Trigger happy paparazzo surrounded me.
They think I’m insane. They think I’m ugly. They think I’m beautiful. I step into traffic with racing cars speeding by; even the cars slow down because I am that important. Flash, flash. This is lush, and I can see the man that loves me front and center taking the photographs more thoughtfully than all of the others, and suddenly this is no longer just an exchange between the celebrity and the paparazzi. This is Da Vinci crafting Mona Lisa. I must pose and back up a little, so he can see all of me. This portrait shan’t go unfinished. He photographs me warmly. How he photographs me, I know its love. One paparazzo screams, “Miss Bette, Miss Bette Parker, you’re going to get hit by a car. Please, get out of the street!” Another paparazzo screams back, “Let her get hit, man.” Click, flash, click, flash. How sweet, they want me to be Marilyn Monroe, Princess Diana, Michael Jackson. No PR agent could book this kind of love.
Destiny was a friend of mine that followed me around since I was just a little girl. I used to think destiny was a benevolent pal of mine, but I think she was always secretly jealous. She always had to tag along and give me what I want, but she wanted what I had, so she would soil all of my kismet moments that she gave me. Destiny resented that her one purpose was to ensure that my life unfolded in the most magical way possible. Destiny didn’t want to introduce me to Hollywood, she had to introduce me to Hollywood, and that bitch did everything she could do to make sure that Hollywood ate me alive.
Scene 1: All of these girls are ugly, and desperate. You can smell it on them. The sun glimpses through the windows and they’re all memorizing their lines, and some are even wearing wigs to ensure that they look as believable as the character they’re gunning for. The director comes out, “Ms. Better Parker? You’re up first.” I better not blow it, I thought. I walk in his office with the script. I observe his warm eyebrows and strong fingers observing me from over his desk. My pussy begins to drip wet. Even my pussy knows I want to be a star. I put down the script, I heighten my skirt, I direct his hands to feel how bad me and my pussy want to see our names in light, and then in order to not blow it, I blow it. I blow him and I get the part of a lifetime. No wig necessary.
Scene 2: Red carpets are fun, and I love wearing Italian and French things that cascade down my back and thighs that will ensure to get me talked about tomorrow morning as long as that Sir Mercury boy doesn’t try to steal the show with his alleged performance art. Strategic nudity is a type of performance art too, isn’t it? I step outside of the black limousine on to the velvet blood that ran down the floor before me and the cameras begin to rejoice. “Miss Parker, is it true you’re dating Sir Mercury?” No, Sir Mercury is a fag. “Miss Parker, do you think you’ll take home the gold tonight?” Probably not, I didn’t blow anybody on the academy yet. “Bette Parker, what’s next?” I answer, “What’s next is not a question for the celebrity or artist to answer, dear. That’s a question for the beautiful public to decide. I am just glad to be now.” I love answering questions. I decide who I want to channel, and they eat it up. I sound like I am reading off of an script, and they call it old Hollywood. I didn’t take home the award, but I was talked about the next morning for my barely there leather couture creation from Italy. All’s fair in love and fame.
Scene 3: She’s going to ask me the most personal questions, and my publicist tells me to just answer because this is a landmark interview. I’m stuffed inside of a pencil skirt, with a sweater tucked in, with a high bun, a big gold watch for a touch of masculinity. The men to need to want to fuck me and the women need to want to, well, fuck me too. Nobody can second guess my desirability, but I must look like a viable option, not a threat. I must be likeable. This time, I must stay in character.
“Bette Parker, you have the world. How amazing is it being you?”
“Well, I must say, I feel like I deserve it.”
“You feel like you deserve it?”
The audience doesn’t desire me, they envy me. I messed up.
“That sounds a bit entitled.”
Scene 4: My career is over.
Scene 5: Everyone has their favorite drugs for different reasons, but I love weed with some cocaine sprinkled on top. It softens up my imagination and helps me be able to mold back into the superstar I once was, if only in my mind. The beautiful thing about rock bottom is that it helps you discover what really feeds you because that’s the first thing you reach for. Some reach for food, or security, I reached for the fame. I called the paparazzi every evening and told them where I’d be and I’d wear things that only an alien whore would find appropriate, and I found love for a few moments every evening. One photog in particular reminded me of that fateful day in the casting director’s office that the bitch, Destiny, set up for me. His fingers were strong, his eyebrows were warm, and my pussy still salivated by the idea of the chance of stardom.
Scene 6: He swam inside of me over satin covers and his dick was a camera that was interested only in the “authentic”, “real” me like a Mario Testino portrait. Half of me thought I was sleeping with the devil. The other half knew that I was sleeping with the man that gave me this fame I’ve always hoped for. I was disgusted. I was enthralled, and he was having an orgasm, and recording.
He says, “You fuck me like you’re on stage.”
“I am. It’s funny, when I first came to Hollywood, I was a twit thirsty for attention, and I got that attention by any means necessary.” He recorded me with eyes and I could tell I wasn’t have a conversation, I was recording for my documentary special. Maybe, a feature film release or maybe something intimate like a HBO special.
“But, maintaining the attention, then losing the attention and then fighting for the attention made me an artist. It turned me into a real performance artist of the new millennium. You know, being deliciously private in public because all you do, even what you do privately, is somehow designed to feed your adoring public. Oh, how I love the adoring public.”
Intermission: Barbra Streisand, Judy Garland, Better Parker. My mother wanted me to be a star, so she named me just like those Hollywood gals she grew up adoring. The night fell and my father didn’t see his little girl, I just know it, he saw one of those women in one of those glamorous films. He didn’t see missing teeth, pajamas, and immature eyes. He saw red lipstick, sequins, fur, and readiness. So, he whisked me away and took away my innocence and made a marquee out of me. I didn’t have any time to comprehend my new found stardom because that was the morning Princess Diana died and I couldn’t risk my tears smothering the flame of the torch that was obviously being passed down to me.
Scene 7: They found my home. I can hear the flashes from outside of my door, and I think if I were normal, I wouldn’t have heard it, but I’m the superhuman of reality. I’m a celebrity. So, I can hear my friends snapping and hustling in bushes. They love me so, even when the world rejects me. One is from Rolling Stone, I can tell by rhythm in his camera clicks. I invite him in.
“I’m from Rolling Stone.” I know. “I wanted to see if I can interview you for my piece. It’s a think-piece on you, I think you are one of the most important celebrities of our times, you know. I’d love for your perspective to be shared in this.” Of course, you can interview me, I think.
I say, “No.” He pleads, I pretend to ponder. I say, “Yes.” He asks me questions. The lot of them are boring, except the last one.
“What’s something someone wouldn’t know about you?”
“I feel useless when I eat fruit. Cut me, I only bleed. Cut the fruit and they pour sweetness and vitamins. I think my chase for celebrity has been me trying to compete with fruit.”
“I think you’re sweet,” he said.
We fucked. I fell in love, he wrote a story. I became even more of a train wreck, he was established as even more of a genius, and secretly, we became lovers.
Scene 8: The cars zipped by. “Miss Bette Parker, you’re going to get hit by a car,” one paparazzo said. “Let her get hit, man,” my man, my lover, my fruit said.
One car with headlights almost as bright as me made a legend out of me. It only took fifteen minutes for me to escape my famous fleshy body. I would never shop at Forever21, but as my heart beat slowed, I became ecstatic to be merchandised in Forever27 next to Amy Winehouse t-shirts and River Phoenix mugs.
It was grand, even the fall, in retrospect. I was the superstar, a crashing light that everyone marvels and envies, and all superstars know that one day it will one day fall like everyone else. It’s an existential brand of excellence that goes great with lobster and champagne, and I got to dine with this spectacular brand of ridiculousness that is stardom, even if just for a brief moment.