Araoe Idol

2: Reality Tv Wannabe

This is my story. These are my exclusive true confessions.

You've been reading the gossip in the red-top tabloids. You've watched me on TV.

Now at last, I'm breaking my silence. These are my full, frank, and fearless real-life revelations of how it all began.

You know that thing the oldsters used to say about 'all fur coat and no knickers'? – well, I guess you could say I'm half-way there. I'm doing the no-knickers thing. All I need is the fur-coat. Except it would have to be faux-fur. I don't want no dead animal draped over me. I've had enough guys like that already, know what I mean? Sure you do.

How it happens is this. I'm sitting on his face, wriggling up and down, as you do. I told you I was living with DJ/Rapper Fifty Euro, didn't I? I'm sure I told you that. I'm sure I mentioned it in passing. You've seen his videos on MTV, haven't you? Well I'm here, living with him. And as I'm sat on his face, wriggling up and down, I'm watching TV, as you do. And they're talking about a new series of

'Celebrity Big House'

, the Reality-TV show. You've seen it. Everyone has. And they're selecting new celebrity house-mates. An eighties electro-Pop survivor from a forgotten group. One-half of a knackered comedy duo you last saw on 'The Good Old Days'. The wife of a football player. Someone caught out by the tabloids having an affair with the England Football-Manager. And a couple of other non-entities. The kind of faces you could never tire of punching.

And I say 'hey, I could be on that show'. What you need is no talent, but lottsa ambition. And hey, that's me.

After all, Fifty's a celebrity – isn't he?, and I'm his partner, aint I? – we've been together for, oh, at least two weeks. That's the longest committed relationship I've ever had. Well, since the last one anyhow. I did tell you I was living with DJ/Rapper Fifty Euro didn't I? I'm sure I must have mentioned it in passing. Anyway, I was telling him all this stuff, although he's in no real position to reply, his mouth full of pubes an' all, and I guess he gets fed up of my rabbiting on 'cos he flips me over, switches me around, and stops me talking with his big juicy spermy gob-stopper and the only sounds for the next half-hour or so are kind of moist slurpy ones.

But afterwards I get back into bickering him. Until he gives in, to an extent. He's doing this high-profile gig. An Awards Ceremony guests-only special. And eventually he agrees I can tag along when he goes uptown to meet the event publicist – Cliff Maxford. You've seen all those celebtastic stories he's brokered in the media, the Selma Pussy confessions, the Kimberley Thin disclosures, the screw-and-tell mistress of that disgraced Cabinet Minister...

It's like – y'know, my life's been a cheap back-of-the market-imitation for too long, rather than a designer Dior Christal watch. I deserve more. I'm sat there nude in front of the mirror this morning posing my tits, lifting them, squeezing them together, pushing them forward – yes, they look good.

But 'do you think I need a boob-job?' I say to Fifty, 'do you think bigger tits would help me stand out more in my career?'

'They look perfect as they are' he grins 'big enough to nicely over-fill my hands, big enough for me to rub my cock up-and-down between them.'

'What about collagen injections? Bigger more pouty lips?'

'Naw, they pout just fine when they're wrapped around mah manhood.'

'A new tattoo on me bum then?', turning round and pointing below the bikini-line.

'A tattoo there saying what? Two-way traffic? Double-Parking? Access all areas...?'And he just cracks up laughing at his own wit. See what I mean, no help at all.

Anyway, next thing we're there in Cliff Maxford's office. He's an oldster with slick-back silver hair. But he's well-cool. He knows stuff.

'You have to be media-savvy, before fame fixes its fickle glaze elsewhere' he tells me intimate-like. 'The reality doesn't matter that much, but there must be some

basis

to the story. A honeytrap with a photo... something to prove you were part of it.'

But if there is a story, if we can come up with one, if we can arrange for one to happen, then he's gonna help me sell the story... it's going to be great, watch the tabloids...!!!!

But now, there's top bands on-stage, the Cunning Stunts, La Coque Sucres. It's a mwah-mwah air-kissing feeding-frenzy. All the eye-candy in their spray-on clothes. Dosh and David Bexx are there too. Norma Simplants. Phil Uranus. All awash with expensive vino, studded with roguish charmers and charming studs, sprinkled with good-time girls and a good-time's been had by all girls. All designer clad and nipped-and-tucked to perfection. It's non-stop insania. I'm impressed, but trying hard to be snotty. Trying to be, yeah, it's just like, so whatever... and those paparazzi photo-opportunity lights seem to stir something in my mind, as though they're mix-pots of paint, blending my thoughts into streaks of colour.

We're at the bar while Fifty's waiting his slot on-stage. Then he's on stage. He's good. Great even – you have to admit. Just that I'd have enjoyed his street-smart urban skank more if it weren't for Monique and Unique, his foxy backing vocalists in their dental-floss outfits with spaghetti-straps and choreographed bootylicious come-on. Of course, she's not

really

called Unique. It's Eunice. But that don't sound quite so good. So she's become 'Unique', and a unique pain in the butt.

People should've been looking across at

me

and going – oh yeah, 'she's his live-in partner, lucky bitch' you know? But who'd believe that with them doing it near doggy-style over the speaker-cabinets? Later, we're hanging around back-stage, and there he is – David Bexx, sat there in the alcove looking so chilled it's just crazy. That close-crop, that shy weak smile, that single diamond stud-earring familiar from all those news-shots. This is so amazing. I'm never gonna get this close to him ever again.

What to do? Fifty's got his camera-'phone. Do I go sit down beside him and get a photo? Ker-ching, I can give good face. That's proof we were together on the night. But hey, any fan can do that. That's no proof of anything else. That's not going to splash the red-tops. So I know instinctively what I must do. What I'm made to do. I'm not wearing much. I slip into the Powder Room opposite. And a moment later I'm wearing even less. Nought-to-sexy in three-seconds. My frock comes off. No bra, natch. Less than a nano-second's hesitation, and the thong's gone too, flashing my bushy untrimmed foof.

Deep breath. Then I'm outta there, nude and shiny, Fifty's there with his cam, Bexx looks up in shocked surprise... and a grin. And I'm legging it across towards him. Game-plan is to sit on his knee, kiss him, long enough for the photo-opportunity. That's all I need. I can see him, he's all I can see, all I'm focused on, and like some Olympic sprinter I'm on course – almost there. His mouth open, half amused-half-confused. I can tell he's eyeing up the bounce of my tits, appreciating the wink-wink cleavage in the pubes.

Then – WHAMMO! Something hits, like a

'Star Trek'

asteroid collision where everything's impacted out of shape, and I'm jolted sideways, stumbling down. Nails attacking me, my hair wrenched around painfully – Dosh, the bitch, protecting her man. Where's she come from...? He's watching with a wide grin now as we're both rolling around on the floor ripping and tearing and yelling and cursing and screeching, kicking and punching. She's on top, her shoulder-strap comes loose and falls out of shape, we tumble over, I'm on top, naked as the day I'm born, but no longer even aware of it, just full of this crazy anger to get back at her. People stood around laughing and yelling encouragement.

Then there's hands pulling us apart, spitting and sobbing like wild-cats, hauled off into our separate entourages. Someone's jacket gets draped around me... and they're gone. David and Dosh. They're gone, and my opportunity for the tabloids gone with them, straight outta the doors. And we're being escorted out of the place. Back down onto the city-street where it's drizzling-cold, and all I've got on is someone's jacket around me. I'm sadder than a song on Country Music radio. Fiddling the buttons until it looks... almost, stylish.

That's when I start into taking out an inventory on my life, a stock-take check-list of plus and minus. And it's not good. If I could sing like Aretha Franklin so intense and beautiful it makes you bleed. If I could do art-statements like Tracey Emin, or act my sweet ass off with the luminous grace and intelligence of Catherine Denueve, then I wouldn't have to do this. But because I'm not wired to do any of those thing, does it mean I don't I deserve my place, my moment, my acclaim? It's my right, isn't it? At least it's my right to try my damnedest for it.

See all the Waynetta Slobs out there? – the check-out no-hopers, fast-food dead-enders, that's not for me. I wanna be the kind of a girl who makes

'The Sun On Sunday'

. And I'll use whatever extreme gimmicks I've got in my grab-bag of tricks to get where I wanna be. As all this deep-thinking flashes through my powerful mind, my thinking's so aglow with twinkling inklings I almost miss out on what Fifty's saying.

'What? What's that you said?'

'Just about him, David Bexx, lounging there back at the Plaza, 'cos she's off doing the video, trying to re-relaunch her Pop career yet again...'

And I'm going 'I don't believe this, you

know

where he is now?'

And he goes 'sure, the Plaza'

'So why the fuck didn't you say?' Next thing we're off in a warp-drive cab across town towards the Plaza. Four-wheel-drives and stretch-limo's flashing by. What a palace. Wow. The kind of hotel you only usually get to see in

'K.O.!'

and

'Hi!'

magazines. We stalk into the foyer, trying to look as though we belong, but get no further. Escorted off the premises, for the second time tonight. Outside again we drift along the pavement, meander down the side-street, to where there's an alley leading into the rear of the hotel. But how to get in? We hang around for a while, then he nudges me. A laundry truck.

'There's our way in.'

I don't see the significance at first. 'What you gonna do, bribe him?'

But Fifty steps out to block the way, and when the van slows to a stop he leans in and starts yakkity-yakking to the guy inside. They keep glancing across at me. At length the laundry man slides the door back. Fifty beckons me across. You know those 'Benny Hill' DVD comedy collections? The character he does called Fred Scuttle, the ludicrous cross-eyed git with the geeky grin and bent glasses, like he's seriously-challenged in some department? Well – it's him. Only the little creep's sat there with his legs splayed, he's got his hard dick out and he's waving it at me expectantly. It's then I realise the inducement that Fifty's offering.

I take one step back. So it's come to this, sucking-off strangers in back alleys. Then I think on what's at stake. I get photos of me and Bexx together. That gets me into the tabloids. A touch of celebrity by association, I sell the story through Maxford. That's enough to get me onto the

'Celebrity Big House'

short-list. To do that, the first hurdle is to get into his hotel room. How much do I want that...? After all, what he's asking is not a lot different to your Ibiza one-nighters, just that there you actually fancy the guy. Mostly. If you really care too much about that kind of thing after bingeing all that local cheapo-vino. The kind of guy you regret and try to forget, you wonder why the fuck did I fuck him, but hey – it soothes that raging holiday pussy-itch.

So what's one more? What the hell? Fifty steps aside. Fred Scuttle grins so wide I swear he's gloop-drooling. I can't meet his eyes – mostly 'cos they go in opposite directions, don't even look at his face. He's better endowed than you'd think, and when I go down on it he starts into this heavy-breathing snort-grunting, like he's never had his cock sucked before. Perhaps he hasn't. But when I suck a guy he knows he's been sucked. And it goes on for some time.

Fifty even tells me to 'hurry up', like I need urging to get this thing over!

At last he gets his jollies, shooting gooey gloop across the roof of my mouth. He stands up and re-zips as I dab-wipe my lips with a hankie. He takes his white uniform jacket off and gives it to Fifty, gets another from the back of the van for me, then stands there looking forlorn and stupid in the alleyway. For him it's probably the biggest night of his life, poor shit. Fifty drives the short distance down to the gate. There's a brief exchange with the goon, he laughs at whatever tale Fifty spins him, and we drive in, stop. From there on it's a doddle.

We haul two wicker-laundry baskets out of the van and no-one looks twice as we hump them in. A couple of cleaners or domestics even smile at us. Once inside we wait a bit. There's a maid's trolley with mops and aerosols, and a row of uniforms on linen cupboard shelving, even master-keys on monogrammed key-fobs. So next we're sashaying along the corridors, as though we're staff, navigating a trolley with a skewed wheel that won't go where you want it to go. And y'know, it's true, no-one notices the hired help. Probably they're out-sourced from an agency anyway so there's not even a recognition problem.

Fifty took note of the suite number earlier, and next thing we're outside there. The key turns. The door inches open, and we're in. Fifty's got his digi-'phone out. He fades the lights up, but there's no-one to see, yet. I lead through the en suit, into the bedroom, and he's there, laid on that beautifully muscled back, asleep. That close-crop, that shy sleepy eyes-closed smile, that single diamond stud-earring familiar from all those news-shots. We're just stood there gawping at him, like we can't believe it. This is David Bexx, my ticket to fame. Until it's me that moves first.

I've not got much on. The man's jacket from the Awards. The maid's uniform. Soon they're together in an untidy pile on the expensive carpet. I reach out, almost scared to wake him, timidly grasp the top of the duvet and carefully draw it down, bit by bit, all the way. He's wearing pyjamas with little cartoon 'Roy Of The Rovers' all over it – bless! I check to make certain Fifty's ready. He's ready. I slip the buttons open, one-two-three, folding it back over his chest, then untie the pyjama drawchord, and shrug it aside, down to his knees. What's revealed is magnificent, a thickly-veined snake with its fat head laid clear up to his navel. It makes my teeth ache with anticipation just looking at it. All it needs is a little stimulation, and I can be very stimulating when the mood is on me.

Fifty starts snapping off stills as I lick and slurp at it, the foreskin hooding back so its single eye opens, regarding me appreciatively, I swallow it whole. It rises to attention. Forcing me to relinquish it bit by bit the bigger it gets. And as it gets big, it gets hard, harder than Japanese geometry. But I'm well-used to handling swollen goods.

He's murmuring 'Vicky Vicky' low and husky, his hips moving up to meet my throat. I look up towards where Fifty's stood, and try to smile for the camera, but smiling's not easy when your lips are strained out of shape and your mouth is crammed with monster celebrity dick. I'm tempted to keep working at it, to taste its gift, because what's in those balls is golden, the champagne of sperm, the nectar of sperm, the most desired connoisseurs sperm that eager girls would queue up round-the-block to swallow. But I grudgingly ease it out. Fist it into launch mode, straddle over him and squelch it all the way in bollock-deep. Snap, snap. Now I'm gliding up and down on it, slow and succulent, then speeding up, so good I almost forget what I'm here for. His head starts flipping from side to side. I feel its energy building. Same instant his eyes slam open. He starts spunking off deep inside me, my pelvis scrunching down to receive every last drop. He's startled, confused, as you'd expect I guess, it must seem like some bizarre wet dream to him, waking to find a naked slapper impaled on his spurting throbbing dick. Reluctantly, and just as quick – I'm up off it with an audible 'plop'. It slops back down across his toned gut with a wet slap.

'Sorry, excuse me,' and I'm scooping up my clothes, Fifty's backing off, Bexx is rearing up, still half-asleep.

He slurs 'here, what's going on?' in his wussy half-asleep voice, as we scarper for the door, Bexx verticals as lithe as his legend tells it, he makes a move to head us off, dick still stood out, waving red and impressively still-hard, glistening with my pussy-juice, his pyjama pants crumpled around his ankles, but he sharply falls forward, legs all tangled up in little 'Roy Of The Rovers' prints, head over arse. And we leave him there. Outside the room we're grinning like we've won the Lottery as I pull what little clothes I've got back on. There's no sound from the suite as we hare down the corridors, he's not pursuing us, he's not even alerting security, so we're slowing to a fast walk so's not to draw attention. Mission accomplished.

Some time later, back at the apartment I'm going 'Hey Fifty.'

'What Babe?'

'Don't you ever get, like... um, jealous?'

'Wha' you mean Babe?'

'Jealous. What I mean is, don't you ever get jealous, when you see some guy white-washing my epiglottis?'

'Hey, each human soul is an independent entity.' And he goes into this crapology about 'we're not property. We're part of Heisenberg's uncertainty continuum, particles moving along the relativistic curvature of space-time, drawn by the gravitation of event horizons, singularities or strange attractors, but that don't mean we go in there and plant flags and claim territorial rights, we spin off into new orbits. We are not possessions of one another.'

Yeah thanks, a simple 'no' would suffice. And we all know what you mean about planting flags. But he's transferring the photo-card to his lap-top and scrolling up the pictures. It's then I realise, and it's a sickener. Photo after photo, me with monster-dick in my mouth, me riding monster dick frame one, me riding monster dick frame two, my lady-fluff with an inch of dick protruding, two-inches, four inches... get the picture?

'You dumbo Fifty, this is all useless porno-shit.'

'Wha' ya getting at, Baby-girl?' He looks. But he still can't see what I mean.

Till I yell it at him. Me, and cock. Anonymous cock. There's no pictures of his face. Not one. Nothing to identify that this is me, with David Bexx. Nothing that proves an association. Nothing that can be any good at all to Cliff Maxford and the tabloids.

I slam the door on the way out. It's over. The whole escapade has been for nothing. It's morning by now. We've been up all night. I walk for an hour, perhaps more, stumbling into daylight as the streets come slowly to life around me. At last I go into a café-bar for a latte, sipping it long and slow, feeling both stupid and angry, without knowing which of them I'm feeling more. It's only 8.15 in the morning and already my life is more absolutely dismal than it ever was before.

Until I notice the girl's looking at me in a curious way. I look up. She looks away, then back.

'It's you isn't it?' she says. And flips out a newspaper. There it is – 'MYSTERY NUDE BEAUTY WRESTLES DOSH AT AWARD CEREMONY!' splashed clear across page-one. Me and her rolling over and over across the expensive carpet, my bits inadequately starred out. The paparazzi, of course, they never miss a trick. I read the caption, 'who is the mystery nude? Speculation is rife. Who will be the first to name the naked-stunna...?' It's all here. Everything I need. Everything Cliff Maxford needs to market my story.