Chapter 18Don't Wanna Try
“Do you want to go backstage?” he asked as the lighting returned and the intermission began.
She was pensive. “I guess so.”
They wandered in the hallways behind stage, passing Hollywood starlets and legends on the way. Within a few minutes, Marshall led her into his dressing room; immediately, he pinned her against the door.
“Marshall!” she yelped.
“You have no idea what that dress is doing to me.”
“I wore it for you,” she admitted.
“I’d be worried if you wore it for anyone else.”
“Is this why intermission is so long? So all the guys can get some before the next half?” she said playfully.
“For me and you, yeah. For everyone else it’s a half hour of picture-taking and to be seen. Besides, we shouldn’t let this private dressing room go to waste.”
“Just don’t rip my dress!”
“I’ll buy you a hundred new ones if I do,” he promised as he lifted the silky material over her hips, carefully removing it and leaving her clad in nearly nothing.
“I think you need to catch up,” she smirked as her hands removed his jacket.
Marshall quickened the process by lifting his arms to send his shirt soaring onto the floor. He felt his pants loosen, then the urgency in her voice hurried both their movements as he guided her over to the plush one-person sofa against one of the walls.
He sat down, pulled her onto his lap, and turned her so he faced her back. “I didn’t think you’d wear a thong,” he commented as he pushed the thin string aside.
“You don’t like it?” she teased.
“I like you better in nothing,” he affirmed and brought her down towards his thighs, burying himself within her slick depths.
She moaned and moved her backside as his movements quickened.
“Watch us, baby,” he said, pointing to their reflection in the mirror.
She was mesmerized by the picture they made.
Bodies moving together, against each other; skin tasting skin, watching him slip out of her warmth only to return with a deeper, harsher stroke perfectly designed to set her on fire. They were an erotic pictorial of timelessness between a man and a woman; sinfully enjoying the pleasure of another.
Marshall grunted as he thrust ruthlessly within her accommodating body and watched her breasts bounce with the rapidity of their movements; he felt her inner walls tighten around him as he swelled to a fevered pitch.
Their eyes met in the reflection, and their bodies melted together, erupted together, and screamed together—as one.
“You forgot something,” she said offhandedly as they began redressing.
Shit, he thought. “I thought you were—”
“You haven’t kissed me.”
A look of relief crossed his face momentarily. He leaned forward to kiss her on her forehead. “Did I?”
“Kiss me. Really kiss me,” she implored with doe eyes.
He acquiesced by bringing her hot, sweaty body flush against his bare chest and kissed her hotly, sweetly, and torturously slow as their tongues clashed loudly, passionately. Marshall cupped her buttocks in the palms of his hands, lifted her up slightly, and pressed his hardness between her thighs.
“Fuck,” he swore. “We don’t have time!”
“Guess that’ll encourage you to hurry back,” she giggled.
“You gonna watch from back here or go back to the audience?”
“From back here. Like a groupie.”
He laughed. “Right; you an Eminem groupie.”
“No, a Marshall Mathers groupie,” she corrected him with a dazzling smile.
He felt his heart constrict as a strong wave of emotion swept over his soul. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be there, now get going so I can redo my make-up and hair.”
Marshall flashed her a roguish grin. “Did I do that?”
She chucked a pillow at him.
The door clicked behind him, and Vanessa quickly repaired the little damage done to her make-up and adjusted her hair slightly. Good as new, she thought.
Vanessa heard the introduction to the song and hurried to the edge of the curtains so she could peak out to see him. She could feel the bass thud beneath her feet, but her entire being focused on the man that appeared on the stage in a wifebeater and a pair of black jeans that hung loosely off his waste. Her eyes darted to the audience, where the lucky non-celebrity patrons gathered closely to the stage, screaming and cheering as their hands flailed wildly to the beat as the words flowed easily off Marshall’s quick tongue.
It was enthralling; this chance to watch him in his element—seeing his interaction with the crowd, the way he never lost the beat. It was ingrained into his body, his soul. The alter-ego was like a second skin, a brief emergence of his subconscious peaking out to play, and she was dazed by the realization. Each word punctuated, each lyric bringing out the meaning, each note solidifying the person he was.
She watched awestruck. Marshall Mathers was indeed star quality.
Deserving of the praise he received from his enthusiastic fans. Undeserving of the criticism he received from paranoid parents and overzealous critics. It was a harsh insight for her to grasp.
She had known that he was a rap star, but she hadn’t known.
Watching him with his adoring fans, an overwhelming sense of pride emerged. Vanessa was so proud of him for achieving his dreams, for going after them with a fierce determination that allowed him to be at this level.
A squeal distracted her thoughts, and brought her closer to the cold lines reality drew.
“Is something wrong?” she questioned as she turned around to face a young girl.
“The song’s almost over. Eminem’s gonna come backstage and see me! Oh, my god! I hope he thinks I’m hot!”
With a calculating eye, Vanessa took in the too-tight halter top, the cut-off shorts, and the bleached blonde hair that covered her shoulders. Maybe if Marshall lost half his IQ and ten years, the girl could have had her hopes better invested.
“I don’t think so, honey.”
“What? Is my hair flat? Do you think my boobs are too small? I’ve just heard so many different versions of how he likes his women!”
“Your hair is fine, your breasts are fine. I know exactly how he likes his woman.”
“You do? Are you his stylistic? PR director?” the girl fired question after question.
It occurred to Vanessa that she wasn’t sure what she was to Marshall, other than formally. Nevertheless, she gathered a little courage and answered, “I’m his girlfriend.”
“No way! He doesn’t have girlfriends. He just likes to mess around and leave girls. I know I can change that, though!” she giggled.
“I think you take his songs too seriously…”
“Have you heard ‘Superman’? Trust me, girl, that tells you all you need to know about Em.”
“Em?” Vanessa choked at the nickname. “Tomorrow, honey, watch MTV’s coverage. Look for me. On Marshall’s arm.”
The young girl stuttered. “I will! I bet I won’t see you!”
“Let me give you some advice. You’re not even eighteen. No celebrity in their right mind, or even a little out of it, would kiss you, have sex with you, or date you. There are laws made for a reason, and while you may think it unfair, men do not want to go to jail for a little bit of teenage ass. Especially when they lack class. Instead of dressing like a whore, and acting like one, try buying an outfit that teases not advertises.”
Marshall jogged off the stage to see how Vanessa liked his performance.
“Hey, baby,” he said as he walked up to Vanessa and kissed her cheek. “Did you enjoy the show?”
“It was amazing, Marshall,” she replied with a smile and kissed him soundly on the lips. “It was beyond amazing.”
“Really?” he asked, a little surprised.
“I never realized how much of a performer you are.”
“Yeah,” he agreed.
“Oh, Marshall, there’s a girl who wants to meet you,” Vanessa said and turned him around to meet the overeager fan she had exchanged cross words with before.
The girl stumbled over her words as she attempted to recoil from the shock that the words Vanessa had told her were true.
“Oh, hey.”
“Hi, Eminem!” she said with a giggle.
“Like the show?”
“I loved it! You’re such a good rapper; you’re just the best ever!” she gushed.
“Thanks,” he replied with a smile. “I’m sure you’re eager to see the next performer, so we’ll get out of your way,” Marshall said politely.
It was a gracious dismissal, but a dismissal nonetheless.
Vanessa laughed with pure satisfaction at the dumbfounded expression on the young girl’s face.
Serves her right, she thought.
~~~~~~~
“Mind telling me what that was all about?”
“She wanted to fuck you.”
“Yeah? Maybe I should—”
“If you even think about it, I’ll withhold,” she warned.
“Why would I want her? She’s a girl. I have a woman,” he assured her as he ran his hand down her flared hips.
“I was a little rude to her,” Vanessa admitted.
“What did you tell her?”
“Not to dress or act like a whore.”
“A little harsh.”
“Well, the truth can hurt!”
He chuckled. “You sure are somethin’.”
“You might be a little upset with something I told her though,” she cast her eyes downward.
“Why?”
“She asked how I knew you wouldn’t want her… I told her I was your girlfriend.”
Author: zines@aol.com
These stories are for entertainment purposes only. They are completely fictitious, and the authors mean no harm to EMINEM, his family, friends, or anyone else that may have been depicted as a 'real life' character. No money was made on the fiction here, either directly or indirectly, i.e. paid advertising. In other words - it's just a bunch of shit we wrote for fun. Please don't take it seriously.