The Voxe: A Girl and Her Music

"Well, *insert girl's name here*, if they're all such fucking assholes—and you've somehow met and determined this of all three billion of them in the world—why continue to go out with them? Why don't you try going out with a girl? I know you don't think you like girls, but...if you never dated one, how do you know?"

This query provoked varied reactions, from abrupt confused silence, to the sarcastic, "Heh! I wish!" to the outraged, "What's that s'posed to be, some kinda sick joke?!" to the downright horrified, "UGH! Oh my God, are you insane??!"

I'll admit, a few of these reactions hurt my feelings. But if a young lady found herself on the edge of conversion, I was more than willing to urge her my way. But I failed to grasp the actual issue here. My reasoning was, everyone's different, right? I'd struck up a few embryonic friendships with guys over my years. Of course, none of them went any further than friendship. But the bottom line was that while yes, some guys did seem pretty rotten, lots of others in my experience were perfectly nice and cool. How, I wondered, were these girls just meeting endless parades of jerks, one right after another? Maybe this was easy for me to say, but if I went out with gents...I found it hard to believe I'd have to go through such a huge collection of assholes just to locate one sweet guy.

And then there was the flip side. In the midst of all these misandric tirades, I took note that the het-girls didn't seem willing to step back and consider their own shortcomings. Eventually, all the squawking got old. I didn't think guys could be this catty to hang with. I'd never seen them sitting around together complaining about how shitty women were.

Sadly, these interactions, coupled with my severe lack of Sapphic company, drained the kid-in-the-candy-store feeling from me. But I couldn't help how I felt about girls. I adored them. They were the softest, prettiest, hottest things to grace this fine planet. Still, I'd yet to experience my first sexual encounter with one. And my hormones were getting tired of it. Yet, were I to be intimate with someone, my heart and emotions wouldn't be overruled in their own demands. As much as my pussy craved some action, I wasn't about to let any dolly have her way with me without putting in her share of romantic affection: indefinite spells of pre- and post-sex cuddling, sweet whispered nothings, you get the idea. I wanted a thick-and-thin partner, not just a benefitted fuck friend.

In the meantime, I rubbed myself raw in bed to keep the yearnings at bay. But when I considered all the gorgeous gals I saw each day, it became intensely hard—and by "it," I mean my "c-l-it." I had no one fully or semi-serious in my life, thus my mind and body were free to fantasize, about whomever they damn well pleased. Most times it ended up being our beloved Jodie Foster. Not Jen Foster—though I liked her too—but Jodie. "Crush" wasn't a big enough word to describe my feelings for her. Hell, Nell, there wasn't a big enough word. I even wrote a song about her at one point, one of my more modest hits, "Beyond Heaven And Back." I almost had the chance to meet her at an awards show. But when I considered I might all but literally melt at her feet, perhaps it was better I didn't.

My "Little" Letty let me know how happy she was with Jodie in my mind's eye. I imagined her talking naughty to me, igniting me from beneath. "Oh, hello, Clarice," I'd chuckle back. "It's good to see you again." I stirred the head of my vibrator on my stiff, by now bulging red-hot clit, and whipped my head in heated desire. Finally, I burrowed my fingers inside and secreted all over them. It felt so fucking good.

"Jodieeeee..." I moaned.

"Velette..." I imagined her whispering back to me. I smiled as passion crashed over me.

"Say my name again," I beseeched.

"Velette..." she cooed, coating all the letters—even somehow the silent ones—in a sheen of irresistible allure. The pleasure built and built, until I felt the courage to stop, delay the orgasm and rev my engine from the beginning. Little Letty wasn't happy about this, but knew the big reward was coming. I willed pretend-Jodie to lay over and daintily kiss my lips, ears, neck, shoulders, arms, breasts...down my belly...my soft, milky thighs...

I was about to lose my goddamned mind. I thrashed and flopped on my bed, surfing waves I generated. Stars exploded in my eyes. My pussy spilled and squirted uncontrollably. In that moment my nipples could've cut solid glass. I released the viber and positioned my right fingers to hold it while jamming inside myself. Left hand free, I pinched my nipples, pretending the hand was Jodie's. My head spun. My brain was on fire. I cringed, I winced, I grimaced. My head flew back into pillows. Tears leapt from my eyes. Immeasurable lust blazed through me. Wave after wave assaulted and body-slammed me.

I needed another hand. There were four in my fantasy, but only two in reality. I decided to flip onto my stomach. I slipped a pillow under my chest to press my heaving, burning tits against. Somehow, I kept my right hand comfy and cozy inside my cunt through the entire maneuver. I held the vibrator in place with my left like before, still fixed on my swollen, blood-red clit. My face was now buried in pillows. My feet rose and slammed the mattress as I tried to maintain focus.

Fuck me, Jodie! Hard and fast, here and now! FUCK ME!!

My thighs clenched, trying to squeeze everything out of the almighty vibrator I could. My moans quickly accelerated to yells and screams. I wanted to jam the viber's head as far up my bubbling crimson pussy as it'd go. But my clit wouldn't permit me to move it one inch. Naturally, I had to obey. My clit and pussy owned me when I was horny. Hence, my reference as Little Letty. It's good to be on a first-name basis with the boss.

My impending orgasm toyed with me. It made me think it was nigh, and impishly retreated. I opened my mouth wide as I could, bit on a faceful of pillow, and shrieked my lungs out. Unable to wait or stand another second, I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to rip through the fabric with my teeth, and threw a shitstorm tantrum. I reached inside, burying my entire hand, and tried to get at my g-spot.

"Oh, Jodie..." I muttered through the pillow, voice half-hoarse. "Make me cum! PLEASE MAKE ME CUM!"

"Cum...for me, Velette," purred the smooth, perfect voice of my beloved Jodie.

"CUM...FOR ME."

The world as I knew it exploded.

Finally...I had conquered the orgasm. Finally, it was mine.

I lost it. I howled, I screeched, I swore, I begged for ever-loving mercy. The lightning electrocuted me head to toe, shocking me with mindscrambling voltage. I rolled on my back, caking my thighs in thick hot cum. I didn't care; I'd wash the sheets and myself later.

The orgasm wound down. My cunt was completely drained. The clit stimulation combined with my marvelous wet dream made me squirt like a lawn sprinkler. I dropped the vibrator as my head lolled and eyes fluttered once again. Faint colors swam before my blurred vision as my system shut down. At least I think it shut down. It was possibly the most intense orgasm I had or would ever experience. I'd have to write another little ditty or two about this—keeping it PG(-13), of course.

I don't remember what happened next.

*****

Lisa-Anne and I started working together a decade ago. After a brief meeting with the Rainbow executives, they flew me out to Los Angeles, and booked me into one of the swankiest hotels I'd ever seen in my life. It was a huge eye-opener for a little gal from the Midwest. Next meeting was with Lisa-Anne. She took me to lunch for some schmoozing. Honestly, though, I didn't hear every word she said. She was—is—so damn enchanting. I was just a kid at the time, in my early 20s, while she was in her late 20s, already a veteran in the industry. Her seniority over me in both age and experience turned me on.

"Okay, babe, so here's the deal," she began, her beautiful green eyes affixed on mine. "I like your style and your sound. You're raw, but the label and I see some real glimmer in there. And enough of it to turn you red-fucking-hot. In fact, I'll tell you somethin'. This is gonna make ya skeptical, right off the bat like this. But between you and me, Velette..."

Her voice lowered as she leaned in to me. Her sultry perfume tickled my nose.

"...You're a pop music prodigy."

My mouth dropped open.

"No bullshit; Velette...you're a genius. Babe, I've been in this business ten years. I know what the hell I'm talkin' about. I know star quality. You may not believe me right now, but mark my words: you...are gonna, be, huge. I'm gonna reach inside you, I'm gonna find that glimmer, and I'm gonna make you shine, Velette. Like the superstar you're gonna be. You are gonna have the world at your feet. I'm gonna set you on motherfuckin' fire."

I was instantly aroused. Lisa-Anne Brockton was clearly a genius herself. Of course, she was speaking career-wise. At least, I'm pretty sure she was.

"Oh, my goodness!" I remarked innocently. "I think I like the sound of that!"

"Damn straight," she nodded. "And I'll tell you somethin' else: you're a cool chick with a hot look. I wanna see you on records. I wanna see you on stage and screen. We're gonna throw you on billboards, posters, magazine covers, trading cards, the whole shebang. We are not messin' around, sweet thing. This is the big time we're talkin' about."

She was getting me really excited now, on several levels. We talked about introducing me to the biz, my love of songwriting, my skills, my star potential, putting together a crew of musicians, producers, engineers, technicians...she had so damn much to lay out for me, by the end of the meal my mind had turned to ravioli. I felt overwhelmed by all she was filling my head with. So I said so.

"Oh, that's okay, babe, trust me," she assured. "It's cool. You don't have to know about all the background stuff. I'm just letting you know that you will never see me unprepared. You just let me work out the nuts and bolts. Your job: write those hits. Just keep on the way you're goin', and let me do the rest."

I smiled, thinking I could do that. All this talk about the big time was intimidating, but didn't dampen my spirit. I could barely wait to get back to my room and pick up my guitar again.

"I can barely wait to get back to my room and pick up my guitar again!"

"'At's my girl," grinned Lisa-Anne. "Couple other things we're gonna wanna take care of in the meantime though too. What'd you say your name was? The whole thing?"

"Oh, Velette Cora Vanderbilt."

"Yeah," she replied, pointing a finger. "We need to do a little work on that."

"My name?...What's wrong with it?"

"Absolutely nothing. Your first name I love. 'Velette.' It's fresh. Vibrant. Vivacious. Just like you. 'S your last name I'm not so sure about. 'Vanderbilt.' Connotes construction work in The Netherlands or som'n'. Doesn't exactly carry that sexy punch, y'know?"

"...Huh." I'd never considered this. "So...you think I should do like Madonna instead? Just go by my first name?"

"Well, that's one way to go. That is a unique handle you've got on ya. But I'll tell you, I like that alliteration ya got going on with the 'v's. So I suggest we hold on to that and come up with a new 'last' name for ya. Something quick. Succinct. Monosyllabic."

"Oh, you mean more like Velette...Vice?" I giggled.

"Heh! Well, I'm not gonna let you sound like some cheesy-ass '80s cop show. Nah, I had something more in mind like...the Latin for 'voice.' 'Vox.' Velette Vox. Only problem is, Bono already pulled that."

"Whoa!..." I thought out loud. "Velette Vox?...That...that sounds so cool!"

Lisa-Anne smirked at me, pouring on the charm.

"Like that, do ya?"

"I love it! Do we...do we have to let that go? I mean, this feels a little different. His real name's Paul Hewson. I'm only changing my last name, right?"

Lisa-Anne's smirk grew into a breathtaking smile I could totally lose myself in.

"I like the way you think, kiddo," she told me. "All right, you got it. But I still say it can't hurt to differentiate a little. What say we throw a silent 'e' on the end? So we don't change the pronunciation, just the spelling."

"Okay!" I agreed excitedly, grinning nice and big. Wow...Velette Voxe. I could almost see it on the albums now.

Velette Voxe: Debut!...Velette Voxe: Another Album Name Here!...Velette Voxe: Live!...Velette Voxe: Greatest Hits!...Velette Voxe: Greatest HITS LIVE!!...

Were those stars in my eyes just now?

"That sounds so awesome, Lisa-Anne. I c—...wow, I could just kiss you."

"Later, babe. We've still got some serious work to do."

*****

My first recording session arrived a few weeks later, at Rainbow's Spectrum Studio in downtown L.A. I was all set to get down to business. I knew how astronomical it was to record in a studio, even if the money wasn't coming out of my pocket. Unfortunately, the first disagreement took place right away. I wanted to record "Heart-Shaped Carnival" as my debut, but everyone insisted another of my tunes, "Falling Apart," had to come first.

To tell the truth, I was a little bemused and dismayed at the time. "Falling Apart" was the song I'd debated most over including in my eight-demo submission, and I put it right in the middle. Because out of those eight, this was actually the song I felt least confident in. I mean, yeah, it was okay, it was a decent song, but certainly wasn't the one I'd expect to open my major-label career. But then, my crew knew better. They'd been in the business for years, after all; I was the rookie. It wasn't as if I hated the song. And I was sure when the time came to record more, I could come up with material we all loved equally.

I will admit, though, it was damn hard to concentrate on recording music—even my own—with Lisa-Anne around. When we'd call it a night and I'd adjourn to my hotel room, she was the only thing on my mind. God, she even looked like a green-eyed Jodie Foster. I didn't know how I'd gotten myself into this, but I did know how unwise it was to attach myself too close in a professional client-manager relationship.

And yet, at the same time...what a beautiful relationship we could have...

While this may not've been the smartest idea either, I opened my laptop, picked up Sylvia and wrote with my smoking hot manager as a passionate muse. I came up with what I felt was a lovely little number called "Forbidden." Clearly, I couldn't name it after her or put her in the lyrics. And I could be walking on dangerous ground—immersing yet further into infatuation and making a real emotional investment—but, I rationalized, it could also be a hit! Everyone can relate to that feeling. If desperately wanting and yearning for someone or something you can't have isn't universal, I don't know what the hell is.

With "Falling Apart" in the can and the promo on its way to the stations, I was on my way to rock stardom. On February 8th, 2006, at 10:47 a.m., PST, I tasted my first sip from the goblet of fame. This was the moment that, courtesy of WACR, the Accord, in Los Angeles, "Falling Apart" received its very first airplay.

Once that D.J. said my (stage) name, Velette Voxe, that was it; I was on the grid. I had made it onto the pop scene. The next several weeks saw my name and single pop into hundreds of web sites, databases and social networks. I had to take a step back, close my eyes and verify that this was in fact for real. It was surreal. The promos circulated throughout the States, and I was getting my first peek at the aforementioned big time.

In the meanwhile, I kept writing, and met back up with the crew for some more recording. And, God help my beating heart, Lisa-Anne took me networking to promote the first single. All the while, I'd still to get used to the fact that it wasn't a dream. But the ultimate confirmation was shortly to come.

We spent the spring and summer making full-scale productions of ten additional tracks. Three were studio versions of ones I wrote and submitted back in '04. The other seven were handpicked as the cream of the crop. All eleven including "Falling Apart" were compiled and mastered while I was sent on a photo shoot. On Tuesday, October 17th, my first full-length album, entitled simply Velette, hit the stores and the web.

Padded by a nice amount of airplay, "Falling Apart" helped the record sell, as did the second single, "I Lose No Dreams." Rainbow wanted me to make a video for this one, a request I gladly obliged. I got to do a little acting as well. The video captured me (or my "character," so to speak) tossing and turning, unable to sleep, which eventually led to me retrieving Sylvia, holding her close and strumming her supple strings in my pajamas.

Little by little, the shock of making a splash on the pop scene wore off. I was out with a bang. Velette entered the charts, peaking at #37, not bad at all for a debut. Reviews and press followed. Soon, out came the mamarazzi.

There was no going back now.

It bears repeating that through all this madness, I was forced to endure the torture of being so close to Lisa-Anne each day with no ability to show or tell how I felt about her. Bound by the professional nature of our partnership. I had to go on feeling it was inappropriate to make advances on my manager. I had to figure it all out...somehow.

*****

With the hype building on me and the fandom pouring in, my first big concert was booked, on January 13th, '07 at L.A.'s El Rey. I won't lie to you, friends: I was scared. Realistically, I knew I shouldn't be. After all, I had performed shows in much smaller venues, and these concertgoers came to see me 'cause they enjoyed my music and wanted to hear it live. I was simply unprepared for the sheer significance of the event.

"Don't worry about a thing, babe," Lisa-Anne encouraged. "Just get your sexy ass out there, imagine all the chicks naked, and you'll be fine."

Looking back, I can't help but laugh a little at my trepidation over playing fifteen songs for eight hundred people. I wish I could go back and tell my 23-year-old self, "Oh, relax! This is nothing! Believe it or not, couple years from now, this eight hundred's gonna be eight fucking thousand. Chill, Letty; they adore you. You've got zip to worry about."

It's immodest as hell, but true. I've been hooked on songwriting every bit now if not more since the days of "Never Be Yours." To date I've written hundreds of songs, released ten albums in nine active years, a load of singles including special mixes and demos, video/concert DVDs, plus a greatest hits package. These days my live show's become a two-hour (or longer) rockstravaganza throughout some of the vastest venues in the world. Thousands of fans—mostly my hot young lesbian disciples in their teens and twenties (ah, perks of fame!) flock and swarm to the front row, to get as close as they can to the stage, all the while swooning and screaming their hearts out. Oh, if you could capture the looks on their faces when I go down on my knees, reach out to them and touch their fingers, or go in for a high-five. On special occasions like birthdays and anniversaries, I'll bring them up on stage and do a special song just for them.