Pamela Anderson - Star Struck

She wore a rubber dress, so naturally the party declared her the dominatrix. She had everyone skip into the bar past the phalanx of photographers banked there in anticipation of the moment. Even Jimi didn’t get upset, as they were already rolling on X and too busy being ridiculous to care what the press did or said. Once inside, she decreed that it was topless night, but with a twist. The men would go topless and entertain the women. The decree soon became unenforceable, but not before most every man in the place had shed his shirt.

Along with the X, which made the most of all the exposed flesh, their neighbor Enoch had brought enough speed to keep the celebration in high gear, virtually indefinitely. With a bottomless bar tab and Star the owner there to keep the place open as long as they cared to play, it became quite a night.

Mack Wraith, a musician friend, was the first to start dancing on the tables, which he did most ably, including a glassware-shattering finale that cleared the table. Star did backflips, wiping out once or twice on the wet tables in heels.

Jimi hit Star’s black rubber bodice with a cigarette and it exploded, rolling up her body like a window shade. Women throughout the club, long since closed to the public, followed her lead.

As the party made its way back out to the car in the early-morning hours, a photographer ran into Star’s breast, his lights blinding her. She looked back as Jimi grabbed the stooped man by his camera, yanking him forward with the strap still securely around the photographer’s neck. As the photog struggled, Jimi began spinning him around like some wild dervish, trying to wrench the camera free. Eventually it slipped over the photographer’s head, and Jimi raised it into the air and smashed it to the pavement like Moses and the tablets. The photographer took a dive and rolled down a steep hill. It might have ended there, but one of the photographers pulled a canister of pepper spray from his pocket and sprayed Jimi and Star in the face.

It was like gasoline on a fire.

As Mack, Enoch, and Lito tried to help a wailing Star into the back of the Escalade, Jimi charged, taking their attacker down and pounding his head onto the carpeted pavement. Jimi was completely out of control, and as the photographer’s colleagues merely watched and got the sexy shots, Jimi took out weeks of rage. Here was an enemy he could find and face. One neck he could twist. One battle he could win. Mack and Enoch dragged him off the bloody man and had to wrestle and fight with Jimi to get him into the car.

Star too was out of control, screaming over and over again for everyone to “fuck off.” The press went wild, and the entire event was caught on tape, launching a weekly television series on the cable entertainment channel featuring unflattering candid moments of famous people provoked by the paparazzi.

After their escape from the nightclub riot, Star’s and Jimi’s eyes still burning from the spray, they pulled over into a residential yard and borrowed the sleeping owner’s hose to wash it off.

The incident further served to unite the two against the world outside. “Everyone sucks but us” became their motto.

Perhaps the only ray of sunshine was a benefit concert in New York that Star’s favorite cause, the Brotherhood for Animals Gaining Legal Equality—B.A.G.L.E.—was hosting. Jimi’s band was to play along with a host of ultrafamous rock icons. Star could not have been happier about it.

Billy and Skip were not fooled.

“So,” Billy teased, “your pet charity is having a concert on the other side of the country?”

“And it just happens to be on the very same night that you’re shooting the big love scene with Casey?” Skip said, clicking his tongue. “Star and Sven are sitting in a tree…”

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” the two chanted together. “First comes love, then comes divorce, then comes Jimi with his day in court.”

“Funny,” Star said, not amused by the joke nor admitting any complicity in the scheduling of the concert.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Billy said, patting the back of her hand indulgently. “Not feeling well?”

“How’s your head?” Skip asked, an exaggerated expression of concern on his face as he leaned down next to her, their cheeks almost touching.

“Well, I haven’t had any complaints yet,” Star said, cracking up.

In honor of the momentous reunion of Fools Brigade for the big concert, there was to be a big do out at Jimiville. It was Jimi’s deal and Star decided she would let him plan it.

She would only be a guest at this party.

She had a shoot the day of the festivities and had planned to drop in with some friends from work and join the evening in progress. The shoot ran late and her work friends bowed out, so by the time she returned home the party was well under way. Fueled by the usual better living through chemistry, the party made out-of-hand seem like a Sunday-school social.

The front hallway was filled with people in varying states of undress, seated on the steps and hanging over the banister above. Those who weren’t making out were watching a couple of kids with guitars doing their own variations on whatever was blaring on the house sound system. As Star made her way past the miniconcert, which was no small task, she found the living room filled with a pack of Hollywood Scene Stealers and every manner of vice. You name it and you had only to look behind a few pieces of furniture to find it, from all-but-full-on sex to every recreational application of most every substance known to man. The speed freaks were grinding their jaws, dancing, playing some kind of game, and talking all at the same time. The potheads were either smoking or eating or giggling or some combination of the three. The heroin chics were nodding out. And the cokeheads were talking as fast at they could, mostly to the nod-outs and potheads, who were not really listening but not interrupting. The drunks were mostly fighting among themselves.

Not spotting Jimi right away, Star climbed the kitchen stairs up to her room, which, along with every other bedroom and bathroom, was in use by couples horny from all the mood generators downstairs. She threw everyone out of her bedroom and locked the door against further intruders. She wanted to be mad, but she’d known whom she was married to when she told him he was in charge of the party.

Tired, Star opened the door to her bathroom. All she wanted was to clean up a bit from a strenuous day at the beach and try to catch a second wind so she could join the mayhem already in progress downstairs. She paused as she heard the all-too-familiar noise of what sounded like at least two couples doing she knew exactly what. One of them was her brother, Hank, who was snorting coke off the ass of one of the girls.

“Unh-huh,” Star cleared her throat without looking too closely. “Excuse me.”

There was a small scream, some scrambling, and then JC, Hank, and Theresa emerged with two other young women wearing Star’s best bath towels.

“Hi, Sis.” Hank grinned, his face flushed and his pupils dilated.

“Hi, Hank, Theresa,” Star grinned back. Her little brother was growing up. “You kids need to find a new playroom.”

“Yeah, sure,” JC agreed, hustling everyone toward the door. “See you downstairs, Star.” Theresa grinned.

“There’s a sauna off the changing rooms by the pool,” Star said, amazed that it was her house she was talking about.

“Sure thing, thanks,” JC called over his shoulder, pulling the door closed behind them.

It reopened as another small group poked their heads in, looking for a space.

“Occupied,” Star said, crossing to relock the door.

“May we join you?” an attractive young surfer with shaggy blond hair asked, his treacherously beautiful blue eyes locking with hers.