Jane Air

to concentrate. Quiet. Alone. With a toy or without. The secret is my own mind. Make believe. Focus on me. I am a cerebral being, an intellectual. It stands to reason that I prefer intellectual, imaginative sex to actual, physical sex.
Or so I thought.
But maybe Dory’s right.
Maybe it has nothing to do with my brainpower. Maybe it’s because I just don’t have the self-esteem to relax with an audience. Maybe I’m so focused on what my thighs look like, I don’t focus on who’s between them. Or what he’s doing.
God.
What a thought.
So much for blaming bad sex on the guys.
The night is warm, the air heavy and thick on the balcony, and I know what I need. Grabbing my towel off the back of my bathroom door, I head out of the house, locking my door and tucking the key below the mat by the front porch.
It’s time to blow off some steam.

2
David
I can hear my fucking footsteps. That’s when you know you need furniture. When your own footsteps are so loud, you’re convinced you’ll wake the neighbors.
If I had neighbors, that is.
Last year, this was such a good idea. A change of pace. A place to relax. To get a grip. To reassess.
But Jesus. You’d think I’d buy a couch.
Then again, if I wanted to find myself, I guess it’s easiest to do that in an empty room.
Sixteen empty rooms, actually.
My agent found the house. Last year, when we were in Boston for the Netflix show. Transitioning from film to streaming was a strategic business decision, a weird shift after a decade-long contract in action movies.
Don’t get me wrong. Playing super spies and super heroes is great. Great money, great fame, great fans.
But it’s tiring. I had three houses by the time I finished those movies, and I hadn’t been inside any of them in over two years. People saw me on the street and shouted the character’s name. Sleeping in hotels, sleeping with strangers, nights in random bars, mornings in random gyms. Weekends on airplanes, weeknights at press conferences. Getting fitted for a suit, getting prepped for an interview. Answering the same questions. All. The. Time.
When a new opportunity came along I jumped. Do something different. Play a different role. Historical, even. Nothing to do with aliens or spandex or intergalactic terrorists. Anything to avoid transcontinental flights twice a week. Anything that was a little bit new, a little bit different.
And maybe something else. Maybe I was looking for…something real. A place to put down roots. To remember my own name. My own interests. To figure out who I am, after I’ve pretended to be someone else in sequel after sequel after sequel.
Who the fuck am I?
And what the fuck do I want?
It’s hard to explain to people. It’s hard to explain to yourself. You spend your life, your childhood planning what you want, where you’ll live, what you’ll do. You spend your teens and twenties working towards that, head down, focused. Audition after audition. Day shift at the restaurant, followed by acting class, followed by more auditions. A few commercials, a pilot, a couple of indie films.
And then you break. You go from Blonde man in cab or Audition #614 to THE Agent Carson, title character and leading man. Your name is on billboards. Your face is on posters. Magazines line up years in advance to ask you questions about which toothpaste you use. People who couldn’t remember your name now remember your second cousin’s birthday.
And don’t forget the money. There’s plenty of that.
For a while, you think you have everything.
But one day, one random day, when you’re in a club, in the super private section, behind the VIP section, behind the Premier section, one day you wonder if you have anything.
Once you get all the things you dreamed of, the money, the fame, the sex, the cars, once you have it all, you feel…
Empty.
And you don’t know how to feel less empty.
How do you fill yourself when you’ve already filled yourself with everything? What do you fill yourself with?
More money. More fame. More sex. More cars.
Still empty.
Maybe that’s why you end up here. In an empty house. In a tiny town. Barefoot and staring out of windows.
One weekend, during the Boston shoot, my agent and I came up here. Driving around, getting out of the city, Angelo, my tough-as-nails representation who has been with me since my first commercial, was scouting real estate with the director and wanted to check out this small town, a few hours north of the city, near a college and a couple of lakes. The director was planning a family drama and wanted a “place in the country.” She was deciding between waterfront and the woods. We had a few places we were going to see, I was just along for the ride. We stopped by this house first.
It was bigger than she wanted, she said. Too far back from the road. It came with several acres of forest and she’d have trouble getting the crews in and around the house for panorama shots.
She liked the kitchen, and while she was in it, taking measurements and photos, Angelo and I stood outside. I enjoyed the sound of the birds. He was on his phone. Angelo never threatened anyone, despite knowing where all the bodies in Hollywood are buried. The more softly he spoke, the more dangerous he was. That day, as I recall, he was speaking very softly.
The director didn’t like the house all that much. She came out at one point and dragged us in, asking our opinions. Exterior shots would work except around the back.
Because of “that space.”
“That space” was massive room in the back of the house, open concept and three stories tall. One huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Nothing on the walls. Nothing on the floors. A giant fireplace on one end of the room and floor to ceiling windows against the back, overlooking the woods.
“What the hell do we do with this?” She