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LA Más builds relationships with residents to shape community-serving projects that are collaborative, inclusive, and actionable. We partner with local residents to implement initiatives that support residents and promote greater social equity. In our community of northeast LA, LA Más is leading a grassroots initiative to identify on-the ... La Más Draga Fans. 2.6K likes. Bienvenidos a la página de La Más Draga Fans. Página dedicada a este Drag show 100% mexicano La Más Draga (English Lit. Translation: The Draggest) is the first season of the reality show series transmitted by YouTube, produced by La Gran Diabla Producciones, and which is based on the format of the RuPaul's Drag Race show, adapted to Mexican pop culture. The program shows the competition where it's looked the "más draga", which means best drag queen, in Mexico (but this season ... La Más Draga 2 (English Lit. Translation: The Draggest 2) is the second season of the reality show aired on YouTube and produced by La Gran Diabla Producciones, La Más Draga. Ten queens (as nine contestants) compete for the title of La Más Draga. The winner of the season won $ 100,000 pesos (≈ $ 5,203 USD) courtesy of Pure For Men, plus $ 50,000 pesos (≈ $ 2,601 USD) in NYX cosmetics ... Are you interested in other translations of the songs of La Más Draga ? Here you will find the list of songs by this author on the right we have the translation If you would like the translation of one of these songs, click on the appropriate button When we reach at least 3 reports for a song we will activate to insert its translation into the site. La Más Draga - Ponte Chingona (Video Oficial) - Duration: 3:24. LA MÁS DRAGA OFICIAL 340,613 views. ... Language: English Location: United States Restricted Mode: Off History Help Programa de telerrealidad que aborda la competencia DRAG en México creado por La Gran Diabla Producciones, el cual tiene como finalidad enaltecer este arte d... Online shopping from a great selection at Digital Music Store. 95.7k Followers, 53 Following, 255 Posts - See Instagram photos and videos from LA MÁS DRAGA (@lamasdraga) Video de SOY LA MÁS (Versión Oscura) Interprete: Lorena Herrera LA MÁS DRAGA es un espacio creado para conocer, apreciar y aplaudir el maravilloso mundo del ...

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WATCH HERE
Aló Pececitas! Next up, you’ll find out a very detailed review of La Más Draga’s 3x01, Hope you enjoy and if you want me to explain any special thing or regionalism you might not understand because you either don’t speak spanish or you do speak it but well, mexican slang…Enjoy!
TIMESTAMPS!
00:00 – 3:10 – We see glimps at auditions for the season, from Queens who weren’t and were selected, towards the end we get a look at the Final Live Audition, where the public knowledge Queens are chosen to be a part of the season.
3:26 – 8:06 – Public knowledge Queens unveal themselves, they all chit-chat, talk and shade each other
8:07 – 13:43 – Secret Queens are revealed to the rest of the Cast. These Queens did not need to pass any Live audition, they were either asked to film an audition tape and were selected or their tape was enough for the producers to choose them.

Queens enter the workroom, sponsored by NYX Cosmetics. They are welcomed by Johnny Carmona, workroom consultant and judge, who welcomes and thanks them for bringing their art to the show. Johnny explains that they were supposed to be a 14th queen, who, was dropped because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut about being on (this queen might or might not be s2’s first eliminee), tells them to keep the energy.
Johnny explains the first challenge, which is to present a Runway Look inspired by a very popular mexican board game: La Loteria (you might know Bingo!; which has the same mecanisms of game). Johnny gives them a History lesson about the game. The winner of this week will be deemed as “La Más Suertuda” (The Luckiest, LMD tends to use “La Más + theme” to refer to the winner of each weekly challenge, which means the one who was The Most amazing at it). A one-minute talent show is also requested to be performed after their runway presentation.
Carmona later welcomes Internet sensation duo Pepe & Teo, who will also play as workroom consultant and stres relief for the Queens the whole season. Pepe and Teo play with the Queens a little game of General Knowledge, ask each a question and the one who can answer better will win the right to select their station in the workroom. Al lof them suck and should go back to middle school; later, Memo earns this right and plays the game by aligning the Queens by his perferences.
Pepe and Teo then welcome one more guest, which is Gaby Lu, representative for FOREO Sweden, which is a skin care Brand that will help the Queens with free products for them. Queens shade Mista for her age and she is selected to be the try girl for the producto right there. Gaby Lu announces that the winner of the whole season will be awarded with 50.000 pesos in FOREO products and becoming an ambassador for the Brand for a year.
39:50 – 43:40 – Season 3’s host, our resident RuPaul; Miss Karla Díaz (Singer and host known for being in the girl group JNS) comes out in the mainstage, presents the prizes (150,000 pesos in cash, 50,000 pesos in NYX Cosmetics, 50,000 pesos in FOREO + ambassador, and a 2-people flight to New York) and judges: Johnny Carmona, Yari Mejía (make-up sensation, AFAB Drag Queen and Instagram influencer), Letal (make-up artist, drag queen and icon). Guest judge this episode is Miss Regina Orozco (Gay icon in México, Singer and TV personality). Karla also introduces the Drag Altar, which is the place where each week, the picture of the eliminee will be hung.

Rudy Reyes: Rudy comes out as The Rooster, headpiece and wings included, all feathered. Her talent show is a lipsync mash-up of famous latino songs.
Madison Basrey: Madison also chose The Rooster as her Loteria card; she comes out in a prostetic mask with a much simpler outfit than Rudy, with the addition of heles that give the appareance of chicken feet. Her talent show is a comedy skit centered around being an actual rooster.
Huntyy B: Comes out in a dress with every Lotería card printed oni t with yellow and blue details. Her talent show is a Burlesque act.
Luna Lansman: Luna comes out first with The Shrimp on her head and a silky blue robe, which she reveals into a giant The Fish gown, which she floats around for a while before taking off the top part to reveal a topless illusion and a mermaid tail in The Mermaid, she then strips to a full nude illusion. Her talent show is a Lipsynced Magic Show.
Yayoi Bowery: Yayoi comes out as The World in an all baby-blue look and a 37 in one of her piggytails, 37 is the number for The World in a Loteria deck. Her talent show is singing.
Regina Bronx: She comes out as The Mermaid, in a two piece gown which mimics scales all way around, with feathers on the bottom part. Her talent show is an arabic-inspired dance.
Raga Diamante: Raga presents The Pot, coming out hidden inside of it, with flowers on top included. She then reveals a green and red bodysuit. Her talent show is singing.
Aviesc Who?: Aviesc comes out as The Spider, with an asisstant as her web. Blue hair, and glasses that mimic the spider’s eight eyes. Her talent show is something about black paint and a canvas, posing slowly to the camera; she trips at the end while trying to finish her act.
Mista Boo: Mista chooses The Devil, coming out with black horns and a caped long dress, with a trident as a belt accesory. Her talent show is a frightning spoken word act.
Iviza Lioza: Iviza comes out as The Sun. She has an all-red gown with spikes on her back, which then she reveals are supposed to be the sun rays, but it malfunctions, the effect not working as it should. Her talent show is a Tarot Reading act with pictures of the judges as Lotería cards.
Memo Reyri: Memo comes out as The Devil, in a full-bodysuit in red with Golden, black and red embelishments in the corset, with fringe in the pants area, black and red wings and a geometrical mask. His talent show is singing with fire handling.
Stupidrag: Chooses The Devil as well, with a black and gold cape with yellow in the inside, a red bodysuit with black leather sleeves and black splashes in the torso and horns. Her talent show is a lipsync number with fire handling, but the fire burns out quickly.
Wynter: Comes out as The Sun in a yellow gown with red detailings and a wide red spot in her back with Golden rays and a big afro wig. Her talent show is a Frozen (not the Disney franchise, just coldness) theme lipsync.

Queens are mostly scolded harshly by the judges for not meeting the expectations of a premiere for a third season, every judge is disappointed by the queens’ performance, either because of their lack of performative uniqueness or simple outfits. Letal asks which Queens did prepare themselves in different areas of performing; Aviesc, Luna, Madison, Raga, Rudy and Wynter say so, the rest didn’t.
Aviesc is criticized on being shy and too calmed and having used liquids which made her fall, her look was fantastic.
Huntyy is criticized for doing burlesque, which has been seen already,
Iviza was congratulated on letting go of her nerves, but Yari scoldes her for her reveal fail and lack of professsionalism because Iviza apparently blamed it on someone else who helped her make it.
Luna was told that less is more, but congratulated on her unique show by Yari, but Johnny wasn’t sure about her time frame and lack of actual magic tricks.
Madison was deemed basic for her look but was louded for her comittment in the comedy of her talent show, Regina Orozco hated her because she thought pretending to be a Rooster isn’t a talent.
Memo receives great critiques on his outfit and makeup, his song is also louded because of how deep it was, outside of the typical “Me, Me, Me” drag music.
Mista got glowing critiques about her talent show and how she was able to get out of the pretty side and the fact she only needed herself to connect with the judges. Look was louded as well.
Raga was criticized about not looking too-much as a pot, but was congratulated on her attitude overall.
Regina gets critiques on the lack of rehearsal for the talent show but is warned not to try to copy the looks of one Valen-other queen.
Rudy is congratulated on her outfit and energy, but the lack polishness on her talent show gets hard critiques.
Stupidrag is given the advice about how her fire burned out before, her look got great critiques on her look.
Wynter’s talent show gets meh critiques and is asked to take better care of her reveals, to keep the shock factor.
Yayoi gets the roughest critiques, her card is not seen at all in her conceptual-look, pretty and all.
LETAL’S RANT Being completely honest, I don’t feel this like a third season¸from so many auditions, how did you guys ended up here? I want you to understand that performers go from 10 to 30 auditions just to land a part in something, you passed and are standing here. WHAT IS HAPPENING? What’s happening? You guys get your chance to walk the runway and nothing happens at all, imagine, you get two chances to walk the runway, not just one, the runway all in al lis “Okay, she kinda missed it here, but she’ll give me something later” but then NOTHING HAPPENS, okay, cute looks, good make-up, detailing and shit, but what happens with the people behind the wigs, make up and outfits? Those are not drag characters, those are you, real people, the artista who is standing there. Why would you all need to stay here and not go? Not one should go, many of you should. DO YOU GUYS WANNA BE JUST LIKE THE REST? You want to be standing in the best stages in the world, right? I RESPECT EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THE STAGES YOU’VE BEEN ON, but to be an artist and earn what you wanna earn, because I know the budget you put into all of this, you NEED DISCIPLINE AND HAVE THE BALLS to stand in any place you go. I want you to understand you’re standing here when there are Queens who ARE DYING TO GET A CHANCE not only on this show, but on anything, on any Project, and when they got it they don’t ruin it. THIS IS NOT ABOUT BEING THE BIG BITCH BUT ABOUT WHO IS THE BEST ARTIST. The one who asks themselves who they are and FIND IT. Right now you are already performers who are visible through this project, ITS UP TO YOU TO HAVE THE CHANCE TO BE THE ARTIST THAT COMES OUT OF THIS, I WANT YOU TO RESPECT THIS STAGE, MANY PEOPLE ARE WORKING THEIR ASSES OFF TO MAKE THIS POSSIBLE, so, if I don’t feel like this is a worthy third season, what do I have to say to you?
Regina Orozco then asks the Queens why do they do Drag.
Wynter replies that she does it because she finds a lot of freedom and because she can do whatever she wants with it, as it is limitless, there’s no yes’s and no’s.
Aviesc says she’s a fashion designer, adds that clothing should not have gender (YES), clothing is a reflection of our soul, you créate art through your body from your sould. Drag is such an elevated art and you can have fun and showcase your soul at the same time.
Luna wants to entertain, the people is what keeps her going, to créate an outfit, to stand in a stage and keep them entertained, she might not be sexy or stunning, but if she can make people laugh, that’s her place.
Raga says she does drag because being on stage makes her happy, showing what she can do. Its her own world when she performers, and that happiness can spread to others when she is in front of people.
Rudy does drag as an spectacle, says there’s a lot of trouble going on around the world, and wants to be a distracction and a happy moment for everyone and it can fill up the soul with joy.
REGINA RANT I CAN'T CALL ANY OF YOU AN ARTIST, THERE’S OUTFITS, MAKE UP AND RUNWAYS BUT NOTHING HAPPENED BEYOND IT. AN ARTIST IS SOMEONE WHO WORKS THEIR ASS OFF. IF YOU’RE A FASHION DESIGNER (to Aviesc), STAY THERE. I DIDN’T SEE ANY ENERGY, EVERYTHING WAS LOW. THERE WERE BRILLAINT MOMENTS BUT IF YOU’RE GOING TO SING LEARN TO SEE, RAGA, YOU CAN SING, BUT THE REST? PLEASE, WHOEVER WINS THE PRIZE MONEY, PLEASE PAY FOR YOUR ARTISTIC EDUCATION, IF NOT, JUST STAY DOING SHOWS TO ENJOY YOURSELVES, BUT IF YOU WANT TO TRASCEND, THINK ABOUT THE PUBLIC AND WHAT YOU’RE GIVING TO THEM. MAKE IT HAPPEN. A LOTERIA IS SO MUCH FUN BUT I NEVER FELT IT ON HERE.

Iviza Lioza, Memo Reyri, Mista Boo, Yayoi Bowery, Stupidrag and Aviesc Who are deemed the best and worst of the week.
Iviza, Yayoi and Stupidrag are in the bottom, Iviza is spared while Yayoi and Stupidrag are announced to have to Lipsync to Stay.
Memo, Aviesc and Mista are the tops, at the end, Mista wins the challenge and is deemed La Más Suertuda.
Yayoi and Stupidrag are asked to prepare a Lip Sync performance of Tsunami, by judge Yari Mejía. Stupidrag gives energy and sex appeal, while Yayoi moves awkardly around the stage, and lying on the ground.
After the LipSync, Karla announces that guest judge Regina Orozco will decide who is the first eliminee, but before, they ask the whole cast to return to the stage and Karla explains that there has never been an elimination before in the first episode of both seasons. She says the safe Queens will decide whether there is an elimination or we have another double-save premiere.
Mista Boo is the only one who is unsure about her choice, as she feels that if someone did bad, they should go home, but after pretty much everyone says there shouldn’t be an elimination, Mista agrees with them, and everyone decides there was no elimination, although Mista still voices in confessionary that there should have been an elimination.
Stupidrag and Yayoi Bowery are both saved.
#BESODETRECE

TIME FOR SLANG! 2:01 – Regina Bronx, in her audition calls her drag carácter a “Vaquerobvia”, which is a portmanteu in the words “vaquero” y “obvia”, “obvia” in spanish is used to describe (most of the times in a demeaning way) a gay guy who fits stereotipically into the mold of how a gay guy talks, dresses and acts. “Vaquero” is cowboy, which is a style of clothing and living (people who dedícate themselves to farm, catter, etc).
3:52 – Madison mentions “Quedarse fría”, which, in the words of Monique Heart means “Gooped”
4:30 – Mista Boo asks “Do I look like Un Kilo de Ayuda already?”, Un Kilo de Ayuda is a mexican program which helps secure mexican kids who need it all the food and supplies they need. To mention Un Kilo de Ayuda refers to the fact that Mista might look tired and skinny (A kinda bad taste joke, but, well, mexican humour)
8:53 – Mista refers to Yayoi as “Alexis 2XL”, Alexis 3XL is Season 2’s Winner and Yayoi’s style has been compared a lot to Alexis’ in the past. The 2XL part can be either for the Part 2 joke or because Yayoi might or might not be skinnier than Alexis.
10:33 – Stupidrag makes reference to “El Libro Vaquero” (The Cowboy Book), which is a very popular small comic book here in Mexico that tells small and VERY VERY dramatic stories, which tend to be a mix of western drama, erotism and some weird ideas. Very popular among older people.
43:14 – Karla mentions a “Drag Altar”, which comes from the Day of the Dead Altar, which if you don’t know much about mexican culture when it comes to Día de Muertos, an Altar is a small crafty construction created to honor the dead relatives of a family, you put the pictures of the deceased, together with a mix of flowers (Flor de Cempasúchil is the worldwide known flower for the dead), decorative paper and food that the people you put he Altar for loved in life, with the belief that on November 2nd, the dead can cross from the other side and visit the earth.
ENTRANCE DIALOGUES: Madison: Hey, how are you? My name’s Ricky Balrey, from Gdl, Jalisco and I’m 25 years old. I consider myself a biological woman (in a jokingly tone). I consider myself a bio woman because when I transform everyone is shook. My drag is inspired by everything’s that pretty in life, I’m very smart and very beautiful, better beware.
Luna: Hey there, I’m Abraham Luna, I’m from CDMX, My drag character is Luna Lansman, inspired by unicorns, fantasy, fairytales and everything you believe to be pretty, sweet and pink, very dreamy,
Mista: Do I look like Un Kilo de Ayuda already? I’m Mista Alex, my drag name is Mista Boo, I’m from Monterrey, I’m 367 yeards old, my drag is very dark, witchy, very alternative, not like the other kind, I’m also very dark literally, I don’t like using glitter because I want that shine to be from the inside
Rudy: Hi! My name is Rodolfo, aka Rudy Reyes. “The Caribbean’s Pearl”, Ruby is from Monterrey, my nickname is because I love the mexican caribbean . Ruby is a dancer, very showgirl-y, lots of glitter, stages are my life. I love to dance, its everything I can ask for in life.
Huntyy: My name is Edgar de la O, I’m 27 years old and I’m from Ciudad Juarez, Chihuaha. I bring HuntyyB to life. She’s a collectible, you can dress and undress her as many times as you wish. I have many sides to myself because I’m kinda crazy. Huntyy can be very vintage, elegant or maybe turn into a chinese doll with purple skin.
Aviesc: My name is Aviesc, and my drag name is Aviesc Who?, I’m a designer and I’m from Gdl, Jalisoc, I am 32 years old. Aviesc is an extension of my clothing line; I mix art with fashion; take inspiration from trends, art and movies and then craate something from that mix so Drag Queens can be trendy as well.
Wynter: I’m Huicho Lozano, I’m from Tamaulipas but I live in León, I bring Wynter to life. Wynter is this fantasy, something you can have but it will cost you a lot. Wynter leaves you frozen, entertained.
Iviza: My name is Franco, I’m 26 years old. My drag name is Iviza Lioza and I’m very inspired in powerful woman, I come from a family of very strong woman, I draw inspiration from any character of empowered women like witches, Queens.
Yayoi: I'm 32 years old, my drag name is Yayoi Bowery. I’m a mix of kawaii, club kid and pop culture. I’m a publicist so I love to play with all of this so people can reminiscent their childhood or old times.
Regina: Hello, I’m Luis Peña, I’m 29 years old. I come from a small town in Chihuahua but I currently live in Aguascalientes (STAN) which is where Regina was born. Regina is a queen from the north, vaquerobvia, loves to show her curves, take care of her makeup, and dance; to share something very special with the public. I’m not that experienced, I’ve been in this career for a year but I wanted to elevate my level and bring it to here.
Stupidrag: Hey, well, I’m Pepe Favila, I’m 29 yeards old. I’m a queen from Gómez Palacio, Durango. What makes me me? Fire. The Origina Fire created this creature who has curves, that came out from the Cowboy Book. Everything is sexy, all hips for her. When I saw the rest of the Queens most of them were like “Who this?”, but luckily some did recognize me.
Memo: Hey, I’m Memo Reyri, I’m 33 years old and I’m a Bio King from CdMx. My drag is very masculine man, what I try to do with my character is to play with whatever is known as masculine and mix it with pretty, grotesque and rough stuff, but always with a very delicate attitude. I want to make a difference between what is known as an Alpha male.
Raga: I’m 32 years old, I’m from Mérida, Yucatán and I bring Miss Raga alive. Raga Diamante is a pop girl, a superstar in the scene, a song and dance icon. She’s a person, not just a character, she loves to make people happy. I didn’t know most of these girls, did not recognize them at all.

HELLO PECECITAS. I hope I did help you out with having a better understanding of the show and please leave a comment if you have understood most, if you want me to elaborate on anything else please tell me as well.
Also, tell the producers to hire me, I'm nice. SEE YA!
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2020.07.17 16:39 17Julenergetic New Homemade Por-n S-ex

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submitted by 17Julenergetic to Home_Made_Fun [link] [comments]


2020.05.01 05:32 the14thaccount Hidden camera strip club sex

I woke up groggy the next morning. To my relief, the door was closed and I was alone. Comfortable.
I slid on my Buddy Holly glasses. At peace with the solitude around me… until I saw a letter lying on the dresser. The elaborate scribbled scrawl told me all I needed to know: Nicki had snuck in here during the night. Groaning, I grabbed the letter.
There was the schedule literally spelled out for me: gym, shower, interview. Even a curated wardrobe was included.
I put on the tight gym shorts. The red sleeveless shirt. Upon opening the bedroom door, Bobby Helms’s “Jingle Bell Rock” bombarded me. Not to mention this mansion’s blizzard… I couldn’t help but think how some people would find the holiday playlist a welcome reprieve from the Nickimania usually blasting. But not me. I missed the pop music in the face of this seasonal shit.
Then I hit the gym. The treadmill, the crunches. My meager weightlifting. All under those cameras’ red eyes. Not to mention the bizarre wax figure standing in the corner. The one watching me this whole time: a life-size Roman waxwork. Complete with the blonde wig, messy black dress… that deranged scowl.
Out of breath, I faced my reflection. The giant mirror painted me in a flattering but realistic light. Nicki and Ashley had taken care of me, after all. I looked better than ever. Maybe not the Great Value Zac Efron Nicki was hyping me up to be, but hey, what can I say? Even I was impressed my own appearance.
Turning, I confronted the wax Roman. Her fake eyes met mine. Somehow, I was sure she’d moved ever so slightly. Just enough to turn that female gaze toward me.
I then headed for the shower. The warm water soothed me from this Christmas cold. Now I could really get lost in horror thoughts. In my storyteller wilderness.
Relaxed, I stepped back. Looked toward the metal soap holder… then my unease returned. Intensified.
I saw a red light hidden behind the soap bar. One blocked by a narrow glass case. Maybe I was too tired to notice it last night. More than likely too drunk… but apparently, Nicki had eyes on me the whole time.
But I felt aroused amidst the disgust. I couldn’t stop the erection… even when it stemmed from fantasies violating my privacy. But still, where was my dignity? Apparently not enough of it to stop me from modeling in that shower.
In the hallway, the cold hit me hard. Especially when all I had on was the boxers. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” serenaded my chills. Those voices then returned… I looked toward the last door.
The muffled voices came from there. The fateful room’s light still on. I walked up to the door. Grabbed the handle.
“I told you not to go in there!” came that frenetic scream.
Nicki’s hand grabbed mine. I looked into her fiery eyes. She had on the librarian’s glasses. The red blouse. Her hair pulled back in an unassuming ponytail. Her claws replaced by groomed fingernails. “What the fuck, Rhonnie!”
Under the glare, I crumbled. “I was just curious…”
“Yeah, well, curiosity killed the cat, bitch!” Nicki tossed my hand back to me.
“Well, what happened?” I asked. Still hearing the voices, I waved toward the room. “What’s that noise?”
Behind a cold gaze, Nicki grabbed my wrist in a death grip. “None of your business. Not now!”
I said nothing. Too scared to respond….
“Now get your ass in that bedroom!” Nicki continued. She motioned toward my room. Savoring her power… “Get dressed!”
“My bad…” I responded. But I still listened to her. I walked into my bedroom. Saw my sweater and red khakis laid out for me.
Bing Crosby’s voice echoed everywhere as I snagged the red trousers. Got ready to put them on.
“And what’d I tell you about going to that room!” Nicki’s voice reprimanded me.
Startled, I looked toward the open doorway. Right to the one-and-only Nicki Minaj watching me get dressed.
“I’m sorry!” I said with a laugh.
“Mmm-hmm,” Nicki replied. She leaned against the doorway. Not going anywhere… and neither was that excited gaze of hers. The one that never left my body. “You best start listening to me, Rhonnie.”
Struggling under her hungry eyes, I slid on the pants. “I will!”
I felt her eyes on me the entire time. Nicki never once left this show….
We later got together in the home studio. Both of us in our swivel chairs and with a glass of wine...
The ideas came fast and furious. Some good, some great.
“What about like a sex cult?” Nicki suggested.
“A sex cult?” I joked.
Behind the glasses, Nicki sat up straight. "Is that too realistic?”
I chuckled. “With you, man, anything is possible.”
“We just need to give them something crazy!” Nicki went on. She straightened her blouse. “Like whether it’s a cult or anything crazy I did. Like the pegging, anything hot like that!”
“Awesome. I agree.”
“I’ll be your muse for all things sexy and…” Nicki hunched her shoulders. Angled her head for a murderer’s photo shoot. That killer gaze fixated on me. “Scary."
Uncomfortable, I glanced down at my notebook. “Yeah, there’s so much potential.”
“Oh, definitely.”
I worked up the nerve to face her. Then ask a question that’d been bothering me: “So what was up with the garage?”
Nicki gave me a weird look. “What do you mean?”
“I mean all the weird shit in there? The cars, lockers-”
Nicki scoffed. “Bitch, please…”
“Naw, I’m curious.”
With an indifferent flourish, Nicki waved me off. “Your nosyass shouldn’t worry!”
Like a reporter, I leaned in closer. “So why all the cameras then? The guards?”
Nicki stared at me, her eyes eviscerating my soul. “I done told you, Rhonnie.” She moved in toward my face, holding me captive with that stare. “I value my privacy.”
“So why keep that shit then?"
Chuckling, Nicki leaned back in her seat. “Don’t be so worried, Rhonnie…”
“What?”
Nicki looked right at me. Her inner strength obvious. "I’m a tough girl, Rhonnie! You know that.”
Our brainstorming session ended soon after. To be honest, I had enough macabre material minus the Queen’s input. Even if the session proved entertaining.
That afternoon, I entered the kitchen. And there was Nicki seated on a bar stool. Glued to her phone. The Killers’ “Don’t Shoot Me Santa” the latest on the dancefloor's playlist.
“Hey, boo,” Nicki said to me.
“Hey,” I replied as I grabbed a Dos Equis. “I was just about to start writing. ” I opened the longneck. Still basking in the wine buzz… then I heard more moans and groans. Pleasurable exhalations hitting euphoria…
I looked toward the hallway. Drowning out the Christmas music, Club Staff’s sex sounded closer. Somehow more familiar. I stepped toward Nicki. “Yo, what are you watching?”
Nicki didn’t even try hiding the footage. The HD video of me, her, Ashley, and Kellan engaging in a most wild intimacy. Our own filmed sex tape… For whatever reason, I was on the bottom.
“Whoa, what the fuck!” I yelled.
Cackling, Nicki lowered her phone. “What? I can’t relive the past, bitch?”
“I mean you kept that on your phone?”
Nicki shrugged. “Duh. It’s hot…”
I couldn’t argue. “It’s fun and all, but-"
Nicki stood up and held her phone toward me. Giving me a front row view to a clip of her and Ashley dicking me down with those huge dildos. “If I wanna take a break, Rhonnie, I can. I'm not addicted, bitch.” She then got in my face. A delayed flourish of a finish. I could already smell the wine in her breath. “And I’m the one paying you. Remember?”
I gave her a weak smirk. “Okay…”
“That’s right, boo.”
I waved toward her, annoyed. "So when can I get my phone?”
That wacky Nicki grin appeared. She marched toward the hallway. Her erotica conquering the Christmas music. “Oh, you know the rules, Rhonnie.”
“Well, what about Zoo? When the Hell’s he coming over?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Nicki started. She stopped and faced me. Her smile still on display. “He’s coming.”
“Yeah but when-”
A chaotic vibration interrupted us. Nicki glanced at her pulsating phone.
“Shit, I gotta get this!” she said. She grinned at me. “Don’t go anywhere!”
Left alone, I looked over at the kitchen bar. At all those drinks.
Swept away by The Killers’ Christmas song, I staggered up to the pink wine bottles. Grabbed the biggest one.
Buried beneath the booze were torn scratch sheets of paper. A rainbow catalog veering between construction paper and sticky notes. The font matched the pattern: notes scrolled in everything from pen, marker, to even crayon.
I placed the wine on the counter. Picked up a cluster of messages.
Judging by the writing, no way these were the musings of one person. The handwriting was different on each and every message. The emotions different: Greatest xperience eva! I ain’t ever leaving!! I <3 Nicki Minaj Nickis bitch
Battling the unease, I took another swig. But still couldn’t shake the increasing chills.
Then one pink note in particular caught my eye. Brought about waves of anxiety… and sweet nostalgia. I recognized Ashley’s scrawl immediately. Her excellent grammar: Ashley And Rhonnie Forever! We love you, Nicki!
I put the beer down. Picked up my love’s note. Felt adrenaline rush through me. Heard Ashley’s beaming voice as I read it once more… Fuck, I missed her.
Grinning, I slid the letter into my pocket. A cherished memento from our stay at Nicki’s resort… My eyes then went back to this hidden collection. To the white sheet of paper lying under Ash’s message…
In an instant, my romantic remembrance vanished. All of it conquered by fear.
HELP ME read the scribbled touch of a pencil’s panic. The big, bold letters screamed those words. Underlined for emphasis. The message too terrifying not to be genuine…
I grabbed the piece of paper. Got a closer inspection at the all-too-real horror. The reality that everything wasn’t Utopia. Not for everyone, at least...
I downed the Dos Equis. But my buzz didn’t soothe the restless tension.
My eyes scanned the other notes. This scared detective confirming his instincts: there were just too many subtle differences. Too many eccentricities for Nicki and her personalities to have written all these. Especially now that I had Ashley’s note for evidence.
From the dancefloor, The Killers faded out. And in the brief silence came the many voices. Those muffled shouts and cries…
I turned toward the hallway. The sounds obviously coming from Club Staff. The Forbidden Room. Nicki’s wax museum. Her lair of wild dreams and nightmares.
Still clinging to the eerie note, I sensed my opportunity. Somehow gathering courage amidst the anxiety, I rushed into the dark hallway. Saw the only light here coming from beneath that final door.
The coast was clear. No one was around... Just me and whomever lurked inside that room. And as I got closer, the voices grew louder. More excited.
For once, the fear chilled me more than Nicki’s arctic A/C. But I still kept going. Reached out toward the knob.
The sudden struts of a guitar made me jump. So did Elvis Presley’s crooning… Startled, I looked down the hall. Glaring on at “Blue Christmas” now playing on the dancefloor.
Recovering from the scare, I turned my attention toward the door. Reached out once more.
“Rhonnie, what is you doing!” rang Nicki’s siren cry through the darkness. The Queen’s voice all power and attitude. Just like her firm grip snatching my arm.
Scared again, I whirled around. “Shit!”
Nicki’s smirk greeted me. As did her latest costume change: a black Strokes tee and skintight white pants. With no make-up and a shorter red wig, Onika Maraj looked dressed for an underground rock show. How she changed so fast, how she appeared so quick behind me still remains a mystery to this day. Not to mention where the fuck did she keep getting all these wigs and where did she keep them? But in that surreall moment, I was just glad she wasn’t wearing that fucking strap...
Nicki waved at her shirt with excitement to spare. “You like it? You’re a Strokes fan, right?”
The letter in my hand grabbed my gaze. “Yeah…” I held the message toward Nicki. “What the Hell is this!”
Caught off guard, Nicki’s grin disappeared. Her suspicion set in.
“I found this in the kitchen,” I said.
In a fierce instant, Nicki snatched the sheet. Read the note.
“I just wanna know who wrote it,” I continued.
Feigning indifference, Nicki tossed it to the ground. “It’s nothing, I wrote that shit.”
For once, her performance lacked emotion. Gone was the confidence.. her biggest strength.
I flashed a nervous smile. “No, you didn’t! There’s no fucking way!”
Nicki placed a hand to her temple. Avoiding eye contact. At war with her own invasive thoughts.
“I found the note Ashley left too,” I said. “I found all of them! I mean why’d someone write ‘help me,’ Nicki! Goddamn!”
Nicki stayed silent. There was no word. No explanation.
I leaned toward her. “That’s fucking crazy! I mean just-”
Staying strong in the face of my fake toughness, Nicki looked right at me. “Chill, Rhonnie.”
“But I wanna know-”
“Do you think anyone would ever wanna leave here?” Like a dismissive diva, she pushed me back. “Seriously, Rhonnie?”
Scoffing, I pointed toward the note. “Well, someone did apparently!”
“Just think about you and Ashley!” Nicki then flashed that taunting smile. “Y’all’s asses know you didn’t wanna leave!”
I hesitated in the cold. Let “Blue Christmas” continue through the hallway. The mansion. And deep down, I knew I had no response. Nicki was right.
Sensing my weakness, Nicki took an aggressive step toward me. Her pretty face matching mine. “You know I’m right, don’t you,” she cooed. In a slow lunge, Nicki ran her hands along my chest. Leaned in toward my ear for a sensual purrr….
The memories hit me hard. Flashbacks to the ferocious sex. Me, Ash, Nicki, Kellan. Our weeks of fun. Our thrist constantly quenched in this erotic paradise.
“You and Ashley still wanna come back,” Nicki teased in a gentle tone. She squeezed my ass. And got closer to my lips. “Y’all still miss me…”
I smelt the sweet wine in her breath. The booze helping us both lose control.
“We do...” I said. Now I ran my hands up and down Nicki’s majestic body. Felt along the smooth skin. The plastic… The best implants money can buy.
Our bodies collided. Swaying to the rhythm of “Blue Christmas.” Our souls stirred into a happy hysteria.
Nicki’s grin grew wider. “I missed y’all too…”
She gave me a drunken kiss. And I damn sure returned the favor. Gladly still clinging to my ass, Nicki’s other hand went down toward my crotch.
I lost control. The excitement too much.
“Rhonnie, get Ashley,” Nicki said between kisses. She draped her hands around my neck. “Stay here forevvverrrr…”
Smiling, I looked on at those brown eyes. Their mischievous glint. “I’ll think about it-”
A bombastic beat crushed Elvis’s crooning. Loud and obnoxious. A hip-hop air strike had hit Christmas.
I immediately recognized the song. And immediately cringed.
Cackling, Nicki leaned back. “Oh shit!”
I groaned. “Fuck, ‘Anaconda’? “Really?”
“Yes!”
Amidst the pop assault, Nicki pulled me in closer toward her. Another sloppy kiss accompanied this grating tune. The Queen’s hands went wild over my body. The song getting better as the make-out session continued. The intensity matching the incessant rhythm of “Anaconda.”
Nicki held me back. Her female gaze salivating me. The smile starving for more.
Grooving and shaking to the beat, I gave her a smug, seductive smirk. Pleased to have Nicki’s spotlight. “Hey,” I quipped.
Then Mrs. Majesty made her move. Lunging forward, Nicki was fast and quick. Her hands latched on to my arms.
“Whoa!” I joked.
Crying out, Nicki threw me up against the wall. Her sheer strength sent me into it hard… leaving me pinned to it.
There were some nerves. Not to mention a rising thrill. I turned and looked back at it. At Nicki.
Armed with that madcap grin, she descended upon me. Her fingers itching to grab. Her steps aligned with the song… As if she were pantomiming and acting out her own twisted music video. But that sly voice shined through. Even over the deafening soundtrack. Nicki’s excitement too high at this point...
“Oh my Gosh....” she said in a robotic melody. “Look at her butt…”
I was too drunk to move. But still enthralled… erect beyond belief. Here I was Nicki’s prisoner once more. At her manic mercy.
Smirking in silence, I let her tear off my sweater.
“Oh my Gosh, look at her butt,” Nicki kept singing. Those same lyrics repeated in a sexy mantra… Getting me all the more hot. The collision of the song and Nicki’s performance hypnotized me. I gave in to her fantasy… and my own.
Nicki pulled my pants down. Into the music, I grooved. Shook at her touch. All while she yanked off the khakis, then my tight boxers. I held my feet out, letting Nicki slide the socks off. She had me nude. Just as she wanted me.
Still singing along, Nicki pushed me further down. Bending me over… I felt those white pants fasten against my popped out ass. Felt her fasten those clamps of fingers to my hips.
Swaying to the reckless rhythm, Nicki’s passionate thrusts matched the song. One hit after the other...
“My anaconda don’t!” Nicki hollered. “My anaconda don’t!”
I closed my eyes and moaned. The sensations so amazing. Nicki didn’t even need a dildo to fuck hard. She had too much power as is.
Enjoying the show, Nicki moved my ass back-and-forth. Making me twerk on that crotch. Nicki getting the lapdance of her dreams. Not that I was complaining... Being her personal stripper was nothing new for either of us.
Continuing the concert, Nicki sang in a playful tone. Her voice so energetic and full of delight it overtook the fucking record. And only stopping for those dominant grunts. Nicki leaned in next to my ear. “This dude named Michael used to ride motorcycles…”
My breathing got heavier. In awe of Nicki’s poise. Behind aroused eyes, I watched her grab a hold of my big dick. All while she kept pounding away in this delirious dry humping. Nicki a Goddamn athlete.
“Dick bigger than a tower,” the Queen continued as she tugged on my cock for emphatic emphasis. “I ain’t talking about Eiffel’s…”
Something moist hit my ass. The crashes were repetitive and heavy. Nicki got out of control. A sexbot on the verge of exploding.
I moaned once more. Until Nicki’s hand covered my mouth. But she still kept going. I moved along with her. Shaking my ass to her delight.
“Real country-ass nigga, let me play with his rifle,” Nicki sang. “Pussy put his ass to sleep, now he calling me NyQuil…” In a wild flourish, she licked my face. A serpent’s tongue all along my smooth skin.
And the show went on. Through every lyric, every thrust. I gave in to the rap Goddess’s every move. Not to mention to her amazing stamina. Here I was sweating in the cold. Still erect. Still twerking...
At the fadeout, Nicki’s cackling hit overdrive. Her histrionics natural. She staggered back and gave my ass a passionate smack.
Exhausted, I turned and looked back at the Queen. At her triumphant smile. The colossal wet stain on the crotch of those white pants… An ocean of desire.
Another haunting rap beat started. Nicki’s “Get On Your Knees” began playing. A song reverberating through my mind. My body.
Nicki ran her hands down her pants in a sensual taunt. “Ooh, bring that ass here, baby.”
Gasping for breath, I staggered to my feet. Still naked. Still recovering from being dicked down.
“You should’ve been here all along,” Nicki continued.
I turned my attention to Club Staff. My mystery powered through… even in the post-sex bliss.
Nicki reached toward me. “Come here, baby.”
Avoiding her touch, I stumbled toward the room. Without the strap, at least my ass wasn’t in too much pain.
“Rhonnie!” I heard Nicki shout. “Don’t go in there!”
Over Nicki’s recorded harmonies and all-too-live screams, I could hear those voices. The cryptic chorus behind door number three. I snatched the knob. Glad to find it unlocked.
Behind me, I heard Nicki chase after me. “Bring that ass here!” she commanded.
I swung the door open and rushed inside. Being back in Club Staff ended my drunk disorientation. Not from reflective warmth but from the strange sight sprawling before me…
Nervous, I stopped in the middle of the room. The pink walls were still flawless. The antique jukebox still timeless. And from here I saw the secret room, its door wide open. Ashley and I’s personal suite…
The other wax figures were spread out like a staged party scene. Nicki Minaj by way of the Uncanny Valley. There was nerdy Nicki, tomboy Nicki. All aspects of the artist’s personality.
Both the pink dildo and red blouse were lying on the ground. The glasses she wore earlier. Wigs piled up in a colorful conglomeration. Club Staff now Nicki’s dressing room for all those costume changes. And also the site of her darkest desires.
But these familiar sights did little to soothe my dread. Still doused in sweat, I felt Nicki’s literal drip slide off my ass... Somehow, Nicki had shocked me once more. Scared me with the secrets of her forbidden room.
Open laptops were arranged on all those large tables. Rows and rows of them leading up to a large demigod of a flatscreen. The room featuring an electrical cult ceremony…
What they showed were live feeds. HD footage clearly taken from all these fucking cameras. In rooms I’d never seen. Areas of Nicki’s home and property I never knew existed. Many of the rooms from the sheds out back, I figured.
Strangers stayed on those screens. Attractive men and women, ranging from young adults to senior citizens. But they were all hot… All of them either stripped down or dressed in the nice fashion I knew Nicki picked out. They were her community. The Barbz she really wanted.
Most of these hottiees were engaged in sex. The mics made that much clear. There was everything: missionary, pegging, three-ways, Devil’s Threesomes, guy-on-guy. Whatever your hungry heart desired. Whatever the Hell Nicki wanted.
With several clips taking place at night, I knew the Queen had recorded everything. Not so much for security or surveillance. Just for herself.
In the videos, I recognized a few faces, the bodyguards amongst them. And of course, I recognized Kellan and his large dick. He was in a room of four, using the same playbook me, him, Ash, and Nicki perfected.
The same playbook I saw broadcast on that flatscreen. The footage showed the four of us from just a few months ago. The four of us having the sex of our lives. We must’ve really been amongst Nicki’s favs to be her star attraction…
Sure, I was disturbed. But nostalgia crept in upon seeing us on the silver screen. I gotta say I missed Kellan. Not to mention he was a long way from Trinidad… But maybe to him, the Minaj mansion was home. We did have our fun, after all.
But the romanticism died soon after seeing one laptop showing me in the lair. Showing me right now. In the nude. I now noticed several cameras dangling down from the ceiling, filming my fear.
More vivid glows emanated from the secret room. Undoubtedly there was more where this came from…
I now realized Nicki Minaj was a mirage. A sexially-explicit illusion used to draw in the thirstiest men and women. A Venus flytrap for Onika Maraj’s most depraved pleasures.
But still I needed to see more... Even over the chilling epiphany, curiosity compelled me. I charged up to the secret room. Until a certain singing stopped me.
I whirled around to face Nicki. She stood tall and defiant. Regardless of the striking stain, she didn’t look trashy. She wore that wet vagina well. After all, that crotch certainly didn’t feel like a pussy at times...
And all the while, Nicki sang along to the chorus of “Get On Your Knees.” A sly smile accompanying her flow. Her joy.
An intimate audience, I watched her the whole way through. This was Nicki The Artist and she sounded even better live. More natural. More raw.
As the track faded out, Nicki nodded toward the laptops. “You know they wanna be here, Rhonnie.” She strutted up to me.
Like looking at a much prettier Medusa, I turned to stone. Held in place by the beauty. The charisma.
“No one’s being held against their will,” Nicki continued. She stole an admiring glance at my cock before looking into my green eyes. “That’s their shit cars they left in the garage. Their shit clothes in the lockers. Their shit lives they left behind.”
“But still… it’s not right,” I struggled to say. “It’s weird.”
Soothing me, Nicki ran a hand along my arm. “They just wanted to be happy, Rhonnie. That’s all.”
I couldn’t respond. Naked and in front of Nicki, I was conflicted. Torn between the seduction and slavery.
Nicki leaned in closer. “I didn’t want you to see till you were ready.” She caressed my face. Her touch so… warm. “Till you and Ashley were here.” Her other hand clinged to my thigh.
Quiet, I ran my fingers through Nicki’s short hair. “Regret In Your Tears” next on Nicki’s always-appropriate soundtrack. This setlist always in sync with our current mood.
“I didn’t want y’all to get scared,” Nicki went on. Her hand drifted down to my ass. For another sensual squeeze. “That was all, Rhonnie.”
I pulled away from her. “Naw, I can’t…”
Forcing a cackle, Nicki grabbed my arm. Her demeanor drunk, her mannerisms driven by madness. “Rhonnie, look!” She pointed toward the station of so many screens. “I dress them well, they get to live with me!” Selling herself well, Nicki felt along her well-endowed chest. “They get to be with me, baby…” She lunged in closer, inches away from my face. “And that should’ve been you and Ashley!”
Now I yanked my arm back. “No! This isn’t right, Nicki! You’re asking us to give up everything! We’ve got fucking lives, man! I wanna write!”
Nicki’s smile stagnated. “And you can… You can write about me.” She pointed across the room. Of course, right at that huge dildo. “And spend more time with that!” She grabbed on to my shoulders. “Me, you, and Ash. Kellan. It’ll be just like old times, babe.”
“I can’t.” Struggling against that strength, I finally managed to escape her grips once more.
A glower overtook Nicki’s face. “What do you think this is then, Rhonnie!”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“This house! Me, bitch!”
Never had I seen her get this pissed. Sure, maybe crazy as Hell. Maybe psychosexual but not fucking angry.
Nicki pointed at herself. ”I’m the reason they wanna come! I bring them here, I keep them happy! They make me happy! I’m their fucking queen, Rhonnie! I make them want me, you understand!” She got in my face. But I was already scared into obedience. “Just like I did to you and Ashley!” She pointed to her head. “It’s in here, Rhonnie.” Immediately, she gravitated to that body. “And all here, baby! It’s got nothing to do with Onika! Nothing to do with me, the girl from Queens! The crazy family, the tragedies. It’s the way I look, Rhonnie! The ass and titties! The sex. Fucking. Sells.”
The height difference didn’t matter. Not now. Nicki stared me down hard. From both lust and anger. The dangerous ends of both emotions. I shivered under that spare. Nicki knowing full well she had me under her spell.
“What’s going on?” a deep voice rivaling mine asked.
We both turned. And well, Nicki’s excited smile contrasted my shock.
There was the man of the hour: Zoo. He stood a few feet away from us. His naked body no longer too surreal a sight in this freaky fortress. He was a handsome guy. Much taller than us. Much more sculpted than me A pretty prisoner both in the past and now. Kenneth checked off most of Nicki’s boxes: tough, thicc, and well-hung. Somehow, him and I had both managed to stay erect. Maybe there was something in the mansion’s air. But now Zoo’s glare stayed on me. The dude likely to break me by hand or dick…
Nicki’s grin hit sitcom levels. “Hey, baby!” she gushed. Drawn to her man, she rushed over and hugged him.
But Kenneth and I’s staredown wasn’t going anywhere.
“Is that the writer guy?” he asked Nicki.
“Yeah, that’s Rhonnie!” she beamed.
They fixated their gazes on me. There we were, the three of us with our dicks hanging out. Well, with Nicki’s lying closeby.
Through the tense silence, all we heard was the Minaj playlist. And the sounds of her prisoners. Their pleasurable moans and cries a constant off those laptops. Of course, I recognized my own exhalations on that flatscreen. God knows what the Hell I was taking in that clip...
Nicki pulled Kenneth closer toward her. Her man definitely lacked her enthusiasm. “He’s the one writing about us, Zoo!” she exclaimed. “And I’m helping him out! He’s gonna make us even more famous!”
“So I’ve heard,” he replied. His hands stayed by his side. Ready for any false move from rhonnie14.
“Ain’t that right, Rhonnie!” Nicki said. Her wicked gaze settled in on me. “You’re gonna write so many crazy stories, right.”
Reaching into the recesses of my soul, I found some half-ass courage. “I’m writing the truth, Nicki,” I finally said. I waved toward the laptops. “I’m writing about all this! The people you got here, the ones you’ve got trapped! Your prisoners!”
Needless to say, Zoo wasn’t amused. His glare now more permanent than Nicki’s glowing smile. But now Nicki was no different. She had no chance at hiding the rage boiling within.
“I’m telling the truth!” I yelled.
Nicki took a ferocious step toward me.
Trying to restrain her, Zoo grabbed the Queen’s arm. “Nicki-”
But nothing could stop her. Not even Zoo’s impressive muscles. Nicki bulldozed on by. Straight for me.
Oh fuck, I thought...
Nicki put a finger to my face. “And do you think anyone’s gonna believe you, motherfucker!”
I stayed quiet. Yeah, I was a chickenshit.
“I’ll just tell them you’re some fucking creep obsessed with me!” Nicki continued. “No one will buy what the fuck some random horror writer has to say! Yo ass look like you’re sixteen anyway!”
Crumbling under her irate pressure, I shrugged my shoulders. “That’s a compliment...”
“Shut the fuck up!” Nicki yelled.
I locked eyes with Zoo. Even he was keeping his distance from her.
“Yeah, listen to Nicki!” he added.
Nicki gave me a light shove. The glare slicing into me like a knife. “So you go write your goofy fucking stories! Pimp my name to the horror crowd! They’ll wanna be with the Queen too, boo! You know that!”
“You got him, Nicki,” I heard Zoo chime in.
Giving me her patented stank face, Nicki walked back toward her husband. Leaving me in an awkward, uneasy state.
I watched Nicki drape her arm around Zoo’s waist. Her outburst now veering toward a manic melancholy. “You should’ve stayed, you and Ashley both!” Nicki said. I saw her grab on to Kenneth’s ass. “Y’all’d have been the Paula Patton and Zac Efron in here. All for me…”
Doing his best to be supportive, Zoo held on to her tight. Caressed Nicki’s shoulder. Anything to stay on her sweet side.
Now Nicki’s performance hit pathos. Somehow, I felt sorry for her. Sympathy even in the face of millions and nothing but pretty people surrounding her.
“Y’all should’ve just stayed!” she said in a trembling voice. The emotions erupted. Shielding her eyes, she turned away.
I took a calm step toward her. “I can’t stay Nicki. We just can’t.”
Both Nicki and Zoo confronted me. They showed their hurt physically. Their wounds within. The dark side of being a social media freakshow.
Nicki showed teardrops. Wearing her usual melodramatic make-up, she’d have resembled a crying clown. But not when she was just dressed as herself… Not when she was Onika. A lonely, young woman simultaneously vindicated and destroyed by her own fucking dream.
Concerned, I ran a hand through my swoop. Kept an appropriate distance from the distraught couple. “What’s this really about, man?” I asked, forcing my voice at a chill calm. “Nicki, maybe you should talk to someone.”
That glare flashed through Mrs. Majesty’s tears.
“You just need to get some help,” I struggled to say. “There’s nothing wrong with that-”
“Help!?” Nicki shouted. She pulled away from Zoo. All her weeping eyes on me. “I don’t need any help, Rhonnie! I need people to fucking care!”
A worried Zoo reached toward her. “Babe.” This was the side of Kenneth I’d never seen. Unlike Nicki, he was no performer or actor. Just a caring husband to one of the most complex personalities in Hollyweird.
Nicki held him back. Instead, her attention stayed on me. The stare sharpened. Her defensiveness a weak disguise for those insecurities galore. “That’s all I want, Rhonnie! I love my fans, the real fans!”
“I know,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to-”
“But that’s not what people want!” Nicki cried. The floodgate of tears burst. Here was a woman on the verge of a brutal breakdown. A sad glimpse behind the bravado. Nicki the beautiful diva facing fate and alienation. “They want the big titty bitch! That’s it!” She pointed toward that ‘perfect’ figure. “They don’t care about me! The lyrics or the drive! It’s this! I just want someone to look past that! Someone like you! Lile Ashley!” She snatched Kenneth’s hand in a loving grip. “And Zoo… Y’all need to stay with me for more! For the music!”
Zoo and I made quick eye contact. I imagine we didn’t have much in common other than worrying over Nicki’s mental state… but that was bond enough.
Like a Shakespearean monologue, Nicki continued spilling her guts. The raw emotion on display. Whatever warts and all could be on those perfect physical features. “It’s why I do this!” She waved toward her body. “The surgeries, the make-up! I can’t get anyone to just listen!”
“But Nicki, there’s plenty of us,” I said. “Hell, I like the music!”
“It’s just sex, Rhonnie! Like I told you!” Nicki stared right at me. “That’s all they care about at the end of the day.” She waved toward the laptops. Nicki’s movements so fast and frenetic, her boobs could’ve caused an earthquake. Just as much as her morose expression would elicit heartbreak. “It’s why I don’t give a fuck about those sluts and shrimp-dicked idiots just getting off to me! They can’t understand me like you! Like all the people I bring here can!”
“There’s more of us though, Nicki. I swear! We don’t have to stay here to support you, man. We’re everywhere!”
“I just want them to like me for the music! The talent! Not the sex, not the bullshit!” Lost in her sorrow, Nicki turned away. Wiped off those countless tears. “I can’t do anything as a female rapper… I can’t be a Pac or Ye. I have to be the hot bitch… You don’t understand, Rhonnie. I never wanted it like this!”
Zoo grabbed her shoulder. “Yo, babe-”
Possessed by passion, Nicki swatted his hand away. She screamed aloud. Into the air. Into her own crazed soul. Exorcist Nicki her latest personality. Then those maniacal sights settled in on me. “I don’t need help, Rhonnie! I need supporters! People who like me for who I am! For who I fucking * really* am! I need them with me twenty-four seven, Rhonnie!”
Fighting my own tears, I stepped toward her. “And I do. Ashley and I both-”
“Then stay!”
Nicki’s anguish made me stop. All while it ate me alive. Maybe I knew Nicki more than most. But here I was wanting her to be okay... Here I was desperate to reassure the Queen of hip-hop.
“Stay here forever!” Nicki yelled.
I shook my head. “I can’t, Nicki. I can’t.”
With weary defeat, Nicki shook her head. Each and every tear nothing but bullets piercing into my naked flesh.
Zoo ran a hand along her arm. “Nicki. Hey-”
Nicki stormed out. Off stage and away from her erotic island. She never said goodbye. Never gave me that bright smile. For someone with her talent and dictionary, she didn’t say shit.
Feeling guilty, I watched Nicki adjust her pants. Adjust the stain sticking to her skin… And then she was gone. A gorgeous witch disappearing into the night.
The catchy Nicki tunes still played. Not to mention the enthusiastic voices still blasting off those feeds. But Kenneth and I may as well have stood in silence. So thick the tension was.
He finally looked at me. His stare was smoldering, intense. “Get the fuck out.”
Put on the spot, I glanced around the room. At the sex videos. Then at my own naked body. With a nervous smile, I confronted Zoo. Shrugged my shoulders. “Can I at least put my boxers on?”
I got to put on the nice clothes Nicki stripped from me. Got my bag, got an Uber for LAX, and got the fuck out of there. All on Nicki’s tab, thankfully.
Now I sat alone at the airport. Waiting on a two A.M. flight… All alone in my corner. No one was around me this late. The cold isolation here like a cavern. Not even the Christmas wreaths and trees could soothe me.
Holding my phone, I tried to pass the time. Tried to keep my mind off the bizarre Nicki encounter. I just had to put on Bruce. Now blasting “No Surrender” through my earbuds and into my rattled mind. Scared that playing any Nicki would be a siren call luring my ass back to her place… Her world.
That being said, the long wait left me in reflection. Nicki wasn’t wrong on any count. To quote one of her more obnoxious tracks, we were all just beez in the trap. Caught up in her lore, her talent. And yes, the insane beauty. But what unsettled me most was how she related it to me. You see, Nicki spelled out her personal dilemma. Fuck it, she even related the twisted reality to me. And Nicki was right all along. Regardless of how much she liked creeping on my Reddit porn accounts, she had a point. I had more fans piling in there for a pic I took in seconds rather than a story I poured my heart and soul into. A situation no different than Nicki’s more serious jams getting shunned in favor of twerking and brainless exploitation. Sex sells, man. No matter her personality, Nicki wasn’t wrong about that. Call it my What Price, Hollywood? moment… All courtesy of Onika Maraj.
And through the thoughts, my phone kept buzzing. Now here came call number three from Nicki. I chose to ignore it. I couldn’t face her this soon. Not after the unsettling encounters and her unsettling set-up. After the harrowing breakdown, I couldn’t answer her. I wouldn’t answer that call, I plead to my nervous self in an internal intervention.
And all the while, I texted Ashley. Told her how much I loved her. How I couldn’t wait to see her. Our bond rekindled to first-month glories until she sent me a new text: You should’ve stayed!
I looked on at the message, uneasy.
Then came Ash’s quick follow-up: Go back and I’ll come! :)
The fear returned. Nicki had been hypnotizing me. And apparently, she’d long had Ash under control. “What…” I said.
Overtaking my screen was another incessant call: Nicki. Who knew how drunk or high she was? Much less lonely.
Don’t answer, I reminded myself. Don’t give in.
Forcing myself, I silenced the call. Then sat there in awkward silence. In a quiet dread I couldn’t identify. Or control.
Just when I needed it, Bruce left me. My rallying cry of “No Surrender” gone. My whole Goddamn support system.
I texted Ashley back: Are you sure? I think we should wait, boo…
Her reply appeared immediately: YES! GO THERE NOW, STU-STU!
I stared on at her message. Her demand. Her eager euphoria. Here I was caught between arousal and disappointment. And at the end of the day I had no say in this weird, wild mess. Ash did.
Seconds later came a new text message. Not from Ashley but Nicki: Come back over, Rhonnie
The next SMS bullet hit me: I miss y’all already ;)
Another one appeared: Again
“Shit…” I said to myself. I got ready to ignore the message. This was Rhonnie’s last stand against the impulses. The thirst.
Until my phone pulsated to life. The call so ferocious I almost missed Nicki’s next text: I talked to Ashley!!! <3 :p
And that was when I laid eyes on the caller ID: on my girlfriend’s number. The death sentence to my attempt at defiance. As always.
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2020.05.01 05:30 the14thaccount THROWBACK: Nicki Minaj Called Me (Part 2/3)

The shower was quick and painless. Only when I went back to my room there wasn’t the closet catalog to choose from: just the tight jeans and tight black t-shirt already sprawled out on the bed. Already selected by Nicki.
Later on, I walked past the constant cameras. The clothes tight and stylish. Just like how Nicki wanted them. I heard Tom Petty’s “Christmas (All Over Again)” coming from that dancefloor. Nicki’s Christmas playlist a twenty-four hour affair. The club open all night… Only Club Staff wasn’t. Down the hall I saw its door still closed. The lights off inside. Its Nicki soundtrack silent. Her wax sisters no longer partying since Ash and I left.
Ready for the Queen, I journeyed through the labyrinthe. The Christmas maze, the lights. The mairjuana tree. The long hallways and glowing gold records.
I only made one beer detour. One stop amongst the many roadside bars. After downing three bottles of Dos Equis, I felt more relaxed. More comfortable for Nicki and I’s forthcoming conversation.
I saw the open doorway leading to the studio. Leading me to Nicki Minaj. I glanced down at the tight jeans that would surely get her salivating. Took a deep breath. My soul with some hesitation before I went straight inside.
There was the intimate space. The soundproof walls. The live room where Mrs. Majesty made the magic happen. A Trinidad decor was evident in the various colorful trinkets from Nicki’s many travels. The elephant figurines, the kaleidoscopic paintings of various women of color. And of course, there were the notebooks. Dozens and dozens of them scattered about like toys in Nicki’s personal playland. Well, the non-sex toys, that is…
Each open notebook was covered in the rapper’s pretty scrawl. Lyrics both clever and insane. A beautiful madness punctured the pages. Judging by the sheer amount of binders, when Nicki got on a roll, she was a frenetic force. Unstoppable in her drive and creativity.
On the control room table was a bottle of wine. Two glasses already poured. And there sat the Queen on her pink swivel chair. The studio her throne. Her bitch.
Her fingernails were now red claws. A match to the fiery red wig. The make-up vivid but professional. Along with thin wire-rimmed glasses, her beige pants suit was somehow scholarly and bland even with such beauty lying beneath it. Sitting there with a pen in hand and notebook in lap, Nicki looked to be in academic mode. All business inside the studio.
Nicki flashed me a warm smile. “Mmm, those look nice…”
Flattered, I glanced down at the preppy attire. The type of clothes late-twenty-somethings flaunted when they played high schoolers on T.V. And they were a perfect fit too. “Yeah, thanks.”
The two of us looked on at each other. Nothing weird. Just mutual respect… or attraction. The Ronettes’ “Sleigh Ride” the only sound through the silence.
Nicki relaxed in her seat. “Hey, shut the door!”
Following orders, I closed it behind me. Gone was The Ronettes’ harmonies. That was curtains for Nicki’s Christmas playlist here in the soundproof studio.
Using the notebook, Nicki motioned toward the other swivel chair. “Have a seat, Rhonnie. Let’s get down to business, shall we.”
I sat down and rolled the chair closer. Nicki now loomed up over me. Her huge ass undoubtedly helped in the height advantage. Then again, her aura had power, and it always kept the Queen in control.
Nicki waved around the room. “Bringing back any memories?”
“Oh yeah. The interview…” An awkward chuckle escaped my lips.
Behind confident eyes, Nicki watched me. Her claws kept tapping the notebook in a repetitive rhythm. “You know, I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”
Through her weak smile, I sensed Nicki’s sincerity. This personality wasn’t manic or aggressive. Not yet at least. “Naw, you’re fine,” I said. “We, uh… we had fun.”
Nicki laughed. “Definitely!” Then she lunged forward, getting closer to me. “But I really wanted a book. I wanted my story to be told, Rhonnie.”
Struggling under her female gaze, I hesitated. “And it still can… I’d love to give it another try.”
“Ooh, I’d love that….” Nicki leaned back. “You know, I really love your writing, Rhonnie. I think you’d do amazing things covering the life and times of Onika Maraj.”
Now I was flying high. A horrible actor, I did my best to play it cool. “Well, I’m glad somebody thinks so...”
“Oh, we do! Trust me. You’ve got the talent, baby.”
“I appreciate it.”
Nicki pointed her blood-red finger right at me. “You write movies too, right?” I laughed. “Whoa, shit, look at you!”
“I know my shit…”
“But yeah, I started out with the screenplays. I’ve always been a movie person-”
“So what happened?”
Pausing for a second, I took note of Nicki’s focused gaze. She was interested, alright… “These filmmakers, man. They’re all broke and do a shitty job.”
“Ah…” Nicki took a quick sip of wine.
“It’s a long story. I just… I don’t have an agent, they don’t read shit unless you know somebody. And I’m broke as fuck so I can’t film anything…” Here I was rambling. Rhonnie The Jaded Writer making his grand return. Angry. Talking with my hands. “But that’s why I started the NoSleeps. I actually wrote a couple of novels before that, but I’m just trying to build an audience now.”
“Well, you got me hooked!”.
Even I had to smile. “I’m glad. I just got tired of getting fucked by Hollywood.”
Nicki struggled to suppress a smirk. “Well, hey, at least it was fun when I fucked you.”
Damn, she was clever. I grinned. “Yeah. My best Hollywood experience for sure!” I ran a hand through my swoop. “And Hell, at least you paid me!”
Getting comfortable, Nicki readjusted on her throne. Her tone stayed consistent and precise. Her T.V. journalist performance pretty impressive. “But about the biography, would you be willing to do something else for me?”
“Yeah, uh. What do you mean?”
“Look, Rhonnie, the Barbz loved the story.”.
I smirked. “I guess it has a cult following going.”
Nicki just kept her eyes on me. There was no unwavering smile to offset the seriousness. She meant business. All as her relentless claws kept tapping the notebook... “I did the research. My album sales, the downloads, everything went up after you posted that NoSleep.” In a mic drop moment, Nicki’s hand collapsed on to the binder. “And now I want more!”
“Whoa…” I struggled to say through the excitement. “So you want like a whole series?”
“Preciseleee…”
The shit-eating grin never left my face. Already my mind was racing with ideas. I turned away, disoriented by my life-long dream.
“I’ll pay you as well,” Nicki continued. “You can even go back to Albany, Georgia.” With seductive poise, Nicki leaned in a little closer. “Or Hell, you and Ash can come here.”
I faced Nicki. “So did people really like the story that much?”
“Oh, Hell yeah!”
“Did any of them… believe it?”
Nicki revealed a sly smile. “Some.”
Enjoying the spotlight, I folded my arms. “So fucking crazy… Honestly, I just wanted to tell the truth about what happened… I wasn’t trying to write creepy fan fic or erotic shit. I was just wanting to portray you as accurately as possible, Nicki. I mean Hell, I thought that’d be my only shot at the biography!”
Nicki’s female gaze was starting to appear. “Not at all.”
Still rambling, I threw my hands up. “And then some people found it hot. They seemed more aroused than anything-”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
I gave her an amused look… realizing she was kinda right.
“Pegging’s hot,” Nicki continued. “And it ain’t like those rumors about me fucking men in the ass weren’t around before your story.”
I revealed a smirk. “Yeah...”
Rivaling my own elation, Nicki rolled her chair in closer toward me. “I just want you to do one thing.”
“What?”
“Make it even sexier! Get fucking crazy with it!”
“What… You’re joking, right?”
Nicki pointed at her stone cold glare. “Do I look like I’m fucking joking, Rhonnie!” She gave me a light punch on the arm. And damn, it still hurt… “Just do what I say! Write about all the sex. About how hot I am.” For emphasis, she squeezed her own breasts. “These titties, this ass, the pegging.” Nicki pointed at me. ”Squeezing a guy’s ass or making him strip down, the fucking hot shit, Rhonnie! I need more of that!”
The speech left me in stunned silence. There was a lot to unpack. Amongst the shock and intrigue, there was also disappointment...
Nicki shook my shoulder. “Just do more of that! That’s what we need.”
I pulled away from her. “But why...”
“Why!”
I pointed between us. “I just told you, I didn’t intend to just make you out to be some fucking bimbo, Nicki! I wanted to humanize you. That was the whole point!”
With a subtle smile on her face, Nicki just watched me.
“Like yeah, I told the truth,” I went on. “I wrote about the crazy sex but that wasn’t the point! I wanted to show the world the real you. I wanted them to see Onika Maraj. This was a biography.”
In a twisted taunt, Nicki caressed my face. “Oh, that’s so cute, Rhonnie.”
I knocked her hand away. “No, I mean it!”
Her smile was swiped clean. Nicki now literally got in my face. “And that’s fan-fucking-tastic!”
Scared, I cowered back into my seat. Nicki hadn’t even yelled... she didn’t need to.
“Look, baby, what you’re saying is true,” continued Nicki. She laid a hand in my lap. Dangerously close to awakening my penis... “And I appreciate it, Rhonnie. I’m glad you captured the real me.”
“I tried,” I said. I stole a look down at her hand. “Are you sure Zoo’s cool with this?”
Nicki’s grip got tighter. “Yes, Zoo’s fine, Rhonnie!”
“I’m just saying…”
Like a starved animal, Nicki pulled my chair closer toward her. “You got my vibe well, but that’s not what got me famous, Rhonnie! I wish it was but it wasn’t.”
“What are you talking about? You’re talented as fuck and that’s another reason I-”
“And so are you!” Nicki interrupted. “And that’s my whole point!” Gentle, Nicki’s claws ran along my cheeks… “I was like you once, Rhonnie. I had the talent. The drive, the dedication.”
Rivetered, I watched her every move. Her every emotion.
Nicki sat back in her seat. “But none of that mattered. I got nowhere in my career... I was broke…” She flashed a weary smile. “Those Barbie dreams were far away back then.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Being a female rapper…” Nicki shrugged her shoulders. “You just have to play the game.”
“Sex, the male gaze.” I waved toward her body. “All that shit just to have your voice heard.”
Nicki nodded. But the bitterness didn’t manifest itself in tears or weakness. Just hardened toughness. “I had to play the freak. For every ‘Regret In Your Tears,’ I have to do three or four whackass sex songs.”
Showing support amidst the Queen’s self-reflection, I grinned. “Like ‘Anaconda’?”
Nicki laughed. “What! You don’t like-”
“God, I hate that song!”
Nicki grabbed my arm. “But you see my point, right!”
“I do. Definitely.”
Ruminating on the famed career, Nicki ran her hands along the notebook. Struggled to maintain eye contact. Obviously relieved for the deeper conversation… if uncomfortable. “That’s why I have to do all this shit. To do what I really want I have to shake my ass or flaunt my titties! It’s frustrating, man. To have to write some of these lyrics and keep being the freaky bitch for everyone… I mean for once I’d like to have Channing Tatum or someone give me a lapdance in a music video but that’d scare the ‘straight’ guys watching… I can’t objectify men for the serious money.” She looked right at me. A vague glimmer of defeat in her power. “Just myself.”
The words, the realities left me in a sad silence. I had even more empathy for Onika now. Especially after hearing this requiem for Nicki’s initial rap idealism.
“So you see,” Nicki said. “The sex sells, Rhonnie. That’s all that matters.” She pointed a red claw at me. “And that’s why we need more of it in the stories.”
“But we don’t!” I replied. “You don’t have to do-”
“Listen, if you’re wanting to do this full time, Rhonnie, you gotta compromise!” Nicki yelled in a voice driven by years of rage. Years of industry suppression.
I waved toward the studio. “But look, you have the money! You’ve already played their stupid fucking game!”
Nicki stared at me. The glasses hid any tears or melancholy. Then again, Nicki always hid it well. She had the perfect poise. The confidence necessary for a black woman to climb her way to the top of the entertainment food chain.
“We can just write the truth,” I continued. “You can write the songs you want to write. You don’t have to satisfy this fucking thirst from others who just watch you for the sex. You don’t have to make money off that shit anymore! You can be the great artist you are! The one you were born to be!”
Right before me, Nicki’s creative mind went into contemplation. “At this point, I’ve got no choice,” she said. “I need the money just like anyone else, Rhonnie.”
I groaned.
Snapping into scary Nicki, she lunged toward me. A fiery fervor consumed her. The red wig and fingernails made her a rap Goddess straight from Hell.
I got quiet real quick.
“Don’t you understand! I’ve got no choice, Rhonnie!” Nicki shouted. “I’m thirty-seven years old! There’s not much time for a woman in this industry to be the best, man!”
“I know,” I said in a low voice. “I’m sorry...”
More calm, Nicki leaned back. “I’m just glad I can talk about pegging now,” she admitted. “Hell, that’s some progress for female empowerment for you.”
“True… But I just think there’s nothing to lose by focusing more on your artistic vision. You don’t have to keep exploiting yourself-”
“Maybe I want to,” Nicki interrupted.
“What?”
With seductive slowness, Nicki creeped in closer. “Sometimes I like the attention.” She let out a confident cackle. “The thought of all those guys and girls finding me hot… I don’t know.” She bit her lip with erotic emphasis. “It turns me on.”
I grinned. “I’m not arguing with-”
Giving in to her natural theatrics, Nicki collapsed back on the chair. Now channeling her inner Bob Dylan. Her inner eccentric rock star. Letting all those quirks and tics whisk her away. “I mean yeah, it’s frustrating not to get to do my deeper songs all the time. To embrace being the artist I know I am... That’s what I really want, don’t get me wrong.” Holding my gaze hostage, she shrugged her shoulders. “But sometimes it’s sexy to play the star. To be all hot and beautiful... I like it sometimes...” She flashed that beaming smile. “And it gives me money. Power. Certainly helped me get you here.”
Nicki’s hands veered under the notebook. Stacking them on top of one another, she created a literal handmade dick. “It lets me do whatever I want to you, Rhonnie…” Moaning and grunting, Nicki pretended to peg me right then and there. Her thrusts always so aggressive. Even when she was only pretending to fuck me hard…
I couldn’t turn away. Nor couldn’t help but be aroused… Trying not to give in to the steamy sight, I sifted in my seat. Battled my rising bulge. “But still, there’s no way to ignore the money?” I asked. “Do the music that best captures you.”
Ignoring me, Nicki kept on with the imaginary fucking. Her grunts got louder. The Queen clearly nearing her orgasm…
Still I tried to steer us back on track. I moved in toward her. “Just make your own album about you and all these hot guys or you and your relationships,” I continued, my voice louder in an attempt to overpower Nicki’s carnal cries. “Instead of having to exploit your body so much, you can do more songs you care about!”
Cackling, Nicki sat up straight. She clapped her hands together.
“What?” I said.
“You’re funny. God… you’re always funny, Rhonnie.”
I revealed an amused smile. “Well, thanks...”
“I mean it!” Nicki pushed her dangling red hair back. “Oh shit.”
In the cold room, I hesitated. Struggling to stay serious and heartfelt amidst Nicki’s lingering laughter. “I don’t mean to sound like I’m judging you, Nicki because I’m not.” I felt her stare settle in on me. “You make a lot more than me and still can make great music… I just think you’re better than that.”
“And so are you,” Nicki said in a sharp reply.
Confused, I felt unease surge through me. My goofy smile couldn’t play it off either. “What do you mean?”
Armed with a wide grin, Nicki slowly crept closer toward me. “I told you this last time.” The two of us were now just inches apart. “I know allll about you, Rhonnie.”
Anxiety joined my unease. I now trembled...
“You like the attention too,” Nicki said. “I know you do!”
“So what are you trying to say?”
“I’m just proving my point.” Mrs. Majesty shrugged her shoulders. Her smirk slicing into me. “Sex sells.” She rested a hand on my knee. “You should know that as well as anyone.”
Warm sensations erupted inside me. I felt body heat. As if our emotional therapy session had morphed into a Skinemax porno...
“You’re the one that’s always posting on Reddit,” Nicki teased. “Letting all those horny desperate girls and guys ogle you like that. Jerking off to you... You fucking love it, don’t you?”
She had me. “Yeah,” I admitted.
Nicki now felt along my chest. “Your dick and ass pictures on ladyboners and gaybros. I know you do it, Rhonnie. I know alll about you remember...”
The room finally got hotter…
“Let’s go through those accounts, shall we,” Nicki pressed further. “Ronaldlongdick.”
I smiled at Nicki. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Ronaldlongdick77, unknownhorrorwriter.”
“That one was obvious...”
Nicki’s claws ran wild across my body. Fueled by her desire. Not that I was complaining…
“Bubblebutt4days,” Nicki continued. She let out a soft chuckle. “And rhonnie141414. Hmm, that’s sure discreet.”
“Yeah, that was when I was twenty-four, man...”
“But that’s the thing.” Nicki’s grip settled in on my thighs. “You know that account you deleted. Ronaldlongdick.”
“Yeah…”
Nicki got closer. The two of us now noses apart. “How many followers did it end up with?”
Not wanting to answer, I turned away.
“Come on now,” Nicki taunted. “You know how many, bitch.”
I gave her a defeated smirk. Knowing full well what she was about to say… And how she’d proven this harsh reality: sex sells.
“Thirteen hundred followers, Rhonnie!” Nicki shouted.
The inevitable set in. I nodded along with her. Overpowered by the Queen once more. “I know...”
Nicki purred with delight. “And compare that to your writing, huh? The rhonnie14 sub?” She nudged my chin. “How many?”
“Eight hundred and-”
“Five!” Nicki said with me. Her triumphant laugh blared.
Cornered by Nicki, I shrugged. “Well… you got me...”
“So think about this, Rhonnie. You’re more famous for that dick.” With excited delight, Nicki slid her hands on to my booty. “And that ass than your horror stories...”
“Thanks, Nicki,” I deadpanned. “I appreciate the support!”
Nicki chuckled as she squeezed tighter to my ass. “All I’m saying’s you gotta do what you gotta do to get famous, boo. To make real money.” She ran her hands along my abs. “And now that you’ve been working out, I can go ahead and tell you, you’d make bank flaunting all this on-line. Those down low brothas and thirstyass sistas would be all up on you.”
“Stop it!” I joked. “I can’t handle this many compliments.”
“Bitch, please!” Nicki gave me a shove before sitting back in her seat. “You love that shit and you know it! You know you do!”
“Naw, you’re right... You’re totally right.”
“All I’m saying’s they appreciate your body more than the Goddamn stories! The shit you bust your ass to write, but they’d rather see that big dick and booty than anything else! You gotta profit off that, babe!”
I smirked. “So what are you saying? That I become a male stripper or something?”
Nicki snorted with laughter. “Hell, maybe! But just think about these stories for instance. You mix sex with storytelling like I did with the raps, and you got something that’ll sell, Rhonnie!”
Goddamn, she made sense… I nodded in agreement. “I see.”
“Like this next one, just go crazy with it! You know the Barbz will eat it up. Me pegging this Zac Efron-looking writer and his fineass all over the place!”
“Man, you’re really on this Efron kick lately...”
Nicki readjusted her glasses. “Bieber too. Because y’all fine and kinda look alike. Kinda built alike.”
Genuinely flattered, I probably blushed. “Thanks.”
“But people are fucking dumb. That’s the shit you gotta do to get fans, boo!”
“Naw, you’re totally right...”
Nicki straightened the notebook. “Like write about Ashley pegging you, you showing your dick to dudes on-line. That’ll sell like crazy. More views, more readers. Exploit it!”
“I guess I’ll start now then. With these new stories and all, the series.”
Like a supportive coach, Nicki pointed toward me, hyping me up. “Exactly! You got this!”
Already the wheels were turning. The crazy scenarios I could write about the Minaj mansion.
“You and Ashley can always come back here too,” I heard Nicki say. “I’ll give y’all another vacation...”
I smiled at Nicki. “I bet you would.”
She opened the binder. “Hey, y’all sexy. And I got you dressing in those clothes I like.”
I felt on the shirt’s fine fabric. “Yeah, from like 2008.”
“Bitchhh….”
“But trust me, Ash’s ready…”
“I bet she’s tearing that ass up every night too...”
Playful, I gave Nicki a weirded out look.
Laughing, she flipped through a few pages. “You know I’m crazy as Hell.”
“No doubt…” And then I saw the joint tucked away toward the back of the binder... Pristine California grass. A pink lighter laying right beside it. Holy shit…
“But for real, I wanna help,” Nicki said. She picked up the j. “You need someone dominant guiding you. Like with you and Ashley.”
“Yeah.”
Nicki held the pot out toward me. “You think you can handle it?”
“Shit…” I stood up. “If I can handle what you did to me last time, I can take anything.”
With a Devilish laugh, Nicki flicked the lighter. The flame showcased a wild glint in her eyes. Further revealed the ferocious soul under that red wig...
It turns out I couldn’t handle it. The next few hours were a blur. A gonzo production directed by wine and the strongest pot I ever smoked. Shit got weird. Nicki and I’s conversations ranged from 90s horror movies to heteroflexibility (don’t ask). Our high happiness interspersed with hysteria. Maybe there was a kiss. More groping. I honestly can’t remember...
Hours later, I awoke from the Christmas cannabis. All to the tune of Maroon 5’s “Happy Xmas (War Is Over).” Adam Levine’s piercing falsetto a ringing church bell to my haze.
Shivering, I folded my arms. “Fuck…” I muttered. First, I was glad to be wearing the same MySpace-era wardrobe. To actually be in a fucking bed, much less my bedroom… Until I saw who was laying beside me: Nicki herself. She was out cold. Another bottle of wine clasped in her hands like a teddy bear. A Santa Claus hat blended into her wig. Now I realized I had a Santa hat draped over my swoop... But, at least we were both dressed and lying on the covers. Neither of us could get MeToo’d now.
Staying quiet, I snuck out of bed. I slipped around in my socks. My clumsy footsteps drowned out by Maroon 5’s holiday cheese.
I looked toward the open doorway. Out toward where the Christmas concert continued… from Nicki’s personal nightclub.
Glasses slid down my nose. Confused, I took them off… They were the purple Buddy Holly ones. The same pair Nicki gave me last time. I put them back on and looked over at the bed… Toward the resting Queen. Had she taken my contacts out for me? The gesture was odd… but still kinda sweet.
The holiday playlist changed to Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.” A pretty melody and even prettier voice. But one that should soothe Nicki to sleep for the time being...
Battling the migraine, I entered the hallway. Curiosity compelled me. Not to mention snacks, man.
I turned and looked down the hall. Toward the fateful Club Staff. Sextopia City. Now there was a light on inside the room… Even a faint chatter I could hear over this Christmas classic.
I took another step toward it. Now I heard multiple, muffled voices. It couldn’t have been the wax figures… Certainly, not Nicki herself. Sure, her range was supreme but not even she could hit those deeper male tones.
Uneasy, I looked on at the closed door. The room taunting me, tempting me. But it was too late for this shit… And I knew once I snuck in there, Club Staff would be hard to leave.
I proceeded through the rest of the mansion. Every clock read three A.M. The munchies made me stop once for those amazing cookies. And to my relief, there was no weed in them...
The barrage of standard Christmas crooners scored my journey. Stuck in the cold and surrounded by the decorations, I could even feel the holiday spirit.
I decided to dodge the nightclub. All the fucking bars. Through windows, I saw those powerful security lights bring daylight to the dead of night. Everything was illuminated. The pillars, the colors. All those fucking cameras. Nicki’s palace a fusion of government compound and wacky art exhibit.
I strayed into corridors unknown. Into yet another long hallway on the first floor. Fuck it, I was already lost in the Minaj maze. Then I saw a pair of wide-open double doors. The clinical lab lighting inside drew me in.
I stepped into the wide, vast space. The garage was fucking freezing... and there were quite a few cars in here. Quite a few crammed shelves and boxes. Only something was off… There was no style. Not a damn thing was pink.
Intrigued, I walked on through. Emulating a cheap detective. Dean Martin’s “Let It Snow!” echoed all around me… only the Christmas cheer was long gone by now. Replaced instead by rising unease.
The cars weren’t necessarily hideous. Just average. Used cars with lots of mileage. None of them any newer than 2016 models. Perfect for a blue-collar neighborhood or modest suburbia. But nothing befitting Nicki Minaj’s mansion.
The boxes and shelves offered more of the same mediocrity. Wrinkled clothes. Bland casual wear comprising of tee-shirts, jeans, and dresses. Nothing Nicki would touch much less showcase. Then there was the shitty jewelry. Obvious fake gold and silver. Yard sale fashion.
Scoffing, I glanced around the garage. Were all these items from the Queen’s pre-Minaj days? Mementos from her beloved past? Or was it just shit she planned on donating?
My handsome reflection caught my eye. I got a good glimpse of the perfect-fitting clothes.
A stained mirror leaned up against a set of rejected high school lockers. All of them with padlocks.
I stepped toward them. Tried yanking on those unwavering locker doors… I leaned in closer, peering through their metal’s holes. Clearly, shit was piled up inside. Hidden away. But why?
The mystery further unnerved me. My fear returned.
Then I heard a louder song: Burl Ives’ “Holly Jolly Christmas” blared through this mausoleum of a garage. The bells and chimes engulfed me. Trembling in the cold air, I looked toward the very back.
A window showcased Nicki’s sprawling backyard. Not to mention the different smaller buildings occupying the green acres. One larger shed caught my eye.... After all, who else would have a two story efficiency unit?
Much less one with two tall security guards stationed at the front door. Under the bright security lights, I saw the building’s windows were all boarded up. Spastic cameras hovering over it.
“What the fuck…” I said. Battling the nerves, I stepped closer to see another shed had the same set-up of guards and cameras. What exactly was going on...
All the while, no one saw me spying. The Queen’s guards remained silent and still. A 24/7 shield.
I felt a large pendulum bump into my ass… Then felt a pair of thirsty hands grab each cheek. Startled, I whirled around.
“Hey, boo!” rang that hypnotic voice.
There Nicki stood right behind me. Now dressed in casual booty shorts and a red tank top., she was barefoot and missing a wig. Her natural beauty a nice contrast to the trash treasure trove surrounding us. Her smile as enthusiastic as ever.
And of course, there was the strap. From her crotch, Nicki’s pink dildo danged down like a snake… A real anaconda brushing against my ass.
I staggered back out of fear… and maybe some excitement. “Whoa…”
Nicki cackled. “Did I scare you!”
“Uh, yeah.”
Singing along, Nicki swung the dildo to the tune of Burl Ives. To the beat of the “ding…. dong…. ding...” harmonies.
I stared on at her third leg. Intimidated by the size… yet hypnotized by Nicki’s passion. Her magnetism. “Really, Nicki,” I quipped.
Chuckling, Nicki ran a hand along my arm. “What? I wanted to surprise you!”
“With the fucking pinkosaurus?”
“Yeah, why not.” She leaned in closer. “You’re the one sneaking out...”
I stole one look out the window. Out toward the guards. The strange buildings. “I just couldn’t sleep,” I told the Queen.
Nicki squeezed my wrist in a death grip of passion. “I can fix that.”
Flashing a smile, I broke away from her spell. “Naw, I need to go lay down. I can’t keep up with you!”
“Maybe tomorrow then?” Nicki teased.
“Maybe!” I then walked through the valley of Christmas music. Right into Burl Ives’ joyous vocals. The entire time I felt Nicki’s hungry eyes watch me. Staring me down hard… Her smile driven by nothing but desire. I forced myself not to turn. The temptation too much… but my tired state helped me persevere against the gorgeous rapper.
“You better be glad I don’t get a shake weight on that ass!” I heard Nicki shout with sadistic glee.
[Part 3]( https://www.reddit.com/Erotica/comments/ga1ggv/nicki_minaj_called_me_part_33/)
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2020.03.27 08:36 rhonnie14 Nicki Minaj Called Me (Part 3/3)

Part 2
I woke up groggy the next morning. To my relief, the door was closed and I was alone. Comfortable. Far from Nicki’s aggression. Far from this madness in general.
I slid on my Buddy Holly glasses. At peace with the solitude around me… until I saw a letter lying on the dresser. The elaborate scribbled scrawl told me all I needed to know: Nicki had snuck in here during the night. Groaning, I grabbed the letter.
There was the schedule literally spelled out for me: gym, shower, interview. Even a curated wardrobe was included.
I put on the tight gym shorts. The red sleeveless shirt. Upon opening the bedroom door, Bobby Helms’s “Jingle Bell Rock” bombarded me. Not to mention this mansion’s blizzard… I couldn’t help but think how some people would find the holiday playlist a welcome reprieve from the Nickimania usually blasting. But not me. I missed the pop music in the face of this seasonal shit.
Then I hit the gym. The treadmill, the crunches. My meager weightlifting. All under those cameras’ red eyes. Not to mention the bizarre wax figure standing in the corner. The one watching me this whole time: a life-size Roman waxwork. Complete with the blonde wig, messy black dress… that deranged scowl.
Out of breath, I faced my reflection. The giant mirror painted me in a flattering but realistic light. Nicki and Ashley had taken care of me, after all. I looked better than ever. Maybe not the Great Value Zac Efron Nicki was hyping me up to be, but hey, what can I say? Even I was impressed my own appearance.
Turning, I confronted the wax Roman. Her fake eyes met mine. Somehow, I was sure she’d moved ever so slightly. Just enough to turn that female gaze toward me.
I then headed for the shower. The warm water soothed me from this Christmas cold. Now I could really get lost in horror thoughts. In my storyteller wilderness.
Relaxed, I stepped back. Looked toward the metal soap holder… then my unease returned. Intensified.
I saw a red light hidden behind the soap bar. One blocked by a narrow glass case. Maybe I was too tired to notice it last night. More than likely too drunk… but apparently, Nicki had eyes on me the whole time.
Butt I felt aroused amidst the disgust. I couldn’t stop the erection… even when it stemmed from fantasies violating my privacy. But still, where was my dignity? Apparently not enough of it to stop me from modeling in that shower.
In the hallway, the cold hit me hard. Especially when all I had on was the boxers. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” serenaded my chills. Those voices then returned… I looked toward the last door.
The muffled voices came from there. The fateful room’s light still on. I walked up to the door. Grabbed the handle.
“I told you not to go in there!” came that frenetic scream.
Nicki’s hand grabbed mine. I looked into her fiery eyes. She had on the librarian’s glasses. The red blouse. Her hair pulled back in an unassuming ponytail. Her claws replaced by groomed fingernails. “What the fuck, Rhonnie!”
Under the glare, I crumbled. “I was just curious…”
“Yeah, well, curiosity killed the cat, bitch!” Nicki tossed my hand back to me.
“Well, what happened?” I asked. Still hearing the voices, I waved toward the room. “What’s that noise?”
Behind a cold gaze, Nicki grabbed my wrist in a death grip. “None of your business. Not now!”
I said nothing. Too scared to respond….
“Now get your ass in that bedroom!” Nicki continued. She motioned toward my room. Savoring her power… “Get dressed!”
“My bad…” I responded. But I still listened to her. I walked into my bedroom. Saw my sweater and red khakis laid out for me.
Bing Crosby’s voice echoed everywhere as I snagged the red trousers. Got ready to put them on.
“And what’d I tell you about going to that room!” Nicki’s voice reprimanded me.
Startled, I looked toward the open doorway. Right to the one-and-only Nicki Minaj watching me get dressed.
“I’m sorry!” I said with a laugh.
“Mmm-hmm,” Nicki replied. She leaned against the doorway. Not going anywhere… and neither was that excited gaze of hers. The one that never left my body. “You best start listening to me, Rhonnie.”
Struggling under her hungry eyes, I slid on the pants. “I will!”
I felt her eyes on me the entire time. Nicki never once left this show….
We later got together in the home studio. Both of us in our swivel chairs and with a glass of wine...
The ideas came fast and furious. Some good, some great.
“What about like a sex cult?” Nicki suggested.
“A sex cult?” I joked.
Behind the glasses, Nicki sat up straight. "Is that too realistic?”
I chuckled. “With you, man, anything is possible.”
“We just need to give them something crazy!” Nicki went on. She straightened her blouse. “Like whether it’s a cult or anything crazy I did. Like the pegging, anything hot like that!”
“Awesome. I agree.”
“I’ll be your muse for all things sexy and…” Nicki hunched her shoulders. Angled her head for a murderer’s photo shoot. That killer gaze fixated on me. “Scary."
Uncomfortable, I glanced down at my notebook. “Yeah, there’s so much potential.”
“Oh, definitely.”
I worked up the nerve to face her. Then ask a question that’d been bothering me: “So what was up with the garage?”
Nicki gave me a weird look. “What do you mean?”
“I mean all the weird shit in there? The cars, lockers-”
Nicki scoffed. “Bitch, please…”
“Naw, I’m curious.”
With an indifferent flourish, Nicki waved me off. “Your nosyass shouldn’t worry!”
Like a reporter, I leaned in closer. “So why all the cameras then? The guards?”
Nicki stared at me, her eyes eviscerating my soul. “I done told you, Rhonnie.” She moved in toward my face, holding me captive with that stare. “I value my privacy.”
“So why keep that shit then?"
Chuckling, Nicki leaned back in her seat. “Don’t be so worried, Rhonnie…”
“What?”
Nicki looked right at me. Her inner strength obvious. "I’m a tough girl, Rhonnie! You know that.”
Our brainstorming session ended soon after. To be honest, I had enough macabre material minus the Queen’s input. Even if the session proved entertaining.
That afternoon, I entered the kitchen. And there was Nicki seated on a bar stool. Glued to her phone. The Killers’ “Don’t Shoot Me Santa” the latest on the dancefloor's playlist.
“Hey, boo,” Nicki said to me.
“Hey,” I replied as I grabbed a Dos Equis. “I was just about to start writing. ” I opened the longneck. Still basking in the wine buzz… then I heard more moans and groans. Pleasurable exhalations hitting euphoria…
I looked toward the hallway. Drowning out the Christmas music, Club Staff’s sex sounded closer. Somehow more familiar. I stepped toward Nicki. “Yo, what are you watching?”
Nicki didn’t even try hiding the footage. The HD video of me, her, Ashley, and Kellan engaging in a most wild intimacy. Our own filmed sex tape… For whatever reason, I was on the bottom.
“Whoa, what the fuck!” I yelled.
Cackling, Nicki lowered her phone. “What? I can’t relive the past, bitch?”
“I mean you kept that on your phone?”
Nicki shrugged. “Duh. It’s hot…”
I couldn’t argue. “It’s fun and all, but-"
Nicki stood up and held her phone toward me. Giving me a front row view to a clip of her and Ashley dicking me down with those huge dildos. “If I wanna take a break, Rhonnie, I can. I'm not addicted, bitch.” She then got in my face. A delayed flourish of a finish. I could already smell the wine in her breath. “And I’m the one paying you. Remember?”
I gave her a weak smirk. “Okay…”
“That’s right, boo.”
I waved toward her, annoyed. "So when can I get my phone?”
That wacky Nicki grin appeared. She marched toward the hallway. Her erotica conquering the Christmas music. “Oh, you know the rules, Rhonnie.”
“Well, what about Zoo? When the Hell’s he coming over?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Nicki started. She stopped and faced me. Her smile still on display. “He’s coming.”
“Yeah but when-”
A chaotic vibration interrupted us. Nicki glanced at her pulsating phone.
“Shit, I gotta get this!” she said. She grinned at me. “Don’t go anywhere!”
Left alone, I looked over at the kitchen bar. At all those drinks.
Swept away by The Killers’ Christmas song, I staggered up to the pink wine bottles. Grabbed the biggest one.
Buried beneath the booze were torn scratch sheets of paper. A rainbow catalog veering between construction paper and sticky notes. The font matched the pattern: notes scrolled in everything from pen, marker, to even crayon.
I placed the wine on the counter. Picked up a cluster of messages.
Judging by the writing, no way these were the musings of one person. The handwriting was different on each and every message. The emotions different: Greatest xperience eva! I ain’t ever leaving!! I <3 Nicki Minaj Nickis bitch
Battling the unease, I took another swig. But still couldn’t shake the increasing chills.
Then one pink note in particular caught my eye. Brought about waves of anxiety… and sweet nostalgia. I recognized Ashley’s scrawl immediately. Her excellent grammar: Ashley And Rhonnie Forever! We love you, Nicki!
I put the beer down. Picked up my love’s note. Felt adrenaline rush through me. Heard Ashley’s beaming voice as I read it once more… Fuck, I missed her.
Grinning, I slid the letter into my pocket. A cherished memento from our stay at Nicki’s resort… My eyes then went back to this hidden collection. To the white sheet of paper lying under Ash’s message…
In an instant, my romantic remembrance vanished. All of it conquered by fear.
HELP ME read the scribbled touch of a pencil’s panic. The big, bold letters screamed those words. Underlined for emphasis. The message too terrifying not to be genuine…
I grabbed the piece of paper. Got a closer inspection at the all-too-real horror. The reality that everything wasn’t Utopia. Not for everyone, at least...
I downed the Dos Equis. But my buzz didn’t soothe the restless tension.
My eyes scanned the other notes. This scared detective confirming his instincts: there were just too many subtle differences. Too many eccentricities for Nicki and her personalities to have written all these. Especially now that I had Ashley’s note for evidence.
From the dancefloor, The Killers faded out. And in the brief silence came the many voices. Those muffled shouts and cries…
I turned toward the hallway. The sounds obviously coming from Club Staff. The Forbidden Room. Nicki’s wax museum. Her lair of wild dreams and nightmares.
Still clinging to the eerie note, I sensed my opportunity. Somehow gathering courage amidst the anxiety, I rushed into the dark hallway. Saw the only light here coming from beneath that final door.
The coast was clear. No one was around... Just me and whomever lurked inside that room. And as I got closer, the voices grew louder. More excited.
For once, the fear chilled me more than Nicki’s arctic A/C. But I still kept going. Reached out toward the knob.
The sudden struts of a guitar made me jump. So did Elvis Presley’s crooning… Startled, I looked down the hall. Glaring on at “Blue Christmas” now playing on the dancefloor.
Recovering from the scare, I turned my attention toward the door. Reached out once more.
“Rhonnie, what is you doing!” rang Nicki’s siren cry through the darkness. The Queen’s voice all power and attitude. Just like her firm grip snatching my arm.
Scared again, I whirled around. “Shit!”
Nicki’s smirk greeted me. As did her latest costume change: a black Strokes tee and skintight white pants. With no make-up and a shorter red wig, Onika Maraj looked dressed for an underground rock show. How she changed so fast, how she appeared so quick behind me still remains a mystery to this day. Not to mention where the fuck did she keep getting all these wigs and where did she keep them? But in that surreall moment, I was just glad she wasn’t wearing that fucking strap...
Nicki waved at her shirt with excitement to spare. “You like it? You’re a Strokes fan, right?”
The letter in my hand grabbed my gaze. “Yeah…” I held the message toward Nicki. “What the Hell is this!”
Caught off guard, Nicki’s grin disappeared. Her suspicion set in.
“I found this in the kitchen,” I said.
In a fierce instant, Nicki snatched the sheet. Read the note.
“I just wanna know who wrote it,” I continued.
Feigning indifference, Nicki tossed it to the ground. “It’s nothing, I wrote that shit.”
For once, her performance lacked emotion. Gone was the confidence.. her biggest strength.
I flashed a nervous smile. “No, you didn’t! There’s no fucking way!”
Nicki placed a hand to her temple. Avoiding eye contact. At war with her own invasive thoughts.
“I found the note Ashley left too,” I said. “I found all of them! I mean why’d someone write ‘help me,’ Nicki! Goddamn!”
Nicki stayed silent. There was no word. No explanation.
I leaned toward her. “That’s fucking crazy! I mean just-”
Staying strong in the face of my fake toughness, Nicki looked right at me. “Chill, Rhonnie.”
“But I wanna know-”
“Do you think anyone would ever wanna leave here?” Like a dismissive diva, she pushed me back. “Seriously, Rhonnie?”
Scoffing, I pointed toward the note. “Well, someone did apparently!”
“Just think about you and Ashley!” Nicki then flashed that taunting smile. “Y’all’s asses know you didn’t wanna leave!”
I hesitated in the cold. Let “Blue Christmas” continue through the hallway. The mansion. And deep down, I knew I had no response. Nicki was right.
Sensing my weakness, Nicki took an aggressive step toward me. Her pretty face matching mine. “You know I’m right, don’t you,” she cooed. In a slow lunge, Nicki ran her hands along my chest. Leaned in toward my ear for a sensual purrr….
The memories hit me hard. Flashbacks to the ferocious sex. Me, Ash, Nicki, Kellan. Our weeks of fun. Our thrist constantly quenched in this erotic paradise.
“You and Ashley still wanna come back,” Nicki teased in a gentle tone. She squeezed my ass. And got closer to my lips. “Y’all still miss me…”
I smelt the sweet wine in her breath. The booze helping us both lose control.
“We do...” I said. Now I ran my hands up and down Nicki’s majestic body. Felt along the smooth skin. The plastic… The best implants money can buy.
Our bodies collided. Swaying to the rhythm of “Blue Christmas.” Our souls stirred into a happy hysteria.
Nicki’s grin grew wider. “I missed y’all too…”
She gave me a drunken kiss. And I damn sure returned the favor. Gladly still clinging to my ass, Nicki’s other hand went down toward my crotch.
I lost control. The excitement too much.
“Rhonnie, get Ashley,” Nicki said between kisses. She draped her hands around my neck. “Stay here forevvverrrr…”
Smiling, I looked on at those brown eyes. Their mischievous glint. “I’ll think about it-”
A bombastic beat crushed Elvis’s crooning. Loud and obnoxious. A hip-hop air strike had hit Christmas.
I immediately recognized the song. And immediately cringed.
Cackling, Nicki leaned back. “Oh shit!”
I groaned. “Fuck, ‘Anaconda’? “Really?”
“Yes!”
Amidst the pop assault, Nicki pulled me in closer toward her. Another sloppy kiss accompanied this grating tune. The Queen’s hands went wild over my body. The song getting better as the make-out session continued. The intensity matching the incessant rhythm of “Anaconda.”
Nicki held me back. Her female gaze salivating me. The smile starving for more.
Grooving and shaking to the beat, I gave her a smug, seductive smirk. Pleased to have Nicki’s spotlight. “Hey,” I quipped.
Then Mrs. Majesty made her move. Lunging forward, Nicki was fast and quick. Her hands latched on to my arms.
“Whoa!” I joked.
Crying out, Nicki threw me up against the wall. Her sheer strength sent me into it hard… leaving me pinned to it.
There were some nerves. Not to mention a rising thrill. I turned and looked back at it. At Nicki.
Armed with that madcap grin, she descended upon me. Her fingers itching to grab. Her steps aligned with the song… As if she were pantomiming and acting out her own twisted music video. But that sly voice shined through. Even over the deafening soundtrack. Nicki’s excitement too high at this point...
“Oh my Gosh....” she said in a robotic melody. “Look at her butt…”
I was too drunk to move. But still enthralled… erect beyond belief. Here I was Nicki’s prisoner once more. At her manic mercy.
Smirking in silence, I let her tear off my sweater.
“Oh my Gosh, look at her butt,” Nicki kept singing. Those same lyrics repeated in a sexy mantra… Getting me all the more hot. The collision of the song and Nicki’s performance hypnotized me. I gave in to her fantasy… and my own.
Nicki pulled my pants down. Into the music, I grooved. Shook at her touch. All while she yanked off the khakis, then my tight boxers. I held my feet out, letting Nicki slide the socks off. She had me nude. Just as she wanted me.
Still singing along, Nicki pushed me further down. Bending me over… I felt those white pants fasten against my popped out ass. Felt her fasten those clamps of fingers to my hips.
Swaying to the reckless rhythm, Nicki’s passionate thrusts matched the song. One hit after the other...
“My anaconda don’t!” Nicki hollered. “My anaconda don’t!”
I closed my eyes and moaned. The sensations so amazing. Nicki didn’t even need a dildo to fuck hard. She had too much power as is.
Enjoying the show, Nicki moved my ass back-and-forth. Making me twerk on that crotch. Nicki getting the lapdance of her dreams. Not that I was complaining... Being her personal stripper was nothing new for either of us.
Continuing the concert, Nicki sang in a playful tone. Her voice so energetic and full of delight it overtook the fucking record. And only stopping for those dominant grunts. Nicki leaned in next to my ear. “This dude named Michael used to ride motorcycles…”
My breathing got heavier. In awe of Nicki’s poise. Behind aroused eyes, I watched her grab a hold of my big dick. All while she kept pounding away in this delirious dry humping. Nicki a Goddamn athlete.
“Dick bigger than a tower,” the Queen continued as she tugged on my cock for emphatic emphasis. “I ain’t talking about Eiffel’s…”
Something moist hit my ass. The crashes were repetitive and heavy. Nicki got out of control. A sexbot on the verge of exploding.
I moaned once more. Until Nicki’s hand covered my mouth. But she still kept going. I moved along with her. Shaking my ass to her delight.
“Real country-ass nigga, let me play with his rifle,” Nicki sang. “Pussy put his ass to sleep, now he calling me NyQuil…” In a wild flourish, she licked my face. A serpent’s tongue all along my smooth skin.
And the show went on. Through every lyric, every thrust. I gave in to the rap Goddess’s every move. Not to mention to her amazing stamina. Here I was sweating in the cold. Still erect. Still twerking...
At the fadeout, Nicki’s cackling hit overdrive. Her histrionics natural. She staggered back and gave my ass a passionate smack.
Exhausted, I turned and looked back at the Queen. At her triumphant smile. The colossal wet stain on the crotch of those white pants… An ocean of desire.
Another haunting rap beat started. Nicki’s “Get On Your Knees” began playing. A song reverberating through my mind. My body.
Nicki ran her hands down her pants in a sensual taunt. “Ooh, bring that ass here, baby.”
Gasping for breath, I staggered to my feet. Still naked. Still recovering from being dicked down.
“You should’ve been here all along,” Nicki continued.
I turned my attention to Club Staff. My mystery powered through… even in the post-sex bliss.
Nicki reached toward me. “Come here, baby.”
Avoiding her touch, I stumbled toward the room. Without the strap, at least my ass wasn’t in too much pain.
“Rhonnie!” I heard Nicki shout. “Don’t go in there!”
Over Nicki’s recorded harmonies and all-too-live screams, I could hear those voices. The cryptic chorus behind door number three. I snatched the knob. Glad to find it unlocked.
Behind me, I heard Nicki chase after me. “Bring that ass here!” she commanded.
I swung the door open and rushed inside. Being back in Club Staff ended my drunk disorientation. Not from reflective warmth but from the strange sight sprawling before me…
Nervous, I stopped in the middle of the room. The pink walls were still flawless. The antique jukebox still timeless. And from here I saw the secret room, its door wide open. Ashley and I’s personal suite…
The other wax figures were spread out like a staged party scene. Nicki Minaj by way of the Uncanny Valley. There was nerdy Nicki, tomboy Nicki. All aspects of the artist’s personality.
Both the pink dildo and red blouse were lying on the ground. The glasses she wore earlier. Wigs piled up in a colorful conglomeration. Club Staff now Nicki’s dressing room for all those costume changes. And also the site of her darkest desires.
But these familiar sights did little to soothe my dread. Still doused in sweat, I felt Nicki’s literal drip slide off my ass... Somehow, Nicki had shocked me once more. Scared me with the secrets of her forbidden room.
Open laptops were arranged on all those large tables. Rows and rows of them leading up to a large demigod of a flatscreen. The room featuring an electrical cult ceremony…
What they showed were live feeds. HD footage clearly taken from all these fucking cameras. In rooms I’d never seen. Areas of Nicki’s home and property I never knew existed. Many of the rooms from the sheds out back, I figured.
Strangers stayed on those screens. Attractive men and women, ranging from young adults to senior citizens. But they were all hot… All of them either stripped down or dressed in the nice fashion I knew Nicki picked out. They were her community. The Barbz she really wanted.
Most of these hottiees were engaged in sex. The mics made that much clear. There was everything: missionary, pegging, three-ways, Devil’s Threesomes, guy-on-guy. Whatever your hungry heart desired. Whatever the Hell Nicki wanted.
With several clips taking place at night, I knew the Queen had recorded everything. Not so much for security or surveillance. Just for herself.
In the videos, I recognized a few faces, the bodyguards amongst them. And of course, I recognized Kellan and his large dick. He was in a room of four, using the same playbook me, him, Ash, and Nicki perfected.
The same playbook I saw broadcast on that flatscreen. The footage showed the four of us from just a few months ago. The four of us having the sex of our lives. We must’ve really been amongst Nicki’s favs to be her star attraction…
Sure, I was disturbed. But nostalgia crept in upon seeing us on the silver screen. I gotta say I missed Kellan. Not to mention he was a long way from Trinidad… But maybe to him, the Minaj mansion was home. We did have our fun, after all.
But the romanticism died soon after seeing one laptop showing me in the lair. Showing me right now. In the nude. I now noticed several cameras dangling down from the ceiling, filming my fear.
More vivid glows emanated from the secret room. Undoubtedly there was more where this came from…
I now realized Nicki Minaj was a mirage. A sexially-explicit illusion used to draw in the thirstiest men and women. A Venus flytrap for Onika Maraj’s most depraved pleasures.
But still I needed to see more... Even over the chilling epiphany, curiosity compelled me. I charged up to the secret room. Until a certain singing stopped me.
I whirled around to face Nicki. She stood tall and defiant. Regardless of the striking stain, she didn’t look trashy. She wore that wet vagina well. After all, that crotch certainly didn’t feel like a pussy at times...
And all the while, Nicki sang along to the chorus of “Get On Your Knees.” A sly smile accompanying her flow. Her joy.
An intimate audience, I watched her the whole way through. This was Nicki The Artist and she sounded even better live. More natural. More raw.
As the track faded out, Nicki nodded toward the laptops. “You know they wanna be here, Rhonnie.” She strutted up to me.
Like looking at a much prettier Medusa, I turned to stone. Held in place by the beauty. The charisma.
“No one’s being held against their will,” Nicki continued. She stole an admiring glance at my cock before looking into my green eyes. “That’s their shit cars they left in the garage. Their shit clothes in the lockers. Their shit lives they left behind.”
“But still… it’s not right,” I struggled to say. “It’s weird.”
Soothing me, Nicki ran a hand along my arm. “They just wanted to be happy, Rhonnie. That’s all.”
I couldn’t respond. Naked and in front of Nicki, I was conflicted. Torn between the seduction and slavery.
Nicki leaned in closer. “I didn’t want you to see till you were ready.” She caressed my face. Her touch so… warm. “Till you and Ashley were here.” Her other hand clinged to my thigh.
Quiet, I ran my fingers through Nicki’s short hair. “Regret In Your Tears” next on Nicki’s always-appropriate soundtrack. This setlist always in sync with our current mood.
“I didn’t want y’all to get scared,” Nicki went on. Her hand drifted down to my ass. For another sensual squeeze. “That was all, Rhonnie.”
I pulled away from her. “Naw, I can’t…”
Forcing a cackle, Nicki grabbed my arm. Her demeanor drunk, her mannerisms driven by madness. “Rhonnie, look!” She pointed toward the station of so many screens. “I dress them well, they get to live with me!” Selling herself well, Nicki felt along her well-endowed chest. “They get to be with me, baby…” She lunged in closer, inches away from my face. “And that should’ve been you and Ashley!”
Now I yanked my arm back. “No! This isn’t right, Nicki! You’re asking us to give up everything! We’ve got fucking lives, man! I wanna write!”
Nicki’s smile stagnated. “And you can… You can write about me.” She pointed across the room. Of course, right at that huge dildo. “And spend more time with that!” She grabbed on to my shoulders. “Me, you, and Ash. Kellan. It’ll be just like old times, babe.”
“I can’t.” Struggling against that strength, I finally managed to escape her grips once more.
A glower overtook Nicki’s face. “What do you think this is then, Rhonnie!”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“This house! Me, bitch!”
Never had I seen her get this pissed. Sure, maybe crazy as Hell. Maybe psychosexual but not fucking angry.
Nicki pointed at herself. ”I’m the reason they wanna come! I bring them here, I keep them happy! They make me happy! I’m their fucking queen, Rhonnie! I make them want me, you understand!” She got in my face. But I was already scared into obedience. “Just like I did to you and Ashley!” She pointed to her head. “It’s in here, Rhonnie.” Immediately, she gravitated to that body. “And all here, baby! It’s got nothing to do with Onika! Nothing to do with me, the girl from Queens! The crazy family, the tragedies. It’s the way I look, Rhonnie! The ass and titties! The sex. Fucking. Sells.”
The height difference didn’t matter. Not now. Nicki stared me down hard. From both lust and anger. The dangerous ends of both emotions. I shivered under that spare. Nicki knowing full well she had me under her spell.
“What’s going on?” a deep voice rivaling mine asked.
We both turned. And well, Nicki’s excited smile contrasted my shock.
There was the man of the hour: Zoo. He stood a few feet away from us. His naked body no longer too surreal a sight in this freaky fortress. He was a handsome guy. Much taller than us. Much more sculpted than me A pretty prisoner both in the past and now. Kenneth checked off most of Nicki’s boxes: tough, thicc, and well-hung. Somehow, him and I had both managed to stay erect. Maybe there was something in the mansion’s air. But now Zoo’s glare stayed on me. The dude likely to break me by hand or dick…
Nicki’s grin hit sitcom levels. “Hey, baby!” she gushed. Drawn to her man, she rushed over and hugged him.
But Kenneth and I’s staredown wasn’t going anywhere.
“Is that the writer guy?” he asked Nicki.
“Yeah, that’s Rhonnie!” she beamed.
They fixated their gazes on me. There we were, the three of us with our dicks hanging out. Well, with Nicki’s lying closeby.
Through the tense silence, all we heard was the Minaj playlist. And the sounds of her prisoners. Their pleasurable moans and cries a constant off those laptops. Of course, I recognized my own exhalations on that flatscreen. God knows what the Hell I was taking in that clip...
Nicki pulled Kenneth closer toward her. Her man definitely lacked her enthusiasm. “He’s the one writing about us, Zoo!” she exclaimed. “And I’m helping him out! He’s gonna make us even more famous!”
“So I’ve heard,” he replied. His hands stayed by his side. Ready for any false move from rhonnie14.
“Ain’t that right, Rhonnie!” Nicki said. Her wicked gaze settled in on me. “You’re gonna write so many crazy stories, right.”
Reaching into the recesses of my soul, I found some half-ass courage. “I’m writing the truth, Nicki,” I finally said. I waved toward the laptops. “I’m writing about all this! The people you got here, the ones you’ve got trapped! Your prisoners!”
Needless to say, Zoo wasn’t amused. His glare now more permanent than Nicki’s glowing smile. But now Nicki was no different. She had no chance at hiding the rage boiling within.
“I’m telling the truth!” I yelled.
Nicki took a ferocious step toward me.
Trying to restrain her, Zoo grabbed the Queen’s arm. “Nicki-”
But nothing could stop her. Not even Zoo’s impressive muscles. Nicki bulldozed on by. Straight for me.
Oh fuck, I thought...
Nicki put a finger to my face. “And do you think anyone’s gonna believe you, motherfucker!”
I stayed quiet. Yeah, I was a chickenshit.
“I’ll just tell them you’re some fucking creep obsessed with me!” Nicki continued. “No one will buy what the fuck some random horror writer has to say! Yo ass look like you’re sixteen anyway!”
Crumbling under her irate pressure, I shrugged my shoulders. “That’s a compliment...”
“Shut the fuck up!” Nicki yelled.
I locked eyes with Zoo. Even he was keeping his distance from her.
“Yeah, listen to Nicki!” he added.
Nicki gave me a light shove. The glare slicing into me like a knife. “So you go write your goofy fucking stories! Pimp my name to the horror crowd! They’ll wanna be with the Queen too, boo! You know that!”
“You got him, Nicki,” I heard Zoo chime in.
Giving me her patented stank face, Nicki walked back toward her husband. Leaving me in an awkward, uneasy state.
I watched Nicki drape her arm around Zoo’s waist. Her outburst now veering toward a manic melancholy. “You should’ve stayed, you and Ashley both!” Nicki said. I saw her grab on to Kenneth’s ass. “Y’all’d have been the Paula Patton and Zac Efron in here. All for me…”
Doing his best to be supportive, Zoo held on to her tight. Caressed Nicki’s shoulder. Anything to stay on her sweet side.
Now Nicki’s performance hit pathos. Somehow, I felt sorry for her. Sympathy even in the face of millions and nothing but pretty people surrounding her.
“Y’all should’ve just stayed!” she said in a trembling voice. The emotions erupted. Shielding her eyes, she turned away.
I took a calm step toward her. “I can’t stay Nicki. We just can’t.”
Both Nicki and Zoo confronted me. They showed their hurt physically. Their wounds within. The dark side of being a social media freakshow.
Nicki showed teardrops. Wearing her usual melodramatic make-up, she’d have resembled a crying clown. But not when she was just dressed as herself… Not when she was Onika. A lonely, young woman simultaneously vindicated and destroyed by her own fucking dream.
Concerned, I ran a hand through my swoop. Kept an appropriate distance from the distraught couple. “What’s this really about, man?” I asked, forcing my voice at a chill calm. “Nicki, maybe you should talk to someone.”
That glare flashed through Mrs. Majesty’s tears.
“You just need to get some help,” I struggled to say. “There’s nothing wrong with that-”
“Help!?” Nicki shouted. She pulled away from Zoo. All her weeping eyes on me. “I don’t need any help, Rhonnie! I need people to fucking care!”
A worried Zoo reached toward her. “Babe.” This was the side of Kenneth I’d never seen. Unlike Nicki, he was no performer or actor. Just a caring husband to one of the most complex personalities in Hollyweird.
Nicki held him back. Instead, her attention stayed on me. The stare sharpened. Her defensiveness a weak disguise for those insecurities galore. “That’s all I want, Rhonnie! I love my fans, the real fans!”
“I know,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to-”
“But that’s not what people want!” Nicki cried. The floodgate of tears burst. Here was a woman on the verge of a brutal breakdown. A sad glimpse behind the bravado. Nicki the beautiful diva facing fate and alienation. “They want the big titty bitch! That’s it!” She pointed toward that ‘perfect’ figure. “They don’t care about me! The lyrics or the drive! It’s this! I just want someone to look past that! Someone like you! Lile Ashley!” She snatched Kenneth’s hand in a loving grip. “And Zoo… Y’all need to stay with me for more! For the music!”
Zoo and I made quick eye contact. I imagine we didn’t have much in common other than worrying over Nicki’s mental state… but that was bond enough.
Like a Shakespearean monologue, Nicki continued spilling her guts. The raw emotion on display. Whatever warts and all could be on those perfect physical features. “It’s why I do this!” She waved toward her body. “The surgeries, the make-up! I can’t get anyone to just listen!”
“But Nicki, there’s plenty of us,” I said. “Hell, I like the music!”
“It’s just sex, Rhonnie! Like I told you!” Nicki stared right at me. “That’s all they care about at the end of the day.” She waved toward the laptops. Nicki’s movements so fast and frenetic, her boobs could’ve caused an earthquake. Just as much as her morose expression would elicit heartbreak. “It’s why I don’t give a fuck about those sluts and shrimp-dicked idiots just getting off to me! They can’t understand me like you! Like all the people I bring here can!”
“There’s more of us though, Nicki. I swear! We don’t have to stay here to support you, man. We’re everywhere!”
“I just want them to like me for the music! The talent! Not the sex, not the bullshit!” Lost in her sorrow, Nicki turned away. Wiped off those countless tears. “I can’t do anything as a female rapper… I can’t be a Pac or Ye. I have to be the hot bitch… You don’t understand, Rhonnie. I never wanted it like this!”
Zoo grabbed her shoulder. “Yo, babe-”
Possessed by passion, Nicki swatted his hand away. She screamed aloud. Into the air. Into her own crazed soul. Exorcist Nicki her latest personality. Then those maniacal sights settled in on me. “I don’t need help, Rhonnie! I need supporters! People who like me for who I am! For who I fucking * really* am! I need them with me twenty-four seven, Rhonnie!”
Fighting my own tears, I stepped toward her. “And I do. Ashley and I both-”
“Then stay!”
Nicki’s anguish made me stop. All while it ate me alive. Maybe I knew Nicki more than most. But here I was wanting her to be okay... Here I was desperate to reassure the Queen of hip-hop.
“Stay here forever!” Nicki yelled.
I shook my head. “I can’t, Nicki. I can’t.”
With weary defeat, Nicki shook her head. Each and every tear nothing but bullets piercing into my naked flesh.
Zoo ran a hand along her arm. “Nicki. Hey-”
Nicki stormed out. Off stage and away from her erotic island. She never said goodbye. Never gave me that bright smile. For someone with her talent and dictionary, she didn’t say shit.
Feeling guilty, I watched Nicki adjust her pants. Adjust the stain sticking to her skin… And then she was gone. A gorgeous witch disappearing into the night.
The catchy Nicki tunes still played. Not to mention the enthusiastic voices still blasting off those feeds. But Kenneth and I may as well have stood in silence. So thick the tension was.
He finally looked at me. His stare was smoldering, intense. “Get the fuck out.”
Put on the spot, I glanced around the room. At the sex videos. Then at my own naked body. With a nervous smile, I confronted Zoo. Shrugged my shoulders. “Can I at least put my boxers on?”
I got to put on the nice clothes Nicki stripped from me. Got my bag, got an Uber for LAX, and got the fuck out of there. All on Nicki’s tab, thankfully.
Now I sat alone at the airport. Waiting on a two A.M. flight… All alone in my corner. No one was around me this late. The cold isolation here like a cavern. Not even the Christmas wreaths and trees could soothe me.
Holding my phone, I tried to pass the time. Tried to keep my mind off the bizarre Nicki encounter. I just had to put on Bruce. Now blasting “No Surrender” through my earbuds and into my rattled mind. Scared that playing any Nicki would be a siren call luring my ass back to her place… Her world.
That being said, the long wait left me in reflection. Nicki wasn’t wrong on any count. To quote one of her more obnoxious tracks, we were all just beez in the trap. Caught up in her lore, her talent. And yes, the insane beauty. But what unsettled me most was how she related it to me. You see, Nicki spelled out her personal dilemma. Fuck it, she even related the twisted reality to me. And Nicki was right all along. Regardless of how much she liked creeping on my Reddit porn accounts, she had a point. I had more fans piling in there for a pic I took in seconds rather than a story I poured my heart and soul into. A situation no different than Nicki’s more serious jams getting shunned in favor of twerking and brainless exploitation. Sex sells, man. No matter her personality, Nicki wasn’t wrong about that. Call it my What Price, Hollywood? moment… All courtesy of Onika Maraj.
And through the thoughts, my phone kept buzzing. Now here came call number three from Nicki. I chose to ignore it. I couldn’t face her this soon. Not after the unsettling encounters and her unsettling set-up. After the harrowing breakdown, I couldn’t answer her. I wouldn’t answer that call, I plead to my nervous self in an internal intervention.
And all the while, I texted Ashley. Told her how much I loved her. How I couldn’t wait to see her. Our bond rekindled to first-month glories until she sent me a new text: You should’ve stayed!
I looked on at the message, uneasy.
Then came Ash’s quick follow-up: Go back and I’ll come! :)
The fear returned. Nicki had been hypnotizing me. And apparently, she’d long had Ash under control. “What…” I said.
Overtaking my screen was another incessant call: Nicki. Who knew how drunk or high she was? Much less lonely.
Don’t answer, I reminded myself. Don’t give in.
Forcing myself, I silenced the call. Then sat there in awkward silence. In a quiet dread I couldn’t identify. Or control.
Just when I needed it, Bruce left me. My rallying cry of “No Surrender” gone. My whole Goddamn support system.
I texted Ashley back: Are you sure? I think we should wait, boo…
Her reply appeared immediately: YES! GO THERE NOW, STU-STU!
I stared on at her message. Her demand. Her eager euphoria. Here I was caught between arousal and disappointment. And at the end of the day I had no say in this weird, wild mess. Ash did.
Seconds later came a new text message. Not from Ashley but Nicki: Come back over, Rhonnie
The next SMS bullet hit me: I miss y’all already ;)
Another one appeared: Again
“Shit…” I said to myself. I got ready to ignore the message. This was Rhonnie’s last stand against the impulses. The thirst.
Until my phone pulsated to life. The call so ferocious I almost missed Nicki’s next text: I talked to Ashley!!! <3 :p
And that was when I laid eyes on the caller ID: on my girlfriend’s number. The death sentence to my attempt at defiance. As always.
14
submitted by rhonnie14 to JustNotRight [link] [comments]


2020.03.27 08:35 rhonnie14 Hidden club strip sex camera

Link To Part One
The shower was quick and painless. Only when I went back to my room there wasn’t the closet catalog to choose from: just the tight jeans and tight black t-shirt already sprawled out on the bed. Already selected by Nicki.
Later on, I walked past the constant cameras. The clothes tight and stylish. Just like how Nicki wanted them. I heard Tom Petty’s “Christmas (All Over Again)” coming from that dancefloor. Nicki’s Christmas playlist a twenty-four hour affair. The club open all night… Only Club Staff wasn’t. Down the hall I saw its door still closed. The lights off inside. Its Nicki soundtrack silent. Her wax sisters no longer partying since Ash and I left.
Ready for the Queen, I journeyed through the labyrinthe. The Christmas maze, the lights. The mairjuana tree. The long hallways and glowing gold records.
I only made one beer detour. One stop amongst the many roadside bars. After downing three bottles of Dos Equis, I felt more relaxed. More comfortable for Nicki and I’s forthcoming conversation.
I saw the open doorway leading to the studio. Leading me to Nicki Minaj. I glanced down at the tight jeans that would surely get her salivating. Took a deep breath. My soul with some hesitation before I went straight inside.
There was the intimate space. The soundproof walls. The live room where Mrs. Majesty made the magic happen. A Trinidad decor was evident in the various colorful trinkets from Nicki’s many travels. The elephant figurines, the kaleidoscopic paintings of various women of color. And of course, there were the notebooks. Dozens and dozens of them scattered about like toys in Nicki’s personal playland. Well, the non-sex toys, that is…
Each open notebook was covered in the rapper’s pretty scrawl. Lyrics both clever and insane. A beautiful madness punctured the pages. Judging by the sheer amount of binders, when Nicki got on a roll, she was a frenetic force. Unstoppable in her drive and creativity.
On the control room table was a bottle of wine. Two glasses already poured. And there sat the Queen on her pink swivel chair. The studio her throne. Her bitch.
Her fingernails were now red claws. A match to the fiery red wig. The make-up vivid but professional. Along with thin wire-rimmed glasses, her beige pants suit was somehow scholarly and bland even with such beauty lying beneath it. Sitting there with a pen in hand and notebook in lap, Nicki looked to be in academic mode. All business inside the studio.
Nicki flashed me a warm smile. “Mmm, those look nice…”
Flattered, I glanced down at the preppy attire. The type of clothes late-twenty-somethings flaunted when they played high schoolers on T.V. And they were a perfect fit too. “Yeah, thanks.”
The two of us looked on at each other. Nothing weird. Just mutual respect… or attraction. The Ronettes’ “Sleigh Ride” the only sound through the silence.
Nicki relaxed in her seat. “Hey, shut the door!”
Following orders, I closed it behind me. Gone was The Ronettes’ harmonies. That was curtains for Nicki’s Christmas playlist here in the soundproof studio.
Using the notebook, Nicki motioned toward the other swivel chair. “Have a seat, Rhonnie. Let’s get down to business, shall we.”
I sat down and rolled the chair closer. Nicki now loomed up over me. Her huge ass undoubtedly helped in the height advantage. Then again, her aura had power, and it always kept the Queen in control.
Nicki waved around the room. “Bringing back any memories?”
“Oh yeah. The interview…” An awkward chuckle escaped my lips.
Behind confident eyes, Nicki watched me. Her claws kept tapping the notebook in a repetitive rhythm. “You know, I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”
Through her weak smile, I sensed Nicki’s sincerity. This personality wasn’t manic or aggressive. Not yet at least. “Naw, you’re fine,” I said. “We, uh… we had fun.”
Nicki laughed. “Definitely!” Then she lunged forward, getting closer to me. “But I really wanted a book. I wanted my story to be told, Rhonnie.”
Struggling under her female gaze, I hesitated. “And it still can… I’d love to give it another try.”
“Ooh, I’d love that….” Nicki leaned back. “You know, I really love your writing, Rhonnie. I think you’d do amazing things covering the life and times of Onika Maraj.”
Now I was flying high. A horrible actor, I did my best to play it cool. “Well, I’m glad somebody thinks so...”
“Oh, we do! Trust me. You’ve got the talent, baby.”
“I appreciate it.”
Nicki pointed her blood-red finger right at me. “You write movies too, right?” I laughed. “Whoa, shit, look at you!”
“I know my shit…”
“But yeah, I started out with the screenplays. I’ve always been a movie person-”
“So what happened?”
Pausing for a second, I took note of Nicki’s focused gaze. She was interested, alright… “These filmmakers, man. They’re all broke and do a shitty job.”
“Ah…” Nicki took a quick sip of wine.
“It’s a long story. I just… I don’t have an agent, they don’t read shit unless you know somebody. And I’m broke as fuck so I can’t film anything…” Here I was rambling. Rhonnie The Jaded Writer making his grand return. Angry. Talking with my hands. “But that’s why I started the NoSleeps. I actually wrote a couple of novels before that, but I’m just trying to build an audience now.”
“Well, you got me hooked!”.
Even I had to smile. “I’m glad. I just got tired of getting fucked by Hollywood.”
Nicki struggled to suppress a smirk. “Well, hey, at least it was fun when I fucked you.”
Damn, she was clever. I grinned. “Yeah. My best Hollywood experience for sure!” I ran a hand through my swoop. “And Hell, at least you paid me!”
Getting comfortable, Nicki readjusted on her throne. Her tone stayed consistent and precise. Her T.V. journalist performance pretty impressive. “But about the biography, would you be willing to do something else for me?”
“Yeah, uh. What do you mean?”
“Look, Rhonnie, the Barbz loved the story.”.
I smirked. “I guess it has a cult following going.”
Nicki just kept her eyes on me. There was no unwavering smile to offset the seriousness. She meant business. All as her relentless claws kept tapping the notebook... “I did the research. My album sales, the downloads, everything went up after you posted that NoSleep.” In a mic drop moment, Nicki’s hand collapsed on to the binder. “And now I want more!”
“Whoa…” I struggled to say through the excitement. “So you want like a whole series?”
“Preciseleee…”
The shit-eating grin never left my face. Already my mind was racing with ideas. I turned away, disoriented by my life-long dream.
“I’ll pay you as well,” Nicki continued. “You can even go back to Albany, Georgia.” With seductive poise, Nicki leaned in a little closer. “Or Hell, you and Ash can come here.”
I faced Nicki. “So did people really like the story that much?”
“Oh, Hell yeah!”
“Did any of them… believe it?”
Nicki revealed a sly smile. “Some.”
Enjoying the spotlight, I folded my arms. “So fucking crazy… Honestly, I just wanted to tell the truth about what happened… I wasn’t trying to write creepy fan fic or erotic shit. I was just wanting to portray you as accurately as possible, Nicki. I mean Hell, I thought that’d be my only shot at the biography!”
Nicki’s female gaze was starting to appear. “Not at all.”
Still rambling, I threw my hands up. “And then some people found it hot. They seemed more aroused than anything-”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
I gave her an amused look… realizing she was kinda right.
“Pegging’s hot,” Nicki continued. “And it ain’t like those rumors about me fucking men in the ass weren’t around before your story.”
I revealed a smirk. “Yeah...”
Rivaling my own elation, Nicki rolled her chair in closer toward me. “I just want you to do one thing.”
“What?”
“Make it even sexier! Get fucking crazy with it!”
“What… You’re joking, right?”
Nicki pointed at her stone cold glare. “Do I look like I’m fucking joking, Rhonnie!” She gave me a light punch on the arm. And damn, it still hurt… “Just do what I say! Write about all the sex. About how hot I am.” For emphasis, she squeezed her own breasts. “These titties, this ass, the pegging.” Nicki pointed at me. ”Squeezing a guy’s ass or making him strip down, the fucking hot shit, Rhonnie! I need more of that!”
The speech left me in stunned silence. There was a lot to unpack. Amongst the shock and intrigue, there was also disappointment...
Nicki shook my shoulder. “Just do more of that! That’s what we need.”
I pulled away from her. “But why...”
“Why!”
I pointed between us. “I just told you, I didn’t intend to just make you out to be some fucking bimbo, Nicki! I wanted to humanize you. That was the whole point!”
With a subtle smile on her face, Nicki just watched me.
“Like yeah, I told the truth,” I went on. “I wrote about the crazy sex but that wasn’t the point! I wanted to show the world the real you. I wanted them to see Onika Maraj. This was a biography.”
In a twisted taunt, Nicki caressed my face. “Oh, that’s so cute, Rhonnie.”
I knocked her hand away. “No, I mean it!”
Her smile was swiped clean. Nicki now literally got in my face. “And that’s fan-fucking-tastic!”
Scared, I cowered back into my seat. Nicki hadn’t even yelled... she didn’t need to.
“Look, baby, what you’re saying is true,” continued Nicki. She laid a hand in my lap. Dangerously close to awakening my penis... “And I appreciate it, Rhonnie. I’m glad you captured the real me.”
“I tried,” I said. I stole a look down at her hand. “Are you sure Zoo’s cool with this?”
Nicki’s grip got tighter. “Yes, Zoo’s fine, Rhonnie!”
“I’m just saying…”
Like a starved animal, Nicki pulled my chair closer toward her. “You got my vibe well, but that’s not what got me famous, Rhonnie! I wish it was but it wasn’t.”
“What are you talking about? You’re talented as fuck and that’s another reason I-”
“And so are you!” Nicki interrupted. “And that’s my whole point!” Gentle, Nicki’s claws ran along my cheeks… “I was like you once, Rhonnie. I had the talent. The drive, the dedication.”
Rivetered, I watched her every move. Her every emotion.
Nicki sat back in her seat. “But none of that mattered. I got nowhere in my career... I was broke…” She flashed a weary smile. “Those Barbie dreams were far away back then.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Being a female rapper…” Nicki shrugged her shoulders. “You just have to play the game.”
“Sex, the male gaze.” I waved toward her body. “All that shit just to have your voice heard.”
Nicki nodded. But the bitterness didn’t manifest itself in tears or weakness. Just hardened toughness. “I had to play the freak. For every ‘Regret In Your Tears,’ I have to do three or four whackass sex songs.”
Showing support amidst the Queen’s self-reflection, I grinned. “Like ‘Anaconda’?”
Nicki laughed. “What! You don’t like-”
“God, I hate that song!”
Nicki grabbed my arm. “But you see my point, right!”
“I do. Definitely.”
Ruminating on the famed career, Nicki ran her hands along the notebook. Struggled to maintain eye contact. Obviously relieved for the deeper conversation… if uncomfortable. “That’s why I have to do all this shit. To do what I really want I have to shake my ass or flaunt my titties! It’s frustrating, man. To have to write some of these lyrics and keep being the freaky bitch for everyone… I mean for once I’d like to have Channing Tatum or someone give me a lapdance in a music video but that’d scare the ‘straight’ guys watching… I can’t objectify men for the serious money.” She looked right at me. A vague glimmer of defeat in her power. “Just myself.”
The words, the realities left me in a sad silence. I had even more empathy for Onika now. Especially after hearing this requiem for Nicki’s initial rap idealism.
“So you see,” Nicki said. “The sex sells, Rhonnie. That’s all that matters.” She pointed a red claw at me. “And that’s why we need more of it in the stories.”
“But we don’t!” I replied. “You don’t have to do-”
“Listen, if you’re wanting to do this full time, Rhonnie, you gotta compromise!” Nicki yelled in a voice driven by years of rage. Years of industry suppression.
I waved toward the studio. “But look, you have the money! You’ve already played their stupid fucking game!”
Nicki stared at me. The glasses hid any tears or melancholy. Then again, Nicki always hid it well. She had the perfect poise. The confidence necessary for a black woman to climb her way to the top of the entertainment food chain.
“We can just write the truth,” I continued. “You can write the songs you want to write. You don’t have to satisfy this fucking thirst from others who just watch you for the sex. You don’t have to make money off that shit anymore! You can be the great artist you are! The one you were born to be!”
Right before me, Nicki’s creative mind went into contemplation. “At this point, I’ve got no choice,” she said. “I need the money just like anyone else, Rhonnie.”
I groaned.
Snapping into scary Nicki, she lunged toward me. A fiery fervor consumed her. The red wig and fingernails made her a rap Goddess straight from Hell.
I got quiet real quick.
“Don’t you understand! I’ve got no choice, Rhonnie!” Nicki shouted. “I’m thirty-seven years old! There’s not much time for a woman in this industry to be the best, man!”
“I know,” I said in a low voice. “I’m sorry...”
More calm, Nicki leaned back. “I’m just glad I can talk about pegging now,” she admitted. “Hell, that’s some progress for female empowerment for you.”
“True… But I just think there’s nothing to lose by focusing more on your artistic vision. You don’t have to keep exploiting yourself-”
“Maybe I want to,” Nicki interrupted.
“What?”
With seductive slowness, Nicki creeped in closer. “Sometimes I like the attention.” She let out a confident cackle. “The thought of all those guys and girls finding me hot… I don’t know.” She bit her lip with erotic emphasis. “It turns me on.”
I grinned. “I’m not arguing with-”
Giving in to her natural theatrics, Nicki collapsed back on the chair. Now channeling her inner Bob Dylan. Her inner eccentric rock star. Letting all those quirks and tics whisk her away. “I mean yeah, it’s frustrating not to get to do my deeper songs all the time. To embrace being the artist I know I am... That’s what I really want, don’t get me wrong.” Holding my gaze hostage, she shrugged her shoulders. “But sometimes it’s sexy to play the star. To be all hot and beautiful... I like it sometimes...” She flashed that beaming smile. “And it gives me money. Power. Certainly helped me get you here.”
Nicki’s hands veered under the notebook. Stacking them on top of one another, she created a literal handmade dick. “It lets me do whatever I want to you, Rhonnie…” Moaning and grunting, Nicki pretended to peg me right then and there. Her thrusts always so aggressive. Even when she was only pretending to fuck me hard…
I couldn’t turn away. Nor couldn’t help but be aroused… Trying not to give in to the steamy sight, I sifted in my seat. Battled my rising bulge. “But still, there’s no way to ignore the money?” I asked. “Do the music that best captures you.”
Ignoring me, Nicki kept on with the imaginary fucking. Her grunts got louder. The Queen clearly nearing her orgasm…
Still I tried to steer us back on track. I moved in toward her. “Just make your own album about you and all these hot guys or you and your relationships,” I continued, my voice louder in an attempt to overpower Nicki’s carnal cries. “Instead of having to exploit your body so much, you can do more songs you care about!”
Cackling, Nicki sat up straight. She clapped her hands together.
“What?” I said.
“You’re funny. God… you’re always funny, Rhonnie.”
I revealed an amused smile. “Well, thanks...”
“I mean it!” Nicki pushed her dangling red hair back. “Oh shit.”
In the cold room, I hesitated. Struggling to stay serious and heartfelt amidst Nicki’s lingering laughter. “I don’t mean to sound like I’m judging you, Nicki because I’m not.” I felt her stare settle in on me. “You make a lot more than me and still can make great music… I just think you’re better than that.”
“And so are you,” Nicki said in a sharp reply.
Confused, I felt unease surge through me. My goofy smile couldn’t play it off either. “What do you mean?”
Armed with a wide grin, Nicki slowly crept closer toward me. “I told you this last time.” The two of us were now just inches apart. “I know allll about you, Rhonnie.”
Anxiety joined my unease. I now trembled...
“You like the attention too,” Nicki said. “I know you do!”
“So what are you trying to say?”
“I’m just proving my point.” Mrs. Majesty shrugged her shoulders. Her smirk slicing into me. “Sex sells.” She rested a hand on my knee. “You should know that as well as anyone.”
Warm sensations erupted inside me. I felt body heat. As if our emotional therapy session had morphed into a Skinemax porno...
“You’re the one that’s always posting on Reddit,” Nicki teased. “Letting all those horny desperate girls and guys ogle you like that. Jerking off to you... You fucking love it, don’t you?”
She had me. “Yeah,” I admitted.
Nicki now felt along my chest. “Your dick and ass pictures on ladyboners and gaybros. I know you do it, Rhonnie. I know alll about you remember...”
The room finally got hotter…
“Let’s go through those accounts, shall we,” Nicki pressed further. “Ronaldlongdick.”
I smiled at Nicki. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Ronaldlongdick77, unknownhorrorwriter.”
“That one was obvious...”
Nicki’s claws ran wild across my body. Fueled by her desire. Not that I was complaining…
“Bubblebutt4days,” Nicki continued. She let out a soft chuckle. “And rhonnie141414. Hmm, that’s sure discreet.”
“Yeah, that was when I was twenty-four, man...”
“But that’s the thing.” Nicki’s grip settled in on my thighs. “You know that account you deleted. Ronaldlongdick.”
“Yeah…”
Nicki got closer. The two of us now noses apart. “How many followers did it end up with?”
Not wanting to answer, I turned away.
“Come on now,” Nicki taunted. “You know how many, bitch.”
I gave her a defeated smirk. Knowing full well what she was about to say… And how she’d proven this harsh reality: sex sells.
“Thirteen hundred followers, Rhonnie!” Nicki shouted.
The inevitable set in. I nodded along with her. Overpowered by the Queen once more. “I know...”
Nicki purred with delight. “And compare that to your writing, huh? The rhonnie14 sub?” She nudged my chin. “How many?”
“Eight hundred and-”
“Five!” Nicki said with me. Her triumphant laugh blared.
Cornered by Nicki, I shrugged. “Well… you got me...”
“So think about this, Rhonnie. You’re more famous for that dick.” With excited delight, Nicki slid her hands on to my booty. “And that ass than your horror stories...”
“Thanks, Nicki,” I deadpanned. “I appreciate the support!”
Nicki chuckled as she squeezed tighter to my ass. “All I’m saying’s you gotta do what you gotta do to get famous, boo. To make real money.” She ran her hands along my abs. “And now that you’ve been working out, I can go ahead and tell you, you’d make bank flaunting all this on-line. Those down low brothas and thirstyass sistas would be all up on you.”
“Stop it!” I joked. “I can’t handle this many compliments.”
“Bitch, please!” Nicki gave me a shove before sitting back in her seat. “You love that shit and you know it! You know you do!”
“Naw, you’re right... You’re totally right.”
“All I’m saying’s they appreciate your body more than the Goddamn stories! The shit you bust your ass to write, but they’d rather see that big dick and booty than anything else! You gotta profit off that, babe!”
I smirked. “So what are you saying? That I become a male stripper or something?”
Nicki snorted with laughter. “Hell, maybe! But just think about these stories for instance. You mix sex with storytelling like I did with the raps, and you got something that’ll sell, Rhonnie!”
Goddamn, she made sense… I nodded in agreement. “I see.”
“Like this next one, just go crazy with it! You know the Barbz will eat it up. Me pegging this Zac Efron-looking writer and his fineass all over the place!”
“Man, you’re really on this Efron kick lately...”
Nicki readjusted her glasses. “Bieber too. Because y’all fine and kinda look alike. Kinda built alike.”
Genuinely flattered, I probably blushed. “Thanks.”
“But people are fucking dumb. That’s the shit you gotta do to get fans, boo!”
“Naw, you’re totally right...”
Nicki straightened the notebook. “Like write about Ashley pegging you, you showing your dick to dudes on-line. That’ll sell like crazy. More views, more readers. Exploit it!”
“I guess I’ll start now then. With these new stories and all, the series.”
Like a supportive coach, Nicki pointed toward me, hyping me up. “Exactly! You got this!”
Already the wheels were turning. The crazy scenarios I could write about the Minaj mansion.
“You and Ashley can always come back here too,” I heard Nicki say. “I’ll give y’all another vacation...”
I smiled at Nicki. “I bet you would.”
She opened the binder. “Hey, y’all sexy. And I got you dressing in those clothes I like.”
I felt on the shirt’s fine fabric. “Yeah, from like 2008.”
“Bitchhh….”
“But trust me, Ash’s ready…”
“I bet she’s tearing that ass up every night too...”
Playful, I gave Nicki a weirded out look.
Laughing, she flipped through a few pages. “You know I’m crazy as Hell.”
“No doubt…” And then I saw the joint tucked away toward the back of the binder... Pristine California grass. A pink lighter laying right beside it. Holy shit…
“But for real, I wanna help,” Nicki said. She picked up the j. “You need someone dominant guiding you. Like with you and Ashley.”
“Yeah.”
Nicki held the pot out toward me. “You think you can handle it?”
“Shit…” I stood up. “If I can handle what you did to me last time, I can take anything.”
With a Devilish laugh, Nicki flicked the lighter. The flame showcased a wild glint in her eyes. Further revealed the ferocious soul under that red wig...
It turns out I couldn’t handle it. The next few hours were a blur. A gonzo production directed by wine and the strongest pot I ever smoked. Shit got weird. Nicki and I’s conversations ranged from 90s horror movies to heteroflexibility (don’t ask). Our high happiness interspersed with hysteria. Maybe there was a kiss. More groping. I honestly can’t remember...
Hours later, I awoke from the Christmas cannabis. All to the tune of Maroon 5’s “Happy Xmas (War Is Over).” Adam Levine’s piercing falsetto a ringing church bell to my haze.
Shivering, I folded my arms. “Fuck…” I muttered. First, I was glad to be wearing the same MySpace-era wardrobe. To actually be in a fucking bed, much less my bedroom… Until I saw who was laying beside me: Nicki herself. She was out cold. Another bottle of wine clasped in her hands like a teddy bear. A Santa Claus hat blended into her wig. Now I realized I had a Santa hat draped over my swoop... But, at least we were both dressed and lying on the covers. Neither of us could get MeToo’d now.
Staying quiet, I snuck out of bed. I slipped around in my socks. My clumsy footsteps drowned out by Maroon 5’s holiday cheese.
I looked toward the open doorway. Out toward where the Christmas concert continued… from Nicki’s personal nightclub.
Glasses slid down my nose. Confused, I took them off… They were the purple Buddy Holly ones. The same pair Nicki gave me last time. I put them back on and looked over at the bed… Toward the resting Queen. Had she taken my contacts out for me? The gesture was odd… but still kinda sweet.
The holiday playlist changed to Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.” A pretty melody and even prettier voice. But one that should soothe Nicki to sleep for the time being...
Battling the migraine, I entered the hallway. Curiosity compelled me. Not to mention snacks, man.
I turned and looked down the hall. Toward the fateful Club Staff. Sextopia City. Now there was a light on inside the room… Even a faint chatter I could hear over this Christmas classic.
I took another step toward it. Now I heard multiple, muffled voices. It couldn’t have been the wax figures… Certainly, not Nicki herself. Sure, her range was supreme but not even she could hit those deeper male tones.
Uneasy, I looked on at the closed door. The room taunting me, tempting me. But it was too late for this shit… And I knew once I snuck in there, Club Staff would be hard to leave.
I proceeded through the rest of the mansion. Every clock read three A.M. The munchies made me stop once for those amazing cookies. And to my relief, there was no weed in them...
The barrage of standard Christmas crooners scored my journey. Stuck in the cold and surrounded by the decorations, I could even feel the holiday spirit.
I decided to dodge the nightclub. All the fucking bars. Through windows, I saw those powerful security lights bring daylight to the dead of night. Everything was illuminated. The pillars, the colors. All those fucking cameras. Nicki’s palace a fusion of government compound and wacky art exhibit.
I strayed into corridors unknown. Into yet another long hallway on the first floor. Fuck it, I was already lost in the Minaj maze. Then I saw a pair of wide-open double doors. The clinical lab lighting inside drew me in.
I stepped into the wide, vast space. The garage was fucking freezing... and there were quite a few cars in here. Quite a few crammed shelves and boxes. Only something was off… There was no style. Not a damn thing was pink.
Intrigued, I walked on through. Emulating a cheap detective. Dean Martin’s “Let It Snow!” echoed all around me… only the Christmas cheer was long gone by now. Replaced instead by rising unease.
The cars weren’t necessarily hideous. Just average. Used cars with lots of mileage. None of them any newer than 2016 models. Perfect for a blue-collar neighborhood or modest suburbia. But nothing befitting Nicki Minaj’s mansion.
The boxes and shelves offered more of the same mediocrity. Wrinkled clothes. Bland casual wear comprising of tee-shirts, jeans, and dresses. Nothing Nicki would touch much less showcase. Then there was the shitty jewelry. Obvious fake gold and silver. Yard sale fashion.
Scoffing, I glanced around the garage. Were all these items from the Queen’s pre-Minaj days? Mementos from her beloved past? Or was it just shit she planned on donating?
My handsome reflection caught my eye. I got a good glimpse of the perfect-fitting clothes.
A stained mirror leaned up against a set of rejected high school lockers. All of them with padlocks.
I stepped toward them. Tried yanking on those unwavering locker doors… I leaned in closer, peering through their metal’s holes. Clearly, shit was piled up inside. Hidden away. But why?
The mystery further unnerved me. My fear returned.
Then I heard a louder song: Burl Ives’ “Holly Jolly Christmas” blared through this mausoleum of a garage. The bells and chimes engulfed me. Trembling in the cold air, I looked toward the very back.
A window showcased Nicki’s sprawling backyard. Not to mention the different smaller buildings occupying the green acres. One larger shed caught my eye.... After all, who else would have a two story efficiency unit?
Much less one with two tall security guards stationed at the front door. Under the bright security lights, I saw the building’s windows were all boarded up. Spastic cameras hovering over it.
“What the fuck…” I said. Battling the nerves, I stepped closer to see another shed had the same set-up of guards and cameras. What exactly was going on...
All the while, no one saw me spying. The Queen’s guards remained silent and still. A 24/7 shield.
I felt a large pendulum bump into my ass… Then felt a pair of thirsty hands grab each cheek. Startled, I whirled around.
“Hey, boo!” rang that hypnotic voice.
There Nicki stood right behind me. Now dressed in casual booty shorts and a red tank top., she was barefoot and missing a wig. Her natural beauty a nice contrast to the trash treasure trove surrounding us. Her smile as enthusiastic as ever.
And of course, there was the strap. From her crotch, Nicki’s pink dildo danged down like a snake… A real anaconda brushing against my ass.
I staggered back out of fear… and maybe some excitement. “Whoa…”
Nicki cackled. “Did I scare you!”
“Uh, yeah.”
Singing along, Nicki swung the dildo to the tune of Burl Ives. To the beat of the “ding…. dong…. ding...” harmonies.
I stared on at her third leg. Intimidated by the size… yet hypnotized by Nicki’s passion. Her magnetism. “Really, Nicki,” I quipped.
Chuckling, Nicki ran a hand along my arm. “What? I wanted to surprise you!”
“With the fucking pinkosaurus?”
“Yeah, why not.” She leaned in closer. “You’re the one sneaking out...”
I stole one look out the window. Out toward the guards. The strange buildings. “I just couldn’t sleep,” I told the Queen.
Nicki squeezed my wrist in a death grip of passion. “I can fix that.”
Flashing a smile, I broke away from her spell. “Naw, I need to go lay down. I can’t keep up with you!”
“Maybe tomorrow then?” Nicki teased.
“Maybe!” I then walked through the valley of Christmas music. Right into Burl Ives’ joyous vocals. The entire time I felt Nicki’s hungry eyes watch me. Staring me down hard… Her smile driven by nothing but desire. I forced myself not to turn. The temptation too much… but my tired state helped me persevere against the gorgeous rapper.
“You better be glad I don’t get a shake weight on that ass!” I heard Nicki shout with sadistic glee.
14
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2020.01.17 11:05 leowr Hidden camera strip club sex

The results are finally in! First off, we would like to thank everyone that participated in this year’s contest by either nominating a book or voting. Below you will find an overview of this year’s winners, but don’t forget to check out the nomination threads for some other great nominations.
Here are the winners for the Best Books of 2019!
Best Literary and General Fiction of 2019 - Nomination Thread
Winner: Daisy Jones & The Six, by Taylor Jenkins Reid. Nominated by selahvg

Everyone knows Daisy Jones & The Six: The band's album Aurora came to define the rock 'n' roll era of the late seventies, and an entire generation of girls wanted to grow up to be Daisy. But no one knows the reason behind the group's split on the night of their final concert at Chicago Stadium on July 12, 1979 . . . until now.Daisy is a girl coming of age in L.A. in the late sixties, sneaking into clubs on the Sunset Strip, sleeping with rock stars, and dreaming of singing at the Whisky a Go Go. The sex and drugs are thrilling, but it’s the rock 'n' roll she loves most. By the time she’s twenty, her voice is getting noticed, and she has the kind of heedless beauty that makes people do crazy things.Also getting noticed is The Six, a band led by the brooding Billy Dunne. On the eve of their first tour, his girlfriend Camila finds out she’s pregnant, and with the pressure of impending fatherhood and fame, Billy goes a little wild on the road.Daisy and Billy cross paths when a producer realizes that the key to supercharged success is to put the two together. What happens next will become the stuff of legend.The making of that legend is chronicled in this riveting and unforgettable novel, written as an oral history of one of the biggest bands of the seventies. Taylor Jenkins Reid is a talented writer who takes her work to a new level with Daisy Jones & The Six, brilliantly capturing a place and time in an utterly distinctive voice.
2nd place: On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong. Nominated by coolyikes
On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous is a letter from a son to a mother who cannot read. Written when the speaker, Little Dog, is in his late twenties, the letter unearths a family's history that began before he was born — a history whose epicenter is rooted in Vietnam — and serves as a doorway into parts of his life his mother has never known, all of it leading to an unforgettable revelation. At once a witness to the fraught yet undeniable love between a single mother and her son, it is also a brutally honest exploration of race, class, and masculinity. Asking questions central to our American moment, immersed as we are in addiction, violence, and trauma, but undergirded by compassion and tenderness, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous is as much about the power of telling one's own story as it is about the obliterating silence of not being heard.With stunning urgency and grace, Ocean Vuong writes of people caught between disparate worlds, and asks how we heal and rescue one another without forsaking who we are. The question of how to survive, and how to make of it a kind of joy, powers the most important debut novel of many years.
3rd place: The Nickel Boys by Colson Whitehead. Nominated by archivistbuendia74
As the Civil Rights movement begins to reach the black enclave of Frenchtown in segregated Tallahassee, Elwood Curtis takes the words of Dr. Martin Luther King to heart: He is "as good as anyone." Abandoned by his parents, but kept on the straight and narrow by his grandmother, Elwood is about to enroll in the local black college. But for a black boy in the Jim Crow South in the early 1960s, one innocent mistake is enough to destroy the future. Elwood is sentenced to a juvenile reformatory called The Nickel Academy, whose mission statement says it provides "physical, intellectual and moral training" so the delinquent boys in their charge can become "honorable and honest men."In reality, The Nickel Academy is a grotesque chamber of horrors, where the sadistic staff beats and sexually abuses the students, corrupt officials and locals steal food and supplies, and any boy who resists is likely to disappear "out back." Stunned to find himself in such a vicious environment, Elwood tries to hold on to Dr. King's ringing assertion "Throw us in jail and we will still love you." His friend Turner thinks Elwood is worse than naive, that the world is crooked and the only way to survive is to scheme and avoid trouble.The tension between Elwood's ideals and Turner's skepticism leads to a decision whose repercussions will echo down the decades. Formed in the crucible of the evils Jim Crow wrought, the boys' fates will be determined by what they endured at The Nickel Academy.Based on the real story of a reform school in Florida that operated for one hundred and eleven years and warped the lives of thousands of children, The Nickel Boys is a devastating, driven narrative
Best Mystery and Thriller of 2019 - Nomination Thread
Winner: The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides. Nominated by carolbutthurt
Alicia Berenson’s life is seemingly perfect. A famous painter married to an in-demand fashion photographer, she lives in a grand house with big windows overlooking a park in one of London’s most desirable areas. One evening her husband Gabriel returns home late from a fashion shoot, and Alicia shoots him five times in the face, and then never speaks another word.Alicia’s refusal to talk, or give any kind of explanation, turns a domestic tragedy into something far grander, a mystery that captures the public imagination and casts Alicia into notoriety. The price of her art skyrockets, and she, the silent patient, is hidden away from the tabloids and spotlight at the Grove, a secure forensic unit in North London.Theo Faber is a criminal psychotherapist who has waited a long time for the opportunity to work with Alicia. His determination to get her to talk and unravel the mystery of why she shot her husband takes him down a twisting path into his own motivations—a search for the truth that threatens to consume him...
2nd place: The Turn of the Key, by Ruth Ware. Nominated by Bjenkss
When she stumbles across the ad, she’s looking for something else completely. But it seems like too good an opportunity to miss—a live-in nannying post, with a staggeringly generous salary. And when Rowan Caine arrives at Heatherbrae House, she is smitten—by the luxurious “smart” home fitted out with all modern conveniences, by the beautiful Scottish Highlands, and by this picture-perfect family.What she doesn’t know is that she’s stepping into a nightmare—one that will end with a child dead and herself in prison awaiting trial for murder.Writing to her lawyer from prison, she struggles to explain the unravelling events that led to her incarceration. It wasn’t just the constant surveillance from the cameras installed around the house, or the malfunctioning technology that woke the household with booming music, or turned the lights off at the worst possible time. It wasn’t just the girls, who turned out to be a far cry from the immaculately behaved model children she met at her interview. It wasn’t even the way she was left alone for weeks at a time, with no adults around apart from the enigmatic handyman, Jack Grant.It was everything.She knows she’s made mistakes. She admits that she lied to obtain the post, and that her behavior toward the children wasn’t always ideal. She’s not innocent, by any means. But, she maintains, she’s not guilty—at least not of murder. Which means someone else is.
3rd place: The Lost Causes of Bleak Creek, by Rhett McLaughlin & Link Neal. Nominated by Kidlike101
It's 1992 in Bleak Creek, North Carolina, a sleepy little place with all the trappings of an ordinary Southern town: two Baptist churches, friendly smiles coupled with silent judgments, and a seemingly unquenchable appetite for pork products. Beneath the town’s cheerful façade, however, Bleak Creek teens live in constant fear of being sent to The Whitewood School, a local reformatory with a record of putting unruly teens back on the straight and narrow—a record so impeccable that almost everyone is willing to ignore the mysterious deaths that have occurred there over the past decade.At first, high school freshmen Rex McClendon and Leif Nelson believe what they’ve been told—that the students’ strange demises were all tragic accidents. But when the shoot for their low-budget horror masterpiece, PolterDog, goes horribly awry—and their best friend, Candice Boykins, is sent to Whitewood as punishment—Rex and Leif are forced to question everything they know about their unassuming hometown and its cherished school for delinquents.Eager to rescue their friend, Rex and Leif pair up with recent NYU film school grad Janine Blitstein to begin piecing together the unsettling truth of the school and its mysterious founder, Wayne Whitewood. What they find, with Candice’s life hanging in the balance, will leave them battling an evil beyond their wildest teenage imaginations—one that will shake Bleak Creek to its core.
Best Science Fiction of 2019 - Nomination Thread
Winner: Recursion, by Blake Crouch. Nominated by supersonic3974
Memory makes reality.That’s what New York City cop Barry Sutton is learning as he investigates the devastating phenomenon the media has dubbed False Memory Syndrome—a mysterious affliction that drives its victims mad with memories of a life they never lived.That's what neuroscientist Helena Smith believes. It’s why she’s dedicated her life to creating a technology that will let us preserve our most precious memories. If she succeeds, anyone will be able to re-experience a first kiss, the birth of a child, the final moment with a dying parent. As Barry searches for the truth, he comes face-to-face with an opponent more terrifying than any disease—a force that attacks not just our minds but the very fabric of the past. And as its effects begin to unmake the world as we know it, only he and Helena, working together, will stand a chance at defeating it.
But how can they make a stand when reality itself is shifting and crumbling all around them?
2nd place: Exhalation, by Ted Chiang. Nominated by supersonic3974
This much-anticipated second collection of stories is signature Ted Chiang, full of revelatory ideas and deeply sympathetic characters. In "The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate," a portal through time forces a fabric seller in ancient Baghdad to grapple with past mistakes and the temptation of second chances. In the epistolary "Exhalation," an alien scientist makes a shocking discovery with ramifications not just for his own people, but for all of reality. And in "The Lifecycle of Software Objects," a woman cares for an artificial intelligence over twenty years, elevating a faddish digital pet into what might be a true living being. Also included are two brand-new stories: "Omphalos" and "Anxiety Is the Dizziness of Freedom."In this fantastical and elegant collection, Ted Chiang wrestles with the oldest questions on earth—What is the nature of the universe? What does it mean to be human?—and ones that no one else has even imagined. And, each in its own way, the stories prove that complex and thoughtful science fiction can rise to new heights of beauty, meaning, and compassion.
3rd place: Tiamat’s Wrath (The Expanse #8), by James S.A. Corey. Nominated by dwarftosser77
Thirteen hundred gates have opened to solar systems around the galaxy. But as humanity builds its interstellar empire in the alien ruins, the mysteries and threats grow deeper.In the dead systems where gates lead to stranger things than alien planets, Elvi Okoye begins a desperate search to discover the nature of a genocide that happened before the first human beings existed, and to find weapons to fight a war against forces at the edge of the imaginable. But the price of that knowledge may be higher than she can pay.At the heart of the empire, Teresa Duarte prepares to take on the burden of her father's godlike ambition. The sociopathic scientist Paolo Cortázar and the Mephistophelian prisoner James Holden are only two of the dangers in a palace thick with intrigue, but Teresa has a mind of her own and secrets even her father the emperor doesn't guess.And throughout the wide human empire, the scattered crew of the Rocinante fights a brave rear-guard action against Duarte's authoritarian regime. Memory of the old order falls away, and a future under Laconia's eternal rule -- and with it, a battle that humanity can only lose - seems more and more certain. Because against the terrors that lie between worlds, courage and ambition will not be enough...
Best Fantasy of 2019 - Nomination Thread
Winner: A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1), by Joe Abercrombie. Nominated by Pepe_Silviaa
The chimneys of industry rise over Adua and the world seethes with new opportunities. But old scores run deep as ever.On the blood-soaked borders of Angland, Leo dan Brock struggles to win fame on the battlefield, and defeat the marauding armies of Stour Nightfall. He hopes for help from the crown. But King Jezal's son, the feckless Prince Orso, is a man who specializes in disappointments.Savine dan Glokta - socialite, investor, and daughter of the most feared man in the Union - plans to claw her way to the top of the slag-heap of society by any means necessary. But the slums boil over with a rage that all the money in the world cannot control.The age of the machine dawns, but the age of magic refuses to die. With the help of the mad hillwoman Isern-i-Phail, Rikke struggles to control the blessing, or the curse, of the Long Eye. Glimpsing the future is one thing, but with the guiding hand of the First of the Magi still pulling the strings, changing it will be quite another...
2nd place: The Starless Sea, by Erin Morgenstern. Nominated by alittlebitmaybe
Far beneath the surface of the earth, upon the shores of the Starless Sea, there is a labyrinthine collection of tunnels and rooms filled with stories. The entryways that lead to this sanctuary are often hidden, sometimes on forest floors, sometimes in private homes, sometimes in plain sight. But those who seek will find. Their doors have been waiting for them.Zachary Ezra Rawlins is searching for his door, though he does not know it. He follows a silent siren song, an inexplicable knowledge that he is meant for another place. When he discovers a mysterious book in the stacks of his campus library he begins to read, entranced by tales of lovelorn prisoners, lost cities, and nameless acolytes. Suddenly a turn of the page brings Zachary to a story from his own childhood impossibly written in this book that is older than he is.A bee, a key, and a sword emblazoned on the book lead Zachary to two people who will change the course of his life: Mirabel, a fierce, pink-haired painter, and Dorian, a handsome, barefoot man with shifting alliances. These strangers guide Zachary through masquerade party dances and whispered back room stories to the headquarters of a secret society where doorknobs hang from ribbons, and finally through a door conjured from paint to the place he has always yearned for. Amid twisting tunnels filled with books, gilded ballrooms, and wine-dark shores Zachary falls into an intoxicating world soaked in romance and mystery. But a battle is raging over the fate of this place and though there are those who would willingly sacrifice everything to protect it, there are just as many intent on its destruction. As Zachary, Mirabel, and Dorian venture deeper into the space and its histories and myths, searching for answers and each other, a timeless love story unspools, casting a spell of pirates, painters, lovers, liars, and ships that sail upon a Starless Sea.
3rd place: Ninth House (Alex Stern #1), by Leigh Bardugo. Nominated by insufurabelle
Galaxy “Alex” Stern is the most unlikely member of Yale’s freshman class. Raised in the Los Angeles hinterlands by a hippie mom, Alex dropped out of school early and into a world of shady drug dealer boyfriends, dead-end jobs, and much, much worse. By age twenty, in fact, she is the sole survivor of a horrific, unsolved multiple homicide. Some might say she’s thrown her life away. But at her hospital bed, Alex is offered a second chance: to attend one of the world’s most elite universities on a full ride. What’s the catch, and why her?Still searching for answers to this herself, Alex arrives in New Haven tasked by her mysterious benefactors with monitoring the activities of Yale’s secret societies. These eight windowless “tombs” are well-known to be haunts of the future rich and powerful, from high-ranking politicos to Wall Street and Hollywood’s biggest players. But their occult activities are revealed to be more sinister and more extraordinary than any paranoid imagination might conceive.
Best Non-Fiction of 2019 - Nomination Thread
Winner: Say Nothing: A True Story of Murder and Memory in Nothern Ireland, by Patrick Radden Keefe. Nominated by candlesandpretense
In December 1972, Jean McConville, a thirty-eight-year-old mother of ten, was dragged from her Belfast home by masked intruders, her children clinging to her legs. They never saw her again. Her abduction was one of the most notorious episodes of the vicious conflict known as The Troubles. Everyone in the neighborhood knew the I.R.A. was responsible. But in a climate of fear and paranoia, no one would speak of it. In 2003, five years after an accord brought an uneasy peace to Northern Ireland, a set of human bones was discovered on a beach. McConville’s children knew it was their mother when they were told a blue safety pin was attached to the dress–with so many kids, she had always kept it handy for diapers or ripped clothes.Patrick Radden Keefe’s mesmerizing book on the bitter conflict in Northern Ireland and its aftermath uses the McConville case as a starting point for the tale of a society wracked by a violent guerrilla war, a war whose consequences have never been reckoned with. The brutal violence seared not only people like the McConville children, but also I.R.A. members embittered by a peace that fell far short of the goal of a united Ireland, and left them wondering whether the killings they committed were not justified acts of war, but simple murders. From radical and impetuous I.R.A. terrorists such as Dolours Price, who, when she was barely out of her teens, was already planting bombs in London and targeting informers for execution, to the ferocious I.R.A. mastermind known as The Dark, to the spy games and dirty schemes of the British Army, to Gerry Adams, who negotiated the peace but betrayed his hardcore comrades by denying his I.R.A. past–Say Nothing conjures a world of passion, betrayal, vengeance, and anguish.
2nd place: Catch and Kill: Lies, Spies, and a Conspiracy to Protect Predators, by Ronan Farrow. Nominated by candlesandpretense
In 2017, a routine network television investigation led Ronan Farrow to a story only whispered about: one of Hollywood's most powerful producers was a predator, protected by fear, wealth, and a conspiracy of silence. As Farrow drew closer to the truth, shadowy operatives, from high-priced lawyers to elite war-hardened spies, mounted a secret campaign of intimidation, threatening his career, following his every move, and weaponizing an account of abuse in his own family.All the while, Farrow and his producer faced a degree of resistance they could not explain -- until now. And a trail of clues revealed corruption and cover-ups from Hollywood to Washington and beyond.This is the untold story of the exotic tactics of surveillance and intimidation deployed by wealthy and connected men to threaten journalists, evade accountability, and silence victims of abuse. And it's the story of the women who risked everything to expose the truth and spark a global movement.Both a spy thriller and a meticulous work of investigative journalism, Catch and Kill breaks devastating new stories about the rampant abuse of power and sheds far-reaching light on investigations that shook our culture.
3rd place: Permanent Record, by Edward Snowden. Nominated by spitfire8125
In 2013, twenty-nine-year-old Edward Snowden shocked the world when he broke with the American intelligence establishment and revealed that the United States government was secretly pursuing the means to collect every single phone call, text message, and email. The result would be an unprecedented system of mass surveillance with the ability to pry into the private lives of every person on earth. Six years later, Snowden reveals for the very first time how he helped to build this system and why he was moved to expose it.Spanning the bucolic Beltway suburbs of his childhood and the clandestine CIA and NSA postings of his adulthood, Permanent Record is the extraordinary account of a bright young man who grew up online—a man who became a spy, a whistleblower, and, in exile, the Internet’s conscience. Written with wit, grace, passion, and an unflinching candor, Permanent Record is a crucial memoir of our digital age and destined to be a classic.
Best YA Novel of 2019 - Nomination Thread
Winner: Starsight (Skyward #2), by Brandon Sanderson. Nominated by steveste1
All her life, Spensa has dreamed of becoming a pilot. Of proving she's a hero like her father. She made it to the sky, but the truths she learned about her father were crushing.Spensa is sure there's more to the story. And she's sure that whatever happened to her father in his starship could happen to her. When she made it outside the protective shell of her planet, she heard the stars--and it was terrifying. Everything Spensa has been taught about her world is a lie.But Spensa also discovered a few other things about herself--and she'll travel to the end of the galaxy to save humankind if she needs to.
2nd place: The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3), by Neal Shusteman. Nominated by rowan_damisch
It’s been three years since Rowan and Citra disappeared; since Scythe Goddard came into power; since the Thunderhead closed itself off to everyone but Grayson Tolliver.In this pulse-pounding conclusion to New York Times bestselling author Neal Shusterman’s Arc of a Scythe trilogy, constitutions are tested and old friends are brought back from the dead.
2nd place: On The Come Up, by Angie Thomas. Nominated by cubansombrero
Sixteen-year-old Bri wants to be one of the greatest rappers of all time. Or at least make it out of her neighborhood one day. As the daughter of an underground rap legend who died before he hit big, Bri’s got big shoes to fill. But now that her mom has unexpectedly lost her job, food banks and shutoff notices are as much a part of Bri’s life as beats and rhymes. With bills piling up and homelessness staring her family down, Bri no longer just wants to make it—she has to make it.On the Come Up is Angie Thomas’s homage to hip-hop, the art that sparked her passion for storytelling and continues to inspire her to this day. It is the story of fighting for your dreams, even as the odds are stacked against you; of the struggle to become who you are and not who everyone expects you to be; and of the desperate realities of poor and working-class black families.
3rd place: The Queen of Nothing (The Folk of the Air #3), by Holly Black. Nominated by tracyerickson
He will be destruction of the crown and the ruination of the throne.Power is much easier to acquire than it is to hold onto. Jude learned this lesson when she released her control over the wicked king, Cardan, in exchange for immeasurable power.Now as the exiled mortal Queen of Faerie, Jude is powerless and left reeling from Cardan’s betrayal. She bides her time determined to reclaim everything he took from her. Opportunity arrives in the form of her deceptive twin sister, Taryn, whose mortal life is in peril.Jude must risk venturing back into the treacherous Faerie Court, and confront her lingering feelings for Cardan, if she wishes to save her sister. But Elfhame is not as she left it. War is brewing. As Jude slips deep within enemy lines she becomes ensnared in the conflict’s bloody politics.And, when a dormant yet powerful curse is unleashed, panic spreads throughout the land, forcing her to choose between her ambition and her humanity…
Best Debut Novel of 2019 - Nomination Thread
Winner: On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong. Nominated by microcline
On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous is a letter from a son to a mother who cannot read. Written when the speaker, Little Dog, is in his late twenties, the letter unearths a family's history that began before he was born — a history whose epicenter is rooted in Vietnam — and serves as a doorway into parts of his life his mother has never known, all of it leading to an unforgettable revelation. At once a witness to the fraught yet undeniable love between a single mother and her son, it is also a brutally honest exploration of race, class, and masculinity. Asking questions central to our American moment, immersed as we are in addiction, violence, and trauma, but undergirded by compassion and tenderness, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous is as much about the power of telling one's own story as it is about the obliterating silence of not being heard.With stunning urgency and grace, Ocean Vuong writes of people caught between disparate worlds, and asks how we heal and rescue one another without forsaking who we are. The question of how to survive, and how to make of it a kind of joy, powers the most important debut novel of many years.
2nd place: Red, White & Royal Blue, by Casey McQuiston. Nominated by lunarav
What happens when America's First Son falls in love with the Prince of Wales?When his mother became President, Alex Claremont-Diaz was promptly cast as the American equivalent of a young royal. Handsome, charismatic, genius—his image is pure millennial-marketing gold for the White House. There's only one problem: Alex has a beef with the actual prince, Henry, across the pond. And when the tabloids get hold of a photo involving an Alex-Henry altercation, U.S./British relations take a turn for the worse.Heads of family, state, and other handlers devise a plan for damage control: staging a truce between the two rivals. What at first begins as a fake, Instragramable friendship grows deeper, and more dangerous, than either Alex or Henry could have imagined. Soon Alex finds himself hurtling into a secret romance with a surprisingly unstuffy Henry that could derail the campaign and upend two nations and begs the question: Can love save the world after all? Where do we find the courage, and the power, to be the people we are meant to be? And how can we learn to let our true colors shine through? Casey McQuiston's Red, White & Royal Blue proves: true love isn't always diplomatic.
3rd place: The Silent Patient, by Alex Michaelides. Nominated by cmkv
Alicia Berenson’s life is seemingly perfect. A famous painter married to an in-demand fashion photographer, she lives in a grand house with big windows overlooking a park in one of London’s most desirable areas. One evening her husband Gabriel returns home late from a fashion shoot, and Alicia shoots him five times in the face, and then never speaks another word.Alicia’s refusal to talk, or give any kind of explanation, turns a domestic tragedy into something far grander, a mystery that captures the public imagination and casts Alicia into notoriety. The price of her art skyrockets, and she, the silent patient, is hidden away from the tabloids and spotlight at the Grove, a secure forensic unit in North London.Theo Faber is a criminal psychotherapist who has waited a long time for the opportunity to work with Alicia. His determination to get her to talk and unravel the mystery of why she shot her husband takes him down a twisting path into his own motivations—a search for the truth that threatens to consume him...
Best Short Story Collection of 2019 - Nomination Thread
Winner: Exhalation, by Ted Chiang. Nominated by Speaker4theRest
This much-anticipated second collection of stories is signature Ted Chiang, full of revelatory ideas and deeply sympathetic characters. In "The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate," a portal through time forces a fabric seller in ancient Baghdad to grapple with past mistakes and the temptation of second chances. In the epistolary "Exhalation," an alien scientist makes a shocking discovery with ramifications not just for his own people, but for all of reality. And in "The Lifecycle of Software Objects," a woman cares for an artificial intelligence over twenty years, elevating a faddish digital pet into what might be a true living being. Also included are two brand-new stories: "Omphalos" and "Anxiety Is the Dizziness of Freedom."In this fantastical and elegant collection, Ted Chiang wrestles with the oldest questions on earth—What is the nature of the universe? What does it mean to be human?—and ones that no one else has even imagined. And, each in its own way, the stories prove that complex and thoughtful science fiction can rise to new heights of beauty, meaning, and compassion.
Best Graphic Novel of 2019 - Nomination Thread
Winner: They Called Us Enemy by George Takai, Justin Eisinger, Steven Scott, and Harmony Becker. Nominated by ME24601
Long before George Takei braved new frontiers in Star Trek, he woke up as a four-year-old boy to find his own birth country at war with his father's -- and their entire family forced from their home into an uncertain future.In 1942, at the order of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, every person of Japanese descent on the west coast was rounded up and shipped to one of ten "relocation centers," hundreds or thousands of miles from home, where they would be held for years under armed guard.They Called Us Enemy is Takei's firsthand account of those years behind barbed wire, the joys and terrors of growing up under legalized racism, his mother's hard choices, his father's faith in democracy, and the way those experiences planted the seeds for his astonishing future.
Best Poetry of 2019 - Nomination Thread
Winner: Shout, by Laurie Halse Anderson. Nominated by CrazyCatLadyForLife
Bestselling author Laurie Halse Anderson is known for the unflinching way she writes about, and advocates for, survivors of sexual assault. Now, inspired by her fans and enraged by how little in our culture has changed since her groundbreaking novel Speak was first published twenty years ago, she has written a poetry memoir that is as vulnerable as it is rallying, as timely as it is timeless. In free verse, Anderson shares reflections, rants, and calls to action woven between deeply personal stories from her life that she's never written about before. Searing and soul-searching, this important memoir is a denouncement of our society's failures and a love letter to all the people with the courage to say #metoo and #timesup, whether aloud, online, or only in their own hearts. Shout speaks truth to power in a loud, clear voice-- and once you hear it, it is impossible to ignore.
Again, thank you to everyone that participated.
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2019.10.19 07:09 Aquareon Club sex camera hidden strip

“Dating’s an astonishingly expensive hobby, when you tally it all up.” Diane looked up from her coffee at me, eye roll pending clarification. “That’s an ugly way to look at it” she grumbled.
“It really is though. Look at all the costly, big-ticket items I don’t actually need to live my life. A nice car, a house, fancy clothing. I only need that stuff to impress women. If I were content to live out my life as a bachelor, I could do so on a tiny fraction of my current income.”
She at last rolled her eyes and heaved out a disgusted sigh, resigned to having this conversation again for the umpteenth time. “You’re looking at it wrong. All those things are just milestones in life. Achievements you should have aspired to anyway for reasons other than romance or sex.”
With my ambition to start my own business now up in flames, it was unclear to me why I shouldn’t just give up. Live out the rest of my life in the cheapest studio apartment I could find, getting high and playing video games until my junk food diet and lack of bodily movement stops my heart.
“Nobody’s out there looking for somebody who only grew up because they had to” she explained. “Nobody wants a man who resents needing to improve and uplift himself. You’re supposed to just...already be that guy. You’re supposed to already have that stuff.”
What, just because it would work out nicely for her life to meet a dude that’s handsome and loaded? She nodded in seeming affirmation. “Isn’t that basically just the grown up version of every little girl’s fantasy?” I asked. “The one where they get to be a princess just because a good looking prince who owns his own castle comes along and-”
She pinched the bridge of her nose the way one does in response to an ice cream headache, gesturing with her other hand for me to stop talking. That’s never worked before, I don’t know why she thinks it will today.
“What happened to the abolition of gender roles?” I continued. “Women can be whatever they want, but men still have to be providers? I mean, I’m sure they don’t use that specific word. But they expect suitors to be wealthy and accomplished despite women displacing men in high paid positions at a historically unprecedented rate. That’s a recipe for disappointment.”
She began to make some glib throwaway joke about how I’m the disappointment, but perhaps due to sleep deprivation, it didn’t quite come together. She laughed anyway. “Feminism doesn’t mean you can be a broke ass bum and still get laid. It’s not magic.”
I complained that it’s a raw deal. That for women, things have changed radically for the better. But for men, things have stayed more or less the same, because successful women don’t want to settle for the men they’ve replaced. Diane repeated it back to me in a comical nasally voice and called me a whiner.
“You must like something about me. We dated after all.” She was quick to jump in and remind me that it was only one date. “You’re interesting! I like your mind. Watching you transplant your life here, chasing your dreams, has been an inspiration. You really are charming in your own strange, proprietary way.”
She trailed off, so I filled in the silence. “...But I need more money.” Diane shrugged. “You’re trying to make it sound like women are gold diggers. Like your car and home are what they’re after. What they’re after is a man with a future. Someone that’s proved he can earn. Like the bird from that old meme, who builds a nest so Becky will give him sum fuk.”
I smiled despite myself. As usual Diane found a way to word it so that I couldn’t disagree without feeling wildly unreasonable. I don’t yet know if that means she’s right, or just good at argument. “Tell me what to fix, then.”
She looked caught off guard. “Hey, don’t do that to me. Don’t put me on the spot and ask me to evaluate you like that.” I promised I was made from tougher stuff than that. “Give it to me straight.” I demanded. “Brutal honesty.”
She slowly breathed in, lips pursed, eyeballing me head to toe. As much as possible given that we were both seated, with a table between us. “You need a new wardrobe.” I balked. “What’s wrong with my clothes? Do you know how much these cost?”
She pointed out that I’d asked for brutal honesty. So I relented, and invited her to continue. “I’m sure they cost plenty! But you dress in a way that would impress men, not women. Is it men you’re after?” I shook my head.
“Alright, then you need a new wardrobe. You have more gay friends than any straight guy I know, you have no excuses. Ask one of them to pick out some clothes for you.” I pulled out my phone and made note of it, sending a text to Anthony asking when he was free to go clothes shopping with me. It’ll be nice to hang out one more time before I go. Still no idea how I’ll say goodbye.
“Next up, chew with your mouth closed. For one thing, you have bad teeth. For another, what are you? Six years old, raised in a barn, or both?” Had to give her that one, it’s a bad habit. My teeth really are noticeably crooked too.
Much to the consternation of my parents, having paid big bucks to the orthodontist, my teeth just kinda settled back the way they were after the braces came off. I added that note under the first and prodded her for more. She looked hesitant. “Come on” I urged. “You promised.”
Diane shifted uncomfortably in her seat. I asked if my car was the problem. “No, for fuck’s sake, your car is fine. You always find some way to bring that up, have you noticed? You’re so convinced it’s all about possessions.” I reminded her clothing counts as possessions.
“Yeah but nobody you take out to dinner is gonna ask to see the price tags on your clothes. It’s more about general aesthetic presentation and convincing her you’re competent. You have your shit together. You can groom yourself properly, you can tie a tie, basic adulting.”
Man I hate that word. “Adulting, huh. That’s actually the main reason I asked you to meet me today.” Her expression shifted from irritated to concerned. “Is it something to do with the startup?” I nodded, and searched for the words I wanted. Not finding anything suitable in a hurry, I just blurted it out.
“I’m giving up. The numbers don’t work out. I’m not in the red yet, but there’s no point waiting for the inevitable. By calling it quits early I can avoid going into debt.” She seemed even more aghast than I was. She’d always wanted to see me succeed, being the motherly type.
“What about your savings? You had more than ten grand squirreled away from the crypto boom a few years ago, last I knew.” What little the government let me keep, after taxes. “I didn’t want to blow all of it on keeping the dream alive for another couple months, because I knew I’d need some left to move back home if things didn’t work out.”
She frowned. Here comes the judgement. Here comes the disappointment. May as well get used to it coming from her, before I’ve got to face my parents. “Some people would say that was planning for failure” she remarked.
“Yeah? Well, it’s easy to play armchair quarterback when you don’t have any skin in the game.” It came out a touch harsher than I intended. She did look a little bit wounded, but I’d not crossed any line so terrible that I should bother apologizing.
“So...that’s it? You move here, you get your own business off the ground...with my help, I might add...then what? You give up on your dreams and run home, tail between your legs?” My turn to wince. She made it sound like I wanted it to turn out this way.
“...Yeah, I guess that’s about the size of it. I tried, okay? I really gave it everything I had. But not everybody can be a winner. Now that it’s finally come crashing down around my ears, I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m tired, Diane. I just...I want to go home.”
A white sedan startled me, zooming past at what must’ve been fifteen to twenty miles over the speed limit. I cursed him briefly, but then wondered if perhaps I was the real idiot for not doing the same. At three in the morning, the densely forested highway was so empty that I’d stopped bothering to keep an eye out for other cars in the rear view mirror.
Even a minute later, my heartbeat hadn’t slowed much. I popped another caffeine pill, the most likely reason for it. My eyes felt dry and helplessly wide. The weight which normally pulls your lids down when you’re tired was instead pinning mine firmly open. It was a struggle even to blink.
My brain felt fried, and my head felt tightly compressed. I could sense every individual hair poking out of my scalp as the gently recirculated interior air moved through it. I briefly smelled a skunk, traces of the odor carried into the car through the ventilation system.
I heard and felt a low vibration. My right tire, straying just slightly onto the rough strip lining the edge of the road to startle sleepy drivers to wakefulness...before they make an “unplanned off-road detour”.
I shook my head as if to clear it, and sharpen my vision. That’s never worked before. I’m not sure why I thought it would this time. Slow learner I guess. The solid pair of parallel yellow lines dividing the east and west going lanes seemed to fade into nothingness only fifty feet or so ahead of me.
Fog. Thick, nasty, soupy fog which assaulted my windshield as my car plowed through one bank of it after another. I could tell how wet it was by the intermittent increases in interior humidity which followed.
The sort of weather which makes you glad to be inside something warm, dry and relatively watertight. A short rain earlier gave my car a free and thorough washing, but since then the sky seemed to be clearing up. Visibility would be fine if not for this damned fog.
The closest thing to an accident I’ve ever been in happened in fog like this. A heron flew unexpectedly out of the fog, right into my windshield. I didn’t bother to swerve as I figured that would accomplish nothing except to kill me too.
I did pull over to see if the heron survived, however. It lay contorted in a growing pool of blood, some thirty or so feet behind my stopped car. The surprising thing was the neck. Bird necks look so short while they’re alive because most of it’s retracted, hidden amongst their feathers.
Once they’re dead it’s a different story. Their neck goes limp and stretches out so you can see all of it, like a wet noodle. So impossibly long! I’d have preferred to learn about that some other way. There was nothing to be done, death was instantaneous. Some lucky bear or wolf scored a free breakfast that day.
The memory made me suddenly paranoid. I peered at the rear view mirror, expecting another speeder to be bearing down on me from the rear. Of course, nothing. That white sedan was the only other soul I’d seen on this tediously long, wet stretch of highway in the past hour.
I hope he had a better reason than mine to be out here, stuck behind the wheel in the early morning hours. On my way from Michigan back to Colorado following the failure of that damned startup I put everything I had into.
Running back home to Mommy and Daddy with my tail tucked between my legs. An unbearable humiliation after the years of optimistic excitement and back breaking labor that were ultimately wasted. Only when you try to escape the rat race by starting your own business do you discover why more people don’t attempt it.
It’s an excellent way to destroy your finances and waste multiple years of your life. I read somewhere that I ought to shoot for the Moon, because even if I missed I’d at least be among the stars. It never made much sense to me.
If I missed the Moon, I’d just drift helplessly through the endless black void of space until I ran out of oxygen. Not entirely unlike the seemingly endless drive home. Google Maps said nineteen hours, but that assumes no stops.
I could sleep in my car if I had to. I did it before in a Wal-Mart parking lot, on the way from Colorado to Michigan. Before I met Diane. Before everything blew up up my face. Not my proudest moment, but at least I wasn’t hassled by cops. There were dozens of camper vans and trailers parked in the far reaches of the lot as well. Their semi-permanent place of residence, most likely.
I remember waking up to the sound of a couple fighting. The kind of knock down, drag out, ugly fight you only see on either Jerry Springer or C.O.P.S., depending how violent it becomes. A woman in a pink tank top and flip flops, so obese I could only barely discern she was pregnant, stumbled backwards out of a well worn RV.
“That’s what I fuckin’ told you, but you said not to do it!” she bellowed, pointing to an unseen man obscured by the darkness just inside the RV’s door. Incomprehensible male shouting followed. Then there was this elderly woman, stumbling back to her RV with a coffee, a donut and a plastic bag of toiletries. Stuff I’ll bet she bought from the same Wal Mart, every morning.
I soberly reflected on the grim realities of such an existence. Mostly how, if not for unusually patient and supportive parents, I would probably wind up living in a place like that. The back seats of my car fold down nearly flat. I only didn’t sleep back there because I didn’t have any bedding at the time.
I’ve seen plenty of shit on television and social media about how trendy and eco conscious it is to live in a modified van, or tiny home. Basically just a nicer looking trailer. The cynical side of me suspects it’s a propaganda effort, intended by the Rupert Murdochs of the world to make poverty seem more appealing.
As if living in a fancy trailer, or in a vehicle, is a step up in life rather than a step down. Or like the articles you see every so often about how we ought to start eating insects as a more sustainable source of protein. I’ll start eating ‘em when I see rich people doing it, not before.
Misery loves company, right? Yet I found little solace in the notion of a future America paved over with one gigantic parking lot, filled from one horizon to the other by RVs, camper vans and trailers. The working and renting class, suckling desperately like so many skinny piglets at the withered teat of the ownership class, visiting whichever Wal Mart is nearest for their daily gruel.
I banished the thought. Just a fever dream, born of sleep deprivation. I’m not yet beaten, and will never allow myself to fall that far! Diane was right. Planning for failure often precipitates it. The comfier you make your safety net, the more likely you are to make use of it, if only because you get in the habit of viewing it as an acceptable option.
That’s more or less how I wound up out here. Cruising down a barren highway shrouded in thick, wet fog, on my way to move back in with my parents. Perhaps devising a better plan B might’ve been wise. Hindsight is 20/20, except at three thirty in the morning, when your eyes are bloodshot and starting to swell.
I checked the rear view mirror again. This car has massive pillars to either side of the windshield which just exactly block your view of whatever’s coming at you from the opposite direction in a turn. I’d love to be a fly on the wall when the engineers brought that to the attention of their managers.
They must’ve weighed the cost of recall or redesign against the probable cost of lawsuits over the lifespan of that particular model, deciding the latter was more affordable. The kind of ruthless calculation which does not hesitate to assign a specific dollar figure to human lives.
Listen to me. Is it the caffeine? Even weed doesn’t make me this paranoid. All sorts of dark, alien ideas swarm about inside of my skull as I struggle to smoothly follow the curvature of the highway. The white lines are the hardest to see in these conditions, mostly because of how reflective the asphalt becomes when wet.
Though I’d been trying not to wallow in self pity since closing up shop, that proved more easily said than done. There’s this little voice in my head that ridicules me whenever I feel sorry for myself. It sounds suspiciously similar to my Dad. Helpful, most of the time. Tonight it can’t stop me from agonizing over what’s happened though. Mostly because of consequences so plentiful that they didn’t occur to me all at once, but in a staggered fashion.
Every time I realized another way in which my failure to launch would make the coming years brutally miserable, it was like a wound in the process of healing was torn open again. Over and over, the pain of each new realization never diminishing.
Dating. There’s no way I’ll be able to get dates now! A man in his thirties, living with his parents? Forget about it. Never mind the high cost of housing, or stagnating wages. Never mind that more men in my age range are living with their parents than ever before in this country’s history.
When you’re searching for the best you can get, excuses won’t sway you. Even as you curse the unreachably high standards of employers, who want five years of experience and a college diploma for a job stacking boxes in a warehouse, you’re nevertheless exactly as ruthless when screening members of the opposite sex.
Like we’re all little tyrants of the small kingdoms that are our lives, resenting anybody who rules over us, even though we’re every bit as uncompromising. At least I have a nice car. That’s something, surely?
A nice car, a good job and lots of savings. A house too, until I sold it. Oh, and you’ve got to be over six feet. If you’re not, none of those other things count for shit. It’s funny how many boxes you can tick, but still not make the grade.
I stay in decent shape by running, and have the good fortune to be a naturally tall, broad shouldered man. Though I don’t often appreciate it while driving as the top of my head just barely brushes the ceiling. But I’m broke now. Part of me scorned the materialism of anybody who would turn me away because of that.
But in their shoes, would I want to date somebody in poor financial shape? Doubtful. Not because of classism, or the desire to benefit from somebody else’s wealth, but because nobody wants to date someone with no future. Someone they have to pay for whenever they eat out, whose idea of a good date is whatever’s free.
There’s got to be some formula they use, where each factor is weighted differently, starting with height. Height, minus weight, multiplied by the sticker price of your car, divided by the model year, plus the square footage of your house, multiplied by the area code it’s in, minus the number of mortgage payments remaining, that sort of thing.
It’s hard to stay mad about that stuff for long without feeling like a hypocrite. After all, how many attractive single mothers have I swiped left on? How many fat women and transexuals have I summarily rejected without reading word one of their profiles? The greatest truth of humanity is that we’re all as bad as each other.
Some in different ways than the rest. Some hide it more effectively, but we can hardly protest our individual worth being brutally judged on an open market by employers or prospective lovers when in private, we discriminate just as ruthlessly.
I suppose I could lie. Tell her I’m some kind of bigshot. Put off revealing where I go home to after each date in the hopes she’ll find me so charming that she won’t care, when at last my disappointing secret is discovered. But then I’d be a hypocrite for complaining if, a dozen dates in, she pulls the ‘ol Pickle Surprise on me.
Had I been better rested and not so lost in thought, I might’ve noticed the abrupt curve in the road rushing towards me. Now I understand why driving while exhausted is punished nearly as harshly as driving drunk. It really is treacherously similar.
I swerved, hoping perhaps I could drift around it or something. Not in this absolute boat of an automobile. I slammed on the brakes, but that only made it worse. Now fully hydroplaning, I crashed through the steel guard rail at the edge of the road.
What followed was a terrifying blur, punctuated by painful blows to my head, limbs and ribcage as the car tumbled around me. I must’ve passed out when it impacted a tree thick enough to stop it, at last arresting it’s violent somersault down the densely forested hill.
When I next awoke, it was drizzling lightly. As I slowly regained my senses, I worried some of the rain might be leaking into the car because of a wet sensation on my face. But when I touched it and examined my fingers, I found it was blood.
I glanced at the clock. Four in the morning. The first of many surprises. Was I really only out for a few minutes? I felt as if waking up from a ten year coma. Every joint in my body ached as though I’d never used it.
The car at least looked to be mostly upright, at only a slight angle. Propped up on one side by the tree which stopped it. Because I wasn’t thinking clearly, the first thing I did was give it some gas. I guess hoping I might somehow climb the embankment, back onto the highway.
The engine was still running, and the wheels spun mightily...but to no avail. Even when I floored it, the car didn’t budge by even an inch. I’d really wedged it tightly between the tree and the earthen incline.
Glancing out the side window gave me reason to second guess the wisdom of trying to dislodge my ride. The steep embankment continued down far enough that fog concealed the point where it levels off. I let off the gas, sighed, and removed the key. Next I popped open the glove compartment. A small avalanche of Taco Bell hot sauce packets fell out.
Why I keep saving them, I don’t know. Maybe hot sauce packets will be the new currency after the bombs drop? Behind them I found some napkins, which I used to wipe my face. When I folded down the visor and examined myself in the mirror, I discovered all the napkins really accomplished was to smear the blood around.
The wound was mercifully less serious than feared. Just a small gash about a centimeter long at my hairline. No idea what I got cut on, the interior of this thing doesn’t have any sharp edges that I know of. Next I felt around my body for broken bones, sprains or bruises.
Nothing broken, but I felt plenty of sore spots I knew would be a dark shade of purple the next morning. Physically I felt fine, but I recalled reading somewhere that adrenaline conceals pain and the extent of your injuries from you after an accident.
So I took my sweet time making sure every part of me was still where I remembered before searching for my phone. I’d left it in one of the armrest cupholders, the contents of which had spilled everywhere when the car flipped over on it’s way down the embankment.
By turning off the dome light, I eventually spotted the subtle green glow of the phone’s power indicator LED shining out from beneath the front passenger seat. I strained myself fishing it out from it’s hiding place.
No service. Of course. Why did I think there would be? Leave it to me to crash this thing on one of the rare stretches of highway with no cell coverage. Not even 2G was showing up. Foolish as it was under those circumstances, I took a moment to mourn my car.
So much for having a nice car. Now I’ll be broke, living with my parents, and riding public transit. Truly the hallmarks of a panty drenching heart throb. The sort of trivial shit you fuss over when you’re still in shock and don’t yet realize it.
Eventually the gravity of the situation set in. No cell reception meant no Onstar. Which meant nobody knew where I was, and I couldn’t summon either a tow truck or any sort of rescue crew. I’m ashamed to admit I’d already ruled out calling an ambulance on account of the cost.
I recalled telling Mom and Dad the trip should take no more than three days. I could therefore expect them to realize something has gone wrong by day four, perhaps even the end of day three. Mom’s a championship level worrywart.
But then what? With no indication of what point along the 1,330 mile route I’d gone missing, how would they know where to focus a search and rescue effort? Wait, no. I texted them back at the gas station, didn’t I? Before heading up into the mountains.
That should narrow the scope of the search from the first five hundred miles of highway to somewhere in the ballpark of a hundred. That’s something, isn’t it? Some small scrap of hope to cling to.
I tried the radio, only to find that it wouldn’t receive any channels. I really fucked myself this time, wrecking up here in the fucking mountains. I sat there for a time, fiddling with the radio while waiting for the rain to subside before thinking better of it.
Probably not a good idea to run down the battery, I figured. Might need it to recharge my phone later. I’d packed all of my belongings into the car before setting off for Colorado, so I didn’t lack for clothing, and there’s a rucksack full of camping gear wedged back there someplace.
It could be worse. Not much worse, but I’m still breathing. Somebody once said that any landing you can walk away from is a good one, but I’m pretty sure he was talking about airplanes. The rain seemed to have mostly petered out, so after fishing my bag out of the back seat, I cracked open the door.
The air smelled wet. It’s hard to pin down, but you can smell it. The scent of rain drenched pine needles and mud...the invigorating musk of the deep woods. I wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it, my uncountable bruises aching with even small movements of my body.
First, I tried to climb back up to the highway. Maybe I can wave somebody down? If not right away, then as the sun comes up. But the grade increased the further up the slope I went until I was clawing uselessly at a sheer rock face, the busted railing at the edge of the highway just barely visible another ten feet above me.
Down, then. A difficult decision, even though it was the only way left to go. No less daunting, but for different reasons. I stumbled more than once on my way down the muddy hill, steadying myself against outstretched branches.
At one point I leaned against the still wet trunk of a douglas fir for perhaps three minutes before continuing my descent. The last thing I need out here is to sprain my ankle or some shit. May as well track down a bear and feed myself directly to it, in that case.
It feels stupid to leave the comfort and safety of my car, but I don’t see what other choice I have. Nobody knows where I am. The longer I stick around in one spot, the hungrier I’ll get. My best chance must surely be to set off in search of a fire lookout tower or something.
I made my way carefully amid the trees, brushing branches out of the way here and there, then shaking the residual pine needles off my jacket. The fog was thicker down here than it was on the highway, obscuring everything further than a hundred feet or so in all directions.
Fog pools at low points, like a fluid. As I watched I could see it flowing down the hill in slow motion, collecting at the bottom. It visibly swirled around my hand as I waved it in front of me, and my body left a wake through it as I walked.
Only after a few minutes of walking did it occur to me how easy it would be to get disoriented. Panic set in when I realized I couldn’t say for sure which direction my car was in. I’d not walked in a perfectly straight line, and the app on my phone I use to find my car in parking lots relies on cell tower triangulation.
Useful for precisely fuck all out here, just like me. No point in doubling back then, I’d only get more lost. Instead I pressed on, noticing as I went that I’d so far seen no beer cans, food wrappers or other typical traces of human activity.
I’ve never been hiking this far out, but the trail I usually visit is infested with tweaker encampments. Can’t go more than a mile without running into a tangled nest of stolen bicycle parts, transparent plastic bags full of empty cans, blood stained mattresses and $99 Wal Mart tents covered in tarps.
Where do they even get those clear trash bags? I’ve never seen them on store shelves. Some of their dwellings get pretty elaborate, too. In state parks they manage to go months or even years without being forcibly relocated, so the deeper into the woods you go, the more advanced the shelters. On one occasion I stumbled across a full blown yurt fashioned from tarps and branches, Swiss Family Robinson style. Desperation really is the mother of invention.
Yet even as my own desperation mounted, no brilliant plan dawned on me. Without a signal I couldn’t get any sense of my location, nor call for help. The best I could figure was to keep walking until I saw some bars on my phone, however long that might take.
At last I emerged from the woods onto another highway. Nothing to either side of it but dense, foggy woods. A back road? I guess all the roads this far out are back roads, after a fashion. Looked pretty new, no potholes or other blemishes to be seen anywhere on the smooth black asphalt.
Fog banks crept languidly along the road as I followed it in one direction. No real reason, I still hadn’t the faintest idea where I was. For all I knew there was a cabin or convenience store or something a mile in the other direction, and I was only getting further away from it with every step.
I had to choose though, which took me much longer than it should’ve, even though fifty fifty is better odds than you’ll get in most areas of life. If only I could get a god damned signal. I checked my phone again. Same result. No service, and somehow the clock still read four in the morning.
For that matter, the battery level hasn’t gone down any. How does that work? Maybe when there’s no signal, it consumes less power trying to connect or something. I became self conscious about walking down the middle of the road, and moved to the right side in case a car should come roaring unexpectedly out of the fog.
I should be so lucky. Even if somebody hit me, at least they’d know where I was. They’d call an ambulance, and within a few hours I’d be in a nice warm bed, being spoon fed hospital food by a nurse. I must be pretty far gone to fantasize about hospital food.
Nurses don’t even wear white gowns and caps with the red cross on ‘em like they do in cartoons. Or porn. Or cartoon porn. They dress like wrinkly blue ninjas. Like the cafeteria lunch lady’s hair net, but over their entire body. It’s the most profoundly unsexy garment possible, which is probably the point of it. What do my tax dollars even pay for?
After some time spent walking along the side of the road, I began to wish for mile markers just so I could count them. Then I’d have some sense of how far I’ve gone. Counting the trees didn’t work, they’re all jumbled up and look more or less the same. The street lamps weren’t numbered. There should be mile markers, shouldn’t there? I always assumed that was standard everywhere in the country.
Every inch of the road looks identical. I ought to have come upon some sign of wear and tear by now, but I couldn’t spot any. Did a road crew just lay this down recently? I’d begun contemplating turning back when, at last, I noticed something different in the distance.
A faint speck of light, which grew brighter and more distinct as I drew near. The fog scattered the light such that all I could make out was the general shape of the building until I was nearly on top of it. A gas station!
Not just a gas station, there was a modest garage adjacent to it bearing a sign over the entry which read “Oil changes, 75 cents” in fancy old fashioned typeface. I couldn’t place the architecture, eventually realizing it was because I’ve only ever seen buildings like this in advanced stages of decay, or black and white photographs.
I scolded myself for coming so close to turning back. I might’ve missed this place entirely! That’s the blasted indecision that drove my business into the ground, and why focusing on one project for that long in the first place was such a personally important accomplishment.
All for nothing though, look where it got me. Poking around a gas station in the armpit of nowhere at four in the morning. Should probably say five by now, if my phone wasn’t fucked. I assumed the time would automatically update whenever I next got a signal, not yet realizing.
The pumps caught my attention. Streamlined, art deco looking machines with a big white seashell shaped sign atop each, illuminated from within. The body of each pump prominently featured a four digit mechanical readout that worked like the one on a slot machine.
The numbers on display were one of nine painted onto each cylindrical drum, which rotated as needed to depict any of the others. I pulled the nozzle out by a suspiciously immaculate handle and experimentally squeezed the lever.
I could hear the motor running, but nothing came out. Even so, the cylindrical drums spun wildly. It would’ve been cause for worry had there been any gas to pay for, or anybody to give the money to.
A shiny, colorful poster adorned the wall next to the front door, opposite a series of tall windows that filled most of the front facing wall of the establishment. The poster depicted a blond boy and his hat wearing father, both of them smoking cigarettes. “Gee pop, they’re all passing you!” the boy cries.
Beneath it, several paragraphs extolling the higher octane and superior fuel economy of tetraethyl gasoline. “Next time stop at the Ethyl pump!” the ad concluded, in large stylish font along the bottom. I glanced back, and sure enough the pumps all bore a sticker I failed to notice before, proudly advertising the lead content of the gasoline sold here.
I smiled, despite everything. That shit can’t be legal, surely? It’d make sense if this place were dilapidated and overgrown, but everything looks as if it was built this morning. The shelves are all fully stocked too, as if it’s opening day and nobody bought anything.
The brands were all unfamiliar. Alemite, Mobilgas, and Kendall, “the 2,000 mile oil” according to the label. All the others also featured labels depicting handsome, grinning men with blindingly white teeth and perfectly styled hair. One of them wore a cowboy hat.
The style was bizarrely dated. Who carries these brands anymore? I would only expect to see this stuff on the shelf of a collector’s home, or on the antiques roadshow. Expiration dates, when I thought to check, were nowhere to be found.
I picked one up and opened it. Unexpectedly light. When I tried to pour it out, I discovered it was empty. As were all the rest when I picked them up, one by one, finding none that weighed what it should if it were full.
The cash register had the same sort of rotary numerical readout as the pumps. No surprise, by this point, when I opened the tray only to find it empty. I glanced around for security cameras before realizing the foolishness of it. Whoever built this place was trying to recreate an era in which video cameras didn’t exist.
Sure enough there weren’t any, at least none that I could readily identify after scrutinizing every square foot of the ceiling. What’s this all for? Reality show? Historical reenactments? Maybe a club for some wealthy classic car collectors or something.
None of those fully explained what I saw as I continued to explore. However I tried to make them, the puzzle pieces just wouldn’t fit. Who built this, and why? Will the owner pull up outside when the sun rises in a few hours? How will I explain my intrusion to him?
Then again it’s not like the front door was locked. I’ve not yet done anything illegal, to my knowledge. I could just say that I thought it was open twenty four hours, and assumed the clerk was on a smoke break.
Speaking of which, the smokes stocked here are no more familiar to me than the brands of motor oil. “Toppers”? “Debs”? “Avalon”? “Marvels”? Where’s the Marlboro? Where’s the Kools? The only chewing tobacco they stock is “Red Man”, bearing a colorful but astonishingly politically incorrect image of a Native American chieftain, complete with a war bonnet.
Another poster pinned up on the wall behind the register depicted a happy, attractive couple in a speeding automobile. “Follow our lead!” they proclaimed. Then more writing about the importance of using tetraethyl gasoline next to the company’s logo.
There was a telephone behind the desk. As quaint and dated as everything else I’d so far found in this place. Though it was plugged into the wall and presumably receiving power, when I held the receiver up to my ear, I heard no dial tone.
I gave up on all of it for the time being, and set out down the road. After the brief respite from the cold, wet darkness while I was inside the gas station, returning outside was deeply unpleasant. I forced myself to press on though, visions of finally going to sleep in a nice, warm hotel room having something of a rejuvenating effect.
The trees were visible only by contrast, against the darker backdrop of the sky. Moonlight reflected off the shallow puddles dotting the asphalt here and there. My body ached, but I kept stubbornly putting one foot in front of the other.
The air was just cold enough to be uncomfortable. A subtle chill which nipped at the tips of my ears and nose. I tucked my hands into my pockets. This is where I always worried I would wind up, as a child. Not this road in particular, but this feeling.
I have dim memories of riding in the backseat of Dad’s station wagon at night. On some weekends he’d take me to work with him to have some company, and to supervise me while I did my homework. Then after the sun went down, we’d get McDonalds on the way home.
I’d peer out the window at the empty sidewalks. The alleys, the parking structures and street lamps. All of it so cold, so hard and uncompromising. Back then, mind still insulated by the comfortable ignorance of childhood, the worst fate I could imagine was to be trapped out there.
Alone in the cold darkness with no shelter, crawling along in desperation, palms bloodied by the rough concrete and asphalt. Nowhere soft to lay my head. Nowhere warm and dry to take refuge from the night.
After a while, I began to doubt myself. The road just seemed to keep going, more of it appearing out of the fog as I advanced. I figured I could always double back if I didn’t find anything after another mile or two. Only, I didn’t need to turn back. A few minutes later, I once again came upon a gas station. Can’t be. Can it? Maybe it’s a different one.
Must be a franchise, I assumed. But when I entered, everything looked exactly the same. The phone was where I’d left it, as were the handful of motor oil bottles I’d moved. I once again slowly explored the place, eyes wide in disbelief.
Did I get turned around somehow? I can’t remember any point at which that plausibly might’ve happened. It was a straight shot. I’d just walked continuously in one direction. I poked around the inside a while longer before returning to the road and heading back the way I came.
I took my phone out on the way to check for a signal again. Even if I couldn’t call for help, I’d have given anything just to have another person to talk to right then. Instead, for company I had only the trees, the night sky, the street lamps...and the cold, wet asphalt.
Read the rest here
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2019.08.12 00:46 finnagains Strip hidden camera sex club

It’s not just that Boson's authoritarian feminists are trying to shut down Boson's North Wollaston beach strip clubs, despite the protestations of the women who work there. It’s that mainstream feminists still think that these militant Puritans are their allies. It's like something out of Boson and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts strict Protestant past. Cotton Mather and his Boson cousin the Reverend Linen Mather are back in spirit in the Feminist Harpies hounding women who like to dance naked, and the men who love looking at them while they do that.
The radical feminist of "Stop Looking at Her!," a group led by well-known activist Rasha Sakoff has been terrorizing gentlemen’s clubs across Boson in recent months, by sending in undercover former police detectives to covertly video inside, and to document any instances of deliberate touching of the clients by the performers, which is banned under Boson's licensing regulations. The resultant video files have been submitted to local police in a bid to get the establishments shut down, with public petitions and newspaper and internet coverage to accompany the drive. The Boson Globe, the Boson Herod, and even the alternative weekly The Boson Phoenix have covered the story with salacious pictures of scantily clad young women and editorials scolding people for looking at the pictures and liking young women's bodies.
Now, nine dancers at the Spearmint Rhino in North Wollaston, one of the best-known clubs in Boson and part of an international chain, have sued "Stop Looking At Her!" for breach of privacy, demanding that all existing video files be deleted. An earlier High Court ruling had already banned Sakoff from further sharing the video files, so the strippers’ chances of getting their way in the high-profile case, the costs of which are likely to bankrupt the losing side, are more than fair.
Others might have been able to predict that illegally obtaining video files of people legally and voluntarily involved in a lucrative but potentially compromising activity might have engendered some pushback from the people in question but, to Sakoff, such objections from the women themselves are immaterial. They may claim that they are dancing of their own volition, but she knows better than them that they are victims of sex abuse. Feminists, who are a tiny percentage of the female population outside of academia and government circles, have an ideological conviction that they speak for what all women should believe. They are smarter than the average woman who does not agree with them.
And, while research by "Stop Looking At Her!" purports to draw attention to some perfectly valid specific concerns – about whether women are exploited, trafficked or emotionally abused as part of their jobs – none of that is important either. Because Sakoff has no interest in any genuine investigation into the industry, with or without hidden cameras, she just wants every single gentlemen’s club in the Boson, Massachusetts, and the country, to be stripped of its license, as she has demanded since at least 2003.
“The industry cannot be controlled and needs to end,” reads the petition to the government posted by the group.
In fact, looking at its recent social media output, here is an incomplete list of things "Stop Looking At Her!" wants banned: prostitution, pornography, depictions of pole dancing in films, sex ads, non-sex ads featuring exposed women’s bodies, shop displays in high-street erotic shop Ann Summers, 'sugar daddies' and women having anal sex.
How many of those are actually bad for women? And would all women wish to delegate to Sakoff to decide for them?
One would hazard to guess that not everyone shares Sakoff’s simultaneous obsession with and repulsion towards sex, a stance reminiscent of nothing so much as obsolescent Christian pressure groups from Boson and Massachusetts colonial past. Many of the first European settlers in Massachusetts were strict Puritanical Protestants. Thankfully over the hundreds of years since then society has outgrown the bizarre regulations the Puritans had back then. It was against the law to sing at a wedding, or in a tavern. In colonial Massachusetts it was against the law to celebrate Christmas, because that's what the ostentatious Catholics did.
Today's Feminists Puritans should be resisted. That not all women are keen on that level of intrusion into every aspect of private life, bar presumably a sanctioned “loving relationship”? And that not every individual who will fall outside these limits fancies being treated as empty-headed traitors at best, and possibly even as criminals, if Sakoff’s legislative initiatives get the support of the government.
So why does it take a man on a sex fan on website to criticize her? Why, after sixteen years of Sakoff’s high-profile campaigning, first through the group Object, and now through "Stop Looking At Her!," has there not been a single article in a local newspaper – out of the three locals that have featured her – that has criticized her intentions. Or just questioned her dubious claims, such as that 90 percent of all pornography features violence, or that 80 percent of men use prostitutes. Why did no one step up to defend the Spearmint Rhino employees until they went to court?
See DailyMotion: What porn star Belle Knox has to say about choices and why feminists should listen https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2pza6h
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