Pure irony that I had never performed in Atlanta before. Then again, I had my reasons. Damn good reasons. Okay, the memories were coming back again. It was time to do something extreme . . . like playing in Thumper, aka my cooter, but what with?
I scanned the room as “Rack City” by Tyga came on. Aw, yeah, some freaky shit for me to get off on! I stood up, grabbed my back scrubber with the wooden handle, and then sat back down in the tub. I moved the end of the handle in and out of Thumper and closed my eyes. I started gyrating my hips to the music, like I was a stripper named Nutcracker working the pole, except the pole was literally between my legs and inside of me. I slid it in deeper and deeper until I was thrashing around in the tub by the time the song ended. I was an expert at getting myself off quickly.
“Damn!” I yelled out as I reached a toe-curling climax. Then I sighed.
It was what it was and I needed to finish bathing and get dressed. It was only a matter of time before Diederik, Antonio, and Kagiso—my three bodyguards—who occupied the suites surrounding mine, would come to get me for the sound check. One of them was always stationed outside my door. Too many damn nuts in the world obsessed with celebrities. One usually stayed in the lobby at all times, by the elevator as well. I felt like that only drew unnecessary attention, but they insisted. There is a very high cost for fame that no one could ever comprehend until they find themselves in that position.
Kagiso was straight from the African bush. At least, I would tease him about that. In all actuality, he was six feet five inches of intelligence, brawn, and fineness. Dark as midnight, with skin softer than butter, these clear brown eyes, and a cleft in his chin that women found to be an instant panty wetter. He had a master’s in early childhood education that he had obtained after moving to the United States on a visa to go to school. Don’t ask! Imagine a man that size sitting in a circle with five-year-olds. He had done it, though, for an entire decade, before he decided to pursue something else.
Antonio was from East L.A., born and raised, jumped into a gang at twelve, arrested for the first time at thirteen, and tired of living in chaos by sixteen. He ran away to San Diego, hung tight for a couple of years, joined the navy, served his country, and went into private security. At six two, he was the shortest of my bodyguards but was thicker than a Snickers, with muscles rippling everywhere. He had sepia eyes, dimples, cinnamon skin, and he was bowlegged—an added bonus.
Diederik was Nordic and get this, six foot ten. Looked like a tree walking toward you. Spiked blond hair, ice-green eyes, and a gorgeous bone structure. He looked like “Suck my dick” spelled out.
Yeah, I had some sexy-ass motherfuckers protecting my life, but I had never technically messed around with any of them, nor would I ever do such a thing. I happened to know for a fact that they all needed lap bands on their dicks, though. Men like them needed to come with both a warning label and a disclaimer:
FUCK OR SUCK AT YOUR OWN RISK! This dick could possibly tilt your cervix, cause your clit to swell up like a balloon, and you may have to toss cups of soapy water at your pussy for several days afterward because it will be too sensitive to the touch.
Antonio actually tilted a broad’s cervix once when we were touring in France. She had the nerve to try to slap me with a $12 million lawsuit. I did not have a damn thing to do with her making the decision to tackle that python in his pants. That shit was on her. People will sue over any damn thing when you have money, even if you’ve never met them, or even laid eyes on them before. When I saw photos of the chick, my first inclination was to ask Antonio what the hell he was thinking in the first place. But the women in France can be aggressive, and it’s not like I expected them all to be celibate year-round before they had to guard me. It was certainly not a prerequisite. They were grown-ass men who did grown-ass things. They were all single and free to mingle, but I was damned if I would pay some floozy for giving it up willingly and getting hurt. The most I would offer someone is a bottle of Advil and my condolences on having a big-ass pussy for the remainder of her natural life.
I had thrown on a sexy little number of a dress and some pumps about fifteen minutes later and put on some makeup. I was not the type to use a stylist, hairdresser, and makeup artist around the clock; only when I was about to go onstage, do a photo shoot, interview, or whatnot. A lot of my counterparts went through all of that shit to walk out on the veranda to do Pilates. It was not that serious. However, I was not going to get caught looking like I just emerged from a cave, either, so I kept it simple and classy. I looked good as shit without makeup but did not feel like dealing with the drama from tabloids and ratchet websites looking for an opportunity to do a caption of me slipping.