Friday
Whowasthat guy?!
No one speaks to me like that, not even—nope not going to think about him. I push the name aside to return my focus to those dreamy hazel eyes, limned with a green outer ring. Each word, spoken in that British accent, hypnotized me like a snake charmer.
The sting I’d felt when he slammed the door in my face has been replaced by somersaults in my stomach—and heat rising on the back of my neck.
Ever since I shot to fame ten years ago off the back of a viral video, I’ve been surrounded by people who pander to my every need. But he didn’t seem to give a fuck who I was. And apart from Paul, who tells me what to do, when to do it, and how—which I have to admit is pretty useful for a guy with ADHD—everyone else seems to go along with what I say.
But even then, Paul usually draws a line. He knows where to stop, although it’s likely due to fear of losing his job if he oversteps the mark. Yet, elevator guy didn’t care.
The minibar underneath the widescreen TV in the loungecatches my eye, calling out to me like a siren to a sailor in the night. I force myself up off the beige couch. I close my eyes as I grab the door handle, hoping that somehow the cleaning staff ignored my team’s request to remove all alcohol from my room and replenished it with some spirits, wine, or heck—even a beer or three.
I mean, surely my need for a drink is understandable, right? With everything I have to hide, what else will push the intrusive thoughts away?
With one strong yank, the door opens, but my hopes are crushed when I open my eyes. A half dozen bottles of Fuji water, two cans of Diet Coke, and a couple of Sprite Zeros stare back at me.
Can’t I even get a little sugar to ride out the adrenaline from the concert? I shrug, admitting defeat. I kick the door shut before toeing off my Nike high-tops and collapsing back onto the couch.
The four empty chairs, arranged on either side of the sofa, set off a pang in my chest. They’re yet another reminder of how lonely I get after a show. There’s a definite letdown to performing in front of crowds of people and then being locked away in a suite all alone. It’s like going a hundred miles an hour down the freeway and then making an emergency stop. It’s just unnatural. I wince as the faint chants of my fans echo down on the street below. Eventheyget to be all together.
Fine. I have to do something to distract myself. I grab the remote and flick aimlessly through cable channels, hoping to find something that will keep me awake until the adrenaline wears off so I can finally pass out. Not only that, but stave off the intrusive thoughts about the start of tonight’s show.
I was so humiliated.
Standing there.
Exposed.
To nineteen thousand people.
I mean it’s bad enough when it happens in front ofoneperson, but the whole arena saw it and now it’s all over socials for the world to see. Maybe I should look on TikTok to see if what Connie was saying in the elevator was true. I drop the remote and reach into my jeans for my phone.
Over the next hour I go further and further down the rabbit hole. First, I watch videos of myself exposed on stage, terror plastered across my face, before my dancers move in front of me to shield my motions as I pull the sides of my fly back up and pin it closed again. Then I get caught up in the videos discussing whether I’ve had a penis enlargement operation or not.
The whole thing makes my body shake.
The objectification.
The double standard of being an American artist means I need to have a good voice and be physically attractive at the same time. And that’s how I got into this mess tonight in the first place. If Paul and Connie hadn’t pressured me to bulk up for the shoot withMen’s Healthon Sunday, I would have fitted into my pants and none of this would have happened.
I wish I could magically remove the pressure of needing to have a perfect physique. Eat what I want, drink what I want, when I want, without a care in the world. Instead, I’m stuck on this shitty protein diet. No carbs, no sugars, and definitely no alcohol. It might as well be called thefuck my lifediet.
And what’s worse, the gym isn’t even open, so I can’t go hardio on the cardio and try to lose some of this muscle. Paul had picked a hotel that only opens their gym during the day, justifying his decision by saying it’s one of the best for security in London. Although I hadn’t noticed any security cameras in the elevator earlier. Maybe Jay Z and Beyoncé had asked for them to be removed when they stayed here?
“Looks like the only workout I’ll be getting tonight is withyou,” I say to my right hand. I shuck off my white Calvin Klein boxer briefs and begin to rub my shaft.
The guy from the elevator pops into my mind as soon as I close my eyes. I picture him looking down at me with a commanding presence, hazel eyes staring deep into mine, His authoritative voice has me wanting—yearning—for him to take me. I give up trying to edge myself. I can’t contain the testosterone coursing through my veins, and instead I pound my hand vigorously up and down my shaft, chasing my orgasm, and climaxing almost as soon as I start. My body spasms momentarily, left leg twitching, until I relax into a state of calm.
As I make my way into the shower to clean myself up, I wonder if the elevator guy is still awake. The monsoon shower washes away the remnants of myself, along with any guilt I had about breaking my sobriety this afternoon. The horror from what happened on stage also recedes, leaving me think about the guy next door and what I can do to get his attention.
I grab a towel after turning off the shower, wrapping it tightly round my waist, and grab another to dry my hair. The mirror light perfectly accentuates my eight-pack and V-line. Maybe all this hard work and restrictive diet isn’t that bad. The wry smile on my face stares back at me.
Applying moisturizer to my face, I breathe in the summer flower scent, and instantly begin wondering what the guy smells like, tastes like, feels like.Shit. I’ve only known this guy for five minutes and he’s already gotten into my head like an earworm.
He’s probably sound asleep and couldn’t give less of a fuck about me if he tried. In fact, he had pretty much said so in the elevator. Which only makes me want him more.
Maybe I should go knock on his door?
