From "Tulsa Blackie's Last Dive" by William Patrick Maynard
Jasmine… he could smell Jasmine in the air as he looked up at the stars glittering in the night sky. The toughest part about acting for the cameras was when there was no dialogue or action…like now. He could get his tongue around the two-bit dialogue J. C. wrote and he could handle himself well enough with his fists, jump on a horse, ride and take a tumble like the best of them, but standing still or walking took concentration. At times like this he had to imagine the smell of Jasmine and let it carry him through the scene. He would glide like the wind.
He was gliding now as he undid the tassel of his monogrammed terrycloth bathrobe. His shoulders slumped as he let the robe slip effortlessly down his back and crumple at his feet. He stood there buck naked smelling that Jasmine. The stars were bright tonight, but not as bright as the heat from the arc lamps. He could feel them sizzling down on his spine. He was a big man, muscular with great dense limbs and a barrel chest. His width made him look far taller than his 5 feet, 9 inches.
Best ass in Hollywood, wasn’t that what they called him? There might have been a joke there, but he didn’t care so long as the money was green and plentiful. It didn’t matter how corny the scripts were or that he was stuck at a rundown studio instead of with one of the majors. He had been with Fox for awhile, it was no big thing. Of course, he was only doubling for that song and dance feller, but still at least now he was a star even if it was in a little pond.
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