January 17, 2008
Star Fuck


I have fucked exactly one famous person. It’s not good form to name the people one has fucked on a blog, regardless of his or her fame. And I am always the soul of propriety.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t give some hints.

She is a tall, thin and not conventionally pretty woman comedian. She starred in a movie with an aging great comedy legend who played an aging great comedy legend. This early 80’s dark comedy was directed by a very renowned director, and its third star is a slightly unhinged New York actor who played a more than slightly unhinged New York actor. My starfuck, I’ll call her “S” for “Starfuck.”

I met S when she was touring her comedy/nightclub act after the super-big splash her movie made; she was more or less riding the crest of its wave to big fat stardom. S and her piano player had a single date at Hunt’s, the nightclub of Burlington, Vermont, where I was living at the time. In fact, the night that S was in town was my birthday, my 21st, I think, and I had taken myself to the show alone because I had just suffered a rather brutal break from my first live-in boyfriend.

So I’d gone by myself to see S. And I sat at the back, near the bar, and I enjoyed myself. At one point in the show, S asked for someone to bring her a cigarette. I wended my way through the crowd, dodging tables, to arrive at the stage.

I handed her a cigarette.

Our eyes locked.

It was one of those moments when a complete connection is made, I knew as she looked at me that she liked what she saw. And indeed, in her broad-mouthed manner, S commented on it in her act.

“I felt like I knew you.” She said, “That was really intense.”

After the show I went backstage. I pretty much had carte blanche in Burlington, Vermont. I was one of the in-crowd, and I went where I wanted and never had to pay for anything. Even dinners were often mysteriously paid for. It allowed me to purchase many cotton-lycra stripy garments with flippy skirts and deep-V necks.

But I digress.

I walked backstage and I met S and her piano player. She asked me about myself, gracious and a bit nervous. I told her I was a stripper, which I just barely was then, having I think worked one really hideous bachelor party in a warehouse with what might be the definition of unflattering lighting. She asked if I would come to her hotel and strip for her.

I said I would.

She was sharing the room with her piano player. The huddled on the floor next to a boom box that played something-Marvin Gaye, I think-and I danced for them. Poorly, I imagine, though if late, great, French critic Roland Barthes was correct in his stripanalysis, that the worse the dancer, the more attractive she is, then I was hotter than supernova.

At the end of my shoddy bump and grind, S and her player clapped, and then S held out her hand to me. I took it, and she pulled me down onto her bed, and placed her wide mouth on mine.

S is exceptional in my history for more than being the only star I have fucked; she is also the only full-on lesbian. I have always had more experience with women than the woman I was with. Always.

Except for S.

I have always been the aggressor with the women I have been with.

Except for S.

S kissed me fiercely. Her tongue split my mouth with a rabid force and raked across my teeth. She kissed me as if she was starving and I were a lambchop, which in many ways felt to be the case.

S is naturally a painfully thin woman. Her shoulder blades stretch her skin like an alley cat’s. Her hips are improbably wider than they seem like they should be, but they too have the jutting curves of the Sidney Opera House. The night I shared with S, she had just finished convalescing from a stomach flu. She was so thin she felt like a New Delhi sacred cow.

Her hips bruised my pubis as she ground herself between my thighs.

S kissed me roughly, she took my body in her long-fingered hands and she crawled her strong nails down my flesh. She didn’t have to dispense with my clothing-I had done that for her to the dulcet tones of Mr. Gaye-and so she just took what she wanted and she seemed to want it all.

Her hands were everywhere. Her mouth and her lips covered everything. Her tongue was more insistent than most cocks. She made guttural noises and she talked a bit dirty. I found myself thinking, this is fun, but a bit rough, a bit rough indeed.

In the morning, I would see the syntax of my body criss-crossed with scratches and punctuated with bruises.

S had her way with me.

She pressed my face to her flat chest and she pressed my shoulders down down down to her pubis. She covered my mouth with her pussy, she directed like Scorsese, she rode my face as I licked her and she screamed when she came.

Her piano player watched it all.

After we were done, I lay in her thin arms for a while, and then I called a cab and I slunk off into the night.

S lives near me here in Gotham. Our paths have crossed. Once or twice our eyes have met.

She has shown no signs of knowing me now, however well she knew me then.


Comments

2 Responses to “Star Fuck”

  1. mascarasnake on February 8th, 2008 6:49 am

    Don’t know what to say except that it’s a shame such a superbly written vignette should pass without a single comment, even if mine arrives so long after the original post date. Brava, brava. And yes, I know who you mean, and that’s one of my favorite movies–not that it matters, but it does give the story that little extra frisson.

    One hopes for something erotic; one is delighted to find genuine literary depth and craft. Which only makes it sexier of course. Again, brava to this and the other excellent pieces I’ve just started enjoying here.

    Not quite sure about “syntax” though (grin).

  2. carewser on February 11th, 2008 2:56 pm

    “not conventionally pretty woman”-the ultimate euphemism for ugly. I’m also quite certain I know who you’re talking about and you’re right, she won’t be winning any beauty contests anytime soon.

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