Sext God

So little by little, she got around every obstacle. Melanie had seen her face, had even pointed her out to Kirkman on Facebook. He knew who she was. So at some performance, he could see her in the front row. He smiled, she smiled back. She got invited backstage. They had a great time, or so I heard.

After that, everybody's defenses were down. She would show up to a gig and get invited backstage immediately. She would show up early, and get invited into the green room before the performance. She just started being an accepted part of the entourage, even though nobody got the bright idea to do any kind of background search on her at all.

The first borderline act didn't even get a lot of notice. She posted a selfie in which she was kissing Kirkman on the cheek. The caption was “my new boyfriend."

A couple of weeks later, there was another picture with her sitting with her legs draped across his lap, her fingers tucked into the waistband of his pants while he laid there with his head back, apparently unconscious.

The trade rags picked it up and promoted her as his new girlfriend. It was everywhere.

What happened next, everybody should have seen coming. Kirkman went on tour, and in LA he was photographed sucking face with someone else. The rags jumped on it that he was a “cheater.”

They loved the story. It made a huge splash. Lots of other celebrities weighed in, either egging him on, cheering him on, or criticizing him for being a cheater.

The girl went off the deep end. There was a tantrum. Death threats. She leaked a video of them having sex in the bathroom. Then she posted another video where she tried to take her own life.

Unbelievable. She's fine, by the way. Still in the hospital, but fine.

I won't let any of that happen, but I do need Melanie and Kirkman to cooperate if this is going to work. I can not have him inviting random women up to the penthouse, seemingly in defiance of me. Just to fuck with me. Just to act out like a little kid who doesn't like being told what to do.

It's not like I enjoy this. It's just my job.

Scrolling through the search results on Instagram, it's the usual smattering of selfies and lip-synching to Kirkman’s songs. Even though there were extra women in the penthouse yesterday, word doesn't seem to have spread just yet. Melanie must have already had the dick pic taken down before it started really picking up steam.

If it had started trending significantly, half of DC would be in the city by now, trying to get that cross-platform cultural significance. Surprisingly, politicians love being around pop celebrities. It makes them seem more like people, I suppose.

Sighing, I scroll through the list with the side of my thumb, ready to switch over to Facebook. One picture in particular catches my eye, and I reverse direction to take another close look at it.

She's not showing her face. That's not too unusual, though sometimes it can be an indication that the subject is under age. It's a flash lit shot of deep cleavage, with just the border of a red, lacy bra pushing together the full breasts. The bottom of the picture dissolves quickly into shadow. The top of the picture is collarbones and an open shirt collar, almost blown out by the light of the flash. It's at an angle, one of those compositions that looks artful yet candid and un-staged. It looks quick. Furtive.

Something about this seems… strange. Maybe strange isn’t the right word. But it’s worth another look, not just because those are a damn nice pair of breasts. The text across the photos says Kirkman HMU! “Hit me up,” is what the abbreviation stands for.

He's tagged in the post, so she's reaching out to him directly. I click on the profile, annoyed to see that this is her one and only picture. It seems like a plant. Seems that the deliberate taunt. And the location… Shit. She's in town.

We could be in trouble here.

I click the Follow button immediately. She won't know who I am, so it really shouldn't matter. My Instagram is set up with a bunch of phony shots of the Potomac River, Smithsonian, and dimly lit photos of hard liquor in ice filled glasses in bars. Your basic macho group of photos, but nothing that reveals anything about me personally. It's meant to be sort of a lure to get people to feel okay about me following them, without blocking me immediately.

But I am surprised that she just followed me back.

I clench my jaw. Seems too amateurish. Then again, cou

pled with Kirkman's own amateurish errors, it might just be a trend. Maybe it's really happening just like this: he brought somebody up to the penthouse, she thinks that she deserves extended access, he kicked her out without a way to contact him and she's thinking on her feet and wondering if Instagram is going to be effective in getting back into the entourage.

It could be just that simple, just that innocent, right?

But I start to wonder even more, when my phone buzzes in my hand. I have a message. It's from her.

Are you him?

I pause for a moment, considering how to answer. Presumably, she means Kirkman, not me.

Yeah. What's up? I type back.

I was just thinking about you, she answers immediately.

I roll my eyes, partly at her and partly at myself who is not so old that I don't have some part of me that enjoys this. She was thinking about me. When the last time I got a text like that? Thinking about me? Trina never did that, anyway.

I rock back in my shoes a little, realizing this actually could be Trina. She knows I have a protocol for keeping track of my clients on Instagram. If she wanted to reach out in a playful way… this would be a very direct way to get my attention. Attention she constantly said I never gave to her.