Pamela Anderson - Star Struck

“Okay, I’m going to the ladies’,” Star said. Sliding out of the booth where they had enjoyed a fleeting moment of privacy, she knocked her purse on the ground and leaned over to pick it up.

“Nice ass,” said a guy sitting with his family at a nearby table.

“What did you say?” Jimi said, standing suddenly at the man’s table, almost before it seemed possible.

“What?” The guy looked up, startled by Jimi’s appearance out of nowhere.

“What did you say to my wife?” Jimi demanded, raking everything off the man’s table, covering everyone there with fresh guacamole dip—the house specialty.

“Take it easy,” the guy said, standing and leaping back from the flying debris.

There were screams as other people fled the bar.

“Jimi, let it go, it doesn’t matter to me,” Star said quietly, taking his arm.

“It matters to me.” Jimi shook her off. “That’s my wife, you stupid motherfucker. Apologize.”

“You want me to apologize?” the man asked in amazement.

And Jimi, cell phone still in his hand from the conversation he’d been having when it had all started, decked the guy, dislocating two fingers, knocking the guy unconscious, and disconnecting the call.

The Tits was a 152-foot yacht belonging to zillionaire concert promoter turned record executive Missouri Harris, MO to his friends. He’d made a fortune developing trendy record labels and then unloading them at the top of the market onto slow-moving corporate media behemoths just before the trend went bust.

It was just the sort of yacht you’d expect a rock promoter to have. Mirrored ceilings, marble Jacuzzis, and leopard-skin everything, it made the merely vulgar seem commonplace. It also made for the perfect hiding place for Star and Jimi. On the run from angry paparazzi, the producers, and the authorities, their business and their pictures plastered on the covers of everything in print in most languages around the world, the middle of the Pacific Ocean was just about the only place left where they still might find a little peace. Even then, it was not a sure thing. But at least when the time came, they would see them coming.

So, it was a good thing that Jimi was one of the intimates who called Mr. Harris MO. The two had worked together early in Jimi’s career when MO had produced the Hell in a Handbasket tour when Fools Brigade had opened for the Prince of Darkness himself, Sidney Melbourne. Jimi, Sid, and MO had gotten into so many scrapes with the authorities during the first leg of the tour that MO sent Fools Brigade into the studio to record a new album he financed.

It not only resulted in a platinum album, it was the beginning of a lifelong friendship that was their lifesaver that Fourth of July weekend.

Besieged in their hotel, Jimi and Star emerged in hoodies, hats, and dark glasses, dove into a waiting limo, and led the paparazzi on merry chase through Old Town before revealing in the parking lot at Huntington Gardens that they were in fact Theresa and JC. The stunt almost got Theresa fired from the production, but covered Jimi and Star’s escape.

By the time the ruse was revealed, Jimi and Star were on a motor launch taking them out for a little much-needed R&R on the borrowed over-the-top yacht. Star was unaware of their destination, and Jimi insisted that she wear a blindfold until the Tits was in sight.

“You bought me a boat? It’s huge,” Star squealed as they drew closer to the three-story behemoth sitting placidly on choppy waters, too big and heavy to be jostled by the roiling water.

“Star,” Jimi chided shyly, “you don’t have to keep telling me.”

She splashed him with water from over the side, and the two were soaked by the time they boarded.

“Let’s get out of these wet things,” Jimi said, kicking off his shoes and pulling his collared shirt, still buttoned, over his head.

Star joined in, and to the surprise of the astonished crew, the two shucked their clothes in a spirited game of chase. It wasn’t anything the crew of the wild party yacht hadn’t seen before, they just didn’t usually see it so soon. Heedless of the staff, their romp wound them up naked and sprawled on a couple of the sumptuous chaises on the top-level sundeck.

“Um, yes, excuse me, sir,” the chief attendant said, politely averting his eyes. “The captain would like to know your pleasure, and I wonder if I might offer any refreshment?”

“Tell the captain we don’t want to see land or another boat for a week,” Jimi shouted joyously. “And we need champagne right away.”

“Very good, sir,” the attendant said with a small bow. “I’m Albere, if you need anything; pick up any phone you see. Otherwise, the crew will stay in quarters to afford you your privacy.”

“Perfect,” Star said, wallowing in the faux-leopard-skin cushions. “This fur had better be fake.”

“Absolutely,” Jimi replied—hoping.

The world searched frantically for them over the next five days, but Star and Jimi stayed out of sight, wandering the polished mahogany decks nude—or nearly—eating when they felt like it, feasting on caviar, lobsters, and crab washed down with buckets of champagne and making love every time the mood struck them.

As always, their time on the run gave them the chance to remember that they always had each other, and that anything was possible.

Jimi was looking for more sunscreen when he happened on the video camera that had haphazardly been tossed into their luggage when they’d scrambled to escape from their hotel room.

“Smile,” he said, waking Star from her nap as she sunbathed nude on the deck off the master cabin. “I love you, babe.”

“Jimi,” Star moaned. “What’s up?”

“I just love you, you complaining?”

“Never.” She laughed, taking “little Jimi” in hand, bringing him to full attention, then swallowing him whole.

Jimi fell back onto one of the fur-covered chaises as Star climbed on top of him, her head bobbing in and out of the increasingly erratic shot.

“Here, my turn,” he said, lacing his fingers into her hair and pulling her up for air as he handed her the camera.

She howled like a savage, tossing her feet into the air as he began crawling menacingly over her body, his face moving closer and closer to the lens. He growled seductively, then swept her into the air. He plunged himself inside her as he carried her across the deck, bringing her to rest on the marble surface of the outdoor edition of the room’s three bars. Glassware and bottles tumbled everywhere as he began to sprint into the home stretch.

Jimi took the camera and zoomed in with a porn aficionado’s eye and a surgeon’s anatomical expertise to capture in detail their most intimate contact as they joined as one again and again. It was a strange and heady experience for him as he had the feeling he was appearing in the porno and watching it at the same time.

For her part Star was too lost in the actual reality of the moment to be worried about the virtual one. She felt great for a change and was reveling in being fully present in the moment as Jimi’s video-enhanced excitement translated into a focus and intensity that took Star along for the ride. She writhed on the cool marble surface, enjoying the feel of her own body as she dragged her hands over her own skin, relishing each little touch.

The sight of Star playing with her own breasts and nipples along with the sight of his own cock pistoning in and out, kicked Jimi’s pornographic VR experience up a notch and incited a riot of feeling that played havoc over his body. His excitement only drove him on, and they shouted out endearments as they destroyed the bar and reached the end of their private show. Jimi fell back, exhausted and drained by the moment, their third so far that day, still looking through the lens of the camera he seemed to have forgotten he still had glued to his face.