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I was obsessed with Declan O'Rourke. I found as many of those gossipy magazines as possible. I asked my girlfriends at school if they had any that I could borrow. Some were a few years old.

When I'd read those magazines before, the one thing I noticed was that the woman on Declan's arm. One was more beautiful than the one before.

Now, I was looking more closely, and I was shocked. The other thing all those women had in common besides their beauty was they were all wearing bright red lipstick, similar to the shade Declan gave me.

Could it mean . . .?

These women were all famous actresses or stars of some kind. I mean there was one woman whose role on television was of a wholesome mother and housewife. Ya' know baking apple pie, serving Thanksgiving dinner, and all that. Now, I had different image of her. I imagined her on her knees with Declan's cock in her mouth.

Then there was the Broadway actress who was famed for the uniqueness of her pouty lips. Pouty lips that I saw covered with that red lipstick. Pouty lips that I was certain that I knew where they'd been.

There was another woman who proclaimed her purity at every opportunity and carried her religion on her sleeve. There she was on Declan's arm, and you guessed it: wearing Declan's favorite bright red lipstick.

I must have counted a dozen like the ones above in those magazines. Even gorgeous international stars from Italy, Sweden and France were pictured with Declan all wearing that same lipstick.

I never thought that I, Gloria Mallory, farm girl, had anything in common with women of such stature but apparently we did: our mouth's familiarity with Declan's cock.

I didn't know if I should be furious that I was just another notch in his belt or pleased that Declan considered me in the same class. And by the way, I was by far the youngest by at least seven or eight years of all those glamorous women. A few were Declan's age; my mom's age.

I didn't date. Not that I wasn't asked. I was certain that after Declan I'd have no interest in Dublin farm boys and I'd definitely have no interest in doing to them what I did to him.

A month before I was to graduate with an Associate's Degree in Creative Writing I received a letter from Declan. It was brief. He told me he missed me. I think he meant that he missed my mouth. That brought a smile to my face.

However, the most important part of the letter was that he'd persuaded his film studio to hire a writer trainee to learn script writing from the ground up. If I was interested, the studio would send me a train ticket to Hollywood by mid-June. He needed an answer right away.

My parents were disappointed that I'd be moving, but they knew in my heart that I wanted nothing to do with farming. My mother reminded me that there would be temptations in California, but I should always remember to keep my virginity as a gift to my husband on our wedding night. "Yes, momma."

Two weeks after graduation the studio sent me a round-trip ticket and I was on train from Omaha to Los Angeles. I slept much of the way dreaming of Declan; dreaming of Declan's cock inseminating my mouth. It wouldn't be long now.

In Los Angeles I was met by a middle-aged woman, "Gloria, I'm Mrs. Linda Greer, a secretary at the studio. I'm to take you to your hotel; tomorrow I'll meet you and we'll start apartment hunting. I have some ideas that you might like."

"Thank you, where's Declan?"

"Oh, he's in Mexico on location. He'll be there for another month. By then you should be settled and we'll have you busy working."

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