Sunday, 14 December 2014

The Bassist

The Bassist

At twelve years old she sat in the living room, eager with the twinkle of excitement in her eyes like it was Christmas day. It was in fact her birthday. Her long brown straight hair covered her Brazilian face. Her slight frame was the product of another slim soon to be rock Goddess. Her name was Love. She knew it was pretentious of her parents to gift her with that name, although she didn't know what pretentious meant at that time. She got bullied for it by angry kids, but her personality was beyond her years and in tune to the moment and negativity bounced off her.

Her father gave her a large present. Love took it and really didn't know what to expect. Her father was a tall musician with hair reaching past his shoulders, her mother was a singer and Love looked a smaller version of her. Music was in the family's roots. Soon enough the present was open and Love held a bass guitar. She leaped onto her mother and father and kissed them repeatedly. From the age of four all she wanted to do was play bass, inspired from her favorite Brazilian bands, and now she had the tool in her hands - now she was ready.

Love was barefoot in her room, her skinny legs exposed with only a long white t-shirt covering her upper half. The bass guitar was in her hands and she was practicing rhythms. She had a gifted mind for creativity; she could learn a few cords, just a note even and from that she could create an entire piece of music. Her older brothers were next door with their girlfriends. They had interests which involved becoming lawyers and bankers, they didn't follow in the musical footsteps of their parents, it was Love who inherited that part of the gene. The bass blared through the walls and it annoyed them a little because the music was playing for six hours straight now. But they left Love to it, the smiles on their tanned handsome faces spoke love for their younger sister.

By now, Love was prancing around in her room playing a piece she constructed. She always had this fantastic ability to dance amazingly; her legs reached her chest and her head moved from side to side so coyly it seemed sexier than a striptease. Her family wondered what possessed her to dance so maturely at such a young age, but they realized as Love eventually did, she had talent.

Love was seventeen. The room was full of bassist's waiting to be auditioned. Love was ready, she had the piece she was going to play locked in her mind. As a late teenager, her face had blossomed into a attractive young woman. Her body was a trademark slim and the predictable rock boots on her feet. There was no cliche to it though, Love loved everything about rock, how she dressed, how she spoke and how she smiled. Her raspy voice was warm, every bit of it Brazilian.

She stood in front of the band and she wasn't even nervous. She didn't really care about them, all she cared about was her bass guitar and her perfectly constructed pieces. The band (a three piece looking for a fourth as their previous basset left them due to issues with money) sat at the desk. All Brazilian in their late twenties and early thirties. Brazil knew them as their biggest rock band and their cool faces showed no signs of success gone to ones head. Instead they were curiously embracing Love's presence. Love on the other hand was curious as to why she was there in the first place; she was a nobody having had stints in nobody bands during her teens. As she sound checked her guitar, she thought surely they would want to audition established bassists, but later became to understand they were blown away with her demo tape.

She started her audition and like a switch was intoxicated with passion, dancing with her guitar and playing toe tapping rhythms. None of it was over-the-top or trying too hard for the occasion, she relaxed and her rhythms switched from out of control speed to slow harmonies, and then to the killer solo. Her thin arms held the guitar as she began to hop on the spot. The band looked at each other and knew Love was it. Not only could she do the bassist's job, but she was a character, she was unique and would bring another dimension to the band. Perhaps as much as the lead singer, the lead singer thought as he sat un-pretentiously in the center of the three. They agreed Love wasn't going to be a band member happy to play the 'passenger' role on the trip, she had a character to offer. And they hired her on the spot.

At twenty five, Love was all woman. Her long hair had become shorter, a perfect crop at the neck. Her long frame became longer. The band were in a famous studio in Brazil, it was darkly lit. They began a take of a track, it was a brooding song about lost friendship which started off slowly and gradually built up to an obvious, but ferocious climax. Love had become maturer with her performance on bass; the notes played with more care and slower rhythms than the quick fire wham-bam stuff usually donned by 'just starting outers.' The skinny jeans she wore were spray tight to her leg's, the sexy boots rested over them. More hops and moves to her dancing were a part of her routines, her dancing had developed with her age as her bass playing.

Eight albums in (five which included Love) and the band a worldwide dominance. Love was known as one of the best bass players in the business, and being the only woman in a male band only added more attention to her. This was the buzz which circled around before one of the bands biggest events to date; headlining on the home turf in South America, Festival Lollapalooza. The band stepped out onto the stage and waved to their audience. Love put on her guitar with the ear to ear coy smile she became famous and loved for. Then the show began. About a half hour into it Love's movements were becoming deep and heavy, at one point she was on the floor as if she was having sex. And soon enough when the really heavy tracks were played, the famous head banger was out. She banged her head like a real rockster, the hair flying everywhere...

... it was clear by this time, who the real star of the band was - not the singer or his number two. It was the quiet bass player. It was Love.

She was thirty. Her house was a mansion in North of Brazil and she was having tea with her family. Love grew her hair longer again, it suited who she really was, even though her face was timelessly beautiful, the 'short and serious' phase was passed. Her brothers and parents were in the lounge as Love walked in with tea. They were all proud of the baby of the family, becoming a star and becoming a millionaire. Love's mother (who still looked the spitting older image of Love, just aging now) put her arm around her daughter and they looked like two lifetime friends. Love was happy how far she had come, playing bass and now being able to give back to her family was the best feeling, a part from playing bass! But she got a phone call from the lead singer of the band which was about to change everything.

She had never cried so much, ever. The news of the band members deciding to end the band depressed her so much she didn't leave her bedroom for days - her tears was for her bass. She had worked hard to get to where she was and she couldn't have done it without the band, now it was all over. She was in her thirties, still so young with gallons left in the tank - that was one of her best qualities, forever young inside and out. But what mystified her was why the band came to an end. There was no real why.

Eventually that 'why' was revealed when the bands manager called her. Love answered her mobile (still in bed, soon to be approaching day six) and he told her the truth the other three ended the band because they were jealous of Love getting all the attention. They hated the fact the bass player was the star. When the phone call ended Love realized she learnt a big lesson in trust and that the smiles she was closets too didn't speak their exteriors - she was living with the enemy the entire time.

Did all this stop Love? No. The guitar was in her hand, she was in her thirties and the start of a whole new chapter. Her new band mates were around her in a dingy throwaway shed - the way Love liked it, raw from the ground up. This was her band, her creation. She turned down the opportunity to play bass for practically every major outfit in the world in need of bass players. People thought she was crazy. But Love, standing in her high heels now, skinny jeans and short leather jacket, knew what she was doing. This time she was doing it her way, ready to go on the journey all over again. She tuned in her wires, then the band practiced a song and Love started dancing, approaching a haunting solo.



Saturday, 6 December 2014

La La Land

La La Land

Tiredness ached his muscles as his body rested on its side in the bed. His back was to his wife. This was the position he slept now days to hide the sadness he had inside his body. His name was Barry, a black man (with a white man's name) thirty nine years old. His wife slept next to him, her back facing the other way too. She slept this way to mirror Barry's emotions. Both of them were running on empty. Her name was Sadorra (a Puerto Rican surname for a first name) she was Italian, thirty seven, white (obviously!).

"Baby, it is time to go" Sadorra said.
"Not again honey, we have been over this many times before" Barry replied.
"It has been three years. Enough is enough now"

Barry turned onto his back. He knew Sadorra was right. They were based in Manhattan and the flat they lived in wasn't much to speak of. Their three children aged one to six slept in the same room next door.

"This year is going to be the year. I told you that. The deal with Sony will happen" Barry said.

Sadorra got out of the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, losing her will because she was going round the same circle with Barry.

"All we do is wait for you" Sadorra said.
"What am I supposed to do? I can't make this happen any faster" Barry replied.
"Neither can we. Which is why we are going back to Italy"

Barry jumped off the mattress and placed his hands on the bed looking like the animal ready to protect his territory. He felt Sadorra was betraying him, but as usual when those emotions passed he knew Sadorra was right.

"And what am I supposed to do in Italy? I was there for a decade and it got me nothing" Barry said.
"Are you forgetting me and the kids? Italy found you us" Sadorra replied.
"I can't do that. Italy promised me a career and they threw me nothing but a broom and a street"
"The kids need you. I need you"
"Stop that. Don't flip that card on me"

Barry paces his side of the room. The thought of going back to Italy made him nervous and each pace reached a higher boiling point.

"This place is giving us an opportunity. Here there aren't any grudges, I am accepted. In Italy I am just another black nigga. Just some black monkey jumping around in the jungle from Africa. Do you want a record deal Barry? Yes I do sir. Well how about you clean our streets first nigga. I don't want you on our books, no, I just said we did for you to clean our shit and eat it while you are at it Mr black money, slave nigga"

Barry picks up the TV and throws it against the wall and it shatters into pieces. Every part of Barry's frustration came out; from his dysfunctional upbringing in England, to his lonely time in Italy, to his unsuccessful break as a musician now in New York. He could hardly control his breathing. He would never hurt his family, never, but he didn't know where to turn. Sadorra looked past Barry's anger, knowing it was just the act of a man that breaks things with his fists, and she walked to him and put her hands on his face.

"People do love you in Italy" Sadorra said.
"They don't like me with you and you know I am right" Barry replied.
"Yes they do and the sooner you realize that the better... We are going to Italy and I hope you will come with us"

                                                              *          *          *          *

The place was an old pub in The Bronx, dimly lit from end to end. Barry was on stage performing a love song and the audience hung onto each word. More musicians were at the back of the venue, waiting for their turn to perform. The posters around the pub said "The Saturday Slam" and the place had gained a reputation in New York for up and coming musicians.

Even though Barry's touching words and melody's made the audience witness a talent before them, inside Barry was dying. He had become a regular at this venue and nothing had happened for his career. To the audience, the tears which rolled down his cheeks were passion-emotion, but it was pain. Each word was more difficult to sing and his fingers were like blocks of wood.

At the end of his performance he took his bow. The audience were clapping and some stood up to acknowledge how good he was. All Barry could see was the lights and the sound of the audience made him dizzy. At that moment he made the decision to call time on his music dream. He had been living in a fantasy and concluded sometimes the dream wasn't meant to happen for everyone.

He walked off the stage and was congratulated with shoulder hugs and pats on the back from his viewers. It felt nice, but nice didn't get him a break. Then to his surprise his family was standing in front of him; the beautiful Italian lady and the three perfect mixed raced kids. At that moment he needed a support system more than anything and it was his family who were there for him. It confirmed going back to Italy was the right decision and to finally leave the music circus behind once and for all.

However another hand touched his shoulder which forced him to turn around. And it was the music producer from Sony, posing what looked to be a fake smile with something close to the Devil behind it. He was holding a contract.

"Well done Barry. Your time has come" He said and held out the contract to Barry.

"Take this and bring it to my office on Monday signed. And then we are all set to go" He continued.

Barry's entire world caved in, like his whole life crashed together at once - his big break had finally come. When things happened they usually come in three's, and to Barry that was living proof right now. But then he looked at his family waiting for him and didn't know what to do. So he did the right thing and handed the contract back to the producer. And left the venue with his family.

Tuesday, 14 October 2014

The Writer

The Writer

The light shone through the window to his favorite room in his expensive bachelor pad. He was typing away at his MacBook Air at a speed which made a trained typist jealous. Plus his mind was so focused he would make an programmer at Facebook weep in comparison. An outsider would wonder if the life he lived was a happy one, or if his genius and famous writers status in life was worth it. However, he kept typing on. His mind was working at a speed now where the words hyper drove onto the next page. In the in between moments, he never questioned his work ethic because he knew what he was aiming towards and most importantly, why.

Two months later. George was still at his desk typing away at the project; a novel entitled "The Writers Remains". He was a third into the story now, everything was flowing nicely. His protagonist "Peter" resembled a lot of himself; the way he looked, they way he thank and mostly how he dealt with his life's obstacles. Peter was a professional writer and had got into a relationship with his editor "Jane". He knew this was dangerous territory as he was convinced Jane was a lesbian, and trying to 'convert' her could cost them their partnership, but it turned out she wanted him too. They fell in love, but the latest book he was writing was what eventually drove them a part because Jane became jealous of the books success. It turned out her editing services were only trying to make Peter fail, not succeed, but it backfired!

George wasn't one for the love stories, but recently the theme made his face light up every time he looked to the air for thought inspiration. Writing was his life, so much so he had been at that desk for three days without leaving it. It was 2am now and he was still writing. George never got big headed about his work or jumped the gun, however he had a good feeling about his latest piece. His heart vibrated with every sentence, the words leaped off the page. As a writer, he was reaching that place all writers know, the finish line to a project some labeled 'heaven'.

It was a coffee shop in Soho, a kind of obscure location where if your eyes weren't wide awake you would miss it. It was also a famous place for spotting famous people, predominantly writers, writing or famous people popping in for a coffee and a chat. George was there typing away at his beloved MacBook Air. He was halfway through the novel now and at the part where Peter and Jane went on their first date. Then Peter got the inspiration to write about a man who choked on a chocolate croissant. Luckily the man didn't die, but Peter's mind was ticking at a quickfire speed as he watched the strange event on the date. The familiar and cartoonish smirk on George's face was visible as he sipped his doubled shot cappuccino.

A lady kept looking over from her position at George. She looked like a writer; sophisticated with her MacBook, her coffee following its rules of being to the left of the machine the way a watch is always on the left wrist! And the busy writers mind. However her head wanted something more; a partner. George saw her only once. Her name was Ava, an Italian with a French name, olive skin, dark hair and an edge of the newly fashionable but ever so annoying Dalston mob. George was making early judgement's, but the lady was attractive. George was a single man at this moment in time, but his mind was only devoted to one thing right now. Perhaps Ava knew he was famous and the reason she kept looking at him George thought. But George returned the eye one last time to be sure of that, and the look he got back spoke "looking to date" rather than "star struck"... Yeah, probably that too!

Peter had published his book now and he was waiting for the reviews. A week later it garnered critical acclaim. With every project, George always began with the end in mind and it didn't faze him knowing how deceitful Jane was going to be. It excited George and his typing got faster, his expression showed he couldn't wait for it to happen. Plus it was nice he had Ava now, she was in the lounge working on her own novel. George swore he wouldn't get into a relationship at this precious moment in his life, for reasons only he kept to himself, selfish reasons but rules he chose to live by. They had been with each other for two months and things were going steady.

Ava seemed at peace. As she worked on her novel on her MacBook she felt very lucky. To her, George was a dream, not because he was a famous writer, but because they were so suited to each other. She had never dated another writer before, but found out quickly how another writer's lifestyle was so similar to hers. She loved the open spaced feel of George's plush apartment, it always seemed so quiet. She was able to work on her writing all day and all night if necessary. But not in the way George did upstairs. She knew his office was strictly off limits to everybody but him, it was one of his 'things'. However the longer Ava was with George the more she questioned his work ethic and lifestyle, but gave him leeway, thinking perhaps that is one of the things which separated a famous person from an ordinary person.

It was a Friday night and George was in the kitchen preparing a Mexican themed dish. He took pride in his meals, he knew timing was the key to successful cooking and added everything at the precise times. His trusted 'cooking clock' was next to the chopping board. It didn't waver his mind that he was spending his Friday night in, the way it had been for the past six months, being the time he devoted to his unfinished novel. He knew he was a hermit. Then Ava walked into the kitchen dressed for an important looking night out with the girls, a fine sprucing up than her usual East London trend assortments.

"I am off honey with the girls" Ava said.

George looked at her slowly and his silence was somewhat uncomfortable suggesting Ava's comment was almost inappropriate.

"I am cooking dinner for us. I thought we were going to stay in" George replied.

This was the same routine for the past four months Ava thought. Honestly she felt staying in all the time was becoming unhealthy. She was grateful for her relationship with George, but it got to the stage where she needed to start socializing with her friends again.

"I told you I was going out with my friends tonight" Ava replied.

This was true and George had forgotten.

"Why don't we stay in anyway? I have already started cooking" George said.
"I already said to the girls I am going out. This was planned" Ava replied.
"But I have already started cooking"
"Babe, it is just one night. We stay in every night"
"When will you be back?"
"I don't know. Late"
"I will wait up for you"
"No, don't"
"What time is late?"
"I don't know. I will call you. OK?"

Ava really wanted to cut the conversation short because she felt like she was fifteen again answering to her over controlling father. She kissed George on the cheek and said "bye". Apart of her had guilt for leaving George on his own, but her stronger half made her stand by her decision as she hated being made to feel small. And for the first time, that is how she felt around George. When the front door shut, the flat seemed empty. Not that George had a problem with it, he liked his quiet, but when a female came into his life, it brought an injection of magic to his place no amount of success could buy. He missed it, it was only one night, but he knew he only had himself to blame for his controlling ways. However, he too was going to stand by his decisions all the way to the end no matter what.

After dinner, George was in his office working through the evening on his novel, until he fell asleep.

In bed, Ava was wide awake, her head spinning a little from the alcohol still swirling around in it. She had a good night with her girlfriends, but she couldn't sleep and it was because of George. She was becoming unhappy and was feeling a taste of falling out of love with George. It was because he didn't do anything else other than write, his lifestyle was becoming too much pressure for her.

"Baby, are you awake?" Ava said.
"Yes" George replied.
"Why don't you go out?"
"I do"
"No you don't"
"I will"
"Why don't you have any friends to go out with?"
"I do and I will"

There was something very hidden in the responses Ava got. She thought perhaps George was too ashamed to admit he didn't have any friends or social circles and that he was one of those genius famous people with a lost identity to social connectedness. Either way she loved him and was willing to hang in their with him. In a way, she felt now she had to save him and was going to get him friends and social groups if he accepted the offer.

Thousands of people turned up to the book signing event. George, the star of the show was signing his book. The Writers Remains was an instant bestseller and critics from The Times to The Guardian were there given live reviews of the book. George embraced his triumph and that is how it felt to him. His smile could be seen from the other end of The Waterstone's in Piccadilly Circus. His loyal fans were ecstatic to see their hero, to get a signed copy of the book with their Iphone's at the ready for selfies. There was something different about George, everything from how well he looked to the sparkle in his eye, he looked like a person. The critic's giving interviews praised the book and how Jane, the antagonist got justice served to her.

Then Ava walked in to see her man. She put on a brave face, but underneath she was experiencing something related to domesticated unhappiness. However, when she saw George she was just as surprised to see a new man too.

"Congratulations love" Ava said and kissed him. George stood up.
"I am sorry Ava for being cold. My work is finished and I can be a normal person again"

Ava didn't know what he meant. But eventually realized George lived by the ritual of completely shutting himself off from the world when writing a novel. She was surprised to know he sacrificed almost everything of himself for the novel, and knew that was the level of writing she was not ready for!

George was cooking in the kitchen again, chopping tomatoes. There was enough food to cater for twenty people. Ava walked in and saw the the kitchen being taken over by food.

"Are we expecting people babe? Ava said.
"Yes we are babe" George replied.

Then the door bell went. George answered it and his circle of friends walked in with refreshments and booze. Ava became aware it was a party night which she wasn't informed about. George kissed her and seeing George's friends only added to the strange but delightful mysterious about the man thought Ava.


Sunday, 5 October 2014

()rgasm

()rgasm

At thirteen her body had started to change and at this moment more than any other she was curious about sex. Her friends had started doing it, life's growth in that department was all around her. She didn't have a boyfriend, but the excitement she got from the subject of sex made her warm inside. So she put down her pencil, gave her homework a break and removed her knickers. The intrigue grew as well as a bundle of nerves because she had never done what she was about to do. But she followed her instincts and put two fingers up her pussy.

"Oooaah" she yelped.

Her name, Cat (short for Catherine) removed her fingers, almost suffocated with the reaction she got. It took a couple of seconds for her to handle her emotions, but they felt good and she entered her fingers once more. This time they never left her pussy. It felt warm and soft, like a cooling hot water bottle. And soon it became moist, like... she didn't know what it was like, but it felt special complimenting the reason why it was a key instrument to mother nature.

Cat kept going, the two fingers became more active like they discovered a mind for themselves and became independent. They slid in and out of the pussy. She got shivers and her head hung back. The previous pains had been taken over by something else, a growing sensation that appeared through three back doors and arrived with magic.

"Ahhh. Ahhh. Ahhh" Cat moaned.

She was getting better at this, the fingers plugged faster and the ends of them pulled back. The reaction made her almost slide off her chair, but her feet dug into the ground so hard like roots and her legs pressed together to stay in control. Then she put one hand on the desk and used the other to hack at her pussy. The sensation swam all over her body from the bottom up, like when the black swan takes over Nina. It reached her brain, she had no control, it was like an out of body experience as if someone or something was ripping her away from her senses - but to something good. It was the most intense force she had EVER encountered, but it's reward was the most amazing thing she had ever felt.

Ahhh. Ahhh. Ahhh"

The moans were load and unstoppable. Then all of a sudden there was an explosion and everything went still. Cat stayed in one place on the chair for a while, it was probably five minutes. Her "O" face hung high in the air, her hearing was deaf. All Cat heard was a ringing sound, shell shocked like the soldiers in Saving Private Ryan. When the sensation let go of her, she couldn't stop smiling. There was a pantomime going on inside her body making her giggle uncontrollably. She put her knickers back on. Whatever just happened must have been an ()rgasm and she thought if this was the start of things to come, then she had to lose her virginity as soon as fucking possible.

She was fourteen now, halfway through secondary and still a virgin. Cat slumped on her desk like a fed up old lady. She didn't take any notice of this because she was an adolescent, but she put so much unnecessary pressure on herself. It was geography and Cat couldn't engage in the classroom, instead she was looking at Blake, the boy she was dating whom sat two rows in front of her and her mind traveled to charming places; his hard body, strong eyes, the infectious laugh he had even to the most inappropriate things. She wished he would look at her now. She considered her problem and the reason why Blake wanted to 'take it slow' with her, is because she had sick issues with sex. It was becoming intense. But an adolescent wouldn't know that...

They were in Blake's room. It was a typical boys room at fourteen; boyish. It felt right to Cat, it being the place for them to both lose their virginity. They had been going out for six months and the waiting had gone on long enough. Cat got the impression Blake was punishing her for rushing things, but anyway the wait was over. Blake was nervous; he fumbled off his school uniform and layed on top of Cat naked with a erection so hard the cock was ready to burst. Cat wondered if he took Viagra but doubted it.

After ten minutes of Blake fumbling about trying to find the pussy, he did and entered Cat. He was so happy he could have done a cartwheel, silly really but Cat thought it was cute. Blake got going, for a virgin, he moved OK thought Cat. It was slow and painful, not for Blake, for him the pussy was really really tight and seemed difficult to 'tame'. But for Cat she screamed an awful lot because each thrust felt like breaking into a brand new pair of Prada shoes, just ten times worse.

Blake was pretty big. His dick bounced in and out of Cat's pussy, still in missionary of course. But as he got more confident, he let the tip of his dick meet the edge of the vagina, and threw the thrusts back in like he was going for a home run. His arms acted like stilts, finishing Cat in the submission with nowhere to go. Cat hung onto him, her yelping was still mostly referring to the pain and she got a sense why the saying 'ice breaker' was invented. Downstairs, Blake's nan was having the time of her life watching Countdown. Back in the room Cat was bleeding and it spread all over the bed and Blake stopped.

"Oh my God, do you want stop? Are you alright?" Blake said.

Fuck the blood, Cat was angry at Blake because she wasn't getting an ()rgasm the way she experienced the first time she experimented in her bedroom. Sex was supposed to be the pinnacle, so she kissed Blake indicating for him to carry on and he did. Thirty seconds later it was over. Blake got carried away with Cat's body, the excitement shooting to his brain and then banging away at her furiously. "Very boy like" Cat thought. Blake layed on top of her releasing his breaths, a bit
too theatrically, like an amateur. Cat kissed him and held his head in her breasts. She should have been happy to have finally lost her virginity at fourteen! It was really late! Plus Blake was good for a first timer too. But Cat was disappointed she never came. Sure there was going to be more chances, but coming was the only thing she cared about when it came to the subject of sex.

It should have been a good time, it being the final year of secondary school, the exams were out the way and Cat being at the sweet age of sixteen. But good times were on the latter for her. For the weirdest of reasons Cat floated along the hallway like a zombie. She walked past her school friends like they were strangers. It must have been a sort of depression, but this was worse and she made a U-turn into the girls lavatory. She sat on the toilet seat, stressed out about her love life which was silly because she was active every other week. But she hadn't experienced an ()rgasm, or if she did, it wasn't like the first time.

Cat started whinging to herself, then something in her changed, like she had stopped caring. She lifted up her skirt, pulled down her knickers and put two fingers up her pussy. This was something she didn't want to do; become a 'wanker' that masturbates for pleasure, but something wasn't right and she felt she had no alternative. She shoved her fingers as far as they would go and it made her head hang back and her eyes roll in her head. What an earth had happened to her? She was at school? Was partly the thoughts swirling around in her mind along with the pleasure, but her pussy was moist so much so she squirted and the pool of cum landed over her school bag. She yelped under her breath and felt the ()rgasm on its way. She pressed harder and harder, but it wouldn't arrive, then school kids walked into the toilet.

It was so romantic; Hilton Hotel on Park Lane, champagne and strawberry's all over the king size bed. What a boyfriend. His name was Tommy, Cat's sweetheart she met in her freshman year at LSE University. Now eighteen, Cat had blossomed into a fine young woman. Her thin brunette hair reached her lower back, her thin frame naked standing by the bed. Tommy was already laying on the bed, naked, his dick flopped onto his right leg. What a gift for her eighteenth birthday Cat thought. In the back of her mind she prayed she would get an ()rgasm that night.

Twenty minutes into it, Cat was riding on top of Tommy, the length of his long dick traveled adventurously up her pussy, so deep it was touching her stomach almost. Both of her hands held onto the bed post and her body grinded Tommy's like a steam train. Tommy grabbed onto Cat, his mind was lost in the passion, the sweat streamed from his body. Cat was trying and trying and trying, but nothing would arrive for her, then she stopped, fell to the side and started to cry. Tommy's dick (being a man) felt like crying having been abruptly put in a cold sink, but now was no time to be selfish because his girl was crying.

"Hey, hey, what's the matter babe" Tommy said.

Half of him wanted to play nice because his dick had unfinished business. Cat felt helpless, it had been four years and she hadn't had an ()rgasm. She felt she was approaching one of her biggest fears; having a dysfunction! Tommy told her to relax and not to think about it, that thinking about it or forcing it would make it worse. Cat had heard all that shit before, but took no notice. But she felt so helpless she didn't care anymore. She just layed on her back and let Tommy get to his climax because deserved to close his deal.

She forgot about enjoyment, she forgot about trying, quite frankly she forgot about everything other than feeling. But. It was that very thing which took over her. Her mind was at ease, there was no more thinking or forcing, instead everything was happening naturally. Then. The little spark inside awoke, it showed itself and it drifted. It traveled around Cat's blood stream and took over her body. It made goosebumps stick, shivers traveled like electric currents. It made her breathing heavier, then gasp in between. Tommy's dick kept going and her g-spot married it, they kissed over and over again.

Everything was becoming loud and uncontrollable, Cat had no control. The spark became a Catherine Wheel screaming around at the speed of a Ventador. Tommy had his girl. Cat wanted to scream, but she was being suffocated with something, and then the spark exploded like fireworks, then they exploded and so did more and more. At the same time Tommy climaxed, and Cat's body shook like falling raindrops.


Friday, 26 September 2014

The Rules of Dating

The Rules of Dating

He waited at Piccadilly Circus for his date. It was 7.45pm. The meet was for 7.30pm and he was getting agitated. He looked at his watch at least fifteen times in a minute fearing of being stood up. He wasn't an apathetic person, but his consistent disappointments in the dating game made him fear the worst automatically. His hand was tapping his trousers now. He was going to text her, but didn't and told himself to be patient, she was going to show and agreed that a woman's prerogative was to be late.

It was nearing 8pm and eventually she appeared. She was tall, clean faced like a model, with a unique perfectly styled fringe. He saw her coming. His first impression was she was out of his league and what he had done to deserve at date like her.

"I am sorry I am late. The tube had problems" she said.
"No worries" he replied. He was going to say he was going to text her, but didn't.
"Thank you or waiting patiently" she said.

When he heard "patiently" he knew what that suggested, and by not texting her meant he had passed the first test.

They walked into Soho. His name was Christopher and she was Violet. They had met at speed dating and Christopher was enjoying the warm night. He was a lot shorter than Violet, but when he came to think of it, so were most men because Violet was pushing six foot three.

They arrived at the restaurant, a place Christopher suggested, only after he had given Violet the choice. Violet's eyes were excited when she saw the Chinese signs and symbols, Christopher was hungry. Inside they were shown to their table. Christopher pulled Violet's chair back to allow her to sit.

"Thank you" Violet said.
"You're welcome" Christopher replied.

Christopher was a good guy like that, he had manners and cared about the little things. Violet took notice of this too and it added points to her score board. They were handed their menus by the waiter and they put them on the table for the time being.

"Are you hungry?" Christopher said.
"Really" Violet replied.
"Great"

Violet looked like a super model, dressed stylish. Christopher couldn't help to think what he was doing there. He was wearing his best shirt and trousers and still he felt like a poor poorper in comparison. He learnt Violet was a clothes designer, she had done pretty well with her brand in her home country of Italy and she wanted to expand her business in the UK. Christopher was an IT geek. The more Christopher spoke with Violet the more he wondered what Violet was doing at the speed dating event. She seemed too good for a place like that; with her striking looks and seemingly successful business, she surely would have had men queuing up for her in the real world.

"How long have you had your business for?" Christopher asked.
"Eight years" Violet replied.

Violet was pleased with the questions Christopher asked her. She thought "at least this guy isn't talking about himself all night" and another point was added to the score board. On the other hand Christopher realized he was doing all the work and nothing was coming back his way. The starters arrived and Violet hadn't asked one question about him - he was being strung along he thought.

"What do you look for in a relationship?" Christopher asked.
"Excitement" Violet replied.

That was the best Violet could deliver because the subtext in that meant only one thing - sex. She was absolutely desperate for it, but not to the point of doing it with any old person, however she hadn't had sex since she arrived in London and that was three years now. To her, Christopher seemed like a decent guy, not her type by any means, but 'the best of a bad bunch at the speed dating event' which was cold and she knew it, but he was doing well so far this night, so who knew...

"Your hair is really cool. It suits you. It looks really stylish" Christopher said.
"Thanks" Violet replied.

Another point was added to Violet's score board. She adored it when people complimented her hair, she was very proud of her hair style. She was famous for it in her town back home and created a somewhat soon to be trend. By now the main courses were on the table and Violet seemed like she was enjoying her meal. Christopher felt he was making headway and that surprisingly as the night wore on, he perhaps 'had a shot' with Violet and that he wasn't such a 'pity date' after all, which was how he felt at the start of the night. It became sort of clearer to him why Violet had lesser success with men than one would expect, it was because of her height, and it turned out that was her insecurity, her problem and a shade of it came out in her confidence.

"Oh no!" Christopher said.
"What?" Violet replied.
"I have forgotten my wallet"

Violet didn't know whether to run now while she had the chance.

"Just kidding" Christopher continued.

He pulled out his wallet. He wasn't one for jokes as he was one of those dry nice guys, but he felt a different kind of confidence for some reason that night. He thought it was because he didn't have anything to lose and that he had no chance with Violet anyway so what would it matter. Funnily enough it made her laugh, that was a really good sign. It was as though he was doing all the right things without even trying. Violet smiled and subconsciously another point went on her score board. This was followed by a silence, another kind of test to see what Christopher would say; as the waiter put the bill on the table, Violet said nothing. She was always willing to pay, but she wanted to see if the man was going to court her and treat the night like a date, not an evening with a friend. Already Christopher was counting the bill, adding up his notes. Tick!

"We can split..."
"No it's OK. I've got it" Christopher said, cutting off Violet. Another tick.

It was 12am. Christopher and Violet were walking up a road in Mayfair and arrived at Christopher's Volkswagen Gulf. Fair enough he knew it wasn't much, but it's what he had at his mid twenties stage of life. Violet appreciated the lift home, and they got in the car.

"You are a really good dancer" Christopher said.
"Thanks. You too" Violet replied.

She had a spark in her eye when she said this. It was because Christopher hadn't fell into the first date trap for disaster; never go to a cinema after the meal, always go somewhere where you can chat. So they went to a bar, which had a dance floor and that is where the night ended. Christopher had done well, he could dance too.

Chat was at an ease on the journey to Violet's. It seemed Violet was opening up more, more than at any other point during the night. Christopher was going with the flow but a part of him wasn't convinced. When they arrived at Violet's apartment in an affluent part of Islington, Christopher stopped the car. It was that time; the awkward kiss moment. Violet waited for it. She was honest with herself and didn't fancy Christopher at all, but the prospect of a shag and to make him a friend the next day relied entirely on how Christopher dealt with the next move. But nothing happened. Christopher just looked at her as if she was sitting there like she didn't know how to get out of the car.

"Well. Good night" Violet said.
"Good night" Christopher replied.

He kissed Violet on the cheek, reached across and opened the door for her. Violet got out of the car, shut the door and Christopher drove off. It was the very first time Violet had stood in the same place for three minutes, thinking about what just happened on a date. She was left completely mystified. And she really didn't expect the nice dry guy to leave her in that way. However, she also didn't expect to like it, and want more.

In the car, Christopher was thinking the exact opposite. He got his ass out of there as fast as God would let him, without being rude. He enjoyed the night, but was not going to keep making the same mistake of chasing the wrong type of woman, out to waste his time. He had learnt something great. Plus he was himself the whole night, which is what counted the most.


Thursday, 4 September 2014

The Director and the Muse

The Director and the Muse

Nothing less than familiar was the pattern he found himself at this moment; watching one of his own movies in his twenty seated cinema at his sixteen bedroom mansion home in West Hollywood. He wasn't complaining though, he was proud of his accomplishments. Getting to where he was, was everything he worked for his entire life. It could seem eerie being in that cinema all on his own, but then again he learned to live with it. His name was Paris and he was sixty five. He was healthy for his age and had the soul of a twelve year old youth. Hollywood was where he was meant to be; creative by nature, brilliant with actions, youthful for eternity. The place where you could be forever young and all that shit, which he didn't and never bought into the tinsel town gimmicks.

It was only a 11.30pm on a Wednesday night and Paris wasn't tired yet, so he went into his room which he called 'the hub'. It had all the posters of his forty one films on the walls. The room was huge. To the far corner was 'the desk' where he wrote his masterpieces. It would be fair to say eighty percent of his time in the house was spent in this room, the other ten percent doing something else, the final ten percent sleeping. The back wall was the special wall, which Paris walked too. It had the photos of all his muses to date, so far there were eight. Paris looked at them, smiling and a joy ignited inside his body like the woman gave him an extraordinary power.

Paris knew from a very early age when he discovered a camera for the first time and first learnt to write, that nothing else gave him more power to achieve his creative dreams then his muses - nothing else came close. It was the muses, and it was the only Hollywood cliche he was in unanimous agreement with. But he sighed, because it was a shame to remember that he had never even been on a date in his life. At sixty five, he knew full well now that work had always been his life and he always hoped to meet a woman through his work, like his creative genius would be enough to find love. But it never seemed to appear for him and the closets woman he ever came into to contact with as dating material was his muses.

He walked to the desk and started preparing paperwork for his next film. He did this without thinking, but it was the loneliness, that was his demon and it could be his only downfall. He looked back at the muses, proud of them as his superstars, also proud how they had grown into fine mothers and wives, but secretly, really deep down he felt jealousy. But then again he thought, do directors really get it on with their muses? Did Tarantino really get with his Uma, or Lars with his long time Charlotte Gainsbourg, or Woody with the Scarlett? Maybe it was a myth after all that the director meets his muse - for real. All that told and philosophized, all Paris knew was he was a genius and that was the way God made him and probably all he was supposed to be.

There were about thirty people on the bus on route to Hollywood. Funny enough every one of the people were actors. Freya sat quietly, thinking and looking out of the window at the desert like exteriors of LA. It looked a lot different in real life Freya thought. She was twenty one, from New York and fresh out of drama school. A blonde with all the attributes of an all American, but the physical features of a European. Back at home she got the nickname "The Russian" because she looked like one, a tall Russian model with an American voice, she was very unique and her drama tutors fell in love with her for that fact.

All Freya wanted to do was act. Coming to Hollywood was her dream and she knew that was her goal in life. She didn't feel intimidated, she had been through excellent training at her drama school. It did seem weird though how every person on the bus was an actor, all with the same dream, going to Hollywood with the same aim. It seemed like some weird conveyor belt. And that cliche of a truck load of actors being shipped into Hollywood and a truck load leaving at the same rate, was living proof.

Freya walked into her flat share. The place was basic, it was next to other cheap properties one step up from trailer park status. She met her flat mates, once again they were all actors and Freya knew her life was going to be film inside out. All of the flatmates were in the house now and they sat in the lounge and made Freya at home. Two of the flatmates were together and had a baby who was a boy. He sat in his mothers hands and Freya looked at him, she thought he was gorgeous, but felt slightly sorry for him because he was going to be a Hollywood baby, literally born into a world of destitute actors chasing a dream, living the life of do or die. Andrew was another flatmate and had been in Hollywood for five years, he had worked on some pretty big films. If Freya was going to strike romance anytime soon, she found Andrew very attractive.

It was two years later. Freya was sitting in her agents office having a meeting. The agent was finishing up business on the telephone and Freya waited patiently. She was happy she had hit the ground running since she came to Hollywood. Within the first six months she scored auditions and in the first year had been in four films and done various TV promos and commercials. By the time her agent discovered her in the second year he signed her straight away. The agent also fell for the all American with European features. In Freya's personal life, she was with Andrew, which was inevitable if Freya was honest with herself. Things were good. Then the agent put the phone down.

There was something different about the twinkle in the agents eye as he looked at Freya, the smile was singing, it was a mood Freya had never seen him in before. Just from the phone call, the agent spoke excitedly and there was a spring in his voice, so Freya knew the meeting was about something important. The agent told Freya that one of the biggest directors in Hollywood was interested in her auditioning for his next film - the director was Paris Woods. Freya was enchanted straight away, she knew of the Paris before she even got to Hollywood, as a child she watched all his films. When the agent got off the phone to Paris, he knew the minimal dialogue that came his way is that Freya was his potential new muse.

Rarely did Paris participate in his own castings, he left it to his casting director. But he attended this one and he knew the reason why. The casting went on and on this day. It was going to be an eighteen hour day with no breaks, right now the session was into the eighth hour. The actors kept coming, giving their rendition of the characters, and then leaving. All of them were professional. A few big names had been through the doors that day such as Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Mark Strong and Micky Rourke.

In the waiting room, Freya sat - in character. She was a gifted actress anyway, but learnt how to be one hundred percent professional when on the audition circuit. She had become a lot more experienced as a performer in the two years she was had been at Hollywood. A queue of actors were all around her, waiting, biting nails, some in character, others not. Freya kept cool. She felt something good inside, not about the audition, or the character, or the film itself. It was about Paris. She somehow felt she was there to meet him. It was like a sixth sense was working between them.

Freya walked into the room and Paris' eyes froze. "She has finally arrived" was all that occupied his mind. When Freya went to the center of the room and introduced herself, it was the casting director and his plucky assistant who did the talking. Paris couldn't say anything, all he could see in front of him was his superstar. The superstar he had been searching for. The type of superstar producers wait all year in their office to land on their laps, sometimes they do and sometimes they don't. The audition didn't begin because Paris wouldn't let it. He kept looking at Freya and Freya looked back at him. She knew she had won his heart and the audition was over before it even began, as in she got the part. The silence continued for five minutes.

Lights glittered in every direction. Paris was happy and humble for another one of his films to get to the Oscars. Event regulars knew his face and greeted him like a member of the family. Fans screamed his name, squealing for autograph's. The man was a legend. Then there was his new superstar on his arm, the brilliant Freya, who became a star instantly from the lead role she played in the movie. Fans screamed her name as well and presenters begged her for interview's. It was all so new to her, unreal almost to think three years prior she was a young woman fresh off the Hollywood bus with nothing and now she was on the red carpet at the Oscar's, competing for the best actress award. She beamed her smiles and knew in the back of her mind, she had Paris to thank for where she was, so she showed him the most respect by staying by his side the entire time. She knew she was his muse now and she wasn't going to disgrace him in anyway because he was too much of a legend.

The next award to be announced was for editing. The silence was the usual at awards ceremony; quiet just before the winner is announced, totally serious on the verge of release like when a man is about to cum. The name announced was Sandra McDonald - Paris' editor. Sandra jumped up, elated. Paris hugged her, proud for her. Sandra walked to the stage. She had been Paris' editor since she started in the business, they had worked together for thirty years. She was a delicate woman, brunette, sixty years old and sweet. Paris looked at her like one of his children, in a way she was his longest term muse, but he didn't see her as the general type of muse.

Sandra accepted the award humbly. It was her first major award, let alone an Oscar. Deep down as she faced the audience and talked like it was her first time seeing the world, she knew it was a long time coming. She thanked many people, as they do! But mostly she thanked Paris and said her success was because of him which Paris thought was very nice. He loved his Sandra, but their was something in her voice and the way she looked into the audience directly at him when she mentioned his name, that spoke something much deeper.

It was a private party to celebrate the movie, at Paris' house. Paris was in front of the mirror, sharpening up in his suit. He was looking forward to the night, he loved throwing parties and events, that was one of his specialties. However it was this night he was going to do what he had never had the guts to do before, and that was to ask his muse for a date. He was nervous because of certain things; such as him being old enough to be Freya's dad, him not being good enough because he had never ever been on a date with a woman before. Or it being just creepy that Freya was his 'project' and now he was going to abuse the relationship by fucking it up with this type of move. Maybe he was thinking too much, but he took a deep breath as his bow tie was perfectly in place and decided he would never know unless he tried. Plus she had recently split up with Andrew, so she was available.

The party was in full swing. All of the people from the movie was there. Other Hollywood stars were there aswell. Paris was having a ball, in the thick of the social action, charismatic and making people laugh, on top form. Guests warmed to him because he was such a respected ambassador to the community and the industry. He was respected and Hollywood stars did what they could to honor their inspiration. Then Freya turned up, making a somewhat late appearance as if the diva in her was being unleashed. When Paris saw her he thought that Hollywood had trained her well! His eyes grew like he was a twelve year old boy with a crush, building up the Dutch courage to pop the big question of asking the girl out. But a man appeared next to her, it was Channing Tatum and Paris' heart punctured when he saw them holding hands.

It was obvious Freya was Hollywood's next top big thing, because she had only been at the party for five minutes and practically had ten film offers from directors and producers whom flocked around her. She didn't get the best actress award in the end, she just missed out on it to Carey Mulligan, but that didn't matter, there was plenty of time. She was known as The Russian in Hollywood too, that never left. Her presence suggested she was the in demand knockout where no film industry person could resist the chick. This was all because of Paris who gave her the big break.

Soon enough Freya arrived at Paris and gave him the biggest of hugs like always - like a father, which Paris hated for the first time and he knew why. She introduced Channing to him, they kind of knew each other through one film project or another, but Channing shook Paris' hand like he was royalty anyway. Freya said they were a couple only after Paris had indirectly forced the question. The love birds acted all in love and Paris was ready to break, inside he was done, the jealousy was going to kill him eventually. But he acted happy for his muse and how she had bagged a Hollywood A list to go with her rising status, Andrew long kicked into touch.

In the garden, Paris had found a quiet spot. He was fed up with the party, angry inside and ready to destroy - it was only destructive thoughts. The dark side to every human being was being unleashed more than ever inside of Paris right now. Hate. He was ready to hate with a passion that could kill. He wasn't a murderer! Again it was only destructive thoughts, however he wasn't mature enough to realize he was experiencing the bitter end of love. He made a bottle of rum disappear and he threw it into the swimming pool. The possibility of a drunken guest going skinny dipping and stepping on it, slicing up their foot amused him for a second. But he was too drunk to be assed to go in a get it. Instead he removed another full bottle from his pocket and cracked on.

Freya appeared by the door. She was looking for Paris and found him when she saw the lonesome figure sitting in the distance of the garden. She walked over and sat next to him. Paris looked a wreck, he was so drunk he looked like a different person. It was a shadow of his former self in a disturbing way. Freya didn't know what had happened to her director. Paris loved his muse with everything he had - professionally. But in the end dating the muse was a myth, it was never going to happen. Even though Paris was putting on a brave face, Freya knew exactly what this was about, he liked her and she felt sorry for her genius hero and director. She looked straight through him at the truth of the man, like when one is drunk, underneath, on his own, Paris was terribly lonely.

Three years later, their was a poster of Freya in the room called the hub, next to the rest of Paris' muses, Freya was number nine. Paris was in the center of the room, on the floor, depressed. It was serious depression, like the really serious stuff only genius poets and writers suffer. It was excruciating, fucking soul air bending, making it almost physically impossible to move inside and out. Paris knew this all too well, he suffered it from a boy, but had always been able to handle it right the way through to his old age. But not this one. When a poets depression is mixed with broken love, fucking hell. Especially at Paris' level in his career and status in life, this very well could be the big one to be his downfall.

But at least a part of him was happy for his Freya. She had married Channing now and had been in movies from Spielberg to Nolan. He got a text on his mobile and it was from Freya, just wishing him well and seeing how he was. Paris smiled, but literally didn't have the energy to text back. He was going to face his depression head on and lay on that floor for as long as it took to pass. If it took days then he would be there for days. That was the discipline required to overcome the poets depression instead of doing something stupid like topping oneself.

It was day three and Paris was still on the floor. He got a call from Sandra his life long trusted editor and she reminded him they had to meet to talk about a project. Paris was pleased the depression was thinning and he could manage phone calls. Then it hit him, so unexpectedly it felt like a set up. Sandra asked him out. It took minutes to uncover what Sandra was actually saying was genuine, and she replied every time it was. Paris asked her why now and why it took her so long and she replied that she felt it would ruin their working relationship. Right then Paris knew he wasn't the only one experiencing these things.

Paris said yes to both requests; meeting for the project and a date. He didn't know why, but Sandra seemed completely right, his heart told him that. She was always one of his muses, but she was a different type of muse, a production muse, not an on camera muse. It was odd, like something had sneaked up on him and hit him through the back door. Sandra was always there, for more than thirty years, it just took that long for her to show herself. She had always been single just like him, growing old alone. But also just like Paris, it was their time to get together, their time to be an item. God had made them wait until old age, but it seemed worth it in the end. The weight on Paris' body disappeared, like he had been unchained and set free. He stood up a new man, the depression gone, and he had the feeling it wasn't going to return for a while.




Thursday, 28 August 2014

Troublemaker 4

Troublemaker 4

The five of them were trudging through the arrival point of Glastonbury, in amongst the thousands of fellow festival goers. Jamie was looking through a rock magazine, on the page of the band Silver Arrows. She only had eyes for the lead singer, Baz. He was tall, dark and hot and Jamie was going to make him hers at the festival no matter what. One way or the other she was going to shag him, that's all, just to fuck him and if a relationship came of it, then it would have been a fairy tale. It wasn't going to be straight forward though because Baz was in a famous relationship with a famous woman - fuck it, another conquest to tick off the checklist thought Jamie. Her best friend Chessie was next to her, as well as the rest of their group which included the members of Harriet, Chloe and Fergi. Jamie knew her goal was something of a well layed plan because it was Fergi who had 'the hook up'. As they kept walking on, it turned out Fergi had won backstage passes to Silver Arrows performance, however Jamie had an additional plan, and was a matter of if her friends would be with her. She knew Chessie would be game, she was her sidekick, it was convincing the other three.

An hour or two later the gang were setting up camp on the hill. They all agreed they could have had the boys around then. It was a fucking nightmare as they fitted key to hole and rod to rod etc... Jamie then told the girls about her idea of using the backstage performance passes early, to see if the festival would allow them to hang out with the band the day before their set - as they were playing on the Saturday. They all eventually agreed to go along with it, but knew it was about Jamie's never gonna happen fantasy quest of getting it on with Baz.

It was 9am and the gang were at The Other Stage witnessing the end of a secret set by Beady Eye, who were surprisingly alright. When the crowd realized the rumor was true that Liam Gallagher and his mob were playing and when they swaggered onto the stage, the reactions were mixed as Beady Eye were a band that was relatively a hit or miss as they weren't to everybody's taste. However watching Liam in his signature scowling demeanor and the injection the groups music brought to a bright Friday morning start, was a sweet touch. The way Liam sized up back and forth to the microphone as if he wanted to have it out with it. The music was patchy at best as to be expected, but it still left the crowd energized for a long three days. Jamie liked Liam's arrogance, in the weirdest of ways it brought the best out in her.

That's when the group decided to try their luck with the backstage passes, so they made their way to the Pyramid Stage. When they arrived at a huge fence which had a sign on it showing "VIP Backstage Passes Only" the girls knew they had found the right place. Standing by the entrance was a rather unnecessarily large security guard. The girls looked at him, unsure whether to place him as a hot guy or a man that was so unique it was his worst enemy. Fergi showed the passes to the man and it took him five glances back and forth before he opened his mouth. When he spoke, he had a strong Polish accent, lacked personality, basically a robot. He said their passes weren't valid yet and to come back before the band were to play the next day.

The girls weren't going to take that, so they persisted, most of all Jamie. It seemed to be working because to the girls surprise the security guard revealed a soft side that didn't match his exterior image. The girls smelt weakness and then the guard opened the gate and told them to follow him. The girls looked at each other containing their excitement.

It seemed like the high life to the girls and most of all they seemed like celebrities themselves, because as they walked through a secret location, to the left and right of them were luxury caravan's with the bands names on them. Their was Kasabain, Arctic Monkey's, Foo Fighters, Coldplay. The girls were in cloud nine, kinda dreaming, especially when they saw Mick Jagger parading around in a onesie and Kate Moss loitering around with Pete Doherty - the girls couldn't believe what they were seeing. Then they arrived at Silver Arrows caravan and the security guard knocked on the door. Jamie's heart sunk when the Baz answered. The sound of the security guards voice suggested he took pity on the girls when he told Baz they were fans with backstage passes and wanted to have a pre-hang out with them, if they would allow it. Baz looked at the girls, Jamie dropping her chin with flirting eyes, and then he told the guard it was alright and he let them in.

In the caravan, the girls sat on the settee's, next to another group of girls who were Russian. Jamie's lot introduced themselves and they became friends as fast as a brand new magnet. It was clear the Russians were outside of Jamie's lots bracket - they were groupies and had been around the Silver Arrows long enough to qualify to that status. Jamie's lot were brand new wannabe's. The band themselves didn't really participate with either group right now, every now and again they would pop over, have a drink with them and then bugger off. Most of the time they were playing songs with their instruments. Baz himself was pretty elusive, but when he was most present, especially to Jamie's eye, was when his famous girlfriend turned up - Daisy Lowe. She was a bombshell, that's what both sets of girls thought and within a heartbeat felt so ordinary and normal. Daisy and Baz had a smooch on a chair for ages. The girls almost having an out of body experience as they watched them. Not Jamie, she watched with pure evil intent.

When Daisy left and Baz joined in with his band to a song, Jamie decided her next action was to make a move on him before it was too late. It kind of already was she knew, but she had nothing to lose by trying. But the man left after the song and Jamie seemed stuck. However she thought and acted quickly and told her friends she was going outside for some air and left before they could say they were going to join her.

Jamie was trying to find Baz but she couldn't. Instead she kept bumping in and out of famous people like Josh Homme from Queens of the Stone Age and Arcade Fire who were dressed like characters from an arcade machine. Then to her far right was Pete Doherty playing the guitar, which turned into a collapse on the floor after taking a hit of what looked to be heroin - but their was no Kate, hmmm! Jamie was going to give up the search and stood by a fence, feeling sorry for herself... then she heard these noises, the strange noises you only hear in sex. It alerted her awareness and she followed it. The noises led her to the back of a caravan somewhere. She tread carefully not to be seen by anyone, and when she looked around the corner, OMG! Smacked her face as she saw Baz and Mossy going at it against the caravan. Standing sex, quick, rough, wham bam thank you mam, nice - Jamie thought. Instantly she started snapping away with her Iphone.

The thought of wanting Baz had been sidelined faster than Fernando Torres being benched, the only thought Jamie had on her mind now was becoming rich when she sells the pictures to The Sun. Not after trying for Baz though, she would still give that a go. However if he rejected her she would resort to bribe, something that was her specialty, and she had the upper hand because she had proof. Moving swiftly along. Eventually she stopped snapping pictures. She thought of Daisy and the conclusion was - at least one was out of the way. She was slightly jealous of Kate though, because she really was seductively hot. Baz fucked well, everything Jamie imagined, on the same token Kate was a dynamite in that department too, the stellar get it on no nonsense all the way from Croydon.

It was Saturday, 2pm and the girls were in the enormous tent they called the John Peel Stage. It was full to the brim with people watching the excellent Bastille playing on the stage. Bastille were on their A game and were quite simple magnificent. The vibe from the crowd was more than a hundred percent, whether that be because they had Monday under their belts and were gearing up technically for the main day, or just because Bastille was the best act so far, the audience went for the second. However Jamie was in a fowl mood because she had managed to get the girls thrown out of their VIP treatment with Silver Arrows the day before. She touched Baz's leg when they were all back in the caravan.

Chessie sensed something was on Jamie's mind and said not to worry about it. She told Jamie to try and make it right when they potentially saw the band again later that day before their set. Jamie agreed with Chessie, but the word 'right' was interpreted as her trying her luck with Baz again. If he still declined it was here we go to The Sun we go.

The band were scheduled to play at 7pm, so the girls went to the backstage gate at 4pm to settle in early. But when they were met with their most recent best friend security guard, he looked at them, going back to his T 1000 character way and said they were denied access because the band said so. The girls were mortified, Jamie was ready to create carnage, and when they pleaded, the man ripped up the passes in front of Fergi and threw them on the floor. Jamie looked at Chessie, Chessie looked at Jamie, and it was their signature look of 'let's do some messin'. It was even better when Jamie showed the pictures of Baz and Kate to Chessie, and then decided on a plan.

In the amusement area, Jamie and Chessie stole a large poster from a fence, found some paint and wrote the inevitable on it...

When the band walked out onto the Pyramid Stage, an up roar of enthusiastic cries thundered around Worthy Farm. The girls were in the crowd nearer the front, Jamie and Chessie had the devious twinkle in their eyes and decided to wait for the band to settle before they took action. A few songs into the set, the evening hadn't fully set yet, there was still a lot of light, so Jamie got on Chessie's shoulders and held her banner high in the sky. It showed "BAZ FUCKS MOSS"

It took two minutes into the bands five minute song for the BBC camera's to catch the banner in plain sight and it also flashed up on the projector screens. Even though the music kept on playing, the sign caused a weird stand still across the entire Pyramid Stage. It was that moment like did you just see that? Jamie and Chessie saw the banner and themselves on the screen and they punched the air like hero's. Baz saw the sign in the crowds of people and he was so thrown off guard he forgot his lines and had to style his mistake out by playing a longer solo.

When the song ended, no music continued. There was disruption within the band, activity that seemed restless on the stage. Jamie and Chessie made themselves hidden in the sea of fans, but people around them gave them funny looks, like the music stopped because of them. Then out of no-where and army of security guards appeared, grabbed the girls and dragged them out of the festival. Jamie and Chessie cursed at the guards, calling them cunts, but the guards told them to shut up. But either way Jamie was looking forward to becoming rich when she met with The Sun next week. So it was all fun and games in the end.