Pamela Anderson - Star Struck

It was pure Velveeta, but the audience loved it and the show scored another ratings bonanza. But then, their audience really did love Velveeta.

At least that went smoothly.

“Fuck no. I just saw Extra zooming in on your kiss with Sven and I’m not coming with you,” Jimi said, snatching his hand from hers as she pleaded with him, sobbing.

“But, Jimi, you have to,” Star wailed, her voice echoing in their tennis-court-sized master bath.

She sat on the edge of the marble tub that might easily seat five, but was built just for two. It was where she had done most of the planning for the night that Jimi was threatening to ruin, because it was one of the few places where he would leave her alone. She was determined it was truly going to be a surprise party.

Following Jimi’s strange overreaction on the set, he had been constantly at her side, watching her as if she were trying to escape. She did everything to try to reassure him, but it was to no avail. He saw malice in her every action and read deceit into her every word.

A suggestion that they go to a party or an event together was met with questions of “Why?” and “Who’s going to be there?” He could never seem to believe that it was only him that she wanted. So they’d stay home and he’d accuse her of being ashamed to be seen out with him.

She’d pinned her hopes on a surprise birthday party and hoped for the best.

It was the most elaborate thing she’d ever done or imagined doing in her life. She’d always loved the circus and had actually trained with Cirque du Soleil, so she was able to convince them to perform at the party. What she didn’t know was that Jimi had checked up on her and found out she was lying when she’d told him she was going to the set or to a costume fitting to keep the party preparations secret.

Over one hundred performers were to entertain at a party with only twenty-five guests. She had hired a huge ranch on which to set up three massive circus-sized tents and had a full-scale light-up entry sign built to proclaim the fantasyland she had constructed in his honor—Jimiville. Beyond, a Ferris wheel and a merry-go-round played their haunting and seductive carnival music, and their lights brightened the wilderness that surrounded them. But the beacon would go unheeded unless she could change Jimi’s mind.

The party was to be a private funfair, planted in the desert soil just for Jimi’s pleasure. But because he’d become jealous and suspicious of all the sneaking around Star had had to do to put it all together, he was refusing to do the only thing he had to do to make the night a success.

Star had told him there was going to be a costume party for his birthday, but that was all she’d told him. She needed him to put on his crown and get in the car. That was it.

All her planning, time, and effort—not to mention the hundreds of thousands of dollars—were about to go to waste. She felt helpless. She felt despair. And then she felt the fury of hell blaze bright in her chest. Her tears vanished, and she opened the bathroom door with a bang.

“Jimi,” she shouted with enough threat to let him know he’d better answer.

“What?” he yelled back from what he called their rumpus room. He was lying on a massive two-man chaise that Star had chosen because it reminded her of the big chaise on the Tits. The use they had made of the new chaise had earned the little sitting room its raucous nickname.

“As I see it, you have two choices,” Star said, standing firmly in the doorway, hands on hips.

“Oh, do I?” Jimi said.

“You can either get up, get dressed, and come with me to see for yourself why this is so important to me. You can divorce me tomorrow if it’s not a good enough reason,” Star said, waving one finger and then raising a second without waiting for a reply. “Or, you can sit right there and play video games. I don’t know what to say to you anymore.”

Twenty-eight minutes later, Lito held the door for Jimi as he belligerently climbed into the back of the car in full costume.

“Star, I’m warning you—”

“Not one word,” she said with such force that Jimi actually stopped talking. “You can yell at me all the way home and I won’t argue a bit. But on the way, not one word.”

He was so angry that he actually remained silent, arms folded, teeth grinding.

Slowly his mood began to change.

First, at the restaurant he thought they were going to, he met a group of twenty or so of his closest friends, all done up like characters from a Fellini film. They were already loaded onto a tour bus, filled with enough food and drink served by costumed midgets to be a party all on its own.

But his mood shifted from puzzled and bemused to awestruck as the bus rounded the corner on the dark mountain road and the huge JIMIVILLE sign illuminated the night and the glow of the funfair beyond came into view.

As they stepped off the bus, led by Jimi and Star, little people dressed as pawns unfurled a red carpet across the grass to meet their feet. The guests were greeted by naked dancers who tumbled across the lawn in a strange contortionist’s dance.

An ice cream man pedaled his cart across their path ringing his bell.

“Welcome to Jimiville,” Star announced, declaring the party officially begun.

It was a night of wild abandon and simple pleasures, like free rides on the Bavarian swings that spun the guests high into the air, and more sophisticated treats such as the laser projectors that beamed erotic shadows of groups having sex inside the tents. Topless models wearing painted-on clothes strolled among the guests with drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

Of course the music was amazing, and many of the famous musicians who were guests at the party joined in.

The action stopped throughout Jimiville at one point when a huge cannon drawn by naked men painted gold was brought to the center of the festivities. A hush fell over the crowd as a performer made up to be a very old man walked slowly through the gathering, dragging a huge ladder with the help of a band of the small people who were working the party. He leaned the ladder against the opening of the cannon and loaded himself into it. Then the little people drew away the ladder and lit the fuse with a torch.

With a wave of greeting to the crowd, the human cannonball slipped into the barrel. Moments later he was out again, fired over the heads of the crowd, over the tent and out of sight.

The music resumed and soon the revelers were back up to full speed.

The party reached a fever pitch with a frenetic dance number in which naked women were spun on a huge latex canvas while being slathered with paint by the hands of the guests and the other dancers who decorated them, smearing paint and glitter over naked flesh as the girls were spun faster and faster in time to the music.

The finale, a tribute to their wedding, came in the form of a company of Fat Elvis Impersonators singing “Volare” as they waved huge dildos at the wasted, painted, glittered crowd.

The Mighty Mouse cake was worn by the server.

And in an impassioned speech in which he said how much he loved his wife, Jimi pledged his undying love and devotion before, too drunk and heaven knew what else to stand any longer, he fell off the stage.

Full and under the influence, the crowd settled in to listen to the music. Jimi snuggled up next to Star, warm, content, and fortunately uninjured from his fall, all the jealousy and acrimony forgotten for that moment, and for good, Star hoped. When no one could eat one more bite or drink one more drink, the night was split by the peal of the bell on the ice cream cart as it twinkled by for the third and final time.

Star smiled, the perfect party was complete.

As if on cue, sirens intruded on the peaceful moment. A few guests were alarmed until they realized that a whole fleet of ambulances were lining up at the gate to take everyone home. A sign on the Jimiville bid farewell wih the message YOU’RE BEING VIDEOTAPED to the painted and glittered crowd.