======================
Old flame shows up with an idea for the best TV reboot ever.
3000 words. Tags: baywatch, stacy kamano, victoria's secret, blowjob, striptease
This is the first in an open ended "celeb harem" story putting together two of the greatest franchises known to Man, Baywatch and the Victoria's Secret Angels, with guest appearances from everybody's favorite celebs. All characters are based as closely as possible to reality, obviously diverging where the story starts in realtime (early 2016) with Baywatch Hawaii/the movie and the VS Swim Specials as core reference material. No sex in this chapter but it tantalizes the reader and sets up the stage for the adventures to come. Enjoy.
======================
My name is Mike Bergin, from Nowheresville, CT. Mike who? Mike Bergin: Supermodel, Actor, Designer, Author, and now Real Estate Agent to the stars (don't ask). Yes, I started at the top and now I'm here. Classic fall from grace. But it is all about to change. I mean, it isn't every day that the idea for the best tv reboot in history literally falls into your lap. And it all started with just one question:
"Can you still pull off the red shorts?"
I should back up. Twenty (!) years ago the love of my life decided to marry a spoiled high society brat who of course got her killed in a terrible accident. Funny place to start a story but it is true that that kicked everything off. You see, I was at the top of my game. "First male supermodel", they said. I had a massive billboard the size of King Kong right up on New York's Times Square. I had replaced Mark "Good Vibrations" Wahlberg as spokesbody for Calvin Klein and seemed destined to follow in his footsteps to superstardom. When Carrie left me, I was shattered. Walked away from it all. I mean, could -you- face the crowds, walk the runways if you knew that your lover and her douchebag husband might be in the audience giggling about the weird shit designers make you wear? I made sure to punish her extra hard for that in our booty calls.
But enough about her. You can read the book for that, but you won't, nobody does (if they did, I wouldn't need to work!). You're here for Baywatch. Well, that was my career backup plan, my "Plan B", pun intended. I took the last dregs of my fame and walked on to a bit part, "J.D. Darius", on the hit show. They paired me up with Brooke, that loving paradox of legs and sunshine who was down for anything, just what the doctor ordered for massive heartbreak. Her smile drove men wild and her grace from a decade of ballet training belied her sheer adventurousness in bed. After a lot of persistence and, frankly, some bad decisions, I also got fairly close to what the guys not-so-secretly called the "Baywatch Grand Slam", second only to the Hoff and Newmie, of course. But that's a story for another day.
Happiness never lasts long for me. When Carrie died, the universe saw it fit to lump in the end of Baywatch at the exact same time, and I spent months looking at the world through the bottom of a glass. Brooke also started seeing some douchebag actor (see a pattern here?). Eventually, those of us still looking for work cut a deal to start a spinoff series in Hawaii, and that is where we found Stacy.
Ah, Stacy. JD's Kekoa. We were the heart of Baywatch Hawaii. There are still fans "shipping" us on YouTube even today. I remember the casting like it was yesterday. In order for the plot to work and to establish the new setting (and, more truthfully, to get the production tax credits to make the show) we had to hire people who looked the part. By our second week we had hired a male lead but had gone through dozens of local girls without finding that Baywatch spark. I was helping with screen tests and frustrated with getting nowhere on stuttering, insecure amateurs, so when one Stacy Kamano was late for her call I more than welcomed the opportunity to look for her while the casting director was busy briefing our new Jason.
The set was brand new and everything was unmarked, so of course I somehow stumbled into the dressing room yelling "STACY!" like an idiot. Then my breath stopped as I slowly realized I had barged in on a raven haired vixen midway through putting on the yellow BH trainee suit for the first time. My widening eyes slowly dragged from her tanned, toned legs, up to her sculpted hips and butt, -down- with the suit's pantyline to the inviting gap between her thighs, up past the rest of the suit to her trim, tight tummy firmed by years of gymnastics and dance training, and on inevitably to full breasts that had lovingly received more than their fair share of sun, partially covered by luxuriously long brunette hair. Her head was down and one hand through the straps of her swimsuit, but as she wasn't startled nor did she try to cover up that banging body. I opened my mouth to apologize, but forgot all words when she looked up and grinned, totally topless, with that infuriating, intoxicating smirk. "Stacy's not here", she said, and as I tried to work out who she was, she took her time drawing her tight straps up her bare shoulders, letting me enjoy the full view of her chest as only someone who has spent her entire adult life modeling could do so confidently. She glided over to me on dainty, velvet feet, and when she stood in front of me I couldn't help but look down the endless cleavage of this (5'8?) beauty as she introduced herself as Kekoa Tanaka.
That move alone was so "Kekoa", the writers immediately wrote it into the show - and wrote her in with it. Originally my JD character was meant to be with and eventually marry Brooke's character, Jessie, but inline with our deteriorating real life relationship, the powers that be decided that the ole "new woman = love triangle" trope would be more engaging. And it worked. Boy did it work.
That was literally (-literally- literally now! jeezus) decades ago, and a lifetime away from where we were now. Stacy still traveled fairly often for modeling and acting gigs, while my entire job required me to stay in one place, that is kind of the point of being a Real Estate Agent. It was far less glamorous, of course, but being one in Beverly Hills meant you got to hang out with cool celebrities and it paid the bills. Besides, whether the economy goes up or down, the one thing you can count on is for celebs to blow $50m on a McMansion at the peak of their fame only to throw it on firesale five years after when they go broke.
Anyway, we met up whenever we could, which these days amounted to once a year, and here we were, 20 years later at the start of the new year, two has-beens sipping cocktails at the poorly illuminated bar of the W trying to talk over the mechanical *thump*thump*thump* that the kids call music. Stace's wardrobe had matured with her, and she now preferred sleek button down blouses and sheer white pants over the cleavage baring minidresses of her youth, but in my mind's eye I could still see every supple curve of her body beneath.
Today she was more energized, more quick with her movements, and more *alive* than I had ever seen her, and it was at once unsettling and irresistible. Still, I was entirely stuck in the past when she abruptly changed topic from small talk. As I hesitated, she repeated her question - "JD, I'm serious, can you still pull off the red shorts?" We had always mixed our on-screen, off-screen characters up. Sometimes I even caught myself writing "Jack" for my first name on forms.
I acted offended. "Of course! Just because I flip houses to movie stars doesn't mean I let these abs go to waste!" That was closer to the truth than I cared to admit - let's just say that I know some very bored and Desperate Housewives. Thank god I have an open marriage.
