Pamela Anderson - Star Struck

They made the most of it.

Their clothes were soon strewn from the front door, across the sitting room, past the blazing fireplace, like a path to the bed.

Star knew how sensitive his nipples were and that rubbing his chest and tugging at his nipple rings while she went down on him drove him nuts and pushed him toward the brink. He had to fight his way back, unwilling for it to end too quickly.

Jimi had brought a Chinese basket in his suitcase, a canvas sling that supported one partner at waist level for easy access when you fuck standing up. They made full use of it that afternoon. The mysterious holes in the ceiling of their room left the staff at the grand old hotel wondering.

All too soon, their serenity was shattered by two familiar voices.

“Hi, kids, how’s the show going?” Skip called, letting himself and Billy into the main room.

“Cut,” Billy called. “That’s a wrap.”

“Hi, boys,” Jimi said, coming into the room in one of the sumptuous white terry robes the hotel supplied. “She’ll be right with you, we just got out of the shower.”

“Thanks, Jimi,” Skip said, setting out his things on the marquetry table covered with inlaid roses. “And, um, your cock is out.”

“Oh, sorry.” Jimi grabbed his robe and pulled it more tightly together.

Billy grinned. “Don’t worry, we’re professionals. We’ve seen more naked people than most doctors.”

“I guess that is a hazard of your job,” Jimi said sheepishly.

“Our job?” Skip said, putting his hands on his hips as he considered. “I guess we do see a lot of naked people at work, too.”

“Now that you mention it,” Billy agreed, nodding.

“Don’t pick on Jimi,” Star said, coming in bundled in a similar robe. “In fact, if there’s time, Skip, maybe you can do something fun with his hair while I’m in makeup.”

Jimi looked less than thrilled at the prospect.

“Now who’s picking on him?” Billy teased.

“She’s a remarkable woman of many talents who has worked tirelessly with B.A.G.L.E. and other animal rights groups to raise public awareness not only of problems but of solutions,” Sir Andrew said from the microphone in front of a crowd of people Star had only imagined seeing in person. And now she was not only one of them, but they were there to honor her.

“But don’t take my word for it,” he went on with the introduction. “I could hardly describe it all. We have a most revealing video. Not that kind of video,” he said, riding over the gentle laughter as Star and Jimi shared a nervous glance.

As Star watched along with everyone else, tears came into her eyes. She was proud of herself for making it there. It all seemed worth it somehow. She could see how much her crazy life had meant in the fight for a cause that she’d been rolling pennies for since her childhood.

The applause and the chunk of crystal etched with her name that Drew handed her paled next to the look of pride on Jimi’s face as he rose to applaud her.

“I feel like I’m accepting this award on behalf of the people who do the real work,” Star said, trying not to cry. “If what I do can help draw attention to their work, then I guess I’ve helped a little. There’s a lot more to be done and we all have to get involved. But tonight, I pay tribute to all those people around the world who are truly making a difference. Thank you.”

It was simple and eloquent and very Star. Never one to take all the glory nor to neglect to give credit where it was due, her words went out around the world, beating her home—though not by as much as she’d originally planned.

Hank had gone out to Star and Jimi’s house to watch them on the big screen, and his discoveries there would ultimately bring her Paris trip to an early conclusion and change their lives forever.

After the event, Star and Jimi were piled into a car with Mike, Sir Andrew, and his wife, Blanche, for a short ride to a small after party in Star’s honor.

She could not have been more thrilled. She had thought that she was only going to get to see Drew onstage when he gave her the award, but they had actually spent some time together and even got to meet his activist wife, Blanche, whose cruelty-free fashion line Star was wearing that evening. Jimi’s first opportunity to meet the rock legend and his wife was in the car, where Mike made introductions.

After the banquet in her honor, they returned to the hotel, where Star picked up a message from Hank.

Jimi hit the bed as soon as they got back and left Star dialing the phone. He found her, hours later, still in the gown she’d been in the night before, unable to speak or stop crying.

Jimi had brought along some speed to get them past the jet lag, and they’d gotten pretty motivated before the festivities. To avoid any potentially embarrassing questions, instead of calling a doctor in a strange country, he called Skip and Billy, who were staying in somewhat less grand quarters down the hall.

“Star, darling,” Billy said, kneeling beside her. She only clutched him and sobbed harder in reply.

“Did anything happen tonight that might have upset her?” Skip asked, trying to get some sense of the situation. She had seemed almost joyful only a few hours earlier when they were getting her ready.

“Not really,” Jimi said, baffled by the outburst.

The two looked on helplessly as Billy held her in his arms and rocked her gently for a bit, until she fell asleep.

“Here,” he whispered to Jimi and Skip. “Help me get her to bed. Maybe if she gets some sleep…”

When Jimi lifted her, Billy discovered the note on the tearstained carpet where she’d lain.

“Oh, God,” he said softly as he read. “I think I know what’s wrong.”

“What is it?” Skip asked, looking back over.

“It’s a message from Hank.”

“‘My North, my South, my East and West,’” Star read to the small group gathered in rows of gold cane catering chairs in the big living room at Jimiville. “‘My working week and my Sunday rest. My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.’”

Jimi stood sullenly in the back of the room, arms folded as she read the words from a small book of W. H. Auden.

“‘The stars are not wanted now: put out every one.’” She continued reaching out to touch the simple stone urn, glinting in the afternoon sun. “‘Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.’” She concluded her reading and collapsed into tears once again. She had read the same verse at her mother’s funeral only weeks before.

Theresa took her hand and helped her to a chair.

Jimi went outside; he couldn’t stand it any longer. He bummed a smoke from someone’s driver.

Star had been in tears pretty much since he’d found her in their hotel room in Paris. They’d left early, cutting their trip short and returning home to make arrangements. But other than planning for that afternoon, Star had completely withdrawn. She would not eat, she couldn’t sleep, save for the few moments when exhaustion overcame her and she dozed, only to wake up screaming.

Jimi had tried to comfort her, but she continued to push him away. He even sheltered her, not telling her about the strange and unnerving phone call from Scum magazine offering to buy their sex videos which he knew were still locked away in the safe.

He stomped out the cigarette, and as he returned, saw that the gathering was getting ready to make a move. Star clutched the urn to her breast as the somber little party made their way out to the cars. Jimi fell in behind, riding in silence with Star, the only sound the sobs that accompanied her periodic tears.