Page 3 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“I do think so, Pay, but you have to work hard. You up for it?”
I eye Bellini and start pumping myself up. Rich white girl, blonde hair, and bird legs with her own reality show: no problem. I grew up on an Indian reservation in one of the most materialistic parts of the country. I was called moccasin, dreamcatcher, and featherhead by my classmates from kindergarten through high school. If I can handle that kind of torture and abuse, what can this little Twinkie really do to me?
“I am. Thanks for getting me this job, Jonathan. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, sweets. Now let me introduce you because I have some work to do on Backdoor Barbeque.”
Jonathan worked with Wally Rose on one of his other reality shows, Backdoor Barbeque. It is the reason why he was able to get me this job, but he also assists with other shows where needed. It is a bit of an incestuous pool of employees with all shows falling under Wally Rose’s belt. Right then and there, I tell myself I’m going to take this job seriously no matter what the pixie stick throws at me. I’m determined to begin my climb back up to my dreams, starting with Bellini Chambers.
Chapter Two
**BELLINI**
It’s so hard being me.
I’m so popular, everyone wants to be me, and do you know what? I don’t blame them? How can I? If I saw such a specimen like myself walking down the streets of Rodeo Drive, I would strive to be just like me as well.
Just look at those cheekbones, smooth and perfectly round, framing the crystal blue of my eyes. I’ve accomplished the absolute ideal symmetry in my eyebrows thanks to the threading goddess at pagoda number nine in the mall. My hair looks like it’s been spun by Rapunzel herself into velvet tendrils of blonde, cascading perfectly to my shoulders. And don’t even ask me where I get it dyed, you dumb bitches, because you can’t find this color in a box. It’s natural.
I’m beautiful. I’m popular. I’m famous.
But most importantly, I’m rich, and what I found out when you’re rich is that you can get anything you want. With one snap of the fingers, you can have three people at your beck and call asking you how they can assist you while they try to stick their head as far as they possibly can up my perfectly bleached asshole.
“Where’s Daddy?” I shout. “How long does it take for a bunch of Cheetos-eating production skanks to find one single man? Hello, he’s the fat, balding one in the Burberry plaid pants!”
Ugh, yes, you heard that right, he wears Burberry plaid pants. He’s known for them now. Once Daddy earned his riches, he decided to make a fashion statement—be a style icon—and since Nick Jonas could pull off the Burberry print, Daddy thought he could too. All my dad’s life decisions are based around the Jonas Brothers, as in his words, they are a proper boy band, one to emulate. Hence the over-the-top karaoke machine in our living room, stocked with songs from the main squeezes in my father’s life. In my opinion, they are a cheaper, yet more attractive version of Hanson.
But like I was saying, it’s so hard being me.
You can’t imagine the amount of pimply faced tweens—boys and girls—that come up to me on a daily basis, asking me how they can obtain the kind of perfection I exude. Do you know what I tell them? I pat their little chunky, pockmarked cheeks and say . . . you can’t.
Every generation has their Audrey Hepburn, but I belong to the Millennials. Instead of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, my minions follow me to the Hamptons where they sit outside the house, scratching their lice-infested heads, watching me have brunch with Harry Winston while we talk about how there is no piece of jewelry in this world that could ever be prettier than me.
Tiffany’s, ha! Pathetic, Audrey.
Girls want to be me, there’s no question about that. Just ask my main follower, Pocket. No, her parents didn’t pull a Michael Jackson on her and name her after the inner lining of a jean sack, I just can’t remember her name. I think it’s something like Polly, but I’m too bored of her to figure it out, so I call her Pocket. It’s much easier this way.
Pocket is the perfect little minion. On a daily basis she pulls my pants down and blows compliments up my little white ass. Not literally, God, we’re not an episode of The L Word.
She is entirely too ugly to upstage me, therefore she never steals the attention. I do dress her because I can’t be seen walking the streets with a Macklemore thrift shop monstrosity. I give her my hand-me-downs, even the underwear I only wear once. No use in throwing it away. I’m sponsored by Bordelle—kind of like Justin Bieber being sponsored by Calvin Klein—but instead of walking around like a bleached-blond douche, I strut my Bordelle as if I am Marilyn Monroe, occasionally letting the wind send a sexy uplift to my flouncy dress, showing off my perfectly waxed Brittney.
No publicity is bad publicity if you ask me.
Girls want to be me . . . but more importantly, boys want to get with me.
Ugh, men. Their brains are in their dicks, thinking only with their lightning rod and coin purses. The amount of men who’ve panted over my mere appearance is overwhelming. I’ve had to increase my security detail because a nude shot of me has now escalated to a half million dollars. I’ve seen pictures on the Internet of naked women with my head photoshopped onto their bodies, and it’s disgraceful. Newsflash to everyone out there, including the Tumblr freaks dying to post a picture of me in my true essence: anyone who thinks those bodies belong to me are sorely mistaken. If you haven’t noticed already, there isn’t one ounce of fat on my body, and secondly, if you were to see my nipples, you would notice they are pretty little jelly beans rather than the pancakes some bored computer nerd thinks I have.
Thankfully, I’m taken, and don’t have to worry about sifting through the trough of America’s finest.
Who is the lucky man you ask?
Only Olympic royalty, Reese King.
I’ll wait while you fan your face.
Done salivating? Such horny bitches.
He’s everything a girl like me could ask for. He looks good standing next to me. He’s just sexy enough to be able to hold his own, but doesn’t overshadow me, and he’s rich as well, thanks to his underwear modeling and popularity. Anyone would want to have a threesome with us, but too bad for them, I’m a puritan and believe in abstinence before marriage. By no means are we engaged, but he isn’t sticking anything near me anytime soon.
