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Dina’s
forties, without the aid of plastic surgery, thank you very much.
The quest to remain young for the cameras by way of a sadistic
exercise and diet regimen had seen to that, for all the good it
did. The body remained fit, the skin as smooth and flawlessly cocoa
as ever, but producers saw only a stock character from a campy
sci-fi TV show when it came time to cast for serious dramas. To
think, with the door open wider for African American actresses now,
she could find better roles outside the occasional guest-starring
bit on a weekly series.
    Thanks for screwing my big-time movie
career, chick . She mock scowled at the young girl in the
picture and planted a pouty kiss on her rump to the collective gasp
of fans clustered around her table. She then slid the photo across
the table into Gregory’s trembling fingers. There was no mistaking
the delight on the young man’s face; he checked the Internet, Dina
was certain. He knew the code.
    “Wow. Thanks, Mayda,” Gregory said, and
floated away. Dina sighed. It used to bother her to be referred to
by her character’s name, but when opportunities for work had dried
up, Dina had eventually come to accept her alter ego with the
rising demand for her appearance at science-fiction conventions.
Mayda was a part of her now, a part she had quickly come to
appreciate for its fringe benefits despite her occasional grousing.
At the very least, none of her white female costars from the show
had been able to break free from the Mission Jupiter curse
to find success in television again, and Dina rarely saw them at
cons.
    She watched Gregory, one possible benefit of
the con circuit, stride confidently to a remote corner of the hotel
ballroom, and then turn expectantly back toward her table. He knew
now that the legend was true…that a lipstick mark on an autographed
Dina Joseph was a special, coveted treasure. He was in contention
with other lucky conventioneers to fuck Mayda Moran herself. He
held the proof in his hands like a golden ticket to the chocolate
factory.
    Gregory had a deliciously tight ass encased
in black jeans, and judging from the pronounced bulge in the front,
he definitely advertised that he was more than just fringe. Perhaps
he did pack impressive heat, as his button advertised. Dina smiled
at him; there was that pulsing sensation that engorged her pussy
lips. Yes, she definitely appreciated these opportunities.
    “Jenna, you know the drill.” She craned her
neck as she quietly addressed Jenna McCoy, her personal assistant.
“Screen test, money shot.”
    Jenna smirked and fished through her bulky
shoulder sack for a digital camera. “Six we nix?”
    “Seven is heaven,” Dina confirmed. “Eight,
great, and nine is divine .” The two women giggled over the
puzzled look on the next fan’s face.
    Dina then watched Jenna approach Gregory and,
after viewing a few silent words and restrained hand gestures,
smiled to see the young man willingly follow the young black woman
with the dark ponytail behind a blue cloth partition. There,
Gregory would “audition” by letting down his pants and allowing
Jenna to take a picture for Dina to later peruse. Six we
nix . A six-inch cock or less was an automatic reject…but seven
or more was a definite casting, and Gregory would get the part
provided he wasn’t surpassed by another. Dina had seen enough cock
in her day to discern size for herself, no tape measure was
necessary.
    She returned to her audience. She wondered
how many of the other men snaked around the convention space in the
various autograph lines would be willing to put themselves through
the rigorous audition expected of a lipstick-printed fan?
    The autograph session dragged, and when three
o’clock mercifully arrived, Dina was down to her last original
nicety. Her hand cramped from signing, and her pussy ached for want
of a young stud’s attention. The myths of sci-fi conventions were
just that -- there was nary a pocket protector or taped-up pair