tagExhibitionist & VoyeurShe's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 01

She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 01


* * * * *

I've had my fair share of girlfriends, but Ali is one of the most interesting. She's the sort of person who, after talking to her for 30 minutes, you wonder how she gets through life. You're fearful that she votes. She's built like a brick house, so you find yourself making plays on her without even meaning to. And she's the kind of girl who reacts to your come-ons -- positively -- without really noticing it.

Sample conversation:

Ali and I are in a nightclub, standing at the bar. She's just come in from the dance floor, her chest is heaving, her skin is damp with perspiration. The straps of her dress are sliding off her shoulders.

Strange man, to Ali: "So, what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Ali, to me: "What are we doing here again? This guy wants to know."

Strange man, slightly put off: "I mean, can I buy you a drink?"

Ali, to man: "I don't know the rules. See, we've never been here before. Let's ask the bartender."

Or sample interlude:

I'm cooking dinner, and I need some cream for the port wine sauce. I tell Ali, and she volunteers to get it. She grabs some money, and runs out of the apartment to the bodega up the street. She's only wearing clogs and a long t-shirt.

After we were going together for a while, sample interlude:

I ring the door-bell to her apartment. Ali flings open the door, wearing nothing but a towel. "Oh! Tyler! I didn't expect you!" She leads me into the living room, where her fifty-something male roommate has a porn movie running. To her, watching a porn movie is as natural as watching any Hollywood movie. She snuggles between both of us, her towel slowly peeling off her body.

* * * * *

I can't say I created Ali the singer. She did all that hard work herself. But Ali the stage personality -- that's a different story. Jump back two years, to before she was clicking onstage, getting good gigs. For two years, until she got proper representation, I was the manager of Ali Katz, and they were fuckass fun years.

She was twenty-three, and had run out of money for college. Rather than leave New York, she was waitressing at a run-down diner and trying to build a career as a rock'n'roll star.

When I first met her (she waited on my table and then started taking her breaks with me), I believed her when she said she was a singer in a band. I was twenty six, with a good job, and going almost blind from horniness. I would've believed her if she said she was a voodoo princess.

I asked, "What's it like, going on stage?"

She thought for a while. "Mostly, they're about two feet off the ground. So you have to step up to get on them."

When I finally saw her on stage -- it took about a month of diner food to gain her trust -- I was agog. No, she wasn't good. She was bad on an epic scale. Galactically bad. Anti-music.

While the band fidgeted behind her, she crept onstage wearing a gigantic mu-mu top over baggy jeans. She put her hand above her eyes to block out the lights, peered into the audience for me, and /waved/. Then she apologized for her voice -- she had a sore throat. Then she started in on a set of wavering, emotional songs. Odes to high school crushes. A song about a football player. Tear-jerkers about family pets. Simultaneously, the guitarist rocketed off on unrehearsed solos that ended in buttfuck Egypt.

The thing I noticed is that everybody in the band acted like they'd fucked her. While setting up and breaking down, they leaned into her to talk. They caught her attention with a hand on her stomach, or at the top of her ass. They sniffed her hair when they were close enough. The guitarist (with the unlikely name of "Tamb") acted like he owned her. He'd catch her by the neck and pull her face to his, so he could talk to her from four inches away.

Tamb ran his hand over her breast. He said, "You have something on your shirt."

She looked down. "For pete's sake, get it off me!"

He obligingly helped wipe the 'something' off her chest. He cupped her breast, and thumbed whatever it was off the peak of her nipple. (This was on-stage.)

"Thanks," she said.

"There it is again!" said Tamb, reaching up again.

As this happened, Ali glanced nervously my way -- but I was a perv, and got off on seeing her get attention. It was one of the things that drew me to her in the first place -- I had /thought/ I'd caught the prototypical New York bombshell. The sultry singer, displayed under hot lights, nightly ogled by horny club-goers. What I actually /got/ was something quite different... and, I eventually realized, much better than I'd hoped for.

When she came off stage, she was too nervous to ask what I thought. We were two drinks into the next band before she said, "Well?"

"You were wonderful," I said, honestly. It had been great fun to watch her stammering on stage, seeing the band members screw up and each start a different song. I'd laughed along with the snide comments from the audience. Ali Katz would not be invited back to /this/ bar. "But to be honest -- I need to be honest with you -- your band needs some work."

"/They/ need work?" she snorted. "I need work."

For two months I suffered through her gigs. It was worth it -- under her froo-froo clothing, she was built like fucking Cleopatra. She had curves. Her skin was sunless pale white -- she never uncovered during the day, apparently. But her stomach was cut, her calves were like river rocks. Her breasts, 31Cs (big cups on a small ribcage), pointed at the ceiling when she was on her back, and slid with their own solid consistency across her ribs as I tossed her around the bed.

Her body was hard. But for someone trying to make it in the business, Ali was categorically not hard. She reported every argument with her guitarist; she took the criticisms of club managers to heart; hecklers were reported nightly as pillow-talk. She'd be straddling my lap, rocking above me, fretting about a guy who made a pass at her. Sometimes I just wanted to tell her, "For pete's sake, just let them make passes at you. Why do I need to hear about it?"

Tamb the guitar player was what caused Ali's and my agreement. Much as I admired his style with her -- with a few choice words, he could cop a feel off her anywhere on her body, at any time. Copying him, I groped Ali for the first time, and discovered she was indeed well put together (she wore voluminous, shape-disguising outfits). But Tamb was also the major roadblock to improving her band. And if I was going to have to watch her gigs, I wanted the band improved.

We were in a bar off Bleecker Street, we were on a date. But it was a working date. She was there to evaluate the guitarist of the band on stage.

I'd managed the design production of a music video, once. As soon as she'd learned about that, she was constantly hitting me up for advice. As if I knew anything about the industry. I didn't, but I could fake it well. See, there are life-rules you can apply everywhere, if you know the rules. Ali didn't know those rules -- like I said, she was soft. She's the sort of person who needs someone else to take things firmly in hand, even if those things are her own ambitions.

I leaned over to her and whispered, "See how he follows along? He's a follower. He probably takes direction well. You need that."

"I guess I do," she said. "But he's not as good as Tamberlain."

"You don't need good. You need a reliable backup. Remember all the times he left you hanging?"

"Fuck yeah," she said. She was hunched over. Since she had to impress the guitarist, I'd talked her into a multi-layer silk knee-skirt and a peasant blouse. The blouse was causing her angst, either one side or the other was always sliding off her shoulder, lowering the decolletage down her breast. She hadn't caught on yet that both sides weren't /supposed/ to stay up at the same time. With her fiddling, she often had both sides sliding down her shoulders -- it freaked her out. For me, I was just pleased she had something in her wardrobe that showed a little skin.

The band's set was ending. I said, "Go up to him and let him know you're here."

"Right now?" she breathed, her eyes widening. So help me, she was /nervous/ speaking to another musician!

"Yeah, babe. He's expecting to meet you, remember. He's gonna tell you he's not looking for another band. Tell him you don't need a full-time member. Just someone to practice with. For money."

I added that last part impulsively.

"What money?" she asked. Musicians were always suspicous and eager about that word.

"If he wants to know, bring him back here."

"Okay," she said, sighing. She stood, pulling her skirt down. As she walked over, she was plucking at her top. Of course, it caused a lot of attention to be directed to her chest, not that she noticed.

The guitarist, Raff his name was, watched her as she drew close. The house music was coming up, she had to lean over to him to shout in his ear. Without much shame, he bent forward to listen, his eyes delving deep down her top. I was starting to /like/ that blouse.

They talked for a while, and she returned to the table. Her hips rocked with her big, excited steps. For once, she seemed unconcerned about her clothes.

She planted a big kiss on my cheek. "It went exactly like you said! Almost word for word. How did you know?"

"Just basic strategy. We need to give him an offer, but he won't want to listen to it. He won't want to flake on his band -- remember, he's a follower, not a leader. So you tell him it's not serious, and he listens. Mention money, and then he's hooked. It just worked out."

"You're so smart!" she gushed, with a huge smile. Was this stuff really not extremely simple for her, as it was for me?

Raff sat down next to her, so they both faced me. He said, "So what's the money like?"

I thought fast. What would I, personally, be willing to spend to make Ali happy? "Twenty dollars a session. Four sessions a week. A cut of the house if you go onstage with us."

"I thought you said you didn't need a band member. Why would I go onstage?" He glanced suspiciously at Ali. She gulped air, unable to formulate an answer.

I stepped in again. "Our needs might change. It's money. What do you care?" I knew he didn't. His simple musician mind had caught an inconsistency, and now that he'd stated it, he was done. The facts made no difference to him.

He nodded sagely. "The money's good. Real good. Is the girl good?"

Ali turned to me, awaiting my answer. How did I get into this? "She's getting there. She's on her way."

"Does the band fuck her?"

I turned from him to her, trying to keep expression off my face. Ali was looking to me for the answer, the same way she'd done with the prior question. It was too much.

"What happens, happens." I said obliquely. Ali nodded encouragingly and turned back to him. Perhaps she had a little bit of salesman in her -- say anything to close the deal. She was highly interested in getting this guy in the band, now that it seemed possible. Or maybe his question hadn't registered on her yet. "But if it happens, it happens with reliable musicians."

Raff shrugged. "With that sort of money, she doesn't have to fuck the band."

"You'd be surprised," said Ali, trying to sound worldly.

I choked on my drink, trying to stifle laughter. I swear, it was like watching two tamagochi electronic pets discussing world literature. Ali's blouse had slid off her shoulder again, but she was too caught up in the conversation to notice. Raff did; his eyes slid between me and the smooth high curve of the top of her breast. The neckline hung low enough so that, when she shifted in her seat, we could both see her chest shift. She was going bra-less, since she hadn't had any off-the-shoulder bras in her possession.

After that, Ali and Raff chatted freely. Mostly stage stories. Raff addressed her chest, and she answered his face, untroubled any by lack of eye contact. They were each figuring out where the other stood in the musical pantheon.

He asked, "What do you sing?"

Ali looked to me again. I had my favorite type of music, so I said it. "Alternative folk, edgy. Highly charged sexually. Confessional. Stuff only a woman can get away with."

"Really?" asked Ali, sensing a compliment.

"Really," I said. "The audience wants a sort of alternative universe created for them. They want to go to a club or a bar, and see a fantasy woman fronting the band. They want to feel a real connection to the woman."

Raff's next set was starting. He stood, and shook my hand. "I'll send Ali an email so you can contact me. You seem pretty cool, down to earth."

"Thanks," I said. I'd felt manipulative, but if I came off as genuine, so much the better.

"It'll be nice to work with a singer with a real manager."

He left, Ali watching him go.

"You hear what he said?" I asked. "'Work with a singer.' Not 'play in a band.' That's what we want to hear."

"What do you think?" she asked.

"He seems solid. That sex with the band stuff was weird."

"You get used to it," she said dismissively. "That's how the bad singers get backing. But did you hear how he called you a real manager?"

"Yeah. Funny."

"What do you think?" she asked again.


"About managing me?" She was breathing quickly, her eyes fixed on mine. Like she'd discovered a surprise treasure. A diamond ring on the street.

"Me? Manage you? I don't have the experience."

"You just got me a guitarist, Tyler. Don't sell yourself short."

I had to admit, I really, really, /really/ wanted to change her. Toss her stupid songs. Tell her, without tact, how to act on stage. Put her in some reasonable clothes.

"You know me, Ali. You know what I like. That's how I will manage you."

"That's fine," she said quickly.

"No. Before you agree. I'm going to manage everything. You know I'm kinkier than you. You know you're sort of innocent. I'm going to have everything under tight control."

"Okay," she said. Her eyes held mine. "I want that. And I'm not so innocent."

"I'm gonna control everything. Your songs, your stage persona. Your gigs."

"Man, yes!" She was nodding furiously. "Just say you'll do it. Start tomorrow. Start tonight!"

One more time, just to make sure, I said: "Since I'm starting to pay money, you have to do /everything/ I say."

"I will. That's fine."


She gave me a 'what's the big deal?' expression. "Everything."

* * * *

She slept at my apartment that night. The next morning it was bright and warm outside, and I called in sick to work. There was simply too much to do. The prospect of managing Ali had captured my imagination. Forget managing -- owning. She had ceceded herself, and her ambitions, to me. Several times. On the walk home, she'd repeated her promise. She was in love with the idea of not having to manage her band for herself. Our sex was earth-shattering, she sucked me off with such force that I thought I would invert.

Since I'd awoken before Ali, I threw her skirt and peasant blouse down the disposal chute in the hallway. I'd had enough of following her around, seeing her in the clothing equivalent of a parachute.

I was making coffee when she sleepily walked into the kitchen. She was wearing her bikini panties, and nothing else. She scratched her head, "I couldn't find my clothes. Didja see them?"

I said, "Honey, you're too nervous when you're on stage."

"I know," she crossed her arms under her breasts. They protruded past her forearms. She had an awesome rack. "I sometimes freeze up, but I'm getting over it."

"Not fast enough. We're going to work on that. You have to be comfortable on stage. As comfortable as you are now."

"I'm not all that comfortable. Look at me."

"I'm looking!" I smirked at her, and she blushed. "The coffee is almost ready. Here's what I want you to do."


"That window--" I indicated the window next to the table. It faced onto the street, but the blinds were down. Ali pulled them whenever she visited. "Go pull the blinds up, and stand in front of it."

"In front. Of the window!?" Her brow crinkled. "Okay. Where are my clothes?"

"No clothes. Just your underwear."

"Like this?"

I could tell she wasn't digging the idea. "Consider it an experiment in trust. In trusting your new manager."

"I said I'd do anything, but--" she went to the window and peeked out. "We're on the second floor, and that's a major street! I see lots of people out there."

"Honey," I said, trying a different tack, "you're going to be a great singer someday. Someday soon, if I have my way. I want to see you succeed. But to succeed, you can't be shy. You have to put yourself out there."

She stared at me in stony silence.

I said, "Please, honey. Just stand in the window, until I have your coffee ready."

"I don't know," she said. I noticed, now, how she never said no. She was a pleaser, a follower. But this was something she certainly didn't want to do. She stared at the floor, shifting her weight on her feet.

I stared at her, considering. Maybe this was all wrong. Maybe I was the wrong person. I'd stayed up all night concocting very strange ways to make her an extrovert. Maybe I was being unfair to her, too radical. I glanced at the clock, it was not too late to call work and tell them I could make it after all.

"Don't you have work today?" she asked suddenly, seeing an out.

"I'd cancelled it. Called in sick."

"You called in sick?"

"I was excited about being your manager. But it's not too late for me to call again. I'm sorry -- maybe I'm not..."

Before I could finish, she'd pulled the blind and it snapped up, rolling at the top of the window. Sunlight flooded into the kitchen, bathing her flawlessly proportioned body with light. She glanced at me over her shoulder.

I nodded to her. "Good."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I wasn't thinking. You're taking this just as seriously as I want to."

Always one to exploit an apology, I said, "I can't explain everything. We don't have the time for that. You just have to trust me. Trust your manager."

"I will."

The coffee was done. I started filling two mugs. "Turn back to the window."

She did. I watched as she stood there, full-on to the window.

"For goodness' sake, try to look casual. Relaxed."

"There are men down there. Plus the building across the street. One of them just looked up! Oh fuck. Ha! He fell over."

I listened to her running commentary with a grin and a raging hard-on. I carried her coffee over to her, and stood behind her. I let my dong lie against the crevice of her ass. Nuzzling her neck, I glanced at the street over her shoulder. There were indeed many people down there, but very few of them looked up. On the street in New York, you never really look up, unless other people are already doing so. I sometimes wondered at all the shows I'd missed, shows like what Ali was providing just then.

When we did see people looking up, we pointed them out to each other. When a gaze swept over her, and quickly returned, her knees trembled. She made a small "Mnn-mnn-mnn" noise, but didn't flinch away. She slowly sipped her coffee, and tried to act casual -- even as my cock dug through our two layers of underwear into her ass.

Eventually, a few youngish men with nothing better to do, apparently, had gathered on the sidewalk across the street. They were staring up at us, chatting idly. A group of people looking up will cause others to look up. Her little knot of admirers grew by a new member every few minutes.

Ali asked me what they were saying -- she clearly wasn't thinking straight. I liked how she came to me for answers, though.

"They're probably wishing you didn't have any underwear on."

"That's true," she said, nonsensically.

When her coffee was finished, I took it from her hand and stepped deep into the kitchen.

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