Sex In Stilettos

"You're back," she greeted, obviously none too pleased to see me.

"What's going on?" I demanded.

"I'll leave that to your fertile imagination," she replied. "Actually, I had hoped to have my bags packed and be gone before you got back. But Chris and I got a little diverted."

"You're leaving me!" I exclaimed.

"Very observant," she smirked. "Well, don't you have anything to say?"

If she was expecting me to beg, she was in for a shock. Since my successful interview, I felt like a new girl. She could not possibly realize how relieved her announcement made me feel.

"I shall be spending tomorrow night with Tamella Van Diemen." How sweetly that sentence rolled off my tongue.

Louise laughed. "Of course you are, darling. And I'm going down on the pope in my next video."

"He must be one of the few you haven't done already," I shot back.

"You are such a fucking pathetic little schoolgirl!" she snarled. "I don't know what I ever saw in you."

"Will you do something for me?" I asked, in my best pathetic little schoolgirl voice.

"What?"

"Finish packing and get the fuck out of my life."


To describe Tamella Van Diemen as beautiful would be akin to calling the Mona Lisa an old painting. The Dutch/American rock queen was the living embodiment of slender, long-limbed perfection. Her most notorious song, 'Sex In Stilettos', was the most appropriate anthem any songwriter had ever penned.

My heart was pounding faster than one of her high voltage hits, as I watched her emerge through the stage doors at the rear of the arena, flanked by a quartet of muscular bodyguards. A small troupe of autograph hunters called out in vain, from behind a protective cordon of rope and male muscle. True to her arrogant reputation, Tamella did not even acknowledge their presence.

Only moments earlier, she had stepped off stage, leaving an ecstatic audience baying for more.