'Hey, Jen. This is Marvin from Playboy. Let me know if it's a yes to the shoot. Call me.'
I'd grin, thinking, 'Those nudey pics I took of her went a loooooong way!' And then I'd be thanking Jeebus they never got hold of the Polaroids. They were dirtier than John Leslie's hard drive. Don't even start me on the one I took in the Fiat...
And the other message.
'So-still not talking to me? Come on, girl! Let's smooth this over...'
I'd narrow my eyes at the machine. Amy again. Adams, that is. Bitch been trying to be nicey nicey for the last six months. Rocked up at the house once with a loudhailer singing, 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' til gone 3am. Nearly got the hose on her. I seen them do dat in COPS. J-La said she'd sooner eat broccoli than speak to her. That'd be never, then.
Speaking of whom, where is she, I'd think? I'd look at the floor to see if there were any Cheerios dotted about. Nope. Not even any toastie crumbs. 'Probably still out smashing Blunty at LaserQuest', I'd think. It's her favourite thing since Pam took out her hip on a pole at Zumba and the classes got cancelled til further notice. Was shocked when she told me, but J-La said, 'Got her a Slush Puppie til she calmed down, but maaaaan...too funny!'
Just when I'd head to the living room to watch '40 Tonne Mum' on my Sky Planner, I'd hear her dulcet tones.
'Ba-aaaabe! I'm up here!'
I'd tug off my jacket and bound up the stairs two at a time and be about to press the door open when she'd yell, 'Wait! I need to put the sawng on!'
I'd sigh impatiently and sniff my pits, like you do. There'd be the sound of her shuffling around and the iPod dock being switched on. Then she'd be all, 'Come iiiiiin!' in her sexiest voice and it'd be hotter than an egg on a pavement in Dallas. I'd open the door.
My jaw would drop as, in the darkened room, I'd see her sitting on a beanbag in just a pair of oven gloves. Purely decorative, mind; those gloves obscured nutt'n. Before I could blurt out, 'So THAT'S where they went!' the walls would be rattling to the sound of 'Walkin' On Sunshine' and we'd both jump. Over the din, she'd yell, 'WRONG SAWNG! Try the next one!' A burst of Maroon 5. 'No!' Eiffel 65. 'Whatthef...!' and then finally, 'DIS ONE!' as 'Careless Whisper' came on. J-La thinks everything is sexier with 'Careless Whisper' on. Girl got a point. She took a casserole out the oven with it on once and we never got round to food.
I'd kick a heel off and it'd clang on the radiator. The other would hit her in the face. My bad. She'd get up and move towards me in time to the music as I'd be hopping around, yanking my socks off and go, 'Baby-we gonna try sommat new I read 'bout' and then raise a sexy eyebrow and give me a right smooch. Between kisses, I'd be all, 'What new thing?' and she'd murmur, 'It's called 'Tampopo' or su'n'. My turn to raise an eyebrow as my bra hit floor. I'd be all, 'You mean Tantra?' and she'd be all, 'S'what I said. Tampopo. Duh!' and tug me over to the beanbag. She'd flop me onto it and flop on top of me like a fish.
There would be no movement. At all. Like...nutt'n, I'd be all, 'Babe-what choo at?' and she'd be all, 'Shhh-don't move' and then whisper, 'It's meant to be all still and stuff'.
The track would play seventeen times and neither of us would move. Love J-La and everythin', but this would be about as sexy as Songs of Praise. Two hours later, just before she conked out on top of me, I'd hear her go, 'No wonder Sting looks as bored as shit!' and I'd be like, 'I know, babe. I know.' I'd stroke her now-not-lesbian-hair and go, 'Let's do Number 43 from in the book next time' and she'd be all, 'Okay.' And then, in the dark, she'd go, 'I liked 21. On the bins, yo..' and I'd remember 21 and think, 'Oofft! That was hot!' and pick a piece of ham out of her hair.
But Jennifer Lawrence is not my girlfriend.