Pamela Anderson - Star Struck

“Okay,” Jimi said over champagne after dinner. “I brought you here for a reason.”

“To get me plastered on champagne and take advantage of me?” Star giggled as the bubbles tickled her nose. “’Cause if you did, you blew it, you’re way more plastered than I am.”

“No, that’s only part of my plan for world domination,” Jimi said, taking her hand and kneeling beside their table. “I don’t think we ever did this properly. Star,” he said, looking at her with such naked sincerity that she fell silent, “I knew the first moment I met you, and I’m more sure every day, that I love you and I want you to be my wife.”

“I, um, am.” Star said, puzzled.

“Yeah, but we need wedding bands,” he said, still kneeling.

“Oh Jimi,” she smiled, wagging the huge diamond on her finger. “This ring is plenty for me.”

“Well, I was thinking that just a ring, well, that’s not permanent. Besides, what ring would ever be beautiful enough for your hand anyway?” he asked as they made their way down the boulevard. “And any ring we got would be the same as thousands of other rings on the fingers of thousands of other people. And then I knew. Permanent, original, and beautiful enough to be on your finger? It had to be Reggie’s,” he concluded, opening the door to the tattoo parlor.

“Jimi,” Reggie called, looking up from the ass of the young woman he was inking with a rather sizable butterfly.

“A tattoo?” Star said. With only one small tattoo on her instep, she wasn’t quite the expert.

Now, Jimi had more drawings on him than a subway station in Spanish Harlem. She was taken with the originality of it, and then it hit her.

“Just our names around our fingers,” she said. “It’s perfect, I love it. Bring it on, Reggie.”

Later, as they made their way into a nearby club for a couple of celebratory drinks, they had their double-ring ceremony as they flipped off the press with their newly inscribed ring fingers. Of course the pictures wound up in the papers, but somehow it mattered less.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, catching Jimi in the viewfinder of their trusty video cam as he merged their SUV onto the freeway and headed east. She hadn’t bothered to ask where they were going; it didn’t much matter to her as long as they were going together.

“We’re heading for London Bridge,” he declared, checking over his shoulder and weaving his way left as he picked up speed.

“London Bridge, huh?” she said skeptically. “We’re driving to London to go boat camping?”

“Not a bit.” He grinned. “Though I’d be really stoked to go up the Thames and the canals on one of those skinny English houseboats. We should totally do that. You can tour the whole country on the canal system they built before they invented trains. They call them narrowboats. They used to be pulled by horses that walked along towpaths they built on the canal banks. It was like a wonder of the world at the time. A single horse could pull a hundred tons. Now they preserve them like parks. We should go.”

She never ceased to be amazed by the information that came spewing out of him. With all his dude s and babe s and awesome s and totally s he came off as one of the lesser bulbs on the marquee. But his knowledge could be blinding if you flipped the right switch. He had already gotten her a computer, set it up, taught her how to use it, and gotten her online. Not to mention designing and building his own sound studio, doing much of the electronics work himself. In complete contrast to the metal maniac he showed the world, he was a total tech geek, a Boy Scout, and regular Cliff Clavin about a whole range of topics, like the canals in England.

“Hey,” he said, reaching to his waistband and popping his fly. “Check this out.”

His erection sprung free of his pants and he stroked it a couple of times for effect.

“Party ready, twenty-four/seven.”

“Let’s see if I can zoom in enough so people can see that at home,” Star teased, zooming in on the formidable erection.

“That’s not right, babe,” Jimi snorted with indignation. “They can see this from home without a camera.”

“I think I’m picking up something.” Star giggled, leaning in toward her subject.

“You just need a closer look,” Jimi said, taking the camera from her and pushing her head down.

Star had developed some oral talent over the years, and with Jimi’s big cock she had really honed her skills. She took a dive and went face-to-face with his shaved balls, swallowing the sword whole.

“Oh, God, babe, you’re the best,” he said, filming her progress as he continued to rocket them down the freeway into the desert and toward London Bridge.

According to the Guinness book of world records, at $2.4 million the London Bridge was, at the time of its sale, the costliest antique ever purchased. But more outrageous than the price was that it was moved from London, where it had spanned the Thames River for over 140 years, and plopped down across a narrow part of Lake Havasu in the Arizona desert.

“There it is,” Jimi said, pointing out the landmark as they cruised across the bridge toward their destination. “London Bridge. You owe me a blow job.”

“How can it be London Bridge if it’s in Lake Havasu City, Arizona?” Star said, folding her arms defiantly.

“They brought it here brick by brick from London,” Jimi said triumphantly, slowing as they made their way through the faux-English tourist trap on the other side.

“I understand that,” Star said firmly. “But what made it London Bridge was that it was in London, not the bricks it’s made out of. Now that it’s here, it’s Havasu Bridge.”

Soon he pulled the car onto the highway that would lead them down the banks of the massive lake to Smackwater Jack’s landing, where they’d hired a boat for the weekend. The place was a sort of all-purpose marina for the busy, tasteless tourist on the go. Gas station, grocery store, car park, restaurant, and souvenir shop all under one corrugated-steel roof over a cement-slab floor. The floating docks were covered with bright green AstroTurf that in no way blended in with the muted hues of the desert surrounding them. Best of all, the only news anyone cared about was the weather report. No self-respecting paparazzi was within a hundred miles of the place.

Jack was short for Jacqueline, and Smackwater had inherited the place from her Native American father. They’d had to close the rattlesnake zoo after an incident a few years back, but she’d kept the family tradition and the family name alive. Jimi had first seen the place when he was a kid and his family had stopped in to see the rattlesnake zoo. He’d seen the houseboats then and thought what a perfect party they’d make.

And when his garage band had turned into superstars and he could afford to party anywhere he wanted, he’d come back to Smackwater Jack’s. It was a great spot for a private party. Jack had respected his privacy and Jimi had paid for the damages. It was the perfect combination.

Much to Star’s delight and surprise, after they’d loaded all of Jimi’s equipment on board and parked and locked the car, they were on their own.

Jimi knew the lake, or so it seemed to Star, and they were soon in the eerie moonscape surroundings of a massive lake in the middle of the desert. Bounded by stark rock formations carved by the Colorado River, the place felt to Star as though they were boating in the Grand Canyon. The peaks of the canyons and arroyos that had been flooded to contain the eighteen-thousand-acre lake thrust up through the lake’s surface at odd angles like broken glass, forming improbable islands as forbidding as mountaintops.