Life in plastic by cherry vanilla
Fake it so real
* * *
You see the pictures on the web the next day. Just because you're a "celebrity", if you could call yourself that anymore, people actually think you don't visit the fansites, message boards and livejournals. You do. Occasionally for entertainment, sometimes for thrills, but most of the time it's the only way you have any clue about what's supposedly going on now in your relationship. And, it's the only way to see the pictures. With all the money these guys get paid to exploit your relationship and the large chunk of change your PR guys get for making the two of you a household item, you'd think the least they could do is send the copies.
You open the ones from the launch of her record label first. You barely remember being photographed on the burgundy carpet. You study the one that has her back facing the camera. She looks so different without her standard facial pose visible. There's one with her cheek is brushing against your face and you close it quickly. The look on her face is plastic, completely for the cameras. It chills you. The pictures when you just arrived are better. She actually looks natural and you look at them for long minutes, savoring.
Next are the ones you've been waiting for. Perhaps because you need to see how well you follow direction. They said, 'kiss her, Nick.' Being told to kiss your girlfriend, knowing it'll be in US and People in the weeks to come, is completely surreal and you're not sure if you'll ever get used to it.
You remember leaning into her, seeing the residual traces of plasticity still tugging at the corners of her lips. She met your eyes and everything else seemed to slip away. She looked real, the warmth in her gaze completely unguarded, reminiscent of late at night in bed, locked away in your bedroom. You leaned in slowly, nuzzled at her cheek playfully. She laughed and pulled her head back, making you laugh and follow suit as you both quickly forgot the control pads in your hands. You'd kissed her; eyes closed, and pushed her back on the bed, really getting into it. And this -- this is what you love the most about the pictures -- being able to see the way she looks as you kiss her, things normal everyday couples don't usually get to expierence. It was all about the two of you then. You completely forgot you were in a room full of people being photographed. You just felt like a couple of kids making out on a bed in between the playing of video games.
She was flushed when you finally pulled back, and you felt a wave of satisfaction that you were able to break through her wall of public composure. You gave a little grin and went back to your video games as if nothing happened.
That night, in the limo, she slid onto you, arching her back and taking your fingers into her mouth while moving up and down to the rhythm of music coming through the speakers. Your eyes drifted closed and you leaned back against the leather, letting her do all the work. You only opened them when she started gasping,
�So hot... you got me so hot... in there...�
You choked out �I know� and came just before she did.
The next set of pics is from the party Jay-Z threw. She dragged you to it, naturally, kicking and screaming. She blew you in the limo on the way there, so you decided to stop grumbling and tried to have a good time. In looking at the pics, you're amazed at how her dress wasn't even the slightest bit wrinkled and not one piece of hair out place Hell, she had even reapplied her lipstick. You, on the other hand, look completely disheveled. Your shirt is a mess, there's a glimmer of sweat on your forehead, your hair is matted and sticking up in a million different directions and you remember still trying to catch your breath.
You skim through the pics, until one catches your attention. It�s a full shot of you both, not very polished. It has a certain grainy quality to it and the angle in which it was shot makes you appear like full-sized dolls. It speaks to you for unknown reasons.
You save it to your hard drive, and then print it out on some glossy paper. On the back, you write
I'll be the Ken to your Barbie
and stick it in an envelope, writing her address on the front.
With one last look at her face, you exit the page.
[end]
