The Cherry on Top

 

Hillary Lyon

 

 

          Her face was everywhere: billboards, posters plastered on construction-site walls, tabloids—both online and in print. Her songs charted high, sold billions—billions—of downloads. Her older songs played in commercials, movie soundtracks, hold-music on phone lines. You couldn’t escape de Menthe with her neon-absinthe green bob and her trademark enormous black oval-shaped sunglasses. Glasses she wore at all times, ratcheting up her cachet of inscrutability. She was the pop stars’ pop star, the queen of all media.

          Preternaturally tall, exquisitely shaped, and always fashionably dressed by the most elite designers, she was the idol of the gossip-consuming masses. That her background was clouded, vague, merely added to her mystique.

          She was exposed, but not over-exposed. Journalist to the stars Preston Klopp wanted to change all that.

***

         De Menthe stretched her long arms out to her side and took a deep bow. The audience shrieked for more, but after this second encore, she was finished for the evening. Preston watched from the side of the stage; like the avid fans in the audience, his heart pounded with excitement as he watched her perform. No one could sing, no one could dance like she did.

        She’d made eye contact with him as she sauntered off stage, rendering him more than ecstatic; he was pumped that he had an exclusive interview scheduled with her after this show. It would boost his journalistic reputation into the stratosphere.

         Backstage in her dressing room, de Menthe toweled off, patting the back of her neck, the smooth glistening skin of her exposed chest, and her underarms. She felt an almost painful tightening in her belly, a sure sign that she was due for—

         A timid tap on her door interrupted her thoughts; it was Preston.

         “Enter,” she said. When Preston slipped in through the door, she tossed her sweat-dampened towel at him. It hit him in the face; he couldn’t help but take a deep breath. What he inhaled smelled of mint: clean and sweet and...something he couldn’t identify, but it made his eyes sting and his crotch tingle.

De Menthe looked him up and down while he was distracted with the towel. Preston was tall, with long almost spindly limbs, and thin neck. She decided he’d do.

        He tossed the towel over his shoulder. Perhaps she’d forget about it, or let him keep it—either way, he wanted it as a souvenir. He’d frame it and hang it on the wall of his entry-way. What a conversation piece that would make!

        “Preston...,” she said as she sat down to tug off her thigh-high boots. Standing up again, she unzipped her jump-suit. It slipped off her shoulders, revealing her perfectly pert breasts. Preston swallowed hard and began to breathe heavily. “Let’s do this interview in my car.” She wiggled out of the rest of her costume, before slipping on a black velvet robe. Her signature sunglasses remained on, maintaining her air of mysterious celebrity. “It’s much more private there.”

        He dropped the towel on the way out the back door to her waiting limousine.

***

        In the seclusion of the limo, Preston leaned close to de Menthe. He clicked on his hand-held pocket recorder and breathlessly began.

        “I’m so excited—so honored—to conduct this interview!” the journalist practically panted. He took a deep breath to regain his composure and continued. “To ask the question on everyone's mind.

         “And when we finish,” de Menthe interrupted, “I will have you for dinner.”

       “Why, yes—of course!” Preston blushed, actually blushed, which was rare in his line of business. If he could worm his way into de Menthe’s inner circle … he’d give up journalism in the blink of an eye to be part of her entourage.

       “Excellent,” de Menthe murmured in that sultry, disarming way she had. “Now, what is this all-consuming question?”

        Preston cleared his throat and put on his most serious expression, the one he saved for heads of state and porn stars. “Are you bi-sexual...pan-sexual...inter-sexual...or….”

        De Menthe smiled and in one swift move, she straddled him, and unzipped his pants. Not only will I get my exclusive interview, he congratulated himself, but now this—the realization of every fan’s fantasy; the cherry on top!

        Finding exactly what she wanted in his pants, she mounted him. She leaned in close to his face and removed her enormous sunglasses. The frames were empty yet the huge shiny black ovals remained over her eyes—because they were her eyes. But Preston was so overwhelmed with lust he couldn't think about this; he couldn’t think about anything.

       “You yummy lanky man,” de Menthe laughed as she stroked his face, sizing up the caloric content of his head, “I’m insectual.”

         The limo drove on through the wet, shadowy streets of the city. It took over an hour to reach de Menthe’s destination, but that was more than enough time for her to have her dinner.

          Before she exited the limo she tapped the dark glass between herself and the driver. The tiny window slid open. “Take care of this mess, will you.” De Menthe said as she wiped her mouth and pulled a strand of Preston’s optic nerve fiber from between her teeth. “And pack up the left-overs.”

​

​

     Hillary Lyon founded and for 20 years acted as senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. Her stories have appeared lately in 365tomorrows, Black Petals, Sirens Call, Night to Dawn, 50 Word Stories, Legends of Night drabble series anthology, and Revelations drabble series anthology. She’s the Art Director for Black Petals and is also an illustrator for horror & pulp fiction magazines. 

https://hillarylyon.wordpress.com/