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Epically fabulous ass.
Legs that go on for miles.
Bee-stung lips.
Fuck-me hair.
Fuck-me tits.
Just fuck me, baby. Just fuck me.
Best ass on the planet.
Best body on the planet.
Most beautiful woman in the world.
A perfect ten…maybe an eleven. Maybe a fifteen…
Fantasy woman.
I mean, who wouldn’t want to tap that?
Who wouldn’t want to tap that.
Who wouldn’t want to tap that…
These are only a few of the things that run through my head as Veronica Romero climbs out of the black stretch limo that just pulled up in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in LA. Everything I’ve ever read about her or heard about her or, yes, even thought about her floods my brain as she waves to the crowd before starting her long trek down the red carpet.
In my (very) meager defense, I was a red-blooded American graduate student when topless photos of her on a yacht in the South of France leaked and nearly imploded the Internet. The epic horniness of the twenty-four-year-old male is a cliché for a reason.
I like to think that if the same thing happened now, I wouldn’t look, considering it was a total invasion of her privacy. But that’s probably a lie. After all, I’ve spent too much of the last year as close to obsessed with her as I can get and still stay on the right side of the law. Then again, watching her now in her natural habitat, dressed in a white gown that is anything but innocent and diamonds that rest in just the right spot to draw attention to her perfect breasts, who could blame me?
Certainly not the guy behind me, who keeps telling his friend how much he wants to ram his cock down her throat.
Or the guy to my left who really, really wants to fuck her “perfect peach of an ass.”
Not her. Just her throat. Just her ass.
No, they wouldn’t blame me, and it’s no use blaming them, not when all they’re doing is giving voice to the things that are written about her pretty much every day, pretty much everywhere. The tabloids. Wikipedia, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr. The hundred and one unauthorized biographies that have come out about her through the years…
No, no one can blame them for the filthy things they’re saying. Or for all the dirty, disgusting, depraved things they’re thinking.
But I do it anyway. Fuck, yeah, I do. I blame them and myself and every other person on the planet who sees only what they want to see when they look at her.
The goddess.
The whore.
The “perfect ass.”
The fact that after all these years it’s all she lets them see says as much about them as it does about her.
Her walk down the red carpet is painstakingly slow, her heels high, and the demand for attention nearly crushing with its expectations.
I move along the rope line with her, shadowing her from the crowd. When she pauses, I pause. When she walks, I walk. When the fans call her name, I watch her eyes, her smile. The set of her shoulders. Everyone has tells, little breaches in their own personal defenses that give away more than they want to share.
Everyone has secrets.
