tagCelebrities & Fan FictionCurse of the Ex-Girlfriend Motif

Curse of the Ex-Girlfriend Motif


The Curse of The Ex-Girlfriend Motif:

The Cure For Sinning In Threes (a.k.a. He Smiles and Breaks Hearts)

It's strange the way you've shaped your hair into a semblance of a mohawk. I might call it a faux hawk, but really it's just a copy cat version of that singer from The Bravery. You look like him. You look like a young Elvis as you strut your stuff around the room as if you own the place. I think you think you do. Which is simply typical of you: with your far-too-young girlfriend and your just-beyond-ridiculously expensive cars. You paid $500 for that haircut, and I know the suit jacket was easily twice that. Probably five times that.

I can watch you from dissociated eyes now: I'm not yours and you're not mine. I'm not the pawn in your game of seductive Chess, and I have the clarity of mind to know that you are simply a player. A beautiful, rich, young Don Juan. You have all of Hollywood in the palm of your hand these days. Except me. I see through the Armani exterior to your black heart. Black as the darkest of days, because she left you. She isn't me. She isn't her. She will never be me. She will never be-

"I think it's time for us to take to our seats, Blue," her voice fills the small lobby of the nuvo riche theatre. "They're about to begin."

The smallest portion of my petite presence had expected for you to approach us. For you to say hello. To at least make that minimalist effort to bid me well in my future alone. But you remain cold and stolid, at her side; protecting her from no harm with your long, tattooed, sculpted arms. There were times when those arms protected me, but those times appear to be just history at this moment. So I let you walk from my sight as I am guided toward my waiting seat. Center orchestra, fourth row. If you care.

In fact, I take in every second of the film premiere with rapt disinterest. I am here because I was forced to be here, in this chair. You're seated three rows ahead, in the front row center. But of course. This is her film. Her big night. And you are her everything.

"What did you think of the film, Blue?" Sonia's voice is fluidly soft, curious. We are back in the lobby, covered in gold ornamentation that screams gaudy. Rich. Seductive. Young Hollywood's newest discovery.

Not certain what words will formulate on my dry tongue, I pause and partake of my surrounding. Just to our right, the latest "It Girl" is lighting a cigarette, while her latest "It Boy" is eyeing up her ass. Oh the field day "Enquirer" would have with this scene. I can see the headlines now. This film? It's headline? Something to the tune of, "This is not a film."

"How so?" Sonia questions with a slight laugh.

"It was a movie," I state unwavering. Bitter. "It was a movie just as many others. The acting was on par with the quality of the script, and that was mediocre at best."

The shadow over my shoulder introduces his presence before my visual perceptive centers can acknowledge his location. He smirks with amusement. "Is that what you really think?"

I nod. "This was mediocre, at best."

He nods. He looks even more beautiful at this close proximity. His skin is prickled with five o'clock's shadow, while his eyes glow a distinct honey brown. I had almost forgotten the diminutive dimples that appear when he curves his lips this way. Just as I have forgotten how his touch is electric in the romance-novel sort of way. I lose myself in him as he grins. "I'm sorry, Blue, but I spy jealousy and bitterness. It's unbecoming of you, and it's petty."

"Perhaps it is," are the only words I can speak.

"Perhaps," he nods in agreement. His lips purse in concentration and I know, instinctually, that he is searching for the words to address what he cares to state. He watches himself around me, eyes darting to and fro. Perhaps it is he who is jealous. Curious. Perhaps even slightly melancholic.

"Well," Sonia smiles politely and intervenes on my behalf. "I don't think we've ever met before."

He smiles in that manner that says, no we have not; and I hope we never will again. It's covert. No one knows his lips' translation like I do. I know them well. "It's very nice to meet you...?"

"Sonia," she bows gracefully. The neckline of her cliché little black dress is nonexistent: the cocktail length garment dips so low her belly-button ring is visible. When she bows, her cleavage is exposed. This reminds me why I am here.

He bows slightly as he kisses the top of her hand. He may not be a gentleman, but he plays it well on TV. He smiles and his eyes light. "Sonia, it is so very nice to meet you. I am Joel."

Sonia blushes. "Nice to meet you, Joel." And then the cliché, "I've heard so much about you."

Joel blushes in that matter that lights his ears. He looks a little startled as he jams his hands into his pockets. Suddenly, the Rico Suave act disappears. "Good, I hope?"

I feel forced to interrupt this ridiculous scene with a snort. A loud, annoyed, callous snort that tells him the truth he already knows to be present amongst us. No, what Sonia has heard has not been good; and no, we don't care to discuss that here. Or now.

"So I guess I should introduce you to the misses?" he tries to change the subject. I feel the train derailing as he forms the word "misses". I think he's aware that the axels have overturned and the locomotive is crashing down to earth; he looks like a train wreck already. This should make for the most interesting introduction ever to occur in front of the paparazzi. In fact, I am vaguely aware that we have already provided the material for a week's salary for several photographers.

And so it begins. She moves like a petite, teenage angel through the throng of Hollywood's elite. How elite they truly are should make for an interesting debate, but we'll save that mental juggernaut for another night. Tonight, he's going to introduce me to her. Tonight, I'm going to "meet the misses" who is ten years younger with perkier breasts. Her teeth are better bleached, her purse is more expensive. Her outfit alone tabulates to the equivalent of my monthly rent. Let's forget her car, which is likely still sitting in her overpriced cobblestone driveway somewhere in Beverly Hills. The limo drove tonight. Yes, Jeeves is waiting somewhere underfoot to whisk Cinderella and Prince Not So Charming back to the Ball anytime now.

"Oh my gosh!" she squeals, tossing her bosom onto mine and wrapping her miniscule arms around my frame. "I've heard so much about you, Blue! Oh my gosh!" She sounds like a bad Sweet Valley High rerun. I feel the urge to wretch as she steps back and devours me with her glowing, honey brown eyes. They remind me of someone I used to love. "You're just as beautiful as Joel said. Oh my gosh."

"Thank you," I feel obligated to attempt a smile. But I realize my Vampire teeth are showing.

She sighs and turns to Sonia, as if realizing for the first time that the other woman exists. My woman. Sonia is mine. I suddenly feel protective of my girlfriend. She is as blonde as the teenager in question, as lean and as tanned. Upon further analysis, I realize the two could be sisters. This thought makes me shudder, just as her touch made me shudder inwardly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm being so rude," she smiles. It's a genuine smile. She's a genuine girl. A Tommy Girl, a CK girl, a Prada girl, an Armani girl, a buy-it-if-it's-the-trend girl. "I'm Hilary, by the way." She extends a tiny, perfectly sun-kissed hand bejeweled with diamonds, emeralds and rubies, OH MY!

My hand is porcelain in comparison, just as small but not bedecked with the latest bling. I have no seven-figure income to speak of, no six-figure homestead. No film contract. No modeling contract. No Mickey Mouse Club membership, and certainly no teenage followers. I am just a simple woman, with simple possessions. I no longer possess that which she can easily demand. I no longer possess him.

"Blue," I nod courteously.

"Right, but like, that's a nickname, right?" she questions and I feel my head spin. To give the child credit, she is clearly nervous. This Valley speak is not, I presume, her norm. She is visibly shaking slightly, her beautiful shoulders moving fractions of inches to and fro as she tries to hold this uncomfortable conversation in front of her glowing throng.

"Wednesday," he intercedes with a bittersweet smile. "Her name is Wednesday."

"Thank you, Joel, I wouldn't have known my own name," I bite back. Vampire teeth barred. I smell blood.

His gaze has defocused from her young eyes to my jaded set of Hershey's chocolate irises. I have no honey, no dew of innocence. I am what I am, and he is well aware of my years of being. What I am. I am not her. He glares. "You don't have to be petty, Blue."

Sonia coughs. Perfectly timed. Suddenly, she is fretting with her diamond necklace, her diminutive dress, even her updo. She smiles anxiously. "I'm not feeling so well, Blue, maybe we should-"

"Oh please!" the youngster coos. Her expression drops down to cinders. She shows genuine sadness. She grabs my arm gently and smiles. "Please don't leave! The production company rented me this beautiful suite for the evening, and I'd like you to come to the party." She smiles and motions toward Sonia. "Sonia is welcome too, Blue. I would love for you both to come with us. Really. I've heard so many wonderful things about you, and," she glances around, lowers her voice, "there are so few of us good girls in L.A., ya know? I don't have many friends and I just...I feel a bond with you already."

She feels a bond with me. We've shared ten minutes of our combined forty-three years, one forced hug, and an awkward, photographically documented conversation and she feels a bond. I suddenly feel the urge to reward the naiveté of youth; to barrage her with my years of experience and prove that, no, you cannot bond with another woman in ten minutes. Or ten years. Or twenty, for that matter. Women are petty. Life is petty.

"What do you say?" he smiles and it's an uncomforting, forewarning gesture. He does not want us to attend this soiree. He is shivering in his over-priced boxer shorts at the idea of old and new allying together.

"Definitely," I smile and grab Sonia's hand. "It'll be fun! Right, Sunny?"

Sonia accesses my expression. Without the words spoken, she understands. Clearly, she's trying not to erupt into tears of laughter as she nods. "It sounds wonderful."

I realize for the first time that Hilary is representing herself in all white tonight. He has changed his usual attempt at nirvana and is donned in black. Mafioso style. She claps her hands together and her gold jewelry jangles. Her innocent happiness makes me smile. "YES!" she claps excitedly. "I'm so excited."

"Where's the party?" Sonia questions, ever the stickler for important details.

He frowns and lets out a long sigh as the blonde grabs his hand and squeezes. His lips form the two small words and I feel my blood rush to my feet. "The Bellagio."

"That's in Vegas," I state, ever the observant one.

"There's a helicopter waiting," he states and his eyes downcast toward his black Creepers.

"I can't wait!" she jumps up and kisses his cheek. It's sweet and innocent, just as she is sweet and innocent. Her second jump lands her beside my right cheek and she places a peck there and smiles. "I'm so excited. Yay!"

* * *

The guests- the few that had made the flight to Sin City- had dissipated to their own suites and rooms. Some to video poker machines that would render their wallets empty, others to high-priced table games that would make or break this month's budget. Hilary's sister, Haylie, whom we had been introduced to early in the night, had retired to her similar- though not quite as swank- suite with a Josh Hartnett lookalike. Sonia had similarly disappeared, conveniently with the room key, with a Joel Madden. Or as former family might like to call him, Josh. The eldest Madden brother seemingly wooed my girlfriend early in the evening when he informed her that her breasts were falling out of her dress. Such the romantic!

The bottle of Cristal was empty. More truthfully, I should say, the dozens of bottles of Cristal were empty and laying in buckets of dilapidated ice, or in human terms, water. Our glasses were still full of Lakini's juice but my mind was full of pure, electro-static fuzz. Like a nonexistent channel, I could not form a complete thought.

"So your....girlfriend," Joel cleared his throat. He was reclined on the white leather sofa across from me. A coffee table's distance from my legs. Seated beside his newest toy. I was certain that was all this poor child was: a pawn in his favorite dangerous game.

"Yes?" I hadn't meant to growl.

He pauses. I watched his mind search for the appropriate terminology as he sipped from his diamond-encrusted flute. "So you're bisexual now?"

I place my flute down onto the tabletop, arms folding into my lap. I wore black Dickies tonight. I always wear Dickies. For tonight's occasion, thankfully, Sonia had convinced me to don one of her favorite see-through silk blouses. Effeminate and breezy, my lifetime's worth of body ink was showing through. I was certain of this. As were my nipple rings and the firmest portions of my supple womanhood. I wasn't ashamed to show tits at this suave soiree. I was rather proud to be the Freak of the Week for these elitists.

"Are you a lesbian?" he repeated, this time changing his categorization. His eyes were wide with intrigue, as though he had already planned the scene in his mind: Sonia lying naked on a luxurious silk comforter, her naked body exposed to my hungry, equally naked eyes.

"Sonia's not my girlfriend," I clarify, licking my lips at the salacious thoughts I have implanted in my cortex. "She's just a friend."

"With benefits?" he prods.

I shrug. "What occurs in my bedroom is no longer of your concern."

He guides his body to the edge of the sofa, stands, and fluidly moves to take the seat beside me. She watches with intrigue, no signs of jealousy whatsoever behind her beautifully placid eyes.

"Blue," his voice nearly sings. "I'm not looking for a fight tonight."

I back up a fraction of an inch. Distance equals safety. Safety is distance. I smile as though my heart is not breaking. "Neither am I."

"Then why are you being so cruel?" he pleads, the eyes of a child suddenly behind the face of a man.

"I didn't think I was," I play coy.

His eyes search me, he stays in place and turns to his new mistress. "Hilary, could you be a doll and get us some more to drink?" She quickly stands to do his bidding. I watch her legs move with the grace of a gazelle, watch his cheetah eyes follow those legs as they disappear from sight. He grins. "Now, Blue, we're alone."

I shrug as though I don't care, as though I am smiling like I mean it. Brandon Flowers, I am not. I don't mean it. I am not a killer.

"Did I turn you into a lesbian?" he coos into my ear, and his breath ignites the nerve-endings in this area of my body. "Did you long for a woman in your bed when I left you?"

My response falls somewhere between rapt amusement and sheer unadulterated shock. The simplest words that can be spoken on the subject matter amount to, "I am not a lesbian."

"Then what are you?" his words seem to leak from his lips in lusciously languid strokes.

"A woman."

"And Sonia?"

"She's a woman, Joel," I spit venomously. I am not a vampire, but tonight is all about blood. About the vampire teeth and the stake through the heart. I am staked. He is about to be staked.

He purrs and the warmth of his words ignites my cold blood. "She's your woman, Blue. Isn't she?"

I allow him to touch my arm, to caress my skin. But I keep my eye on the target and state plainly, "We fuck, yes."

"Is she better than me?" he questions and a soft, moist flick of my earlobe with his tongue threatens to break my stone cold stance. His breath is like the fog on a bathroom mirror, clouding what is normally a clear view. Clouding my mind with lust-filled urges that I know will lead me astray.

I can't answer.

"Does she taste better than me?" he urges, and now a hand finds my left breast. "Does she love these?" he questions, fondling my nipple ring. "Does she love these like I do?"

I've suddenly become a mute.

"Does she treat you right, Blue?" he whispers and now his hand is discovering the land just South of my Dickies' border. "Does she love you like I do?"

I wish I were deaf. I wish I were blind. I wish I were many things right now, and none of them are what I am. Who I am. This situation. This...eternity. "What is taking Hilary so long?"

"She'll come when I tell her to," he voices straight to my loins. Emphasis on the word "come" and the way it rolls off his velvety tongue. I'm definitely mute now. He grins. "Just as you always came when I told you to."

"You're a cocky bastard," slips from my poisoned vampire fangs.

He moves closer yet and now his hand is between my thighs, atop my Bermuda Triangle and begging to be lost at sea. "Emphasis on the word 'cock'," he whispers softly, languidly lavishing each syllable.

"You're a bastard," I repeat.

"So you said," he smirks. He snaps his fingers as a deliciously deviant grin spreads across those stubbled cheeks. He was about to eat someone for dessert. "Oh Hilary," he called with saccharine sweetness. "We're ready for you."

Like a any good Stepford Wife, she appeared in the doorway. Backlit and sensuous, like the sexy teenage pinup that she was. That she is. I realize that I have nothing against this girl, and perhaps a little much for. She is no more than my height, less than my age. But somehow she embodies a woman in a girl's body. She is intelligent, and her sweetness- while seemingly overdone- is genuine. She is not aware she is a pawn, nor is she aware of the evil that she is bedding at night.

"Hilary, come sit," he directs the action as any good filmmaker should. She crosses her legs as she finds a place at his right. Agreeable. She is agreeable. "Hilary, we were just discussing something and I would like your opinion."

Her fingers tangle in her long blonde hair. It is down now, unhindered by paparazzi hoping for anonymous glamour shots; she is simply herself in this setting. A simple girl with simple desires, who happens to be a known name. Sadly, she has fallen for a simple man with not so simple desires.

"What do you think of bisexualism?" he questions, his attention focused on her self-tousled locks.

Her lips open to form the perfect "o" necessary for more deviant activities, and then she licks them slowly. Her concentration seems to be focused elsewhere, and my best female guess would be that she is entranced by his clear erection. It tents the front of his Dickies in an obscene manner. Obscene being the operative term. For I know what lies underneath those black slacks. My assumption? So does she. "Bisexualism?" she questions, softly, curiously. "What about it?"

"Would you fuck another woman?" he asks, blatantly. His bluntness does not shock anyone in this room. Would not shock anyone who has ever truly known what lies underneath those Dickies.

She seemed to fidget in her spot beside him. Uncrossing her legs, re-crossing her legs. She forgot her hair-styling work and seemed to abandon the ship of her mind. She was embarrassed. Clearly. Embarrassed. "I don't-"

His voice reverted to slithering snake. He cooed into her ear. "Don't deny it, Hil. You said it earlier. Say it now."

"She doesn't have to-" my voice speaks without my permission. The air is sliceable, servable. Like a piece of New York Cheesecake, it is sensual. Pleasing to the pallet in an unhealthy manner. Atkins Diet, be damned.

"I think you're really beautiful, Blue," she smiles as though she's a child handing over a Valentine. "I mean, Wednesday."

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