How I Might Seduce Brad Pitt
I really think I could pull it off.
Look, I know: I’m a 46-year-old corn-fed mother of two who looks like I should be running a bake sale outside the DMV and he is Brad Pitt. I still think I could do it.
First, some provisos. It would have to be today’s Brad Pitt; no time traveling back to 1991 Thelma and Louise Brad Pitt, because I would die. It would be like being shot into the sun.
But today’s Brad Pitt: he’s graying, he’s worldly, he’s seen some life. He might take a gamble!
And yes, I know I’m not exactly his type. His type is supermodels who also invent new designs of yurts, or supermodels who also invent four-dimensional sculptures of time-space, or supermodels who end famine through the transformative power of Peruvian throat singing.
Still.
First, he’d need to be on my turf. Level the playing field.
So let’s say he’s producing a movie, right, and it’s a passion project but he’s not in it. He’s financing somebody else’s script, maybe his friend George wrote it. But he’s really invested emotionally and financially, he wants it to work, but they’re having development problems. And maybe he’s in town for some quiet reason (definitely NOT to receive an award of any kind), and he says to somebody, we’re having trouble cracking this script, and somebody says, I know somebody who you could consult. So he goes, what the hell, I’m in town and made of money, go ahead and set it up.
So we meet somewhere, a restaurant/bar situation. Dim lights, red upholstered chairs. It’s maybe four in the afternoon, so it’s not crowded, but not exactly empty. A townie bar, definitely. Not too fancy.
And he’s there at the bar with George, and I walk in. And there are handshakes all around, and we grab a table, and Brad gets drinks (sparkling water with a lime, thanks — he and George have beers), and we get into it.
And this is the important part: I dazzle him. He is dizzy from my notes. My notes are so good — so smart, so clear, so devastatingly accurate and constructive and succinct — it’s like I’m pulling a rabbit out of a hat. He and George sit back: aha! That’s it! I have just unlocked all their dreams with my devastatingly good notes.
And George grows excited! He sees now what he must do! And I am so cool; I squeeze the lime against the side of the glass and offer up a mysterious close-lipped smile because I know, I fucking know, that I am really, really, really good at my job and I just saved their movie without breaking a sweat, this is the kind of thing I do every day. And George scuttles off back to the hotel, he simply has to get started on revisions now, while the ideas are fresh in his mind. And Brad and I are left at the table.
And Brad looks at me. He no longer sees a 46-year-old mother of two. He sees a 46-year-old mother of two who is also a fucking genius. He is enrapt. My brilliance has ensorcelled him. This, too, doesn’t surprise me. Of the two of us, only one sat down at this table not knowing that I am hot shit. When it comes to dramaturgy, I give incredible notes. My notes are legendary. I’m like the Cleopatra of notes. Now we both know. I smile again: he’s caught up. He leans forward on the table; I lean back, in no hurry. Brad Pitt has fallen in love with me.
You think he wouldn’t? This isn’t just some pretty boy, it’s Brad Pitt! Brad likes geniuses. Do you think he married Angelina for her extraordinary bone structure? No. It was the UNICEF thing. Remember, this is the Brad Pitt who flew down to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina — he pulled a Jimmy Carter, he’s like, “How can I make the world a better place?” That’s his whole vibe.
And he’s a little insecure — just a little, just a touch — because he didn’t go to college and instead lived in his car and tried to get guest roles on Growing Pains or whatever. And he knows the Hot Celebrity thing is a racket, because he remembers his bad acne and his crooked teeth, and deep down he knows he’s a lucky bastard as much as anything. But he’s not haunted by this, he’s not Ethan Hawke trying to prove something by writing a novel. He’s a character actor trapped in the body of a hunk, and he likes weird shit and he loves to be surprised.
And I have just, in this scenario, surprised him.
Also, he has nothing to do this evening. This is important. He’s got some time to kill in a sleepy but quaint college town, and here I am, across the table, and the conversation is going great! I know so much about art and literature! I’m so funny! He is also charming and funny, although I’m just a tad faster than him — is it the beer? It doesn’t matter. The bar is starting to fill up, and he is starting to feel that pressure of eyeballs on his back as people stare at him, he’s getting recognized, time to bounce.
He looks at his watch. Whaddya know, it’s dinner time. Would I care to join him for a bite?
I tell him I know a place with excellent fish tacos, but they don’t have dine-in seating. He suggest we pick them up and take them to his suite. Lots of room there. We can eat and talk about the project.
Reader, things are about to get interesting.
Brad’s penthouse suite has big windows that look over the college town. There’s not much to see, but whatever there is, he can see it. The sun dips low, the taco wrappers litter the coffee table, and maybe we have a couple drinks from the mini bar? Yes, that sounds nice. Glass tumblers. Feet tucked under legs on the sofa. Exquisite conversation.
He tells me about his brother who served in the army. We express admiration for military families, all their invisible sacrifices, and what kind of nation are we that allows any veteran to go homeless? Brad Pitt and I agree.
What about our childhoods? What did we want to be when we grew up? A firefighter, he says. A detective and a writer, I say. He says, you were like a detective at the bar tonight, the way you solved the mystery of George’s script. I never thought about it like that, I say. (That’s not true, I have thought about it, but I keep it to myself. Let Brad win a round.) How’d you get into acting, and what about you, how did you become a writer, and what led you to this college town, and what are your hopes and dreams, anyway?
And now we’re getting into it: the vulnerable stuff. We admit things to each other. Intimacy is happening.
And I say, everyone knows you’re a great actor, Brad, but I think your real genius is in producing. You have an excellent eye for material. But more than that: you’re very brave.
And he knows he’s brave, but it feels so good to be seen, especially seen by me, the corn-fed genius. And as I lean over the table to refresh my drink, he has an opportunity to consider the line of my body.
Here’s the thing about a dimpled thigh: it feels good. Brad is all muscle; his ex-girlfriends are all bone. Maybe he gets curious about how it would feel to be held in the arms of a woman who is no stranger to a bake sale? He finds himself oddly comforted by such a notion, and then aroused. My shirt has lifted up a bit as I lean over the table, and he catches a glimpse of my back. Just a sliver. On impulse, he rests his hand between my shoulder blades.
I turn my head to look at him, slowly and evenly. I am not surprised. I wore this come-hither t-shirt and cargo shorts for a reason. Our eyes lock. He eases his hand down to touch my lower back, and it’s on, baby!
The next morning, we delight in the mess we’ve made of the bed. Laughing like children, living like lovers, etc. He’s not-amazing as a lover, but our emotional connection carried us over the awkward bits. I, naturally, was fantastic. (Level that playing field!) He orders us room service. He sees George has called him, but he’ll call him back. I touch his face with tenderness, then slip into my clothes and back into my life.
He calls George. They make plans. His Midwestern interlude has come to an end.
He thinks about me, sometimes, when he’s flying over. He recommends my script services to friends, and I read their screenplays when I’m not too busy. I get paid handsomely, but of course I’m not in it for the money.
He gave me his number, but I don’t call it. Let it be simply a beautiful evening. Let it live right there, forever, in the mind and in the heart. Let him remember me fondly, as I will, him.
Anyway, this scenario is 100% plausible. Frankly, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet. Let me know if you need a script consult, Bradley. I’ll try to make room in my schedule.
