“You don’t need plastic surgery,” Dr. Habit had told Debbie Dallas in his thick Hungarian accent. But with Lorna’s words swirling in her brain, and with the memory of her terrible television acting fresh in her mind, she insisted that in order to succeed in Hollywood—she had to be better than just beautiful; she had to be perfect.
Dr. Habit had already made a deal with Lorna, of course. But Debbie’s acquiescence was what he needed most—the blonde beauty’s permission to fuck up her beauty. And now three weeks after giving it by demanding that she have the surgery, Debbie stared in the motel room mirror not sure what she was seeing.
It was really hard to explain.
It wasn’t that she didn’t look like herself anymore—in fact, she did look like herself—but she looked harder, and somehow, a bit masculine around the too-tight jaw line and the neck.
Dr. Habit had suctioned too much subcutaneous fat from beneath her face, removing the doe-puffy baby fat that makes very young women look so glowing, supple and sensuous. On top of that he had pulled her face back too tight; lifted her neck and added unnecessary augmentation to her lips.
Now her lips held a fake bee-stung pucker and her cheekbones were outrageously sharp with no fat softening the contours of her jaw line. Thank god he hadn’t done her breasts yet. She quickly cancelled that procedure.
“I’m not pretty anymore,” Debbie cried in the mirror like a child. And though she now believed the doctor had botched her looks on purpose, there was no way to prove it, because she still looked exactly like herself.
In fact, people could even argue that Dr. Habit had given her sharper features. Instead of looking like a blonde Barbie, she now had that severe Joan Crawford-Marlene Dietrich slightly masculine and exaggerated type of beauty.
“Oh my god!” she winced in a Texas drawl.
She took a razor and slit both her wrists.
Anyone as beautiful as Debbie Dallas had been when she first arrived there would have wanted to commit suicide. Once they change a woman’s face, she can never get it back.
“Quick!” hollered the maid at Motel 6 when she found Debbie in a pool of blood on the floor. “Somebody get an ambulance!”
~*~
Dao Ming told Noble the news first.
“From now on—I want to be called Daisy.”
“But I always call you that,” Noble said as he stood in the doorway of her bungalow kitchenette area watching her make fried bologna sandwiches.
“I mean officially and professionally. From now on—I’m Daisy.”
Noble smiled at hearing the way Daisy said the word ‘professionally.’ Now that she had relinquished her mother’s curse and left it behind her in West Linn—the girl from Oregon intended to shake her dance with depression and jump head first into the rigors of making her dreams of being a singer-songwriter come true. Noble had never seen her so confident and radiantly beautiful. Towering over the slinky Chinese beauty, he turned off her skillet and started kissing her. Immediately, the rod in Noble’s trousers was lurching between them, anxious to be released. Daisy threw her head back, hardly able to wait for it. She’d missed just how tiny and delicate she felt during Nobel’s macho lovemaking. “Fuck me,” she screeched between the sopping tongue kisses until finally he lifted her up and carried her off to the bedroom.
She’d forgotten all about the fact that she no longer lived alone—Ling Mae was there.
And she especially wasn’t thinking about her innocent little sister’s vow to remain a virgin for life.
“It’s so big,” Daisy muttered as Noble dropped his trousers and moved Daisy’s body to the bed, steadily discarding her top and her skirt in quick effortless motions. She was naked and all Noble wore was the white socks and thick black hair that covered his orange-tan muscle-toned body.
Arriving in the doorway, Ling’s eyes widened and a flush of heat poured down her bosom as she witnessed the Italian man’s firm buttocks bouncing atop her sister’s skinny little frame. Though she had vowed never to have sex—she had never seen it being performed either.
“Oh god—yes,” Daisy winced, imperiously. And though it was her big sister, Ling didn’t associate the sex moans with someone she knew. It was too beautiful—the poetry and elegance that synched their rhythm as the sensuous man spooned in and out of Daisy like a needle completing a seam. In many ways, to Ling, it looked that they were healing one another.
“Fuck me!” Daisy shouted, undone by the fever. And just as Ling had thought it was so poetic and beautiful, the temperature of the room rose and the smell that could only be described as ‘nature’ embarrassed her. Noble was groaning like an animal, his body lunges causing the headboard to bang the wall as Daisy’s feminine whimper begged for it; teased and seduced his actions. Ling wanted to turn and walk away, but how could she? It was too amazing and too shocking. It was like watching a baby being born from its mother’s womb.
“This is what God is,” Ling whispered to herself in awe. And then as she felt the sudden wetness between her legs and noticed the prickling killer hardness of her nipples burning against the fabric of her cottony summer dress—tears sprung in her eyes.
She wanted to touch herself. But no, she couldn’t. She walked away.
~*~
Holding a bouquet of flowers, Lorna Sinatra and Tiger Holden greeted the limo that returned Debbie Dallas to Warm Leatherette.
Oh my, thought Tiger when he saw the shadow of an angular-faced woman rooted to the back seat like an assassin. Where had the girly-girl quality of the Clinton Library’s hottest stripper disappeared to? Lorna became especially fearful, because it occurred to her that Debbie might beat the shit out of her right there curbside.
As the driver opened the door, she managed to grin and shout, “Debbie—you’re back! We missed you so much!”
Debbie rose up out of the limo like a cobra.
Tiger Holden fell back, thoroughly intimidated by the no-nonsense bravado of the blonde girl’s new aura. He had welcomed many a diva to Warm Leatherette and that was the attitude now. Dark glasses hid Debbie’s eyes as she smoked a cigarette.
“Welcome back Debbie,” he offered cheerfully. But in a voice filled with anguish and bitterness, she blew smoke from the cigarette, announcing imperiously—“No one is to call me Debbie anymore. My real name is Deborah. And from now on, that’s who I am—Miss Deborah Dallas Crawford.”
Lorna stared at new and dramatic Deborah, waiting for some glimmer of acknowledgement. She appraised Dr. Habit’s work, admiring what she had paid to have done to the girl’s face.
“Get Miss Crawford’s bags,” Tiger ordered the bell boys.
“Ah…excuse me, Deborah?” Lorna called out.
But the cool blonde with scissor-sharp cheekbones continued to ignore her. It was one of those things where—what was unspoken was more terrifying than any words that could have been uttered.
Deborah was going to fuck Lorna’s ass up and Lorna knew it.
By sensor motion, the glass doors of Warm Leatherette opened, allowing an exiting Jared Presser to see Deborah Dallas Crawford coming up the red carpet. Naturally, now that he’d deflowered Lorna, he rushed towards her—fully expecting the gleeful cooing Baby Doll greeting that Debbie Dallas was known for. Instead, when he got in the chilly blonde’s face grinning ear to ear, he received a firm and stinging slap across the face!
In a voice like minced glass she hissed, “Get the fuck out of my way before I bite your dick off and eat it.”
Jared held the place where his face stung as she passed, his eyes fixing on Tiger and Lorna in shock.
Tiger said, “Don’t call her Debbie anymore. She’s Deborah Crawford now.”
~*~
At four o’clock that morning, a time when the whole world was sleeping—Lorna’s phone started ringing.
Deep in sleep, Lorna had tried wishing it away but it wasn’t a dream. She had to drag herself into wakefulness. Jared Presser had fucked the shit out of her earli
er that night and her legs were entwined with his as she answered with a drowsy, “Hello?”
“You see what you did to my face, bitch?”
“Hello?”
“Wake…your…evil …ass…up!”
“Debbie?”
“You’d fuck a goddamned doorknob if you thought it wouldn’t tell on you, wouldn’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I see you in a coffin, buried alive—I see you struggling to breathe.”
CLICK.
“Hello? Debbie? Debbie…I’m still your friend!”
~*~
Twirling her fabulous body around the pole in the Clinton Library no longer worked for the girl who had once dazzled the room as Debbie Dallas.
From a distance—newer customers worried that she might be a drag queen. She was still beautiful, but her features were so strong now that under the lights, they took on an exaggerated quality. Some men swore that she looked at them with a sneer. It was like she wanted to spit on them, the men complained.
Tiger hated to let her go, but business was business. He told her, “I phoned January in Europe and she said to let you keep the bungalow for the rest of the year Deborah until you make other arrangements. I’m so sorry, but…we can’t let you headline the strip parties anymore.”
Deborah understood. She wasn’t upset. She simply sat on the edge of her bed staring at the slash marks across her wrists and rocked herself back and forth.
But soon a stroke of luck presented itself as well.
One of the top soap opera producers in daytime television came to the spa one night and happened to see Deborah Crawford dramatically eyeing the moon as she nursed a gin and juice on the west terrace.
“My god it’s you—you’re Niagara!” he enthused as he went up to Deborah, startling the girl. “My name’s Kent Gower. I’m the Executive Producer of ‘Young and Frisky.’ We’ve been trying to cast the role of Niagara for months!”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not an actress.” The words had left Deborah’s mouth with nary a second thought. She had, after all, ruined her sexy blonde guest role on the show she did with Jared Presser, hadn’t she? Now, however, her face bespoke of mystery. The monotones in her voice were full of pathos and regret.
“What the hell do you mean you’re not an actress!? I know an actress when I see one. Not only that—you’re a star; a new age Barbara Stanwyk. We’ve got to get you in this role!”
And that was how it all started for the blonde sex kitten turned serious actress from Texas. Over the next few weeks, she would take over the role of Niagara Horton and in no time become daytime’s hottest new sensation.
But to Lorna Sinatra’s dismay; acquiring stardom and instant wealth wouldn’t move Deborah to vacate the cozy bungalows at Warm Leatherette as everyone naturally assumed she would.
No, in fact, Deborah would rent out a much bigger one.
“I’m so glad you like it here,” Tiger gushed. “You play such a bitch on ‘Young and Frisky’…I’ve never watched soaps before, but thanks to you I’m hooked! And you were such a sweet, timid little blonde when you first came to Warm Leatherette. How do you do it, Deborah—how does a sweetheart like you play such a bitch so convincingly?”
With a dramatic puff on her cigarette, the acclaimed actress summoned Lorna Sinatra to her mind and told him in her matured Texas drawl, “I’d advise you all…to fasten your seat belts.”
~*~
“Ling Mae—I forbid it.”
Daisy had just finished glossing her lips candy apple red and was dressed in a see-through slip for yet another sexy vocal performance as mistress of the Munich Machine Basement orgy. What she hadn’t been ready for was Ling’s announcement that she wanted to become a pole dancer in the Clinton Library.
“But you were a stripper when you first came here, Dao Ming—and what about January, the woman who owns this place? She started here as a pole dancer!”
Daisy sighed hard. “This place transforms people, Ling. They come here one way; they leave as somebody else. I don’t want that for my baby sister. Ling, I didn’t bring you here to ruin your life.”
“No—you brought me here to have no life at all.”
“That’s not fair, Ling. I’m saving money to send you to college. Why do you think I still preside over the orgies? I have to pay for mother to stay in that room she’s so attached to; pay for her medical care. Get you through college. I’m not here because I love watching people have sex Ling.”
“I’m sorry,” the younger beauty sighed. “I know you’re working to make our lives better, Daisy.”
Though Ling Mae made it seem as though she had given up on the idea of dancing in the Clinton Library, she hadn’t. She merely deduced that she could keep it a secret by dancing during the same hours her big sister performed in the Munich Underground Basement.
This was similar to Ling’s recent flirtations with the football star Jared Presser.
Daisy had been livid to see her former high school flame vacationing between each of his games at Warm Leatherette lately. But at least he’s not after my sister, she had thought when seeing him hanging all over resident glam-fox Lorna Sinatra. Not only was a sweet little lamb like Ling no competition for sultry Lorna—but Daisy knew how committed Ling was to the silly promise she’d made their mother.
What Daisy didn’t know about was Ling’s growing obsession with masturbation. Every since Ling had witnessed the way the fine Italian stallion had handled Daisy’s body, she couldn’t stop wake-dreaming about it. She found that whenever she was in bed or alone in a room sitting in a chair, she touched herself. Her fingers would gently tease and massage the porcelain white virgin flesh until she felt a “rose” begin to bloom betwixt her folds. Hot, fluttering skin fanned out by an inner pink wetness. It was when Ling felt that moist heat that she always stopped masturbating. She never allowed herself to reach orgasm.
But still, the fantasies about certain famous men hung in her mind like little sex narcotics keeping her imagination addicted to the idea of sex day and night. Jared Presser topped the list in her fantasies, because she actually knew him. But there were also fantasies about China’s hottest male model, Rojam, the hunky Chinese actor-singer Edison Chen, movie star Brad Pitt, singer Usher Raymond and power-symbol politicians like Senator John Edwards and Barack Obama. Ling’s pussy especially got hot when dreaming about Rojam entering it, though. And that’s what she danced and stripped to. Fantasies of the handsomely mean-looking Rojam fucking her the way Noble had fucked Daisy.
“Ling?”
“Oh—sorry. What were you saying?”
“Just that I’m proud of you for deciding against trying to be a stripper,” Daisy told her. “Even though we’re struggling right now, I know the future holds much more for you than that.”
“Yeah,” Ling had nodded deceptively. Tiger had already auditioned and approved Ling Mae as a pole dancer.
Daisy, meanwhile…became consumed by the details of Noble Sinatra’s escalating interest in using the local Mafia to bring down January Knuckle-Joy.
“Ling and I saw you coming out of Splash Cafe with Tony Scarfist and his worst bodyguard, Face-breaker.”
“It was just lunch.”
“I’m not a fool, Noble. Tony Scarfist eats skulls—human skulls—he doesn’t do lunch unless it’s mob business!”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Noble had said. He tried reiterating his latest good news—the fact that he had filed divorce from his wife in order to pursue conquering Daisy—but the sexy chanteuse refused to fold.
She said, “If you go this route Noble—it will be against everything your grandfather believed in. Papa Sinatra was not a gangster and he didn’t believe in killing people just because they didn’t agree with him.”
“January’s done more than disagree with me, Daisy—she’s used that black pussy of hers to take over my family’s empire!”
“That’s Papa’s fault, Noble. Not
hers. And where are you getting this racist language from all of a sudden? That’s not you, Noble. I can’t be with somebody who’s like that.”
Sincerely, he apologized, because deep in Noble Sinatra’s heart—he really wasn’t a racist. In fact, none of the Sinatra clan could be accurately described that way. They had been one of the few Italian families during the 1930’s and 1940’s to admit there was African blood in their line; they had also been sponsors of charities for African-Americans during the depression and early supporters of civil rights movements both back east in New York and in California. Papa Sinatra had led the way in that regard; his voice being one of the Italian constituencies most outspoken against racism. Being that Daisy was Chinese and knew the cold lash of racism first hand, she wasn’t about to love a man who hated people over skin color and Noble promised her, “I’m going to stop speaking out of anger with ugly language, Daisy, but I still have to stick up for my mother. The Sinatra legacy is going down the drain because of January.”
“And you think having her killed will make it all better?”
“Daisy…”
“Listen to me, Noble. And make sure you listen to me good. I will do everything in my power to put you in prison if anything happens to January.”
“Daisy you love me—you don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do mean it! Now fuck around and see what happens to you. My poor mother’s whole life was silenced by Chinese witchcraft, Noble. I can’t be for something like that.”
With a deep breath, he nodded. But he knew right then that his love for Daisy and his determination to marry her would soon be sorely tested. And as he turned and walked away, closing the door behind him, Daisy said again what she knew was most true about Warm Leatherette. “This place transforms people…they come here one way and they leave as someone else. And now it’s happening to you, Noble. You’re not the man I once knew.”
~*~
Deborah Crawford wrapped up yet another dramatic scene with actor E-Joe Bradford on the set of ‘Young and Frisky.’ E-Joe, an equally brilliant performer who was voted, year in and year out, the sexiest man in daytime, played her wealthy husband Victor St. Nicholas on the soap. The fact that Deborah had hoped to lose her virginity by seducing her handsome co-star—only to discover he was homosexual during a lunch at Warm Leatherette in which he made passes at Tiger Holden—had been devastating and eye-opening. But Deborah had gotten over the shock of seeing two such masculine-acting men getting their flirt on, and now E-Joe was her closest friend and confidante on the show.
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