FUCKIN’ NICE

Deb Jannerson

It all happened because some has-been rapper decided that Tyler Lite and I hate each other.

Apparently, I was in a blood feud with America’s Most Oscar-Hopeful Sweetheart. I didn’t even know about the lines until the press started calling:

When I find you in the corner, won’t be fuckin’ nice

Bitch each other out like Tyler Lite and April Vice.

God only knows where he gets this stuff. I’ve got to wonder if he just makes a collage out of words in teen magazines, like a chain-letter master. I’d never even met Tyler. As for the obnoxious yet somehow popular hip-hopper, he and I had spoken exactly once before. He had tried to pick me up, and failed. I had to wonder if this was supposed to be revenge.

My manager said I should have been thankful. Finally, a rumor about me that didn’t involve girls in my bed! Oh, joy!

I found it both hilarious and sad that the sapphic speculation about me made him so nervous. He wouldn’t let me actually say so, not yet, but I did have girls in my bed, and playing coy about it was starting to get silly. What year was this, 1950? At least he didn’t make me outright lie. After all, sexual ambiguity was good for my tough chick, tomboy-by-Hollywood-standards image.

All of which made it even weirder that Mr. Middle-Aged Badass was putting us together in his shitty song. If you’re going to make up a feud, shouldn’t you do it between people of similar reputation? Tyler Lite was anything but a tomboy, despite the androgynous first name. She was sweet, quiet, safe. She had the look of a thousand other white women who are popular actors. Perfectly pleasant and bland. Even the tabloids couldn’t seem to spin any scandalous stories about Tyler, or maybe they just couldn’t be bothered.

Okay, I wasn’t exactly a fan, but it’s not like I had anything against Tyler. Nothing that would make me likely to “bitch her out” or whatever. That sexist pig.

Of course, now Tyler and I would have to meet. At least, we’d have to “meet,” as in, smile and say hi and act nice for a minute with cameras around. If either of us let concern cross our faces, the press would catch it and make this bullshit even bigger. We had to be perfect, unflappable young stars, the pop-rocker and the actor ingénue, just tickled that this silly old guy thought we didn’t get along.

“April! Over here!”

I hooked my thumbs into my ironic suspenders and gave a small, untroubled smile at the ring of cameras as I stepped out of the limo. I had no idea which of the paparazzo was screaming at me and, ultimately, it didn’t matter. I was to give them all the fake, 50 percent smile, the one that didn’t crease my face in any way supposedly unseemly to the media. I sure hoped they appreciated it, because that teeth-bleaching treatment the week before had been agony. I tried to ignore what the camera folk were yelling, but I’ve never been good at that.

“April! Is it true you’re dating Jack McGruff?” What? Gross.

“Ms. Vice! Is your song, ‘Torn Apart,’ about a girl?” The word is “woman,” thanks.

“April Vice, are you gonna fight with Tyler?” Theeeeere it is.

I glanced around, nonchalant, until my eyes landed on Tyler Lite. With perfect posture, she stood in a gauzy lavender dress, silver heels, and that slightly curled hair that no one has naturally. She was smiling at me demurely, pretending to make conversation with another starlet but no doubt waiting for our big media moment. I’m sure her manager had prepped her well. Tonight’s awards show was only for musicians, and she’s more into acting these days, so I might even have been the reason she was there.

Showtime. “Tyler!” I squealed, stepping toward her slowly. I noticed flashbulbs pointed at my boots and groaned inwardly. I already knew I’d be accused of dressing “inappropriately” in the press, even though my footwear was probably just as expensive as everyone else’s. “It’s so nice to meet you, finally!”

She held out her hand like a princess. “It sure is! I’m a big fan.” We shook limply and grinned at each other—not at the cameras, never at the cameras. Mission accomplished. Now I could focus on the important stuff, like how good my odds were for Best New Artist.

I snuck into the posh bathroom just before showtime. I was supposedly touching up my dark makeup, but actually I just needed a break from all the hangers-on and attitude. You’ve never seen such a fancy lavatory, I promise. Apart from the section of the room taken by stalls, the walls were covered in those super-Hollywood mirrors with the circular lights all around them. An enormous wraparound couch spanned the perimeter beneath them, like a big version of those seats in picture windows. I stared into one of the lit-up mirrors, feeling like Marlene Dietrich.

“Good work out there.” I started, and in the mirror, my eyes met Tyler Lite’s. She had just stepped in and was smirking at my reflection from inside the door.

“Yeah.” I chuckled and rolled my eyes. She had flustered me, bursting in when I probably looked like I was checking myself out, but I played it cool. “I think we put that feud rumor to rest.”

“All in a day’s work.” Tyler’s eyes went to the ground, giving me a good view of her super-shiny eye shadow. “I wasn’t kidding, though. About being a fan. I love your music. It’s so… empowering.”

“Oh.” I knew she was probably just being polite, but I felt awkward. “Thanks. You were great in Ambivalent Sunrise.” I totally hadn’t seen it. Who’s the actor now? Everyone said Tyler had done well, and I didn’t doubt it, but flicks about straight people being sad are not my thing.

Tyler’s face turned pink. She actually blushed. It was so precious that I should have wanted to puke, but…she just seemed so earnest. Most performers look less perfect in person, but that wasn’t quite true for Tyler. She looked more real but, somehow, just as flawless and alluring.

I couldn’t help it; I was charmed. Her shyness reminded me of someone I had gone to high school with before dropping out to do music full-time. Not to put too fine a point on it, let’s just say she was a cheerleader and it didn’t end well for me. If you’ve listened to my album, you can probably figure out the rest.

“Can I ask you something?” Tyler breathed, still not meeting my eyes.

I started to get nervous. “My boobs aren’t fake,” I joked. Not my strongest moment, but whatever.

Tyler’s eyes came back to me. Actually, they went right to my chest, and then darted away again. I felt a tingling in my finger tips. Suddenly, I had some idea of where this was going. “Is it true?” Tyler whispered, stepping toward me. “That you’re… That you like—”

“Women?” I stepped closer and, with some difficulty, made eye contact. Tyler looked scared but determined.

“Yeah.”

I put my hands in my pockets and shrugged, taking another step. “Some of them. Why?” I smiled coquettishly. “Got someone in mind?”

Tyler surprised me by making the first move. She put an arm around my shoulder and kissed me hard. I backed her up against the wall and opened my mouth to her, playing with her just-brushed, minty tongue. She made a soft, yearning sound against my lips, and I felt it like a lightning bolt to the cunt.

“Fuck,” I moaned as our mouths got wetter. Tyler wrapped both arms around me tight, pulling my body flush against hers. I could feel her nipples through her dress. Who knew America’s Sweetheart goes braless? She licked my neck from collarbone to ear, and I shivered.

When she tried to put a leg around me, though, it snapped back down almost immediately. Tyler’s cute little dress had not been made for situations like this. Well, the good thing about clothes is that they come off. I pulled my head back and nodded toward the nearest, and roomiest, stall, raising an eyebrow.

“What are we, at prom?” She rolled her eyes, looking, just for a minute, like the prissy cliché I had imagined. “Let’s get out of here.”

That, I didn’t expect. “You’d leave the show? It’s only just starting. What about the photo ops?”

“Screw it.” Tyler shrugged. Her attitude was a nice surprise; then again, she wasn’t the one up for awards. But I could hardly say that without sounding like an epic tool, not to mention a hypocrite.

“Wait.” I fished my felt-tip eyeliner out of my bag and yanked a paper towel out of the dispenser. Leaning the sheet against the wall, I scrawled OUT OF ORDER. I wouldn’t be able to use the eyeliner again, but talk about small sacrifices. I pulled open the bathroom door, makeshift sign in hand, then realized I had no way to stick it to the outside.

“I got you.” Snapping open her ridiculous clutch, Tyler pulled out an intensely sparkly pink vial. She unscrewed the top, which turned out to be a sponge tip to a lip gloss, marked the back of my towel in a neat line, and patted it onto the door almost daintily.

I waited for it to fall down, but apparently her lip goo was sticky enough to make this work. “I’m impressed,” I admitted, swinging the door closed again to seal us inside. “But you’re not wearing that, are you?” I ran a finger over my mouth, which was thankfully adhesive-free.

“Nah.” She smacked her own lips at me and grinned. “This is a long-wear lipstick night.”

I lunged toward her again.

We tumbled down onto the wraparound couch, which was even softer than it had looked. Tyler sank into the red velvet, looking right at home as I straddled her and undid her zipper. She wriggled her top half out of the dress, revealing perfect, medium-sized breasts with the most erect nipples I had seen this side of winter. I ran my face down her smooth skin, working my mouth over one of Tyler’s nipples while I played with the other with my fingers. I used my lips and tongue while my hand circled and lightly pinched.

“April,” she sighed, tugging at my suspenders and tight black jeans. Her hands danced around and found my fly. As she pushed me onto my back on the velvet, Tyler leaned into my ear. Her breath tickled as she huskily whispered, “I’ve been fucking myself to your picture for months.”

I groaned and let her tear off my jeans. At this point, I was afraid they would look like I’d spilled a drink on them if they stayed on; I was so hot for Tyler. Besides, all I wanted was her skin on mine. Well, that and… “Show me.”

Tyler stopped short. “What?”

“Show me how you fuck yourself, you naughty lady.”

Tyler’s eyes widened. She jumped up for long enough to scoot down the rest of her dress, then lay back down spread-eagled. I could only stare. Tyler Lite now wore nothing except a pair of heels and a flimsy white thong covered in tiny, colorful jewels. Her panties had a G-string, so there was only a tiny line of cloth between me and her pussy, and I could see the edges of her labia peeking out of either side. Wetness soaked the middle of the string and spread out shiny over Tyler’s inner thighs. I have no idea how long I just looked, hypnotized, before Tyler cooed, “Like what you see?”

“Fuck,” I moaned again, feeling like I might explode. As I began yanking off the rest of my clothes, Tyler brought both hands down between her legs and started to play around. She slid one hand inside her thong, all five fingers working over her clit. With the other hand, she ran a finger down the soaked line of her underwear, right over her pussy, then dipped inside. Within half a second, her finger was all the way inside her. She pulled it halfway out, its bottom half glistening, then quickly glided it back in.

“Care to share?”

“Mmm.” Tyler pulled the finger back out and stuck it deep into my mouth. I sucked hard; she tasted sweet. With my tongue and teeth, I pulled every bit of fluid off Tyler’s hand, and then climbed on top of her.

I lay astride Tyler’s thigh and kissed her again, pressing my own thigh between her legs. We both gasped at the contact. I rubbed back and forth a little, feeling my clit go white-hot at the friction. Tyler rocked beneath me, mouth open in pleasure as I sucked her bottom lip. Within seconds, both our thighs were slick where we connected.

Tyler traced her tongue along the insides of my lips as she started rocking against me faster. I could feel her clit, hard as a marble, rubbing my thigh as she made little noises into my mouth. It felt so warm that I wondered, for a split second, if it would leave a mark. I wouldn’t have minded.

“Fuck me, April,” she hissed fiercely. “Fuck me.”

I rode her thigh faster and harder, starting to feel lightheaded. I cupped Tyler’s breast and grunted as we went back and forth again and again, each time feeling more excruciatingly wonderful. My crotch tingled so hard that I felt like every cell was electrified, and I pressed my face into Tyler’s neck, eager for what I knew would happen next.

My climax ripped through me, making me shake hard against Tyler’s body as I gasped. I soaked her leg with my glossy heat, mouth open against her skin. Tyler breathed faster as I came, and partway through she cried, “April! Fuck!” and began vibrating herself. She nearly sobbed as her body thrust against mine. I could feel her labia clenching and releasing against the skin of my thigh, and I swear it was the most erotic sensation I’ve ever felt.

As we lay there, cooling down, I heard the opening number of the show wrap up. “Shouldn’t we get you back out there?” Tyler panted, nudging my arm. “You might have to give an acceptance speech.”

I chuckled. “I guess.”

We got up, not in any particular hurry, and began putting our clothes back on. Tyler stepped back into her lavender dress and pulled it up. A jagged sound went through the air. “Oh!” Tyler found a mirror—not hard, given where we were—and examined the tear that had just formed down the side of her dress, next to the bust. “Well…shit.”

“No worries.” I tossed her my jacket. It was shrunken and leather with a diagonal zipper; hardly her style, but it was all we had. “Just do this up. You can keep it, even. No one will notice a thing.”

“Yeah, right!” Tyler rolled her eyes again but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Won’t you be cold?”

“I’m a badass. We don’t get cold.” I almost managed to say it with a straight face. Almost, but not quite.

Tyler shook her head and reapplied her lipstick before we went back to the show.

By the following morning, I didn’t quite feel as blasé about our encounter. The press would be trying to dig up dirt like never before, now that I was an award-winning artist and shit. And, as we all know, when they can’t dig up dirt, they create it. I took my time making coffee, gathering my nerve to open my laptop.

As a rule, I try to avoid those gossip sites. The first few times, it was pretty cool to see myself, but the stories were always so bogus that they made me angry. That day, I had to know: Had the sapphic speculation reached a fever pitch? Who had noticed our midnight outfit swap?

I steeled myself and clicked onto the most notorious site of all. My heart jumped into my throat at the first picture: Tyler in her dress and my jacket, loitering on the red carpet after the show.

Then I saw the caption: IS TYLER LITE GOING PUNK?

All I could do was laugh.