just treat someone this way?”
Stan shrugged and watched the
angry girl scoop up her clothes and head towards the door. “Yeah,
pretty much. Oh, and your tramp stamp sucks. I hate those things.
What is it, anyway? Like a big advertisement screaming out to fuck
you in the ass? How do butterflies translate to ass fucking?”
"You were a lousy fuck anyway,"
the woman spat as she slammed the door behind her.
Stan laughed out loud. He was
sure the incident would be on the gossip blogs by the next morning.
He could see the head lines. 'Stan Cherry can't get it up!' 'Is
Stan Cherry Gay?' It wouldn't matter. When you were the lead singer
of a band as popular as Slut Girl, girls willing to do whatever he
wanted were a dime a dozen. And like they said, even bad press was
press. He’d sell another million records and it would all be
good.
He lay in the bed staring at the
ceiling. Was this all there was to it? Fame and fortune were...
boring?
There was a knock at his door.
"Stan? Are you all right in there?"
"Come on in, Candy," he replied
and turned so he could watch as his personal assistant entered.
He was struck, as he always was,
at just how big the girl was. It didn't matter how much she did for
him, how she kept his chaotic life in order, how she put up with
his temper tantrums, or just how she was always there to talk to,
he always came back to her size. She was fairly tall for a woman,
bumping up against six feet, but weighed in somewhere north of
three hundred pounds. She had flaming red hair and sin the color of
ivory. She was smart and funny and if she hadn't been so big Stan
would have been all over her. She dropped a duffel bag she was
carrying into one of the room’s many chairs and then took in the
scene of the destroyed hotel room.
"That ought to be in the papers
in the morning," Candy said as she came in, assessing the room.
"And this is going to cost you."
Stan ignored her comment. “You
don’t remember the conversation about tramp stamps? I hate tramp
stamps. I thought you weren’t going to send any more up that had
them?”
The room was a mess. There were
empty booze containers strewn about, stacks of empty pizza boxes,
and enough discarded clothes to cover a football team. The bed
sheets were in shreds and someone had attempted to build a camp
fire with the destroyed pieces of the end tables. She was right, of
course. It was going to cost him. It was going to cost more,
however, to try and keep yet another drunken rage from the
tabloids. He vaguely remembered the start of the party the night
before, after the show, but how he'd ended up fucking the blond in
the ass this morning, bored out of his mind, was beyond him. He was
missing the time in between.
“ So you
seriously want me to inspect each and every bimbo that we pick out
to come party in your room? For a tramp stamp?”
Stan shrugged.
“ What do you
think the papers would say if they got a hold of that?”
"Fuck the papers," Stan spat.
"They'll just make up the same shit anyway. Might as well give them
something to write about."
"Sure," Candy began, "yet
another rock star trashing yet another hotel room. Yet another rock
star with stupid taste in women. No one's heard that one before.
You're rapidly becoming a past tense. I fully expect to read the
story, some day, where you've drunk yourself to death."
Stan spread his hands wide and
grinned sheepishly. "Who, me?"
"Yes you," Candy began as she
bent and started cleaning up around him. She stopped and stared at
him for a moment, concerned and serious look on her face. "Really
Stan, is this what you want with your life?"
Stand shrugged. "I'm bored,
Candy. None of this thrills me anymore, not like in the beginning.
I have everything I ever wanted and now," he paused, staring at
her, "I'm just bored."
"That's why you're bored," Candy
told him, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You're the boss now. The
big cheese. You have everything you want but none of it is
satisfying. Any of those
Stan shrugged and watched the
angry girl scoop up her clothes and head towards the door. “Yeah,
pretty much. Oh, and your tramp stamp sucks. I hate those things.
What is it, anyway? Like a big advertisement screaming out to fuck
you in the ass? How do butterflies translate to ass fucking?”
"You were a lousy fuck anyway,"
the woman spat as she slammed the door behind her.
Stan laughed out loud. He was
sure the incident would be on the gossip blogs by the next morning.
He could see the head lines. 'Stan Cherry can't get it up!' 'Is
Stan Cherry Gay?' It wouldn't matter. When you were the lead singer
of a band as popular as Slut Girl, girls willing to do whatever he
wanted were a dime a dozen. And like they said, even bad press was
press. He’d sell another million records and it would all be
good.
He lay in the bed staring at the
ceiling. Was this all there was to it? Fame and fortune were...
boring?
There was a knock at his door.
"Stan? Are you all right in there?"
"Come on in, Candy," he replied
and turned so he could watch as his personal assistant entered.
He was struck, as he always was,
at just how big the girl was. It didn't matter how much she did for
him, how she kept his chaotic life in order, how she put up with
his temper tantrums, or just how she was always there to talk to,
he always came back to her size. She was fairly tall for a woman,
bumping up against six feet, but weighed in somewhere north of
three hundred pounds. She had flaming red hair and sin the color of
ivory. She was smart and funny and if she hadn't been so big Stan
would have been all over her. She dropped a duffel bag she was
carrying into one of the room’s many chairs and then took in the
scene of the destroyed hotel room.
"That ought to be in the papers
in the morning," Candy said as she came in, assessing the room.
"And this is going to cost you."
Stan ignored her comment. “You
don’t remember the conversation about tramp stamps? I hate tramp
stamps. I thought you weren’t going to send any more up that had
them?”
The room was a mess. There were
empty booze containers strewn about, stacks of empty pizza boxes,
and enough discarded clothes to cover a football team. The bed
sheets were in shreds and someone had attempted to build a camp
fire with the destroyed pieces of the end tables. She was right, of
course. It was going to cost him. It was going to cost more,
however, to try and keep yet another drunken rage from the
tabloids. He vaguely remembered the start of the party the night
before, after the show, but how he'd ended up fucking the blond in
the ass this morning, bored out of his mind, was beyond him. He was
missing the time in between.
“ So you
seriously want me to inspect each and every bimbo that we pick out
to come party in your room? For a tramp stamp?”
Stan shrugged.
“ What do you
think the papers would say if they got a hold of that?”
"Fuck the papers," Stan spat.
"They'll just make up the same shit anyway. Might as well give them
something to write about."
"Sure," Candy began, "yet
another rock star trashing yet another hotel room. Yet another rock
star with stupid taste in women. No one's heard that one before.
You're rapidly becoming a past tense. I fully expect to read the
story, some day, where you've drunk yourself to death."
Stan spread his hands wide and
grinned sheepishly. "Who, me?"
"Yes you," Candy began as she
bent and started cleaning up around him. She stopped and stared at
him for a moment, concerned and serious look on her face. "Really
Stan, is this what you want with your life?"
Stand shrugged. "I'm bored,
Candy. None of this thrills me anymore, not like in the beginning.
I have everything I ever wanted and now," he paused, staring at
her, "I'm just bored."
"That's why you're bored," Candy
told him, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You're the boss now. The
big cheese. You have everything you want but none of it is
satisfying. Any of those
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