The Starlet

The starlet squirts some very expensive cleanser into her palm, rubs her hands together, brings them up to her face and scrubs off her meticulously applied makeup. “Soon,” she thinks, “I’ll be to old to be called a starlet. They’ll either be calling me a star, or not calling me much at all.” She turns her face up to the rain-soft shower spray and feels the soapy rivulets trickling down the length of her body.

She has spent the day in front of a vast green screen, acting against imaginary costars who had yet to sign on to the sequel to last summer’s blockbuster, and then had come home exhausted to a vast and empty house. She wonders if maybe she should get one of those small, fuzzy dogs that she sees other starlets carrying around in handbags, or a boyfriend to replace the one who’d left last month. “Fuck that” she thinks.

As her soapy hands find their way across her small, tired body, her hands linger between her legs. She peers out across the white expanse of her cavernous bathroom, out through the open door, into her bedroom to the nightstand next to her bed where she keeps a vibrator. It was given to her by a boyfriend last year. She’d gotten rid of the boyfriend but kept the vibrator. She sees the stack of magazines on top of the nightstand, each one with her face on the cover. She’s been spending a lot of time paging through them, looking for signs of decline. The last time she’d used that vibrator, she’d thought about the men all around the world who’d jerked off looking at the perfectly Photoshopped pictures of her in those magazines, all the hard cocks of faceless men pumping out hot come just for her. She remembers how she felt afterwards.

“Fuck that shit!” She says it aloud this time, and in a cockney accent she’d perfected when she was 14 after seeing “My Fair Lady”. The accent had driven her family, and later her boyfriends, crazy.

She rolls a small, dark nipple between her fingers as she opens her legs to the rain-soft shower spray. “This is just not going to do it for me,” she thinks, and wishes she had a massaging detachable shower head like the one in the bathroom when she was a teenager. She squats down close to the marble tile and presses her fingers between her shaved pussy lips (she never can bring herself to get waxed) and finds the tip of her clit. Her fingers gently trail down her cleft, then further, finding her asshole.

She sighs, closes her eyes and sits back onto the floor of the shower, pressing a manacured fingertip into her ass and rubbing her clit in earnest now. She pushes away the image of all those hard cocks lighting up a map of the world with little pulsing red lights. Another image, real this time, of her publicist laughing as she tossed her a ziplock containing underwear a fan had mailed in: tighty-whiteys decorated with a come stain and a small, cloth name tag meticulously whipstitched to the waistband. Now she sees a crowd of fans, young men, leaning out over a red velvet rope to get her picture, to get her autograph, wanting so badly to touch her.

“No.” She doesn’t want to think about those things anymore. She opens her eyes and looks down, taking account of her taught belly and slim hips with the stretch marks that they always retouch in all her pictures. There’s her birthmark, the size of a quarter high on the inside of her left thigh, another frequent victim of Photoshop. Her high school boyfriend had always stopped and kissed it before he “ate her out”. Once, he had given her a matching hickey on the inside of her other thigh. The scar above her left knee is from falling off her horse when she was 16.

Her pussy is demanding her full attention now, and she rolls onto her back, pulling her knees up to her chest. The warm spray splashes down onto her open body and she plunges her fingers inside herself, then rubs her clit furiously and stretches out on the slippery marble, her back arching, legs clamped tightly together, hearing nothing but her own voice, lost to the throbbing between her legs.

She gets to her feet slowly, feeling where her bones had pressed into the stone. “That’s better! Nothin’ like a wank to cure what ails ya!” she says in her cockney.

Later, after she’d finished showering, she threw the stack of magazines on her nightstand into the trash.

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