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Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Snow White Lies - Sarah J. Pepper #erotic #fairytale #adult #promotion

Chapter Two

Alias: Snow White
{New York City, Present Day}

My controversial answer to Forbes’ interview question about the hierarchy of what drives a business savvy empress, such as myself, had a backlash of epic proportions, but I’d be damned to apologize for it. As heir to White Industries, I’d seen my fair share of memos and partook in countless minutes in boring meeting rooms. Forget for a friggin’ second that many people consider business entrepreneurs manipulating psychopaths; I was a spectacle in the limelight without the manic stereotype. Granted, I wasn’t discouraging the press from creating juicy stories that piggybacked off of my quotes to the press. “No Comment” was basically a confession of guilt. However, it wasn’t all my doing.
What hadn’t been published was my explanation of why I thought lipstick, coffee, and sex drive worthy. One: confidence was a state of mind that some women, including myself, lacked when they didn’t look their best. Confidence sells—as does sex. However, that didn’t mean I encouraged bangin’ your way to the top of the CEO ladder. In business especially, selling yourself, or image rather, comes with any black tie affair. Lastly, coffee—the saving grace to every late night meeting, the jumpstart to each early morning, and the socially acceptable way to keep from falling asleep by people who have the personality of a constipated accountant.
A nondescript interviewer kept a pencil thin mic close to her face when she asked, “What are you looking for in a man? Personality? Money? Sex?”
“Who said I was looking for a man?” I teased while Henry, my long time makeup design artist, glued golden eyelashes between mine. The little hairs were heavy and made me sleepy, but it was worth the price of beauty, right? Don’t get me wrong, there was nothing misguided about feeling as beautiful on the outside as my badass self felt on the inside, but it didn’t have to involve an entire canister of gold glitter. At least the makeup artist smelled good. He was the personification of an Abercrombie scratch & sniff. Standing in front me so close the bulge in his pants damn near hit the seat, he got his hands all twisted up in my hair. I couldn’t help but to get a little turned on when he pulled, just ah-oh-so-little. But the real chemistry between us was that we were totally both into men.
The interviewer coughed, taking my attention off of the dick between my legs. “Nivea, we’ve—”
I laughed. “Only lovers are allowed to call me by my namesake, dear. Besides, Nivea means snow. So just call me by my pseudonym and relax. I’m not into formal interviews anyways. Besides, I’m not going to say anything that’ll get you into too much trouble.”
“Snow White, you sued the reporter from Forbes about a woman’s business hierarchy,” she stated and held up the mic like I was going to go ape shit at the mere mention of the magazine, and she was going to get it on tape.
“For slander,” I pointed out. “And we settled out of court so there is nothing for you to worry about… So what were we talking about? Sex? Money? The Big Apple? How come all the alleged prince charmings play for the other team?”
Henry smirked. In a British accent that cemented my appreciation for all things Blighty, he said, “I promise you love, not all the fit arses are gay.”
“Thanks for leaving me a few,” I said with a smile.
The interviewer held up her cell phone. On it was the home page of my blog, Confessions of a Big Apple Debutante. My latest post Butt Floss and Bondage: the shitty thoughts that go through a girl’s mind when sex is on the brain, was breaking the internet. My phone had been blowing up with all sorts of notifications about my nasty taste between the sheets. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that Vogue sent one of their own for a private interview only hours after I made the post.
“Or are you simply into men who know how to use a whipping stick?” the interviewer asked.
I leaned forward as if to tell a dark secret about my sex life. In a whisper, I said, “No comment.”
If everyone only knew that I could care less about all the fame and fortune. I would give a million dollars for one of the donuts on the table—the one with chocolate frosting and multi-colored sprinkles. For the better part of two hours, I’d been sitting in the hard studio chair getting dolled up for a photo-shoot that involved an albino lion. How the big paws related to jewelry, I hadn’t a clue. Whatever sells, right? Regardless, the king cat was the only reason I agreed to the shoot in the first place. I had a soft spot for the furry kind and was promised that the proceeds would be used to keep poachers from attacking more beautiful creatures. However, that was on the DL. I had a gag order clause in the contract with the magazine that the details about my humanitarian efforts wouldn’t be getting out. I didn’t need rumors that I had a soul getting out. I worked too damn hard to make sure that people thought I was the metaphoric love child of a spoiled brat and a heartless bitch.
Regardless of the state of my soul, what I wanted more than to snuggle up to the Mac Daddy of all Pussy Cats was to get my hands on one of the chocolates. Ugh! My stomach had been growling for the better part of an hour. Instead of complaining, I played my part of the most sought out bachelorette on the East Coast.
Even though I could have my pick of men, it wasn’t on the forefront of my mind. Food. It was a four letter word to most in the fashion world, but it was all I could do not to greedily gape at the smorgasbord of food on display. In the midst of drinking in the eye candy, a man in the shadows caught my attention. He was not your usual caterer; he had a fat content of less than five percent… Well, with as tight as his pants were, he was definitely fit. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed and had that cute, college boy messy hair. He picked up the donut that I’d been eyeing and took a bite.
The prick!
He smirked and then gave me a wink.
“So there isn’t a current man filling the void in your love life?” the interviewer asked oh-so-innocently.
She’d caught me eye-fucking the donut boy. We both knew it. My hunger for sweets did not stop with sprinkled carbs. I wanted to believe in love, but my glutton for cynicism stopped me from over indulging.
“No one man could satisfy me,” I sassed off and then added. “Or no one has yet.”
“Is that a challenge?” she asked, jotting down notes from our conversation.
Before I bothered to answer, the photographer strolled into the dressing room. Few men could pull off a Gucci suit and a beanie hat while balancing a vintage camera in hand, but Christof Leitz shot in style.
His fashion sense wasn’t his only distinctive trait. His work was often referred to as “Prague refugee” as he began his photography career reenacting moments in the Czech Republic’s independence. Due to some much guarded political issues involving his work with film, he defected to the States. Like any renegade, he embraced the outlaw lifestyle. His blond hair was grown out long, and he’d tattooed his body up and down with what he called, “revolutionary inspired” ink.
When a camera wasn’t pressed to his eye, he’d sport epoch aviator sunglasses and capture blurred images with his cell phone. In NYC he was renowned for his paparazzi shots. In fact, Christof could make or break a career by the frequencies of his printed photos. So to say we had many a happenstance rendezvous would be a sound assumption.
“White? You’re my victim today?”
I squealed and raced off of the barstool. Forgetting that I was covered in glitter, I put my arms around him and gave a big squeeze. There were few men in my life that I swore off, and Christof was one of them. It’d be like screwing a stepfather. Yes, he might be hot, funny, and talented, but it was just wrong. Period. I kissed him on the cheek, leaving a bright red lipstick stain.
“I hardly recognized you since you aren’t hiding behind a bush.” I gave him a wink and nodded to his camera in hand. “I didn’t think you knew how to operate one of those things when there wasn’t a three foot long lens attached. Since when did you start whoring yourself out to the big-timers like Vogue?”
“I like pussies,” he said. “When I heard they were looking for a professional picture snapper for Bling’s ad that involved a fat cat, I couldn’t resist.”
“So if they were looking for a professional, why did they hire you?” I teased.
Henry grabbed me by my shoulders and pulled me off Christof. “White, I swear if you rub off any more of my Golden Goose Glitter on his designer suit I will strangle you with my hair extensions. Get your arse back on the stool so I can fix this mess you did with your lips!”
I let Henry drag me back to his domain so he could finish the beautification process. He worked overtime because the lion had arrived and I was due on set pronto. Finally when my skin was touched up and lipstick reapplied, Henry deemed me as beautiful as a modern day goddess and practically dragged me away from the mirrors so it didn’t look like I was too eager to pet the pretty cat. Nevertheless, I couldn’t hold back a squeal when I saw the majestic beast sprawled out on the wooden floor.
With curious caution, I approached the cat. Dressed in a little more than glitter and a diamond necklace that was worth most people’s salaries, I had virtually no protection if it decided to use his paws. Yet, I wasn’t worried. Animals didn’t seem to mind me, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t about to give them their respect. After giving me a sniff, the cat yawned. I didn’t know if it was his way of saying don’t mess with me or if he saw me as little threat. Either way, I took it as a sign that I could snuggle up next to him.
Christof had been already taking pictures of our meet n’ greet, and he didn’t stop while I got adjusted around the animal. The interviewer was on her game as well, not letting the animal give her worry.
“So you’re saying money does buy happiness?” she asked. “There is no use in finding Mr. Right?”
I laughed. “Mr. Right is an urban legend. He’s no more than a mythical creature Disney created to give little girls something to dream about only to have their hearts crushed when he doesn’t come-a-knockin’. No such man exists.”
“So do you ever think you’ll marry?” the interviewer asked. She stood behind the photographer so as to not interfere with the photography. “Being the most eligible bachelorette in New York, you’ll disappoint many suitors if you don’t.”
I glanced down at my left hand and pictured the phantom bling weighing down that finger. It was difficult to think of possible futures that didn’t involve me ending up in prison for the malicious crimes I planned. It was even more difficult to picture any man being able to put up with my public persona. And if by chance I managed to find that someone, when the camera lens was capped and the crowd dissipated could I actually be real with them. It was hard enough for me to be myself. I was much better at faking it. A permanent person who held the title: husband. Just thinking about pre-nups gave me an instant migraine.
“Doesn’t every girl dream of their wedding day?” I asked innocently as I looked back up at her and hoped she could see the venom in my expression. Most people backed off when I glared that way, but she wasn’t taking the bait.
“And how do you dream of yours?” she pressed on.
Dreaming was a delusion I gave up long ago... Another camera shot. I couldn’t think of a life where I wasn’t pretending. Camera shot. Dreaming of a life where a man would fit into it wasn’t fathomable.
“Do you ever dream about your father walking you down the aisle? Giving you away? The dance?” she asked.
I knew it shouldn’t have, but the mention of my father caught me off guard. I usually gave everyone enough to talk about; few people ever dropped his name anymore. I swallowed hard and turned and faced the lion so that Christof wouldn’t accidentally catch my grief on film. But turning toward the beast didn’t help. The lion’s amber eyes seemed to penetrate right through me. I closed my eyes so that I didn’t accidentally mess up and shed a tear. My father had been gone for years now, so why did my heart still ache like it was yesterday? The episodes happened less and less as years passed. With the help of a drug inducing hallucinogenic called Elixir, I could shy away from the hurt. I bit the inside of my mouth to take my mind off of the pain that would never heal fully. As if sensing my pain, the lion put his forehead on mine. The sincere gesture got to me. A tear escaped and slid down my cheek. I’d lost the battle.
The camera shutter echoed. It was a not-so-subtle reminder that my grief would be for public display. I needed to pull myself together.
“My father can only live in my dreams,” I said, hating that my voice wavered at the mention of dear ol’ dad.
Reality was a brutal bitch. My eyes watered. I hated it. After nearly a decade, you’d think I could keep my emotions in check. Camera shot. Camera shot. Camera shot. Great. Now my adverse reaction would be exploited by the magazine however they wanted. Camera shot. My father would never walk me down the aisle. Camera shot. My mother wouldn’t recognize me even if she was there. Camera shot. Marrying a man now would only trap me in my faux life forever.
Ugh! I needed to steer this interview back to a more favorable outcome. Fighting back another persistent tear, I closed my eyes and got back into the moment. Right now wasn’t a time to let people see the real me; not yet. When I opened my eyes, I bore a smartass smile.
“I can’t really think about marriage right now,” I said, raising my chin high. The lion followed suit. “I’m soon to be in complete control of the family business. That’s at the forefront of my mind…well, that and making sure our family’s good name gets all the publicity possible.”
“But if you could…” the interviewer pressed.
I crossed my arms. This chick would seriously not let it go. “I don’t dream of my wedding day in the same way most women do. I don’t care if I spill wine all over the white dress. Having a perfect Pinterest photo is so not on my mind. And I couldn’t care less about the hors d’oeuvres. My day will begin when the lights are finally turned off and everyone else is passed out. Do I care if he rips the corset off of me because he is too desperate to see what was hidden underneath? Hell, I pray that the ridiculously expensive dress will lay in ruins on the floor! I hope that he demands me to keep my eyes open so that I can see the affection in his as he makes sweet, passionate love to me. It is my hope that the man I will eventually say yes to will make me scream our last name until my voice goes hoarse. That is the part about my wedding that invades my dreams… Now, the tricky part: finding a man that fits the bill.”
The interviewer grinned. I finally gave her the meat she was looking for. “That’s one hell of a statement.”
“You can quote me on that: I challenge New York to find me Mr. Right…or at the very least a suitable mistress,” I said with a wink.
With a donut in hand, I stumbled into the changing room. My lipstick had to be smudged from making out with the flirtatious pastry boy. Totes worth it though. I took another gluttonous bite of the sweet heavenly sugar. Pushing the door closed with a kick of the heel, I embraced the solitude.
With the pastry between my teeth, I undid the bra clasp to let my girls hang free from beneath my dress. I swore that designers forgot about comfort at the price of beauty. I supposed that was their prerogative. Nothing comes for free.
I yanked out a wad of extensions from my hair and tossed them on the vanity. I shouted up a silent prayer, grateful that some genius thought up Spanx.
Edison bulbs encompassed the mirror set above the vanity. No matter how much I dodged mirrors, especially when I was squeezed into an itty bitty outfit, there was no avoiding them in dressing rooms. Everywhere I turned there was another one. Mirrors were my arch nemesis. I hated what I saw upon looking at them. They had the ability to lift my spirit or crush me like a roach. Nevertheless, I caught site of my reflection. It wasn’t vanity, but I did look positively beautiful. However, it had nothing to do with the hairdo or makeup. It sure as hell wasn’t the fat maker in my mouth. I set the donut on the vanity and wiped away the crumbs from my face.
What caught my eye was my tear stained cheek. There was a painful beauty to it. Why didn’t Christof notify Henry to come over and fix it? Oh hell, he probably thought the rawness of it was worth the disrupted makeup. I wasn’t known for being sappy in the public-eye. It was one of those rare photos of my humane side.
The longer I stared, the more I hoped one of the tear-stained, emotional photos would actually make the cut. People would interpret it how they wanted to, but I would know the truth. This was my reality. My opinion of love was drawn on my face.
I meant what I said; Mr. Right didn’t exist. But on the off chance he did, I hoped he’d see this photo.
And never come looking for me.



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