Worth A Thousand Words – Angelina Jolie

Ever felt like you were on some sort of adventure that’s being filmed by some cosmic director, as if your whole life in one particular instance was a solo scene out of “Thelma and Louise”?

That summed up my feelings at the moment quite well.

I stepped out of my old 1976 Buick Skylark convertible, which was coated in a blanket of desert dust. The sun was merciless and beat down like an alcoholic drill sergeant, but I couldn’t flip on an AC switch because–surprise, surprise–it didn’t have one that worked. The open air was all I had to cool me.

Needless to say, it wasn’t much.

When I finally came upon an old terra cotta-looking structure, I felt blessed. Perhaps it was a diner, or a bar, and I could catch something cool to drink. Either that or a lovely case of Montezuma’s revenge.

I wasn’t entirely across the border, though. I had a couple hundred miles to go, but for the time being, I was in some tiny Arizona town, one so small that I didn’t even catch it on an interstate road sign. It was the 2nd of May, and I was heading down to Mexico City to participate in the Cinco de Mayo celebrations. I had a few friends who were already vacationing around that area, and I was to meet up with them there.

So, with my sunglasses glued to my face and my boots generously slathered in the dust, I headed into the little clay establishment, praying they had some sort of liquor there. I wasn’t meaning to get drunk, for I still had a ways to drive, but I did need to take the edge off.

It felt like a scene from some 70’s spaghetti western, and that I was the lone cowboy (girl), heading into the saloon.

I laughed out loud, for it was so trite. My head practically lived in Hollywood.

I shook my head and pushed aside the double doors (just like a saloon! Hell, why not?). There was a modest little gathering that looked up upon my entrance. A man halted in the midst of a pool shot, a few looked up from their booze to catch a glimpse–I felt like I had been sent before a firing squad, just by some of the stares I was receiving. I obviously was not a local, and they could sniff me out without any trouble. I decided to just walk in there, order as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, and get the hell out.

I chose a bar stool next to a tall, lanky girl with long, messy honey blond hair, bordering on a brownish tint. She was huddled over a glass, and from my vantage point, I couldn’t make out any facial features. Which was just as well. She’d have probably voiced what most everyone in there was thinking: go to hell.

I looked at the bartender, who was half-smiling (leering) at me. “Shot of the house wine, please?” I asked, knowing that would most likely be the strongest tequila they had. The bartender nodded and grabbed a shot glass and a handmade, liter-sized flask bearing no label. He poured me a stout shot and was about to walk off.

The girl beside me spoke up. “Miguel! Another, please?” she said, holding up her shot glass and giving it a small, obstinate shake. He immediately obliged.

I was impressed. Her cocksure voice had definitely driven her point across that she was not to be fucked with. I admired such poise. She then looked over at me, and I got my first glimpse at the stranger with the no-nonsense attitude.

My pulse nearly froze. I immediately recognized the almond-shaped, close set eyes. Those pouty, mesmerizing, full lips. That gaze that said both “come hither” and “fuck you” at the same time.

Angelina Jolie.

What in the hell was Angelina Jolie doing in a little rat shack like this? Shouldn’t she have been wining and dining somewhere with her Hollywood cohorts, or snuggling with Billy Bob in some booth in an elite Beverly Hills restaurant? I nearly slapped myself in the head to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. The coincidence to end all coincidences!

Now, normally, I view “stars” as just normal human beings, like myself and the next guy, that just happen to have extraordinary jobs. But Angelina–something just seemed otherworldly about Angelina. Not only was she stunningly gorgeous, but she also appeared not to really fit into all of the cliches associated with her occupation. Of course, I guess that was reason enough to rationalize the fact that she was in this smoky, dark shanty of a watering hole. Perhaps she felt comfortable in the rare small, earthy establishments still left in the industrial world. I had to admit that even I was feeling inspired by a sense of adventure in this of all places. Running across her, however, seemed to be like finding a doubloon in a sand trap.

So of course one couldn’t expect me to keep my mouth shut.

I cleared my throat and ran through about twelve different greetings, all of which seemed completely inappropriate and awkward. ‘Shit, Lisa,’ I told myself. ‘Just say hello.’ Innocent enough.

“Hi,” I said meekly.

Without even so much as an upward glance, she grunted, “Fuck off.”

“Okay,” I said quickly, looking down to my untouched drink. “Sorry.”

I felt her eyes on me again. “Who the hell are you?” She demanded.

“I’m Lisa,” I offered politely, still having a little trouble looking her in the eyes after such a strong rebuff.

“Yeah, so what, did ‘Weekly World’ send you or something?” Angelina pressed, scathingly.

It finally dawned on me. “Weekly Wor–you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not a reporter,” I said softly. “Just a big fan.”

“Right, and after I down a few drinks, you’re going to be asking me my life’s story. I can smell all of you from miles away,” she said, gazing back down into her half-full shot.

I shook my head. “Seriously. Search anything of mine you want. You won’t find even a book of a matches with a tabloid logo,” I said solemnly. “I’m really not a reporter. I’m just…shocked to see you here.”

Her expression softened a bit. “Fine. I’ll bite,” she said a bit skeptically. She then offered her hand. “Angelina. Blah, blah, blah. I’m sure I don’t have to go through the whole preliminary routine.”

I smiled, and grasped her hand. “Lisa. Blah, blah, blah. I think I’ll spare you the boredom as well.”

Angelina’s dour expression finally burst, like the first ray of dawn’s light, into a soft smile. “Forgive the rudeness earlier. I think it’s just Miguel’s lighter fluid talking,” she said, glaring at the bartender and then her shot glass.

“No problem. If it was every day that I got mistaken for Lois Lane, I wouldn’t have so many self-esteem issues,” I said jokingly. “So, would I be completely out of line if I asked you why you’re in some place like this?”

She shook her head. “Just traveling. Taking a break. Drove out from California.”

I nodded. “I just thought most of the Hollywood A-List would be out vacationing at some fancy schmancy resort in the mountains.”

Angelina replied with a snort that would’ve made a Clydesdale proud. “Shit. I can’t think of anything more boring than standing around in the sub-zero fucking cold trying to careen down a mountain with two little poles in my hands. I mean, Sonny Bono bit it that way. No thanks,” she said.

I laughed. “Hear hear,” I replied, raising my as yet untouched shot of tequila.

“So, why are *you* heading through?” Angelina asked, looking soberly at me.

“Joining some friends for Cinco de Mayo,” I answered, downing the shot. I immediately felt a sharp sting of warmth slide down my gullet and all through my chest. I grimaced and immediately said, “Fuck! That’s stout.”

“Shit’ll knock you on your ass,” she said with a chuckle.

“Then I think I’ll just quit while I’m ahead,” I replied, pushing the glass away from me. Miguel came over and swiped the glass into his massive paw of a hand. “Water?” I asked politely. Miguel gave a knowing grin and nodded, not saying a word as he poured a glass of fresh iced water.

“You sure you wanna do that?” Angelina asked ominously. “That water might be worse than the teq.”

Miguel set the glass in front of me and walked off. I shrugged. “If I’m not going to win either way…,” I said, taking a healthy swig of the water.

Time folded into itself, with Angelina and I chatting away. We covered almost every topic imaginable, from pets to music to sports to politics…just everything. Finally, the conversation turned to relationships, and more specifically, her marriage to Billy Bob Thornton.

“Man…,” she started contemplatively, looking into her empty glass, having just polished off her fourth shot in an hour and a half. “Everyone’s got a fuckin’ opinion about us. They just have to speculate it so much. First of all, it’s none of their goddamned business. That’s foremost. But then, even if it was, they don’t know. They’re not there, and they don’t see the things in him that I do. I’m a big girl, I can handle a relationship, and Jesus Christ, I’m aware of how much older than me he is. But the question is, do I give a fuck? The answer, you can guess, is no. I don’t.”

I nodded, understanding perfectly. “Gotta do what trips your trigger.”

“Exactly,” she said. “And Billy Bob trips the living hell out of MY trigger.” She paused, fiddling with a paper coaster, soaked with condensation, that lay on the counter. “What I really love about him is that he’s fun. He’s such a fun guy. I mean, never a boring moment around him. He’s just crazy. And he’s not judgmental. He accepts everything about me. Everything I am. Hell, everything I’ve DONE.”

“Done? Like what?” I asked, feeling a tired buzz sweep over me. The heat and that one shot of Miguel’s version of engine degreaser was starting to get to me.

“Well…I was always pretty wild before I met him. I still am. And I’m bisexual, but of course, everyone knows that by now. He doesn’t turn his nose up. In fact, he embraces it. I think he’s just trying to push for a three-way, though,” Angelina said fondly with a soft, reminiscent laugh.

I raised my eyebrows. “Sounds like an awesome guy,” I said at last, thoroughly impressed. More by the fact that she was bisexual rather than by Billy Bob, but he did sound like good people.

Angelina was silent again for a few moments before she hopped off the barstool and grabbed my arm. “C’mon,” she said, unceremoniously tugging at my hand.

I rose, a bit confused and a tiny bit tipsy. “Where are we going?”

“I’m staying in one of those lovely locally-owned roach motels. I’ve got some things I want to show you. We’ll take my car,” Angelina said, pulling me behind her. Before she could completely drag me out, I threw a few bucks on the counter to pay for the drinks. Then I tried to focus on the situation. Angelina Jolie was dragging me back to her room, at a MOTEL.

Holy…Jesus…

Angelina flicked on the light in a sparsely furnished room with a double-sized bed, a small TV, and a tiny table with two chairs. An air conditioning unit that obstructed the room’s only window clamored like a diesel engine and didn’t do a lot to keep the room cool. Still, it was better than the bar.

Angelina immediately ran to a boom box sitting on the dresser and flicked a switch to turn on a local FM radio station that played Top 40. “I love music,” she said, kicking her shoes off. “Have to have it. I don’t even watch the TV that much. But I’ve got to have the radio, at least.”

She bent down to rummage in a bag that lay neatly made bed. As she craned downward, I got a look at her fabulous ass. Granted, it wasn’t the fullest and roundest I had ever seen, but it made my mouth water nonetheless. When she straightened up, I saw that she was holding a couple of photo wallets.

She gave an earnest grin. “Pictures. These’ll help you understand Billy Bob and I, if a picture really IS worth a thousand words.” She plopped down on the bed, resting her lithe frame up against the old, dark stained wooden headboard. She patted the spot next to her. “Sit. Look.”

I did as told, and happily. She flipped through what must have been over a hundred different pictures of Billy Bob, herself, and the two of them posing together. They did look immensely happy, as if each moment they had captured was the happiest one of either of their lives. Some shots were spontaneous; others were obviously staged. But all conveyed how much the lovebirds adored one another. Denying the existence of a perfectly healthy relationship between the two, after seeing those pictures, was damn near next to impossible.

Angelina looked through each picture as if she was seeing it for the first time. She seemed to notice things in them that she perhaps hadn’t caught before. After she had gone through every one, some twice, she fished out one picture of herself alone, flashing her beautiful pout for Billy Bob’s eager shutter.

She grabbed a pen from off the night stand by the bed and scribbled something on the back. She then thrust the picture in my direction.

In scrolling, loopy handwriting, she had written, “You will remember tonight. Angelina.”

Before the words could fully register, she leapt off the bed with such gusto that I nearly toppled off. “Ooh! I love this song! C’mon,” she said, grabbing my hand insistently yet again. “You dance, don’t you?”

My feeble “not really” didn’t faze her. I expected her to just start bogeying in front of me, and I was thoroughly surprised when she began to slither around me, dancing seductively to a song with a moderate, pulsing groove; I believe it was a song by Aaliyah. She swayed fluidly to the music, and for a moment, I paused to watch.

Angelina’s exquisitely boyish body was absolutely crafted for such dancing. Her hips swayed in perfect motion, the rest of her body flowing in response as if made of water. Her beautiful straw- blonde hair swung back and forth as she moved, and in her eyes was a smoldering, from-under expression of inherent lust for the dance, that seductive gaze that most dancers give their partners. I could see her gorgeous breasts bob beneath her thin, white camisole. Her slim thighs looked as if they’d been melted and poured into her worn jeans.

She was absolutely breathtaking.

Despite my lack of natural rhythm and technical knowhow, I had to join her. She grinned when I began to move, too. She came up, consistent in her gypsy-like movements, and put her arms around me as if we were slow dancing. I immediately slid my hands around her waist, and I felt her body press into mine. She then dipped low in some elaborate dance move, and I instinctively followed. We both slithered downward, pressed tightly against each other, and back up again. I laughed with the exhilaration of it all; my body was a race of adrenaline and hormones, not to mention that I was genuinely enjoying myself.

Suddenly, Angelina let go of me, and whirled around so that she was now behind me, her breasts pressed into my back. I stiffened up immediately; I had no idea what she was doing.

“Just relax,” she said. “Do what you were doing. It’s the same thing, only I’m behind you.”

I shrugged. Sounded simple enough.

It was anything but; I was so tense and aroused at the same time that I couldn’t concentrate on anything she or I was doing. By the time the song had ended, we were a chorused eruption of giggles.

“I just realized that I am a PATHETIC dancer!” I exclaimed unabashedly.

“So did I,” Angelina chimed, her singsong laugh only serving to tickle me further.

“You’re an amazing dancer, Angie,” I said in awe, realizing that I had just nicknamed her. “It’s okay to call you Angie, right?”

Angelina’s expression softened from one of hysterical laughter to one of pleased complacence. “Yeah. Billy Bob calls me that.”

I nodded. “Okay. Angie.”

She seemed overcome for a moment, then snapped back into her perky, energetic self. “Whew!” She said, tugging at the neckline of her tank top. “It is HOT!” With that, she lifted her shirt over her head with the grace of a ballerina and tossed it to the floor.

She was wearing no bra.

I felt my breath catch in my throat. My eyes were then fixated; Jack the Ripper could have emerged from the washroom and I wouldn’t have even blinked. I gazed at Angelina’s breasts, so full and tanned and heavy. Exquisite.

She must have known right off. “Get a little nervous, did you? You’ve seen naked women before, huh?”

“No…I mean, I have, but I never…,” I said, blushing profusely.

“Never?” Angelina prompted.

“Never like you,” I forced out. “I was just a little stunned.”

Angelina grinned. “Well, this is only the top half, sweetie.” She then unbuttoned her form-fitting jeans and peeled them off until she stood completely nude. “THIS is my body.”

My eyes were now virtually raping her. Those perfect thighs, those narrow hips; that flat stomach and smooth, tanned skin; that perfectly trimmed V of hair covering her groin. Had I been standing I would have fallen at her feet.

“Well? Do I get a verdict, or am I just going to stand here and be the naked idiot?” Angelina said with a giggle.

“It’s…I’m…shit,” I said, stumbling horribly all over my words. “Lovely. Very nice.”

“We’re going quid pro quo on this one. Let’s see you,” she said flippantly, prompting me to strip. I just sat there, still flabbergasted. I had no idea what to do. I had come this far only to be cold-cocked into a silent stupor by her nudity. I was literally watching a platinum opportunity race by before my very eyes.

Angelina, though, was not so easily subdued. “Here,” she said, taking my hands and pulling me to my feet from where I sat on the edge of the bed. “I guess can I help out some.” With that, she began unbuttoning my short, tight yellow shirt. She plucked at each of the buttons with her fingers, each one relenting until it was gaping open, revealing my black bra underneath. She pushed the shirt back and down my arms until it was on the floor.

“Hm. A bra. How conservative,” she said boredly. “But a black one…not bad.” She reached underneath my arms and around my back to unhook the bra. In no time, faster than any man ever had, she slid the straps off my shoulders and away went the bra.

Palms flat, Angelina smoothed her hands up and down my bared back. “Such soft skin,” she cooed gently. “How do you keep such pretty skin, especially out in the desert, hm?”

I shook my head. “I…I dunno.” Dammit, Lisa, be a little smoother than this.

She continued to run her hands over my body, her soft hands dancing over my arms and shoulders, around my neck and back down again, and finally to my chest, where she inched her way down millimeter by millimeter.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Angelina asked with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

All I could do was shake my head like a mute retard.

She suddenly yanked her hands, which had been almost at my breasts, down to my stomach, and she was tugging at the band of my jeans. “You know, I think every woman should just once in her life be undressed by another woman. We’re all so afraid of each other, you know? Like we’re all competitive, enemies, adversaries. We should all be friends. Love each other. Don’t you think?” Angelina contemplated allowed as she unhooked my jeans.

“Makes sense,” I said vaguely, my mind on her busy hands.

I felt my jeans being pushed down my hips, which were curvy and fuller than Angelina’s. She pulled them all the way down, and pushed each of my legs out of its corresponding jean leg. Now I was naked, and despite the heat, the room all of a sudden grew chilly. I could feel goose bumps crawling across my flesh.

Angelina stood back and admired me, letting out a low, sliding whistle of approval. “So nice, darling. So sexy,” she purred. She circled me, checking out each side of me, occasionally touching. “I’m jealous. You’ve really got a gorgeous body.”

She paused finally, standing behind me again as she had while we were dancing. I felt her arms slide around me, and her now bare breasts against my back. She leaned in close to my ear, so close that I could feel her sweet, warm breath. “So what’s the story, huh? Is this new to you?” She whispered.

“No,” I managed to force out. “I’m bisexual, too.” It was true, though I hadn’t practiced in awhile.

“You seem so tense, though,” she said, rocking me back and forth in her arms.

“It’s…just you,” I said honestly, closing my eyes and praying I didn’t say the wrong thing. “You’re…incredibly sexy. I’m just trying to digest the fact that…this is really happening.”

“It is,” Angelina said, her voice low and sultry. “It’s happening, and I want you to relax, sweetheart. I want you to mellow out and enjoy this the right way. ‘Kay?”

I nodded, barely able to speak as I felt her hands glide across my body, up my torso until they finally reached my breasts. She fingered my nipples tenderly, her fingertips exerting only a feather light touch, so that they grew as hard as pencil erasers in about five seconds. She pulled my hair from my neck with one hand, and began lightly kissing my neck with those full, wonderful lips of hers. The warmth from her mouth, her body, and her touch was sending me into a coma of euphoria. My breathing grew heavy, labored, as her hands and lips made love to me completely. She touched me everywhere, traced my body manually as if committing the shape to memory, and my only thought was that she was going lower, lower, and lower still. I sucked in a breath as I felt her fingers skating over my mound, threading through my trimmed nest of hair.

Without hesitation, she opened my outer lips with just one finger, sliding it deep into the very center of my heat. I knew that she could feel profuse warmth and wetness, as my pussy was throbbing and twitching with desire, and my knees nearly buckled when the tip of her manicured nail brushed my clit. I let out a moan, and grasped the arm that was still around my waist.

“Oh, we like that, don’t we?” Angelina breathed seductively into my ear. “I’ve gotten you all soaking wet, now, haven’t I? Yes, yes…”

I shut my eyes tight, my clit feeling tight enough to burst as she ran her fingers in languorous circles around that hard little nub. I moaned even louder, with each contact from her finger.

“That’s it, sweetie. You want me so bad, now, don’t you? You want me to spread open your legs and run my tongue through your pussy? Is that what you want? You want me to fuck you? Huh?” She persisted, rubbing my clit harder, my lust intensifying as she questioned me, pulled out every desire I felt in that moment.

I nodded, moaning fervently and squirming at her touch.

“What was that?” She pressed, rubbing faster.

“Yes,” I breathed raggedly, wishing she would just do it before I would explode.

“Yes, what, dearie?”

“Yes, I want you to fuck me. Please,” I said loudly in a hoarse cry.

She turned to face me, pressing her body against mine, her pelvis against my pelvis, and I could feel the heat radiating from her pussy. She leaned in, sliding her hand to the back of my neck, and pulled me in, kissing me. Her tongue wasted no time getting acquainted with mine, and I feasted on those sensual, plump lips, enjoying the sweet taste of her luscious kiss. She inched me backwards until I could feel the edge of the bed on the backs of my knees. I instinctively sat, watching her move over me slowly. She grabbed my shoulders and gently pushed me onto my back, so that I was laying before her. I scooted up some on the bed so that my legs weren’t hanging off. I flexed my knees a bit, and spread my legs ever so slightly. She pushed them the rest of the way apart.

I almost wanted to scream when I felt her wet mouth on my body, starting at my thighs. Her tongue was so gentle, yet so firm, that I knew exactly what I was in for. She inched her way higher, and my pussy was literally crying to be licked, sucked, caressed by this beautiful woman. She was almost there, and I lifted my hips just a hair in anticipation. Suddenly, I felt her spread me open, her fingers opening my lips, and dip her tongue into my warm recesses.

The shock of the sensation felt like a rush of hot desert wind. I gasped right when her flesh collided with mine. Her tongue bathed my pussy, already soaking wet, so that it felt near melting point. I knew she was tasting the salty/spicy blend of my juices, and I could tell that she was enjoying them as she zealously strived to drink even more.

I couldn’t keep my pelvis from squirming in an erotic dance, much like the one she had done for me in the nude. Every part of my sex, that wet, pink flower, was acheingly sensitive. I laced my fingers through her soft hair and kneaded her scalp, taking care not to press her face too hard into my pussy. I moaned loudly, so loudly that I was sure any of the other tenants in that creaky old barn could probably hear me.

“Yes,” I could barely croak above the choked sobs of my desire. “Oh, God…oh, I’m cominggg…”

And soon, my pussy released a torrent of energy and fluids, contracting deliciously in such a powerful sensation that I felt I couldn’t stand for a few hours afterward.

Angelina hurriedly finished lapping up the rest of my expenditure, and crawled her way up to me, her lips still wet with my come. She kissed me deeply, letting me taste the spice from myself, and inhale the aroma.

I felt her pelvis grinding against mine, and the wetness from her pussy was so abundant that I could feel her own run down into my already soaking folds. She grinded herself against me, putting even more pressure on my already sensitive clit. I wrapped my arms around her back, breaking our kiss, and whispered, “I want you now. Let me have a taste of you.”

Angelina gave a sly smile and nodded. She crawled further up on all fours, and planted her pussy at my face so that I could sample her sweetness from below. She was shaved smooth, with not a stray hair or blemish anywhere on that perfect, copper skin. Her outer lips were perfectly symmetrical and had a silky texture, as I found when I first ran my tongue across them. I heard her moan slightly and shift above me. I licked at her skin, not penetrating yet, and I could tell she was getting impatient and anxious. As was I, because I couldn’t wait to taste this vixen’s nectar.

I reached up, using my fingers to spread her open just slightly, and inched my tongue into her pussy. I immediately aimed for that ultra sensitive nub at the top, her clit which was already swollen and hard. I rolled it around with a flattened tongue, and she screamed and squealed in pleasure. I drank her juices, which had a slightly more tangy flavor than mine, and I relished every bit. I pushed my face deeper into her cunt, using my hand now not for spreading her open, but for fucking her. I eased two stiff fingers into her pussy, and I immediately felt that tunnel of wet flesh contract around them as if they were a cock.

Her shouts became louder, more insistent, as I fucked her with my hand and my tongue. Alternately, I would remove my fingers and penetrate her with a flexed tongue. In all, I made a feast of her tight, sweet cunt, and throughout the duration of the time, she begged for more. She was insatiable, and I couldn’t help but give her everything she screamed for.

I licked, bit, kissed, and basically orally worshiped every inch of her womanhood. Her clit was hard and red like a ripened cherry, her lips were silky smooth and delectable–sex with her was like an experience in fine dining. By the time I had made her come a second time, she finally collapsed. I held onto her sweat-drenched body, loving that smooth, satiny, oily feeling. Our breathing was almost perfectly in synch, and we lay there stroking each other’s hair. Her beautiful saffron blonde strands were like angel’s gossamer, and I soon buried my face in it, inhaling its delicious fragrance, and fell asleep.

I awoke a few hours later to find Angelina nudging me ever so slightly, murmuring about it being “hot” and “sticky”, and I vaguely heard “need a bath”. She pulled me to my feet and I, although somewhat grudgingly in my drowsy state, followed. She started the shower, testing the water that poured from the faucet to make sure it was the right temperature before pulling the lever up, sending the water rushing from the shower head.