The following is a work of fiction. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. However, the inspiration for this tale is a news item about a Britney Spears look-a-like contest. The winner happens to be an impersonator who beat out 30 genetic girls. There are many internet sites that carry the story. For more info, see the photo and story at www.pmsd.org/pmec/Brooke2.html or www.pmsd.org/pmec/Melissa.html
If you are not over the age of 18, please do not read the story.
Enquiring Minds Want to Know by: Laurie S. aka l.satori
Chapter One
The phone is ringing. My dreams are so blissful; I don’t want to wake up. I glance over to the phone and the clock radio. It is 11:45 a.m. After the third ring, the answering machine kicks in. "You have reached the residence of Steve Connors. I cannot come to the phone right now. Please leave your name and phone number at the sound of the tone."
Beep.
"Hi Steve. This is your agent, Don Andrews . . . "
I scramble for the phone, almost knocking it off the night table.
"Hi Don." It sounds like I have a frog in my throat.
"Did I wake you up?" asks Don.
"Yes. I was out late last night. I had a performance at the Alcazar Cabaret."
"Oh, were you doing your Christina Spears impersonation?"
"Yes. It was so wonderful! The crowd just loved it!"
"It went well, huh."
"It was fabulous! I performed her ‘Beautiful’ song, complete with the high-energy choreography and two muscular male dancers. The crowd went wild! Of course, part of the response has to do with the charisma of that pop teen idol Christina. The crowd just loves her songs! She’s so hot right now!"
"You are being modest, Steve. You have a great stage presence!"
"Thank you . . . And you know how I’ve been working on my speaking voice. Well, so many of the people I talked to after my performance complimented me, not only on my lip synch and dance, but also on my vocal imitation. You know, when I met and talked with my admirers. I mean, they know I’m really a guy, but I sound like the real Christina."
"Can you do a little of Christina for me now?"
"Oh Donnie," I respond in a breathy but high-pitched tone. "I am so glad you called today. Last night, at the Alcazar, there were so many celebrities in the audience. I felt like I was in a replay of the Grammy Awards."
"Wow! You really do sound like her! That’s great!"
"Glad you like it, Donny. Now when do I go on tour?" I kid him, but Don Andrews is such a nice guy. I owe a lot of my burgeoning success to him.
"Actually, Christina, I have great news for you!"
"Really?"
"I just got off the phone with the management company of Christina Spears."
"Uh huh."
"Somebody must have seen your performance. Or word is getting around. One or the other. Anyway, the executives of SMG wants to meet with you."
"Great! But, what’s it about?"
"I’m not sure. However, they did indicate that it would be a lucrative opportunity."
"Wonderful! When and where?"
"It’s right here in Los Angeles. Do you think you can be ready in two hours?"
"Yes."
"Good. I’ll come and pick you up. That way, I can be there to represent you at the meeting."
"Two hours—that’s going to be a little tight."
"Yes, I know. They say they are anxious to meet with you."
"Okay. I’ll be ready. But, how should I dress?"
"Get into your Christina Spears drag. They want to see if you really can impersonate her. Some imitators look great at a distance, but the illusion falls apart up close in the clear light of day."
"All right. I’ll expect you in two hours. Thanks Don."
"Later babe."
Click.
My heart is beating a thousand times a minute! Wow!
Now I’m jumping up and down!
Next I’m thinking how I might be the opening act on the next Christina Spears tour!
Wait a second! Get your head out of the clouds! What the heck am I going to wear?
Chapter Two
The Compton Building on Wiltshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills is home to many show business agencies. It is not uncommon to see many models, actors, actresses, dancers, singers and musicians wander through this impressive 15-story glass, steel and marble edifice.
Don Andrews pushes through the revolving glass doors, leads me into the lobby, past the marble water fountain, towards the concierge.
"Hi. We have an appointment with SMG," says Don in his smooth baritone voice.
"Your name?" asks the uniformed guard.
"Don Andrews and . . . Christina."
The young guard looks toward me and gives me the once over. He presses a button on the desk panel in front of him.
Beep.
"Yes," replies a female voice.
"Hi. This is the front desk. We have a Don Andrews and a Christina to see you," says the concierge.
"Yes. Please send them up. Thank you."
"Please proceed to Suite 303. The elevator is straight ahead to your right."
"Thanks," says Don.
As I reach up to remove my sunglasses, I nod thank you to the concierge.
There is a look of recognition, surprise and admiration on the face of the young building security guard.
As we walk forward to the elevators, I can feel the eyes of the concierge watching my every move. However, it is not because he thinks I am carrying a concealed weapon.
Don presses the up button. He looks so calm in his casual business attire—a beige linen jacket, sport shirt, no tie, dark brown pants, and loafers.
"Have you been here before?" I ask.
"Yes, but not often."
The polished chrome elevator door opens. As I step inside, I check my reflection in the mirror-covered walls of the lift. I am wearing a pink halter-top and cut off blue denim shorts. It’s a casual teen look if I ever saw one. The leather sandals complete the ensemble. My long full-bodied blond hair cascades over my shoulders in gentle waves. Although it normally takes me one hour to do the make up, it looks like I am not wearing very much makeup at all. Just a little mascara, eye shadow and lipstick are evident . . . Oh, and pink nail polish on my fingernails and toenails.
Before I know it, we are up on the third floor.
Don leads me into the SMG office, graciously opening the door for me. He is a gentleman who knows how to treat a lady.
"Hello," says Don to the pretty receptionist.
"Welcome!" replies the lady with a smile.
A tall man dressed in a three-piece suit opens an inner office door and out steps an attractive, fashionably dressed businesswoman in an immaculate charcoal pinstripe suit with a pearly white blouse. The late twenties brunette smiles at us as does her middle aged cohort.
"You must be Christina!" she says to me as she extends her right hand. Then she looks toward Don and says, "Thanks for bringing her on such short notice, Don."
"My pleasure, Erin" replies Don Andrews.
Erin looks me over, while still pumping my hand. "Yes. She is the spitting image of Christina . . . What do you think, Roger?"
Roger regards me for a few moments longer. He appraises me carefully, looks at my legs, my cut off denim shorts, my bare midriff and navel, my busty halter-top, my long blond hair and attractive facial features. "Right on! Her exact double!"
"Allow me to introduce you," says Don as he puts his left arm around my shoulders. "Roger Gordon and Erin Matthews, please meet Christina Spears."
Then Don, Roger and Erin break into a laugh as I shake hands with Dave. I notice he has a firm grip and big hands.
"Glad to meet you," I reply in my best Christina voice. "I am always pleased to meet with my fans."
"And she sounds like her too," says Roger. "I’m impressed."
Erin walks behind me, looking down at my shapely legs. I wonder if the sandals look right.
"Great legs—just like Christina’s," says Erin Matthews.
Then she places her hands on my bare midriff. I jump up at the surprise!
"You have such a thin waist. Are you sure, Don, that this is really a boy?" asks Erin.
"As sure as I can be," replies Don Andrews.
"My name is Christina Spears," I reply, still in my Christina voice, staying in character. "I am the one and only Christina." I raise my arms on high and strike a pose. Diva attitude!
Everyone laughs.
"The real Christina is on tour at the moment. She’s in New York as we speak," counters Roger Gordon.
"You know, I think this Christina is a little taller and a little heavier than the genuine Christina Spears," adds Erin. "But, maybe this will work, with some minor alterations."
"Okay everyone, let’s get down to business," says Roger. "Come into our office, please. Right this way."
A minute later, we are sitting around a large oak table. A floor to ceiling window looks north from Wiltshire, through sheer curtains, toward the mansions of Beverly Hills and the Hollywood Hills to the northeast. Today, there is a brown haze obscuring the landmark ‘Hollywood’ sign.
"I suppose you are wondering why we have asked for you to be here this afternoon, Christina," says Erin.
"Yes," I reply.
"We saw your performance at the Alcazar last night and at the Calypso Club on New Year’s Eve. I must say, both of us were very impressed by your terrific impersonation!" says Erin.
"Thank you," I coo.
"You could be Christina Spear’s identical twin," says Erin.
"Yes. Before I got into doing this Christina Spears act, I’d go to dance clubs, and people would say, ‘You look like Christina Spears.’ And I was wearing boy’s clothing and no makeup! So, some friends encouraged me to dress up as Christina, do the makeup, practice lip synching to her music, rehearse her dance routines and try it out. From my very first time, at a Halloween dance, I got a great reaction! In fact, that night, I got offers from a few nightclub managers at drag clubs. And so, the next few weekends I was suddenly a Christina Spears impersonator! Luckily, those appearances went over really well. Then I got an agent, Don. And I’ve been doing it for just the last two months. It’s been unbelievable!"
"Great!" adds Roger. "She hasn’t been doing this for very long. So, she might not be well known beyond the local gay clubs and certainly unheard of around the country."
"So, you’ve only been doing Christina Spears for two months?" asks Erin.
"Precisely nine weeks," says Don.
"That’s perfect," says Erin. She gets up from her solid oak armchair, and begins to pace across the plush tan carpet. "By the way, what is your real name?"
"Steve Connors," I reply in my male voice, an octave or two lower than my Christina voice.
"Oh my god! That is amazing!" says Erin enthusiastically. "You really are a boy—although nobody would ever guess unless you choose to break character."
"Thank you."
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen. Just a few months older than Christina."
"And your height?"
"Five feet five inches."
"You are just an inch taller than the real Christina . . . This is even better than I could have hoped . . . As you might have surmised, we have a business proposition for you that involves imitating Christina Spears . . . Are you interested?" asks Erin, as she continues to wear down the plush carpet with her high heel pumps.
"Yes. I am very curious."
"First of all, since we are the management agency of Christina Spears, I can tell you, in all honesty, we have had lots of trouble with the press—particularly the trashy tabloids."
"Uh huh. I’ve noticed the tabloids love Christina."
Erin reaches over to her desk and picks up several tabloid newspapers. She places them on the table in front of me.
"Christina is on the front cover. The headline reads, ‘Christina to wed Justin Carson’. Of course, the story is completely untrue. The next story below shows another article. ‘Christina’s mom the worst stage mother ever!’ Again, completely untrue. Another article claims ‘Christina beats her maid’. This is another piece of trash!"
"The tabloids aren’t known for their accuracy," I agree.
"All of these stories, and many more, are the work of Mark Harris of the National Star. And you know what? Christina Spears has never even met Mark Harris. He writes from his office in New York. Christina lives in California. She has never even talked to Mark Harris on the telephone. How does he come up with this garbage?"
"Why don’t you sue him?" asks Don.
Roger Gordon replies, "Many celebrities have tried to sue the National Star. The Star hires very good lawyers. They drag out the case for years. The National Star digs up more dirt on the celebrity by hiring private investigators. There are more accusations. The celebrity gets smeared even more. The only ones who really profit are the lawyers. Very few celebrities have ever been successful. It’s a lose-lose proposition. It’s a waste of time and resources."
"So, what can you do?" asks Don.
"Well, that’s where Mr. Steve ‘Christina Spears’ Connors come in," replies Erin.
I feel a little nervous at the sound of this.
"We want Steve to do an interview with reporter Mark Harris of the National Star. We want to give Harris a story that will lead him into such an embarrassing situation that his credibility will be tarnished forever. Hopefully, with any luck, it will ruin his career."
Oh, oh. I have a bad feeling about this.
Chapter Three
I am lying in a hospital room. My torso feels bruised. My hips feel swollen. There is numbness still in my jaw. My lips feel thicker. This is the second surgery in the last three weeks.
The transformation begins with the ‘plastic surgery’ to alter the shape of my nose. The surgeon uses a scalpel to cut out a small chunk of cartilage and some tissue from the nose. Next, collagen is injected directly into my lips to make them more irresistibly kissable. During the same operation, Dr. Sherman, the best ‘sculptor’ in the business, also reduces my jawbone to more feminine proportions. Essentially, the surgeon takes a scalpel, and scrapes off a thin layer of bone from the jaw. Although hardly noticeable in magnitude, these steps are taken to enhance my ‘Christina appearance’. The real art of the cosmetic surgeon lies in hiding the incisions. When I check my reflection in the mirror, I take a close look below my ears. And I feel for the scar behind my ear and below the jaw line.
Next comes the liposuction operation. I still feel like my torso is bruised all over. But, the small incisions are healing, even the small holes in my arm from the intravenous feeding. The IV is needed to replace body fluids lost in the suctioning procedure. Fat tissue from my waist is now spread about to my hips and rear end. The doctor tells me, in time, my contours will be perfect when my body accommodates all of the changes.
Now, I still feel groggy. I don’t know how long it’s been since the operation. With both hands, I reach for my waist. Is it smaller? Next, I feel my hips. Are they wider? Firmer?
I need to sleep. I ache in places that I didn’t even have before.
As I succumb to the fatigue, I can’t help but think about more dental work that still needs to be finished. Christina has perfect teeth. I need the cosmetic dental work to give me that perfect Christina smile.
I am standing in front of a full-length mirror. I am naked. I look in disbelief at my breasts. A highly skilled Hollywood make up artist has worked magic to create womanly breasts—exactly the same size and shape as Christina’s. I move my hands up to examine these feminine accoutrements. They are firm—the breasts of a young lady. The texture of the latex-artificial skin compound feels real. I notice the nipples are erect. Good!
A strict diet and a demanding exercise routine with a personal trainer can work wonders! My waist, arms and legs are wonderfully toned!
One of my impersonator friends recommends eating a stick of licorice each day. He-she says licorice has a natural female hormone. It softens the skin and gives you more feminine contours in the face and breasts. However, I notice my male sex drive is diminishing too. I find it difficult to get an erection and there is less semen produced.
The face looks exactly the same as that of the young teen idol. I look beautiful—even without facial make up. I have long blond hair, thin arching eyebrows, clear wide blue eyes, high cheekbones, a thin perfect nose, a feminine jaw line, and collagen enhanced lips. Laser treatments give me a soft skin texture that has no trace of beard.
I look down at my penis and testicles. They look completely bizarre! Out of place on the body of Christina Spears.
The operations and the appliances used to create the complete Christina Spears illusion are so convincing! Should I have a sex-change operation?
I know the answer. I choose not to have breast implants and I do not want to start hormone therapy. I am not a transsexual. I want to retain my male identity, even after I do this task for SMG. The nose and jaw have been altered, but not noticeably to me. I still am Steve Connors. But, these breasts! These are incredible! Absolutely marvelous! However, I can peel them off! They are not a permanent part of me.
Male genitals ruin the reflection in the mirror. I tuck my penis and testicles between my legs. All I can see now is a completely feminine body in the mirror! I love looking like Christina Spears! The beautiful perfect reflection makes me horny!
Chapter Four
I am sitting in a hotel room in New Orleans during Mardi Gras week.
The real Christina Spears is ‘at home’ in a nearby Louisiana town visiting with her mother, father, sister, and brother.
In a room two floors above us is Mark Harris. Being late February, he is in town to cover the Mardi Gras festivities for the National Star.
Thank goodness for an SMG contact at the National Star! The inside information is invaluable.
I am wearing figure hugging red leather pants and a red, white and blue halter-top. Applying my standard Christina Spears make up, I add a ‘disguise’—a phony looking long black wig, huge sunglasses plus a large straw sun hat.
There is a complete SMG "SWAT" team in place. Among seven adjoining luxury suites on this floor, I have four bodyguards, a make up artist to apply my realistic looking breasts, a personal assistant, the SMG executives Roger Gordon and Erin Matthews, a three-person private detective team, a pet dog, and a Leonardo Di Ciprio look-a-like.
Our Leonardo looks a lot like the genuine article. His hair and facial features are Madame Tussaud caliber. However, he is a little heavier and does not have the right vocal characteristics. SMG is lucky to have such a remarkable Leonardo facsimile here on short notice. Apparently the Double Trouble Agency specializes in providing amazing celebrity look-a-likes.
The resourceful SMG team amazes me! To get seven hotel rooms for Mardi Gras is unbelievable! But, such is the star power of Christina Spears! The displaced guests will get to meet the real Christina Spears on tour and at her home.
It is now 9:00 a.m.
Mark Harris, in his jogging attire, is just leaving his suite two floors above me. The private detectives have secretly implanted a tiny video camera in the light fixture above the entrance to his suite.
We spring into action.
I hurry out the door with my pet dog, accompanied by two bodyguards, and my ‘boyfriend’, the Leonardo Di Ciprio clone. He is wearing blue jeans and a dark sport shirt, with sunglasses, a baseball hat and a phony mustache and beard. But, he still looks a lot like Leo. Leonardo’s previously thin frame apparently is filling out a little, although the black leather bomber jacket hides his weight ‘gain’ somewhat. At the elevators, one of my burly bodyguards pushes the down button.
A moment later, the elevator doors open. There stands Mark Harris, clad in a blue Nike jogging suit. There is an elderly fashionably attired, white haired couple as well. I walk through the doors, Leo on one arm, the leash in my other hand. My little canine friend cautiously walks into the mirrored cubicle. My huge behemoth bodyguards take up the remaining room.
Mark Harris seizes his lucky opportunity. The six footer leans down and speaks to the dog.
"Hi there, little guy!" Harris looks up at Leo and me. "This is an unusual dog. What kind of dog is it?" he asks cheerfully.
"A papillon," I reply in my best Christina Spears voice.
"Oh yes, your dog has really big ears, like a butterfly," replies Mark Harris.
"That’s right. Do you speak French? Are you Cajun?" I ask.
"Mais non. I just remember that Dustin Hoffman-Steve McQueen movie, Papillon."
"So, you are a film buff?"
"I am a movie fan, but I’m not a trivia whiz or anything like that."
Leo tries to look away, doing his best to hide himself in this crowded cubicle.
Fortunately, since we are ‘exclusive’ guests of the top four floors of the Holiday Inn-French Quarter, we are riding the ‘express’ down to the main floor.
I hear a ‘pong’ sound. The automatic doors open.
"Have a nice day everyone," I say as I head to my right, toward the front door of the hotel. Leo and my little pet are with me. One of my bodyguards springs forward. The other takes a position behind us.
"You too," replies Mark Harris.
"Good day," chime the senior citizens.
I can feel the eyes of Mark Harris upon me as he follows us to the door. I am not sure where the elderly couple is, but I will not look back. I try to wiggle my leather clad bubble butt provocatively. I am very proud of my new fabulous figure.
As we go through the glass revolving doors, I can feel the cool morning breeze upon my face and my bare midriff. Leo and I head to our right, down Royal Street, deeper into the French Quarter. Not surprisingly, Mark Harris follows us. For some reason, he decides to forgo his jog.
I catch the reflection of Mark Harris in one of the store windows as we window shop among the old establishments of the antiquated French Quarter. Mark Harris is talking animatedly into a cell phone.
Even at this time of the morning, during Mardi Gras, the street has many people out and about. Along this main route, Royal Street, many of the side streets in the surrounding area are blocked off as preparation for a fantastic Mardi Gras parade. The party will begin soon enough.
I must confess to feeling some disappointment. The French Quarter looks a little run-down. The Big Easy looks a bit queasy. Somehow, I think back to a Kathleen Turner-Dennis Quaid film set in New Orleans. Films seem to make the settings look more glamorous.
Occasionally, one of my bodyguards leans over, with a white plastic bag in hand, and scoops up my dog’s poop.
As you can imagine, it is not long before ‘Leo’ and I attract a little unwanted attention from ‘our fans’.
When some young teenage girls approach us, we deny their suggestions. No, we are not Leonardo Di Ciprio and Christina Spears. But, thank you for the compliments. Then, we move on. However, it happens again. Then, another time with a thirty-something couple. We decide, after a twenty-minute walk, to head back to the hotel.
Across the street, doing his best to look inconspicuous in his blue Nike tracksuit, stands Mark Harris. When I look in his direction, he turns to look into a shop window. It is a bakery that offers croissants and pastry—appropriate for taking back to the hotel room for breakfast.
When I return to the Holiday Inn with Leo, my pet, and the bodyguards, Mark Harris jogs through the revolving doors, just ahead of us. He makes a point of pausing in the lobby, acting like he is tired from a brisk half-hour jog. I notice his hair looks disheveled. He pulls out a beeper from the holder at his waist, as if he is checking for messages. This allows us to catch up to him in the lobby.
"Oh hi again!" he says in a friendly tone. "Did you have a nice walk?"
"Oh yes," I reply.
Leo looks away, pretending he doesn’t want to be seen by this nosy guy in a jogging suit.
My bodyguards are on alert, ready to step in, should this overly friendly guy get too close.
"It’s okay," I whisper quietly to the big guys, Ken and Joe.
Mark Harris smiles. "Isn’t this an exciting city? There’s so much energy on the streets of New Orleans. All the people can’t wait for the Mardi Gras celebrations to begin."
As we walk toward the elevators, Mark Harris tries to engage me in a conversation. Leo continues to ignore Harris.
"What is your dog’s name?" asks Mark.
"Hurricane," I reply.
"Such a cute dog."
I know Mark Harris will be doing some checking later to see if the dog’s name and breed matches up with known facts about Christina Spears.
"By the way, my name is Mark. And yours?"
The doors of the elevator open.
We step in, with Mark Harris eagerly on our tail.
As I turn back to face the doors of the elevator, I glance up at him, through my sunglasses.
Then, I look over toward Leo, as if asking permission to make a revelation.
Leo looks away.
"What brings you here to New Orleans?" I ask. "Are you here for Mardi Gras?"
"That’s right! I can’t wait to get into costume for Mardi Gras!"
"What costume will you be wearing?"
"A devil’s costume, complete with horns, trident and bushy eyebrows!" crows Harris. "It’s all they had left at the costume shop. You know, they say the Mardi Gras costume often reveals the inner self—a person’s true personality. I think the devil resembles the real me—or at least a few tendencies in me . . . And how about you?"
"Marie Antoinette and . . . King Louis XVI." I glance over to Leo the Sixteenth.
"That will be great!"
"So just call me Marie," I add.
Pong.
The doors open. Leo and the bodyguards let me go first.
"See you at Mardi Gras, Mark."
"See you later, Marie."
As the lift doors close, I see a big grin on the face of Mark Harris.
The trap is set.
Chapter Five
At about 11 o’clock, the faux Leonardo Di Ciprio, still wearing the same clothes and phony disguise as before, strides forcefully through the front lobby. A limousine rolls up to meet him at the front door. Immediately, an angry looking Leonardo gets into the limo and is taken away. Another vehicle, following orders from Mark Harris, trails the phony Mr. Di Ciprio all the way to the airport.
Around noontime, word from our private detectives tells me that Mark Harris is still in the front lobby of the hotel, biding his time.
Now, I am in a more casual outfit. The blue jeans and black ‘New Orleans Jazz’ souvenir T-shirt, plus white adidas shoes hopefully give me the look of the conventional tourist. Wouldn’t the real Christina Spears want to blend in? The black wig, floppy straw sun hat and sunglasses complete the disguise.
Down the elevators with my bodyguards Ken and Joe, plus SMG executives Roger and Erin, we emerge from the lifts with a small group of hotel guests. We slow our pace a little as we walk through the front lobby. Ken pulls out his cell phone and quickly communicates with the private detectives that have been watching Mark Harris.
The National Star reporter is now wearing a jacket and tie plus a mustache. It looks even cheesier than the one Leo had on this morning. Also, he has on black horn rim glasses. All he needs is a Groucho Marx nose to complete the disguise.
For the benefit of Mark Harris, I pretend that I am upset. I keep trying to rub tears out of my eyes. Our group walks down a short corridor to the restaurant in the hotel. La Reine is rather crowded since it is lunchtime.
After a five-minute wait for a table, the uniform clad hostess leads us to a booth along the south wall of the restaurant. The lighting is fairly dark for midday. There is jazz playing quietly in the background. I do not recognize the tune or the musicians, but it is the distinctive New Orleans jazz sound. In order to impersonate Christina Spears, I realize there is a need to learn what a native of Louisiana knows from exposure to the local New Orleans music scene.
A minute later, Mark Harris slides into the booth behind us. Another person, carrying a camera bag, takes up a position across the table from him in the same booth.
Do I hear the sound of a camera clicking?
"I don’t think we should hang around any longer," I say to Erin and Roger.
"Look," says Erin, "just because Leonardo left doesn’t mean you should leave too."
"But, we were going to Mardi Gras in costume—together! We were going to have such a good time! Oh darn! Now this! I don’t know why he got so upset!"
"These things happen occasionally. I’m sure it’s nothing serious," says Erin in a soothing tone. "How long have you been going together? Off and on for two months?"
"Uh huh."
"And this is your first spat?"
"Yes."
"Well, that’s not too bad."
"But, he went to the airport. He went back home."
"Look, Leo told me he had some business he had to take care of when he agreed to come meet with you here. He tried to fit this into his schedule, but I know he was under some pressure from his agent to meet with a producer for a new movie role."
Erin gives me a supportive hug. I hug her back.
Roger and the bodyguards pore over the menus.
After a minute or so, I act like I have my composure back. My tears are nearly dry. A tissue proffered by Roger is very helpful.
"So, Christina, you’re more familiar with the cuisine here," says Roger. "What do you recommend?"
"Most first time visitors to New Orleans enjoy something unique like the Crawfish Etouffee. Or shrimps in Creole sauce with rice. Or you can try an Easy Salad . . . If you want to try something more familiar, try a Po’ Boy sandwich. It’s a roast beef submarine sandwich New Orleans style . . . If you like soup, try the Awesome Oyster Soup or Seafood Jambalaya, which is kind of like a seafood-rice mixture."
In the booth behind us, Mark Harris whispers to his National Star companion, "I think we have the makings of a good story here—a love spat between Leonardo and Christina."
Chapter Six
About two o’clock, I am walking through the lobby with ‘Hurricane’ and Joe and Ken. I am still wearing the same blue jeans and T-shirt plus the dark wig and sunglasses.
As I emerge through the revolving doors at the front entrance, a car pulls up. Out jumps Mark Harris. As he hands the car keys to the valet, he waves hello to me.
"Hi Marie! Good to see you again."
Mark no longer is wearing the mustache and phony glasses. He is dressed in black Gap jeans, a short sleeve blue cotton polo shirt, and sunglasses.
The temperature is pleasant, perhaps in the low seventies Fahrenheit, although New Orleans is always humid.
"Well hello," I say in a forced, cheerful sounding voice.
"I see Hurricane is out to do his business."
I try to pull Hurricane back as he tries to sniff Mark’s pants. I admit that I do like my new pet. After this strange affair is over, I think I will find a place for Hurricane in my life.
"No Hurricane!" I tug on the leash again. "I’m sorry about that, Mark."
Mark is about thirty years old—and not bad looking. I think he is capable of being a very charming, very sexy man. He has a nice physique and the nicest brown eyes! He’s a real cutey!
"No problem. When he lifts his leg, then I have a problem."
I laugh along with Mark.
"Will you join us for a little stroll?"
For a moment, he looks like a deer caught in the headlights.
"Certainly. My pleasure."
As he extends his arm to grasp my hand, Joe steps forward to block Mark.
"That’s okay Joe. It is my idea, not his," I say. I grab a hold of Mark’s hand. His face lights up.
I think I have him, literally eating out of the palm of my hand.
"By the way, Marie, you must be somebody important to have companions like these two."
"Not necessarily important . . . It’s just that some people are not considerate. Sometimes, people have to be reminded to be polite, that’s all."
"An interesting way to put it," replies Mark Harris.
As we walk slowly down Royal Street into the French Quarter towards Jackson Square, I notice that the street is much more crowded than it was in the morning. The streets of the French Quarter are lined with two story stone buildings that must be two hundred years old, or thereabouts. Some of these weathered houses have balconies on the second floor, with black iron railings. It is a style unique to the French Quarter.
Within ten minutes, Hurricane leads us toward the street musicians, caricature artists, jugglers and other entertainers that hold court in Jackson Square. There are tourists everywhere watching the performers. Some mounted police are in evidence too.
A large statue of General Jackson on horseback stands at one end of the shrubbery lined square. Interestingly, the main portion of the square lies several feet below the surrounding sidewalks and buildings. This helps give the square separation from its environs.
"Who was this Jackson fellow anyway?" asks Mark Harris.
"I believe the square is named in honor of General Andrew Jackson, who led the American forces against the British in the Battle of New Orleans. You might have heard that song ‘The Battle of New Orleans’ by Johnny Horton. Many years ago, it was a hit song." Is Mark Harris testing me to see if I know the local history? Undoubtedly.
"How do you know that?" asks Mark.
"Oh, I grew up in a little town not far from here. Occasionally, I’d come to New Orleans as a child . . . Where are you from?"
"New York."
"Really . . . I’ve spent some time in New York. It’s one of my favorite cities."
"Yes. It is my favorite city too. Although, it is far from perfect."
"What city is?"
We pause to look at one of the street performers—a juggler. He is peddling a unicycle and juggling four red rubber balls at the same time. Next, as soon as he finishes, all sorts of people are tossing money into a large container. I pull out a ten-dollar bill from my pants pocket. I toss it into the canister. Now, the artiste holds up a long metal rod with a ball on the end of it. Holding up a cigarette lighter to this dark ball, flames leap to life. Then, he holds up the flame above his head. Next, he lowers the fiery ball into his mouth, then back out to expose the fireball again. Finally, he places the orange-red burning ball back into his mouth, dousing the flame for good!
"Are you feeling thirsty Marie?"
"Yes. I could use a cold drink right about now."
Actually, I feel warm. Although the temperature is reasonably pleasant, I am wearing a latex-artificial skin compound that covers my upper body, courtesy of a very talented, gifted Hollywood make up artist named Philip La Roche. These magnificent breasts look and feel great. But, they do have a drawback! The latex-artificial skin compound does not breathe as readily as the genuine article.
Mark goes to fetch an ice tea for me from one of the street vendors. While he does so, I pull out my cell phone and make a call. A minute later, I am fighting back tears.
When Mark comes back with beverages for all of us, except Hurricane, I tell him I need to get back to the hotel soon.
I am no longer in a good mood, in spite of Mark’s cheerful company.
When Ken, my bodyguard, whispers, "What’s going on?"
I whisper back, "That was Leo on the phone. He’s on the plane, flying to LA." Then I break into tears again.
Ken gives me a comforting hug.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" asks Mark Harris.
I go over to Mark and cry on his shoulder. "I just need a hug," I say.
Mark embraces me. He wraps me in a loving embrace. I make sure he can feel every nook and cranny of my voluptuous body.
I pull back my head for a moment and look directly into his cute brown eyes. Even from behind my sunglasses, I can see that his eyes sparkle with life.
"My make up must be a mess due to the tears," I whisper. "I must look like a raccoon."
Mark laughs gently. "No you don’t. You look absolutely beautiful!"
My body goes limp. I close my eyes. What else could he do? He kisses me tenderly on the lips. After a few seconds, I open my mouth a little, to encourage a deeper kiss. His tongue finds mine. Now, that is more like it! I can feel his passion. In fact, I can feel his penis jump to attention in our close embrace.
Somewhere in the distance, a photographer for the National Star, takes perfect pictures with a telephoto lense. What a scandal!
Good. The plan is proceeding right on schedule.
Chapter Seven
Mark knocks on my hotel room door. It is 5:30 p.m. We are to have supper in my suite on the twentieth floor.
He is dressed in a dark blue shirt and black cotton pants. It goes well with his dark hair and cute brown eyes. He looks marvelously handsome!
I receive him in a crimson party dress. It is cut low in the front to show my now impressive cleavage. The long flowing dress is slit along the sides, showing plenty of leg whenever I move. My high heels, also crimson, match the rest of the ensemble. A dazzling diamond necklace and diamond earrings add pizzazz and glamour! I am still wearing a wig. However, this brunette one looks much more realistic than the last one. Also, brown contact lenses are inserted to make the whole beautiful illusion more believable.
I greet him with a loving embrace and a long, slow kiss that seems to last an eternity.
Room service provides a sumptuous feast. A meal prepared by the hotel’s chef! It consists of smothered okra and tomatoes, turtle soup, eggplant pirogues, Cajun Andouilles pasta and barbecue shrimps. Plus a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon 1990--a fine champagne.
As we sit down to dine, I slip my hand onto Mark’s lap. I squeeze his upper thigh, suggestively. He responds with an arm on my shoulder. I yearn for his lips. He obliges readily.
However, I must cool the ardor. Tonight we must attend a masquerade ball. I shall ask Mark Harris to be my King Louis XVI. I shall be Marie Antoinette.
And after we attend the festivities together, we shall return to my suite. I shall ask the bodyguards to leave us alone.
Then, I shall seduce Mark Harris. We shall make mad passionate love together. For a moment . . . For an hour . . .
‘Let them eat cake . . . Let him eat cake . . . Let him eat me.’
It will be the downfall of Mark Harris.
My personal assistant, Laura Salacious, helps me into an incredibly tight corset that narrows my waist to a mere nineteen inches. My magnificent Hollywood bosoms are pushed up to paramount heights. The crinoline, the bustle, the train of this stupendous silver gown—they are incredible! A perfect pearl necklace and pearl earrings help to frame the beautiful face of Christina Spears. The powder white complexion radiates back from the mirror. My high pompadour curly white wig, long white opera style gloves, tottering platform shoes and a large decorative ornamental fan complete the dream ensemble.
The Chanel perfume is my one concession to twenty-first century taste.
I look in the full-length mirror of my bedroom. It is a fantastic illusion of grace, refined beauty and decadence.
Meanwhile, Philip La Roche, the esteemed make up artiste, dresses reporter Mark Harris in the finest silk hosiery and underwear. The long royal blue waistcoat has ivory buttons galore. The puffy white shirt cuffs and frilly collar scream out that here is a king who wants to be a queen! The dark eyes and eyebrows of Mark Harris contrast the white locks of the aristocratic wig. The National Star reporter totters around on the high heel boots fit for the man formerly known as Prince.
All four of my behemoth bodyguards are costumed as royal footmen. However, since the royal coach cannot be available in the crowded streets of New Orleans during Mardi Gras, the royal footmen shall serve as my palace guards, although they are not appropriately attired.
Due to the tremendous muscular physiques of the royal guards, their chests practically pop out of their costumes. And yet, their garments are too wide at their waists.
Chapter Eight
At 9:00 p.m., one of many costume balls of Mardi Gras is in full swing. In the Grand Ballroom of the nearby Hilton Hotel, we are waltzing the night away.
Mark Harris is an excellent dancer. I am thankful that the SMG executives had the foresight to give me the ballroom dance lessons. By the way, somewhere in the crowded hall, Erin Matthews and Roger Gordon are in costume. Roger is dressed as Rhett Butler. Erin fancies herself as Scarlett O’Hara!
I know that there is a photographer for the National Star snapping pictures of Marie Antoinette and King Louis XVI somewhere in this gathering.
As the music changes to something more contemporary, it seems a little out of character for Mark and I to meringue or salsa, but it does not matter that we are not appropriately attired to tango either.
The DJ introduces a pop music set. Immediately some of the middle-aged dancers take a breather. Some younger types invade the open spaces. Undaunted, we continue to dance the night away!
When the DJ plays a Christina Spears song, I almost blush in embarrassment. Mark Harris looks at me closely, trying to gauge my reaction. Almost unconsciously I go into the set dance routine from my Christina Spears nightclub act. As if recognizing my slip as a giveaway of my ‘true’ identity, I change to a free style dance. Now, I wonder. Does Mark have any doubt that I am Christina Spears?
After a brief respite to get a drink, Mark and I seek the refuge of a nearby outside terrace.
Mark looks so comically resplendent in his King Louis XVI costume.
He looks down at my heaving bosoms. Even I cannot tell that they are made of a latex-artificial skin compound. They look so incredible! I feel so turned on by my newly constructed fabulous body! The splendorous costumes! The incredible carnival festivities of Mardi Gras! A strong handsome man!
Mark grabs hold of my hand. He kneels down and kisses the back of my hand in the European style.
"Marie, you look so beautiful tonight. Your costume is fabulous! You are such a great dancer! You are a wonderful person too!"
Throughout the evening, and again now, I try to entice him. I want Mark to desire me.
"You are a great dancer Mark. Most young guys don’t know anything about ballroom dancing. You are so different from most of the guys I’ve met . . . You seem so worldly. I feel like a baby compared to you." And yet, at the same time, I know he writes such terrible, slanderous, malicious lies about America’s rich and famous.
"I’m just older than you. Do not underestimate yourself. You are a refreshing change from the self-absorbed airheads I often seem to encounter."
"We only met this morning. But, I think I’d like to get to know you much, much better, Mark."
"Now, don’t go all mushy on me . . . Well, Marie Antoinette became famous because she lost her head—although it wasn’t for love."
"Not at all," I say with a smile. It was for Madame Guillotine and the French Revolution.
"Meeting someone and getting into a relationship is a scary thing . . . Hey! I’ve got a joke for you!"
"All right, Mark. Let’s hear it."
"A man goes to one of those singles conventions. He has just come out of a relationship that lasted for three years. At a dance, he meets a beautiful lady. He instantly falls into love or, at least, lust. But, he is a little uncertain of what the future will hold after such a promising start. So, he wants to be honest and up front about everything. He says, ‘You know, I like you a lot. You are so beautiful. However, before our relationship goes much further, I feel I need to tell you something important, because it could become a problem later on.’ The lady looks concerned. The guy says, ‘I’m an avid golfer. I play golf three or four times a week. My last girlfriend couldn’t stand it. That’s one of the reasons we broke up.’ The gorgeous lady responds, ‘Well, since you were up front about golf, I think I should be honest too. I’m not proud of this. I’m a hooker.’ The lady gets a little concerned because the guy seems to be wavering. Finally, he says, ‘Well, have you ever thought about changing your grip?’"
I laugh. That joke catches me by surprise.
"First encounters usually have surprises, to say the least . . . That was good."
"Thanks. I guess it is hard to tell where a chance encounter might head next."
"Well Mark, do you have any secrets that you’d like to reveal about yourself at this moment?"
"Hmmm. Only one. I don’t golf."
I give him a playful slap on the hand.
I look up at the dark sky above. The lights of the city and a partially cloudy sky obscure the moon and the stars. But, there is a cooling breeze—welcome relief after a full hour of dancing.
"Oh, life can be so complex," I murmur. "Sometimes I have to make some difficult decisions, never knowing whether I’m right or wrong."
"I think you have good instincts. Just follow your heart . . . Where romance is concerned, you can throw reason out the window."
Mark puts a comforting arm around my waist and draws me closer to his side. I look up into his mesmerizing eyes. I can’t help myself. Mark looks so confident, so loving, and so wonderful! He leans over and presses his lips to mine. My legs buckle, but he holds me tightly in his arms. His passion draws away any semblance of resistance. I am his for the taking.
Chapter Nine
We enter the suite together.
I whisper to the bodyguards that I want to be left alone with Mark. They stop at the doorway.
As soon as the door closes, Mark gathers me in his powerful arms. He kisses me gently. Then, we pull back for a moment, and then we go at it again, with even more fervor.
Then, I push him away for a moment.
"Please, my love, let me slip into something more comfortable."
Mark pauses for a moment. "All right," he says reluctantly.
"Could you please be a dear and help me undo the corset?"
I turn around, facing away from Mark. As I slip out of the magnificent gown, I can sense Mark is fascinated by the informal ‘striptease’. I remove the opera style gloves, the long train, and then the large crinoline. When I have the gown completely off, the laces of the extremely tight corset must be loosened. With relief, Mark helps to loosen the confining undergarment. However, immediately, I modestly cover up my bosoms with my folded arms and scoot toward the bathroom, grabbing a fairly large bag that I have prepared for this occasion.
"Can you wait a few minutes, my love? I want to change into something really sexy!" I say from the bathroom entranceway.
"That’s fine. I have to get this costume off too," says Mark.
I close the bathroom door. With the bright lights on, I check over my body and face in the mirror.
My pert breasts look perfect. Good! I do not need to fix the latex-artificial skin mixture. What a relief!
I reach up and feel for three clips underneath the white pompadour wig. A moment or two later, I carefully free these clamp like devices. I lift off the ‘big’ hair and place it on the bathroom counter. My long blond hair is wrapped tightly in a compact bun. I release the elastic ties. Then, once free, the long blond hair falls freely. I take out a large brush from my bag. I stroke the long blond strands, gently coaxing my hair back to life, giving it fullness and body. Do you know that hair extensions create a different sound when you brush them?
I check my eyes. My natural blue eyes and blond hair I think are the best combination for the real Christina Spears.
Next, I use cold cream and tissues to remove the white Marie Antoinette make up. Then, with a clean slate, I apply a little eye shadow on the eyelids, some mascara, and a touch of blush on the cheeks. Finally a special lipstick that does not come off, even with heavy kissing.
At long last, I need to put on my outfit.
I carefully put on a turquoise bra top, a special gaff and a bikini style bottom. Wistfully, I think about what the special gaff and bikini bottom hide. A diaphanous ‘dress’ enhances the enticing top and bottom.
One last check in the mirror—perfect from head to toe!
I step out of the bathroom.
Mark boldly sits on top of the king-size bed. He is wearing his jockey shorts. The bedspread is thrown back. He sits on top of the pillow and sheets.
A quick side-glance tells me Mark’s complete costume sits atop the dresser. A large belt buckle seems to peek directly at the bed. I wonder if he has a hidden camera that is recording this encounter for posterity. SMG undoubtedly is recording the whole affair on video camera. I think the hidden camera is in the suite’s VCR, which looks directly at the bed.
As I walk toward Mark, his smile broadens.
I raise my arms and I do a 360-degree turn.
"Do you like what you see?"
"I love what I see!"
Does he think I’m the real Christina Spears?
"This is the real me. No more wigs or costumes."
I leap onto the bed, landing beside him. On one bounce, with my outstretched arms, I am in his loving grasp.
I voraciously attack his mouth, trying to suck the glottis out of the back of his throat.
Slyly, Mark slips his practiced hands under the diaphanous ‘dress’ and under the bra top.
Moments later, the clasp is undone, the bra is gone and the dress is lying beside me. It’s magic! He’s so smooth and fast!
Then, Mark pulls away from my mouth for a moment. He shifts down to my throat. I hope he won’t give me a hickey!
But, he merely pauses on my neck. He moves further down, stopping at my bounteous, firm bosoms with the erect nipples. Will he taste a difference between the phony breasts and my own natural skin? He sucks hard on my right nipple. My mind wanders. I wonder how long the baby Mark suckled from his mother’s breasts.
I squirm beneath Mark’s full frontal attack. My fingers explore his full head of hair.
"Oh . . . Oh . . . Oh!" I groan with delight.
My legs thrash wildly. I try to turn Mark onto his side. I want to slide down and remove his now bulging jockey shorts. But, as my fingers tug at his cotton shorts, I discover that the shorts seem hooked onto his throbbing penis. I use both hands, and with a little cooperation from Mark, I reveal the impressive love tool and the bulging testicles.
I gasp. By comparison to mine, it is massive!
"Let me pleasure you Mark."
Before he can answer, I slide my mouth down to his raging penis. I suck like it is a gigantic Popsicle. Then I lick it lovingly, caressing it. Mark is straining to control himself. I can sense an orgasm is imminent.
"Wait a moment," I say to Mark, as I hop off the bed for a moment. I take one step over to the dresser. There is a mirror above the dresser. I look at the perfect reflection of Christina Spears—the perfect body of the teen idol. I open the top drawer and remove two condoms. Seconds later, I tear open one package. Moments later, I have Mark’s massive love pole covered in a latex sheath.
Now, I stroke his penis with my hands, pump his love organ with my mouth, in and out, in and out, in and out . . .
Hallelujah! We have a gusher! Mark shoots off in wave after wave. Fortunately, I do not have to taste it. The goo is capped in the latex covering.
Did I mention that this is my first time with a guy?
Mark lies back on the king-size bed, his penis flaccid for the moment.
I cuddle with him, kissing him on his cheek. I caress his neck. I move my hands down to the fine hair on his chest. He is a virile man!
After a minute to recharge his batteries, Mark comes at me again with renewed vigor.
I wrap my legs around his hips.
But, now he grabs my bikini bottom and tugs it down.
He is very surprised to see a black thong style gaff beneath the turquoise bikini style bottom.
"Please Mark. Stop right there," I plead.
He looks at me.
"What’s going on here?" he asks.
"I am not ready for the final step yet Mark!" I cry.
He reaches again for my bottom—this time the gaff.
I cannot fight him off.
He pulls the gaff with one hand and pushes with the other!
He recoils in shock!
"You’re a goddam guy! I don’t believe it!" he screams. "You’re a goddam guy!"
"Please Mark, don’t be angry!" I try and roll away from him. As I do, I pull up the gaff to cover my small, but erect penis and undersized testicles.
I cower on the edge of the bed.
"How could I have ever been fooled by you? Absolutely unbelievable."
I begin to cry involuntarily . . . Soon, my sobs are uncontrollable.
"Oh stop your bawling!" orders Mark. "You’re not the one who should be upset. I’m the one who got taken for a ride!"
"Please, don’t tell anyone . . . Pretty soon, I’ll get an operation. Everyone thinks I’m a girl anyway, so I’ll give my lover exactly what he wants."
"You shouldn’t deceive people, Marie. Or whatever your real name is."
I hope he’ll come over to me. I hope he’ll forgive. I hope he’ll show some humanity.
Mark Harris whips the semen filled condom at me. Then he hurriedly wipes his penis with the bed sheet. He pulls up his jockey shorts and quickly puts on his costume pants, socks, frilly shirt and boots. He slings the waistcoat over his shoulder. The aristocratic wig still sits atop the dresser.
He combs back his hair with his fingers. He does up his belt and then reaches into his pants for his wallet. "Here you little faggot! Here’s some money for services rendered!" Finally, he throws a balled-up hundred-dollar bill at me. Then, as he storms out of the room, he slams the door shut!
I lie on the bed for a few minutes, not wanting to move.
I feel terrible!
This whole thing is about money. Nothing else, just the money. Have I prostituted myself?
As I roll over, I feel something underneath me. I hold it up. It is the second condom, still in the package, unopened. I toss it onto the floor in disgust.
A few minutes pass. The phone rings. After two rings, I reach over and pick it up.
"Hi Christina."
"Oh, hi Erin."
"Are you okay?"
"I guess . . . I’ll survive."
Then, I put down the phone. The digital clock on the dresser says 1:33 a.m. I get up to shut off all the lights. Then, I flop down on the bed . . . Sleep can’t come quickly enough for me.
Chapter Ten
Back in Los Angeles, beautiful Erin Matthews drops by my apartment with the latest copy of the National Star.
At the doorway, she gives me a warm hug as I greet her. Erin is wearing a sensuous red sheath dress and she has a delightful scent. Her shapely body feels wonderful!
"You look gorgeous," I say.
"You look very sexy," she says.
I am wearing a pink tank top and cut-off blue denim shorts.
"Please, come on in," I say with an arm extended in the direction of the living room.
"Thank you," replies Erin. "Look what I’ve brought you, Christina."
Then she hands me a copy of the National Star.
We sit down together on the love seat. I don’t have a lot of furniture in my small apartment.
On the front page of the National Star is a picture of Christina Spears.
The headline reads, "Is Christina Spears really a boy?" I open up the paper. There is a small picture of Mark Harris above his byline.
There are pictures of me, as Christina Spears, in the Holiday Inn suite, in my diaphanous dress and turquoise top and bottom, next without my top or dress, then without my . . . Mark Harris is a heartless bastard. I can’t believe they used that photo of my genitals!
As I skim over the story, I am not surprised. It is a complete kiss and tell description of our romantic encounter. Also, I notice that Mark Harris claims Leonardo Di Ciprio and Christina Spears are intimate friends. But, Leo can’t bear the humiliation of this terrible secret. Christina Spears is a genetic male—a boy!
"We’ve got him by the balls!" squealed Erin with delight.
"You bet!"
"Our lawyers are drawing up the papers right now. It’s a virtual slam dunk!"
"Leonardo Di Ciprio can sue too. He wasn’t even in New Orleans at that time."
"Can you imagine what will happen when Mark Harris meets with Christina Spears in court? Will he realize he’s never met Christina before?"
There is no doubt that SMG can win a lawsuit now. Christina Spears can sue the National Star. The real Christina Spears can prove that she is a genetic girl through a simple DNA test. A massive out-of-court settlement is likely.
"You know, Erin, in all the time I talked with Mark Harris, I never said I was Christina Spears."
"Well, if I were Mark Harris, I would have been fooled too. You are Christina’s twin! Separated at birth! And you look drop-dead gorgeous even without makeup or glamorous clothes." She gives me a big hug!
"Thank you."
We both get up from the love seat.
"You know, if Christina ever gets strep throat while on tour, I think I’ll give you a call."
We both laugh heartily as we move to the front door.
"Actually, I enjoy performing as Christina. I love the excitement, the applause, the adoration!"
"I know the club crowds really love you . . . and I’m your biggest fan!"
"Thanks. I really appreciate all that you did for me. The plastic surgery, the liposuction, the whole star treatment—it was all great!"
"Oh, you were really great Christina. Oh, there I go again. I just can’t seem to get used to thinking of you as Steve."
I hold up the photo article. "Well, here’s the proof."
We laugh again as I open the front door.
Then Erin embraces me again and kisses me goodbye. This, however, is not a sisterly kiss. Her mouth is open and she forces her tongue inside me. I return the kiss with feeling. She is one hot babe! But, it is more than that.
When we separate. I am trembling.
"I had to see what it would be like," says Erin.
"Well . . . I’m willing if you are."
That’s is all the encouragement she needs.
© 2000
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