Single, Cool, and Fine: How to Get Laid as an Ex-Teen Idol Page 7

  Crystal leaned forward and braced herself on his chest, the effort squeezing her breasts together. Then she gyrated her hips in a slow, tantalizing circle that nearly ended him right then and there. “You like this, James?”

  “Uh huh,” he croaked, unable to respond in an eloquent way.

  “Tell me how much you like it, baby.”

  How could she expect him to formulate sentences? He was barely coherent. “I-I like it…a lot.”

  Crystal gave a throaty laugh. “Oh, yeah?” She ran her hands up and down his chest, continuing to swivel her hips in that torturous way. “You like your big cock in my pussy? You like how wet I am?”

  He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, begging his body to hold on for just a little bit longer.

  “You feel so good,” Crystal purred. “Fucking you feels so good. So good… Ooh, I’m gonna come. Just for you, James. I’m gonna… I’m gonna…oh…”

  With a choked groan, James followed her lead, his spine stiffening as his orgasm shot through his body. He sucked in gulps of air, his heart throwing itself against his ribs.

  “Damn.” Crystal collapsed on the grass next to him. “You are one sexy son of a bitch, James. You know that?”

  A grin spread across his face in the dark, but it faltered slightly—briefly—at the thought of what he’d just done, what it meant in the context of him and Greer.

  Then he remembered. There was no him and Greer anymore. That was his past, and Crystal and girls like her were his future. He could get used to that—and he planned to.

  Blame James (blame_james) wrote,

  @ 2012-07-15 16:01:14

  James Venora for President

  CLAUDIA: Today, I want to take a minute to talk about James Venora’s Choice campaign. Yes, we get it, drugs are bad, they can lead to a life of misery and homelessness and blowing yuppies for crack money. But it’s not like James Venora knows anything about that. He’s told interviewers he’s never even smoked weed. So here he is, championing for a drug-free America when he doesn’t even truly understand what drugs are like and has never lost anyone he knew to drugs. It’s like, “What’re you doing, dude? Why are drugs your cause?” Really, he has no idea what he’s even talking about.

  E.Y.: Totally. He’s a musician and he’s talking about how no one should take drugs. Go tell that to The Beatles, James. Maybe if someone ate a pot brownie every now and then, he’d make better music. I mean, no one thought I was in love with James Venora solely because of his songs, right? If so, mistake! It would be embarrassing to say “it’s all about the music” when it comes to him. Don’t get me wrong, he writes the catchiest, most fun music I’ve ever heard. His songs make me want to jump rope with a rainbow, but Lennon he ain’t. Then again, lucky for me, Lennon probably never grinded against a piano like James Venora, so I consider it a fine tradeoff.

  CLAUDIA: I think that’s James’ whole problem—he thinks he’s writing the stuff of genius. He can’t accept what he does and what he’s become and just enjoy it.

  E.Y.: He needs to realize that him being so flippin’ fine makes the music itself all the more awesome. Whenever James writes a song about saying no to drunk driving or seagulls trapped in plastic six-pack holders or whatever random, dated cause he feels like backing, I just thank God he’s attractive.

  CLAUDIA: James should try to be uglier. Ugly musicians are always more talented, and you won’t find them vaguely opposing drug use by staging the world’s laziest “protests” in parks before shows. You won’t find talented musicians having their fans lay on the grass like they’re dead to symbolize those who’ve OD’d. You won’t find talented musicians walking in between “the dead,” spouting drug facts into a bullhorn. Of course, all that actually happens at a Choice demonstration. It blows my mind.

  E.Y.: And if there’re no parks to be found, James has no problem having fans lie on the sidewalk in front of the venue, which looks even less like a protest and more like everyone’s just camping out for a show. Making matters worse is that James is horrible about marketing his cause. He doesn’t explain to any passersby what the hell is going on and fails to properly inform the media.

  CLAUDIA: Right. The only people who know about his anti-drug actions and The Choice are the fans, and they’re all either people who’ve never done drugs anyway or the ones who like to hit the grav bong, put on “Give It Time,” and think of how much simpler life was when they were preteens.

  E.Y.: When I participated in one of The Choice naps just for the sake of saying I did, people wandering by would ask, “What are you all doing?” and I was like, “Eep! No speak English!” It’s so dumb to be a grown-ass woman lying on the ground like a wounded soldier while James Venora weaves between the bodies, rattling off horrifying statistics about how one in eighty billion people gets addicted to marijuana. Oh God, why was I there? Ah yes, so I could entertain readers with that anecdote.

  CLAUDIA: I wish that, when I was at the demonstration, I had cruised up to James on a Vespa and ridden beside him, nodding my head with great earnest as he walked and gave his speeches.

  E.Y.: I would’ve been in your sidecar wearing a helmet and aviation goggles, hollering for James to take his clothes off.

  CLAUDIA: You would’ve also had to dick around on an iPad and eat a Big Mac. I’d want to be as frivolously American as possible. Like, I’d relate to whatever James is saying by referencing MTV shows, like, “James, this thing is so sad, even sadder than when that guy on ‘The Real World’ had a drug problem.”

  E.Y.: “Hey y’all! Remember that guy who almost died on ‘The Real World’? I love that show, y’all! Oh em gee, James, do you watch ‘16 and Pregnant’?”

  CLAUDIA: Why don’t more people do awesomely obnoxious things during the demonstrations? There are so many opportunities. Maybe they’re all too busy legitimately sleeping.

  E.Y.: Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for James trying to make the world a better place. I just wish he’d be more sincere about it, or at least pick a cause that hits closer to home, like music programs in schools. Then again, he never went to a regular school. Wait, I got it! He should back fitness and the food pyramid, ensuring that everyone gets their daily exercise and the proper serving sizes of fruits and veggies.

  CLAUDIA: Then he could replace his naps with mass jogs around the block, and at the end of the run, everyone gets a certificate of participation signed by James and a small cup of Gatorade.

  E.Y.: I bet finding participants willing to exercise in the name of worldwide fitness would be no problem if James were to award promises of sex with himself. People would be more motivated than ever. Hell, I’m motivated right now! His body has ways of making people say yes. This is why he would make a great president.

  CLAUDIA: I already have a slogan. James Venora: Fighting the nation’s drug problem in layers of Spandex. That, or Put your vote in for James Venora next election, or he’ll put his powerful vote in your lady.

  E.Y.: And I already have a campaign platform:

  • Federally mandate that scarves be worn in place of neckties in the workplace

  • Amend our national anthem to include more “ohs,” “yeahs,” and “whoas”

  • Pass a law declaring that if you’re not procreating by age twenty, the government will come and burn down your house

  • Lead the Jews to Bethlehem

  • Replace the American flag with a homemade “I Made The Choice” wifebeater

  CLAUDIA: Here’s your commercial: He’s walking down a suburban sidewalk, wearing a sweater vest with a jacket slung over his shoulder. Then, the voiceover guy will say, “James Venora knows the world.” Cut to a shot of young James looking out a tour bus window. “James Venora knows the ladies.” Cut to a shot of screaming girls. “And James Venora knows how to say nope to dope.” Cut to a shot of James shunning the rock-and-roll lifestyle. Then, James Venora stops walking and says, “I’m James Venora,” and swarm of patriotic-looking fans swarm around him as he continues, “I’ve seen a million
faces and I’ve rocked them all. Now let me rock yours. Vote for me in the next election.” He gives a thumbs-up just as a bald eagle holding an American flag in its beak soars overhead. Cut and print.

  E.Y.: Ew, that made me cringe. Why do I like James Venora again? Oh, right—because he’s hot and makes music that’s catchy as fuck and it’s easy to have an opinion regarding his life. I wish he wasn’t foxy, or I wish I was one of those chicks who didn’t get it and wasn’t attracted to guys like him. Or I wish that he never did press, never got married and had kids, never talked to fans—just played shows forever and took foxy pictures.

  CLAUDIA: That’s a lot of wishing.

  E.Y.: I can dream, can’t I? As a Venora fan, that’s all I can do.

  Chapter Five

  “The root cause for twenty-five percent of the total deaths in the U.S. can be attributed to drug abuse,” James declared into the bullhorn. He circled the bodies sprawled across the grass of Laurel Park in Tallahassee, his steps ominous and methodical, and paused for a moment to let the information sink in before moving on to the next tidbit: “That’s equal to more than a hundred airliners crashing and killing everybody on board every year.”

  Laughter sounded from somewhere behind him, but he didn’t turn around to see what was so funny. He suspected he already knew, if his sudden self-conscious panic was anything to go by. When would the jokes end?

  Weary exhaustion replaced his anxiety as he read aloud the rest of the facts, printed straight from the internet thanks to Zeke Kelly, his spiky-haired part-time admin assistant at Venora Records. Zeke’s hiring had been at the suggestion of his father Steven, James’ manager, and he’d been anything but happy when he learned he’d be doing more filing and answering phones than hobnobbing with new bands and getting free music. James suspected more work was actually involved with the job, but Zeke had a way of making tasks disappear like the Mafia had with stoolpigeons. And E.Y. and Wade wondered why James found college students lazy and ungrateful.

  Sometimes James wished he’d gone to college. He’d show them how it was done, starting with Zeke. Then again, Zeke was guaranteed a sweet full-time position someday thanks to his dad’s connections, so why should he have to try at work? Why should he have to try at anything?

  James realized then that while these thoughts ran unchecked in his head, he’d still been talking into the bullhorn. He hoped he’d been reading the facts Zeke had provided and not ranting aloud about Zeke himself. He glanced around at his audience for a clue to his behavior but saw nothing out of the ordinary—just a hundred or so diehards lying on their blankets and towels, supposedly representing those who’d fallen under the dark spell of drugs and alcohol and been lost. Instead, some were texting, some were talking, and a few were even tanning.

  “Drug use usually begins at the average age of twelve-point-five years.” James’ voice quivered, betraying his lack of conviction. Wade had always told him he was no Nancy Reagan, but deep down, he couldn’t bear to admit his brother was right. He had no cause; no one cared. That girl over there looked baked right now. It was more than clear that the crowd collected on his behalf, which made him feel alone, not supported. He was no preacher and this was no choir.

  He reached the end to his facts and pressed the play button on his portable iPod stereo. A melodic, hypnotic piano tune trickled from the speakers, accompanied by airy instruments that reminded him of a sunrise. He thought it was a good music to wrap up the demonstration, like waking up after a long sleep and having a life-changing epiphany. Some participants stirred, slowly getting to their feet and stretching, but most remained on their blankets, still very much engaged with their smartphones, conversations, and sun worship.

  James sighed before speaking into the bullhorn, “If you’d like to support the cause, you can purchase a Choice tee. All proceeds go to the Drug Free America Foundation. And remember—every day you make choices. When you wake up, make the big one—to live. Thanks, everybody.” He switched off the bullhorn and packed up the iPod as a few more people rose, but the majority still lounged, their voices growing in number and volume.

  A flash of despair flickered through him, and not for the first time. It was all so hopeless, but why did it have to be? He just wanted to help. He just wanted to do some good, at least try to make the world a better place. He was capable of being so much more than “the kid who sang ‘Give It Time’” fifteen years ago. Too bad no one else seemed to buy it.

  He slung his backpack over his shoulder and turned to head back to his bus, still lingering outside the venue, when he caught sight of a dark-haired girl having a cigarette near the gate. She paused when she saw him, and he witnessed her entire body language shift from relaxed apathy to mortified fandom. She looked from him to the cigarette in her hand and then to his shirt reading The Choice. Her face went red. “Sorry, James,” she murmured as she dropped the cigarette and stomped it out.

  He half-smiled in response and was just about to float past her—his usual protocol—but the realization that he didn’t have to gave him pause. She was cute and he was now available, and there was no sense pretending those facts weren’t true.

  James turned to her, and her blue eyes went so wide he could see the whites all around them. He witnessed her visible and audible gulp. “You know nicotine’s a drug, too, right?”

  “I know,” she said, trance-like, as if she wanted nothing more than to listen to a megilah from James Venora on the dangers of smoking.

  “Do you always smoke during anti-drug demonstrations?”

  “I’m sorry.” She looked and sounded like she couldn’t tell if he was trying to embarrass her or flirt with her but she wanted to find out. “I just wanted to come by on my break since I heard you’d be here…” She paled, like she’d said too much.

  He remembered the rush he’d gotten when he caught Crystal off-guard at The Wheel. Granted, she’d then retaliated by spending the rest of the night keeping him on his toes, but when they’d been flirting at the bar and he commented on her nails, he’d thrilled to the power of being in control. He could use more of that.

  Acting on impulse, James reached out and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, which not only made her impossibly large eyes grow even larger, but attracted the mystified stares of several other from his flock. “What’s your name?”

  Her mouth parted, and only a stunned wheeze escaped.

  He gave what he hoped was a cocky smirk and dropped his hand, sticking it in his back pocket. “I’m James.”

  She licked her lips as she stared at his mouth. “Bridget.”

  “And where do you work, Bridget?”

  She glanced up and down the street, like she’d forgotten. Maybe she sought hidden cameras and a guy who’d spring from the bushes and hit her in the face with a pie. After all, James Venora didn’t do this sort of thing—touch and flirt with fans.

  Finally, she pointed. “A block up that way.”

  It was time to act on impulse, and he definitely had one of those. After another lackluster Choice rally, he felt he owed it to himself to act on it. He shoved the disappointing reminder aside and said, “I got some time to kill. I’ll walk you back.”

  Bridget again looked around as if to be sure he was talking to her, then gave him a shy, nervous smile of acceptance.

  He followed her, fighting a smile. Damn, E.Y. and Wade had been right. This was easy. He should’ve done this years ago.

  They walked in a silence that James felt no rush or need to break. He wanted to let her wonder what he was thinking. It hid the truth—he didn’t know what to say. How could that be? He didn’t know anything about this girl, and there were countless of things to ask and find out about her. Maybe, though, he didn’t want to learn anything about her. Maybe he needed her to be the nervous, trembling young woman she was, and he needed to be James Venora, a version of himself that was worshiped and revered and could do no wrong.

  Bridget stopped in front of a store where two mannequins wearing diaphanous
teddies held a sign reading Sugar and Spice Lingerie in the window front. James hardly dared to hope, but when she unlocked the door and stepped inside, tossing a shy smile over her shoulder, he followed with his heart thudding.

  The interior was a mix of ruby red and flirty shades of pink. A trio of dressing rooms with scarlet curtains lined the back of the store before a chaise lounge and a sea of merchandise, which consisted of ruffled bras, sheer stockings, lace-trimmed corsets, and pleather skirts. James felt like he was Charlie seeing the chocolate factory for the first time.

  Two other women were in the store behind the counter, giggling and tagging clothes to the soundtrack of an Aerosmith song playing from a portable stereo. One was a dark-skinned woman, tall and imposing, with a tornado of wild curls down her back. The other had a few beaded braids tangled in her shaggy, sexy mess of jet-black hair, her bangs sweeping untamed across her forehead. She possessed a pouty-lipped sneer and had smoky eyeliner smeared around her Spanish eyes. They looked up when Bridget and James walked in, and their girlish titters turned into curious, predatory noises.

  “Bridget,” the black-haired one purred. “You said you were going out to get something tasty for lunch. You weren’t kidding.”

  Bridget blushed and waved to the women. “Meet Ace and Desiree.” Her voice dropped. “They own this place together. They’re sort of…involved.”

  They were? If that were true, then going by the looks on their faces, they were still open to new ideas.

  “This is James Venora,” Bridget continued. “He’s playing tonight at The Empire Theater.”

  “Oh!” The dark-skinned woman’s eyebrow rose. “You’re the musician from that teen band, aren’t you?”

  He gave a nod. “The one and only. But I’m all grown up now.”

  The innuendo had slipped from his lips before he could truly register it, and he felt the heat rise to his cheeks. That was not the James Venora the world knew, judging by the surprise in Bridget’s eyes. But going by the intrigue in her coworkers’ eyes, that was not entirely a bad thing.