Literature In Los Angeles

CELESTA

In LITERARY FICTION on February 6, 2010 at 5:33 pm

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A blonde talking head wearing nothing but a push-up bra and see-through forearm warmers.
She looks straight into the camera.
The doll intonation in her voice unveils a sexiness that never made it out of the college dorms:

 ― “Hi, this is Celesta Edgy and you should stay tune ‘cause I have a lot to say. And, I know you wanna hear it.”

Her attempt to charm gets cut by the TV jingle: fleshy babes, cartoon music and the title-revelation: LA’s Hottest Models Get Wild in Vegas.

Eighteen girls ~ nine tête-à-tête interviews; a “girl on girl” thing is the promise to the audience.
And, Playboy Bunny of the Century is the TV host in charge to keep it, starting with the first question:

 ― “Ok, tell us a little bit about where we are, right now….”

 ― “We are…” ― Celesta’s lungs already need to store a lot of air ― “…in a suite in the Palms Hotel… doing a very serious interview… for RAPE TV.”

 ― “…and…”

 ― “…and they are trying to get the sexiest, dirtiest secrets of mine.”

 ― “…they?!?” ― A nervous laugh comes out of Playboy Bunny. Then, she smiles. Kind of.

― “So, Celesta… what turns you on more? Danger or romance?”

 ― “Romance…?” ― the thin beauty’s squared, tightened, polished smile takes a few seconds of hesitation. Then, it explodes into a short, frantic laugh to the camera ― “…is this a rhetorical question?!?”

Playboy Bunny of the Century laughs back a softly hysterical “No!” and tries to adjust her discomfort on the seat.

― “Are you single Celesta?”

 ― “Yes. I’m very choosy. Dating is a long interview process… that usually doesn’t go anywhere.”

― “Well, we heard you interviewed this guy for a while….” ― Playboy Bunny blinks an eye toward the camera; a moment after, the screen pops up a picture of some one-day-famous rocker. Gold framed Ray-Bans cover half of his face; the other is consumed by a myriad of sins petted and ruffled by his long, thin, blonde hair.

He must be called Shannon da Anon and “there’s a dot dot dot on my soul today”* is the refrain of his major hit.
As from the backstage they put it on as musical background, a flirtatious Playboy Bunny is humming the words to the camera.
On those same notes Celesta stays still, but her composure of feelings is slowly moving to a trembling edge of childhood tears.

― “So, Celesta… one night stands?”

The childhood tears progress into wine-all-night morning nausea.

― “One night stands?!? Me?!? I don’t think I’ve ever had one….”

― “Welcome to the club….” ― Playboy Bunny freezes her veins into seriousness ― “…yeah, I don’t wanna catch some weird disease….”

 Celesta seems suddenly inspired:

 ― “You’d probably be hangover and wake up the next day and feel like… I don’t know. I just don’t understand those girls who can get that wasted and don’t know what they are doing….”

 ― “Yeah… me either. They make it bad for all of us.”

 They both take a moment of silence. To mourn the decaying morality of the wasted girls, maybe.
Playboy Bunny of the Century eventually breaks it:

 ― “Now, ‘cigarettes.’ Sexy cool or nasty ashy?”

 ― “Disgusting gross…. Stinky, disgusting gross.”

Playboy Bunny looks down to the right.

 ― “Yeah…. I made an exception, but….”

 ― “We all did, but….”

 ― “…but you don’t want to get cancer, right?!?”

 A suddenly uninvited hint of disappointment paints away some of the ether in Celesta’s eyes:

 ― “…these days you don’t even need to smoke cigarettes to get cancer, though….”

 ― “Yeah, you don’t. Isn’t it… scandalous?!?”

Other seconds of cluelessness on both sides.
But now, Playboy Bunny of the Century is seriously done. No more shades of sadness will obscure her own bright moment. A clear willingness to cheer up the RAPE TV spectators comes through a rejuvenated tone:

 ― “Ok. Let me ask you, Celesta… where are you from?!?”

The fragile model relieves a deep breath and ecstatically turns her words to the moon, already molested enough by the Vegas night restless lights:

 ― “I come from… probably the smallest town in Northern California. In California, actually.”

Soon her brand new comfort reveals the astonishing number of its inhabitants:

 ― “Eighty. Probably seventy-nine, now.”

 And, right on her native village, Celesta looses the grip on her hands that, just like Pontius Pilate’s betrayed Jesus, betray her.
She forgets why, so far, she has kept them elegantly still, right between her garter-belted crossed legs and a French bustier.

Under her fair, delicate fingers, a painful secret had found its warm shelter: the panties they made her wear for the interview are no panties.
Between her porcelain skin and the dusty velvet of that couch, she has been left with nothing.
Nothing but a pink, black scar.

Story by Liliana Isella.

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*Dot on my soul by Monster in the Machine.

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  1. Hi ! My name is Liliana Isella too, i live in Argentina and i’m also a writer.
    Well, english isn’t really my thing so i couldn’t actually read your work. I found you on Twitter, feel free to add me !!
    Bye !!

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