“No need to take that tone,” he says. “At least not until after I actually tell you what it is that I want.”
“Is there any way we can do this in a way that doesn’t take a lot of time or, you know, interaction?” I ask. “I’ve had a long night, and I’d rather just get back to pretending that you don’t exist as soon as possible. I find that I’m happier that way.”
“This shouldn’t take long,” he says. “I just wanted to call you and let you know that I’m going to be releasing those pictures that I took of you when we were dating. That is, unless you’d like to pay for the privilege of having them disappear.”
“Pictures?” I ask. “What pictures?”
“I think you know exactly the ones I’m talking about,” he says, and it’s not until he says that that I do.
“We had only been going out for a month or two,” I tell him. “I had no idea what kind of slime you were when I agreed to let you take those pictures of me. I’m not going to let you blackmail me with them.”
Yeah, about those pictures…
The pictures are probably about what you’re expecting them to be, though possibly not as graphic as what you’re envisioning.
When Ben and I were first dating, we went on a trip with one another. This was when he was still acting like a human being, though that other shoe wouldn’t take too much longer to drop. At one point, the two of us—well, we went skinny dipping.
I told Ben to leave the camera on the shore, but he grabbed it anyway. After a few minutes spent convincing me that nobody but he and I would ever see the pictures,
I relented.
Ironic, huh?
He’s now blackmailing me by threatening to publicize the pictures that wouldn’t have been taken in the first place if he hadn’t assured me that we’d be the only two to ever see them.
“Do you really think some nude photos are going to hurt my career?” I ask. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with the world in which we live, but people love few things more than seeing a pair of famous tits. If you’re threatening to take me from accomplished actress to accomplished actress and sex symbol, go ahead,” I tell him. “Do it. See if I care.”
He doesn’t fall for the bluff.
“No,” he says. “I know you well enough to know that having these pictures made public would mortify you. I’m thinking maybe we should start talking numbers.”
“What does it say about you that you’re going through with this even though you claim to know that these pictures coming out would make me miserable? I wonder why things didn’t work out with us,” I tell him.
“Whatever,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll remember that I’m a reasonable man. I think that $5,000 a month should be enough to keep your little secret for you.”
“Five thousand a month?” I ask. “You’re asking me to pay you $60,000 a year just to keep you from showing off a few blurry pictures?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Considering that you’re in that new movie they’re making with Damian Jones, I’d say you should have plenty of cash to spare.”
“And where does it end?” I ask. “I do this and you hold this over my head for the rest of my career or the rest of my life or what?”
“I’m not talking about anything like that,” he says. “I think we can call it quits after 17 years.”
“That’s a really specific timeframe you’ve got there,” I tell him. “That would be when I’m what, past my prime? Is that how long you think I have left in this business?”
“I have no idea how long you’re going to be in that business,” he says, “though I’m sure it won’t be anywhere near 17 years. I just thought that asking you for a million dollars up-front would sound too pushy. I figured a monthly payment plan would be the more civil approach.”
“You’re a humanitarian,” I tell him.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “So, what’s it going to be? Do we have a deal, or are we going to be waking up with an eyeful of you on every website in the galaxy?”
“First off,” I tell him, “I’m not that famous. This is my first big role, and I don’t know how much you think they’re paying me, but it’s probably a lot more than the reality. You let those pictures out and I’ll get a little embarrassed, sure, but all that really happens otherwise is that more people are going to find out exactly who I am, which helps my career in the long term, and more people are going to see this movie, which is going to help my career in the short term. Do you really think I’m going to give up a million dollars just to keep my nipples out of the zeitgeist?”
“Yeah,” he says, “I really do.”
“Knock yourself out,” I tell him, giving my play at indifference one last shot at working.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “I was trying to think of who to send it to first, but I guess it won’t really matter. Everyone’s going to have a copy of it by morning.”