep.

I didn't mean to, but the post-coital come down, and the booze had wrapped me in a soporific blanket of relaxation. Simon woke me after the film had finished. He had the decency to neither mention what had happened, nor the fact that I was knicker-less. My Mitchum was gone. In his defence, he'd left a note: "I didn't want to wake you."

And, after retrieving my underwear, I was gone too.

And that was my last night at The Roxy.

That was ten years ago.

A few weeks after The Roxy closed, I got a job pulling pints in a pub close to my flat. I remained employed there until I graduated. It was a silly fantasy, but every so often I imagined the doors to the pub being flung open and seeing my Mitchum stride through them.

It never happened.

I graduated, joined a law firm, and - whilst working during the day - at night I studied for my Masters. Five years after leaving The Roxy, I was a junior partner in a company that specialized in maritime law and lived in a nice flat in Blackheath. Things were good. I remained single but my job didn't really give me the time to be lonely.

One night, I was leafing through What's On when I came across an advert for a small, independent cinema in Soho, near to where The Roxy used to stand. They were showing 'Night of the Hunter.' I hadn't consciously thought of the film for years. But I knew I had to see it. Would he…?

So, after work, one Winter's evening, I walked the short distance from my office on Oxford Street to Soho. The cinema was, quaintly, reminiscent of The Roxy. Run-down in a charming kind of way.

I bought my ticket from a sullen-looking, young woman manning the ticket counter, and - alone - entered the auditorium. I was the only customer. Like The Roxy, this cinema didn't bother with trailers; the film began almost instantly.

A few minutes in, the auditorium was briefly bathed in light as the entrance door was opened. Whether it was a late customer or a bored member of staff I couldn't say; I was already lost in Laughton's fantastic visuals…

Someone had sat next to me. I couldn't believe it; they had the whole auditorium to choose from, and they'd willingly selected a spare seat next to mine. Instinctively, I turned my head to see…

It was my Mitchum.

I couldn't lie - he was the real reason why I came. As it transpired, I was the reason he did too.

There was no repeat of what happened that night in the Roxy. In fact, we didn't even exchange a word during the film, let alone any sort of intimacy. However, afterwards, once we'd got our halting greetings out of the way, we did go for a drink.

We got married one year later.

He is not an actor: He is a psychologist. He is ten years older than me but never married. His real name is Jacob.

But he will always be my Mitchum.

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About the Creator

Viola Black

Love, life, and the awkward bits in between - including sex.

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