What sex­tape?

The Star (St. Lucia) - Life Begins 2 Nite - - CONTENTS -

One minute it’s the most an­tic­i­pated event, then next you know it’s come and gone. What else but Christ­mas and its fol­lowup hol­i­days. (Hope­fully you got most of what you had on your wish list, real and imag­ined.). Me? I’m still kinda woozy from over­do­ing it with over-spiked eggnogs and rum punches that packed too much punch. Or was it de rum dat do me dat? I stayed away from my usual wa­ter­ing hole. Pri­vately shar­ing Yule­tide joys with my Looshan friends, left me too dizzy for any­thing else.

I’m still not fully re­cov­ered but what rocked my boat in the worst way was the spe­cial gift my other half chose for him­self, all by him­self. No re­quested hints from, no noth­ing. With the econ­omy as it is, I guess he de­cided to save him­self fur­ther stress in the sea­son of joy and hap­pi­ness. I know what you’re think­ing, but trust me, you’re wrong. He’s not into such joy toys. Then again I had no idea he was into pho­tog­ra­phy. Which is why I al­most fell off my chair as he un­packed his gift to him­self on Christ­mas morn­ing: a Go­Pro cam­era! I mean that shit can put you back up­ward from three hun­dred bucks. And I’m not talk­ing EC, you un­der­stand. (So much for our Courts and WASCO bills!) Christ­mas be damned. Let me tell you, I was livid. “What in the heck do you want a cam­era for?” I al­most screamed. “And such a fancy one too? When did you take up pho­tog­ra­phy, any­way?”

He was nei­ther stirred nor for that mat­ter shaken by my rum-soaked out­burst. “I want to record you be­tween the sheets,” he al­most whis­pered. And I said: “You want to pho­to­graph me sleep­ing?”

He shook his head. “No, babe, I want you wide awake.”

And I said: “When I wake up in the morn­ing, with my face a mess and hair all over the damn place?” I mean, how naïve can one girl get, right?

Sud­denly it hit me. “You say­ing you want to shoot us . . . while we’re do­ing it? A sex tape?” He nod­ded af­fir­ma­tively. But what as­sured me my Mr. God­ddy-Goody Two Shoes was dead se­ri­ous was that cer­tain look in his eye that I’d not seen in years. Sud­denly he had turned into Hugh Hefner, Tinto Brass and Ray J rolled into one horny su­per perv. He ac­tu­ally wanted to shoot us shoot­ing for the moon!

Still I asked him to re­peat him­self, half ex­pect­ing him to say he’d been kid­ding. He wasn’t. In fact he made cer­tain I’d re­ceived his whis­pered mes­sage loud and clear. “I want us to make a sex tape,” he said.

Peo­ple, I’d be ly­ing if I said I didn’t feel the urge to grab that damn cam­era and bang it against the side of his the head. But based on his new­found af­fec­tion, chances are he’d get off on the pain. I poured him a stiff one in­stead, then softly re­minded him the only Paris that turned me on was the cap­i­tal of France, not that bimbo heiress who could think of noth­ing bet­ter than to show the world how good she was at heat­ing up a boudoir. I also re­minded him that what­ever re­sem­blance he’d seen be­tween Kim Kar­dashian and me was a booze-in­spired mi­rage.

I couldn’t be­lieve what next I said. It could eas­ily have been the rum-and-Coke talk­ing. Who cares? I told my ev­erlovin’ that if he wanted what folks like Russell Sim­mons wanted, then he’d have to splurge like Russell Sim­mons. By which I sug­gested he put his money where he wanted my mouth. Even in my hung-over ears I sounded like a hooker. But what the heck, we were talk­ing sex­tapes; no time for niceties!

I mean this is the same man who’s so prone to Trump tantrums should he even imag­ine I’d gone with a girl­friend to one of our fa­vorite flesh­pots. Be­sides, who can com­pete with over-en­dowed school kids when it comes to act­ing out some perv’s fan­tasies be­fore his stolen Sam­sung? Not I. And any­way, as many a 15-year-old dummy has dis­cov­ered, you never know in whose un­man­i­cured paws your sex­tape might fall and I, for one, was not about to en­cour­age more se­rial rapists in our midst . . . Any­way, that’s my Christ­mas story!

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