CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stacey
Present day …
I’m now Stacey Light, Ana’s gone for good. It’s a play on my full name, Anastasia. Back then I was Ana, but Stacey suits me better now because I’ve transformed myself from gawky adolescent to sleek professional. After all, I used to be “The Bean,” a long-distance runner, gangly, legs windmilling, my arms like strings of rope.
But at college, a reality check was in order. I was no longer a star, the MVP of the track team. Instead, I was positively slow compared to some of the other girls. Take my friend Kendada Niyembe, for example. We call her the Nigerian Breeze because she gave birth her sophomore year and then went on to Olympic trials eighteen months later, can you believe it? I’m so proud of her, and her baby’s the cutest to boot.
But next to Kendada, it was clear I didn’t have a career as a professional runner. So I re-made myself by focusing on school, majoring in journalism with a minor in kinesiology, to show potential employers that I was serious about being a sports reporter. Then there were the endless rounds of interviews coupled with relentless networking. I wish the world didn’t work this way, that you didn’t have to shake hands, press the flesh so that people remember you, but I guess it helps.
And at last I scored an agent, a professional to help me land contracts, who got me my first gig with KPIX out in Las Vegas. Stanley was upfront and realistic.
“Ana,” he said, “you’ve got to change your name and a couple other things.”
“Why?” I asked. I’d already mentally planning to re-brand myself as Stacey, but I wanted to hear a professional’s opinion.
“Ana is Hispanic-sounding and Las Vegas doesn’t have that kind of demographic,” he said shrugging. “Something more Anglo will play better in Vegas.”
Okay, that made sense. I would miss Ana, but it was okay, my close friends and family could still call me that.
“How about Stacey?” I asked tentatively. “Does that sound alright?”
Stanley nodded, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully.
“Yeah, that sounds about right. But Stacey,” he continued, “you need a look that compliments your new Stacey-ness.”
My new Stacey-ness? What did that mean? But my agent knew his stuff and didn’t hesitate to share.
“You need to brighten your hair, wear more make-up, wear better clothes, look cute the way people expect Staceys to look,” he explained. “You’re not ugly, you just need to do it up.”
“You mean like a FOX News anchor?” I asked dryly. The women on FOX always looked overdone, tight dresses and stilettos, heavy makeup for the camera.
“You laugh,” warned Stanley, “but those women are pulling in the big bucks. You think Megyn Kelly got to where she is by looking drab? She hit the big time through a combination of natural looks and image consultants.”
I sat back. Megyn was my hero, her insightful reporting and stinging questions a mix of sugar and spice. And you know what? I wanted to be like her.
So dutifully, I took myself off to the salon and came out with a headful of golden highlights, bouncy blonde hair balayaged to the max. I’d put on some weight since graduation and was now deliciously curvy, my tiny waist emphasized by swinging hips and a nice, jouncing ass. Plus, my boobs were still there, my saving grace even during the days of Bean-dom.
“Perfect,” said Stanley, eyeing me critically, looking me up and down. “Now go get ‘em,” he commanded, and I walked into my first interview spirits high, hopes up.
I didn’t get it. Nope, not that one, not the one after, not the one after that either. In fact, I freelanced for a while before finally getting a spot as part-time sportscaster.
But once I got my break, I played it for all it was worth, working night and day, learning the ropes, making sure I was the best sportscaster out of Vegas. And you know what? I think people appreciated it. I was knowledgeable about just every sport, football, soccer, swimming, various Olympic events, you name it. My days as a freelancer had served me well because I’d been forced to cover everything from high school cheer to women’s gymnastics and now my knowledge was positively encyclopedic.
So it was with a spring in my step that I headed to work at 4 a.m. that Monday morning. I’d just gotten back from my work trip to Atlanta, the one where I’d had fun with my two rubbery friends in the shower, and was looking forward to going over some clips, reviewing a reel with my editor.
Except when I got to the front door, my co-worker Karen came rushing out to meet me.
“Stacey,” she gasped. “Have you read today’s Enquirer?”
What? No, I was a sportscaster, ESPN and Sports Illustrated are our bibles, not gossip rags.
“No of course not, why?” I asked.
Her face remained a shocked mask.
“Because you’re in it Stacey. Someone videotaped you and they’ve posted a clip to their site. Don’t look on-line,” she rushed. “It’s not worth it, it’s not going to do you any good, go and talk to Walter, he said to tell you to come in as soon as you got in.”
I frowned. Walter was our Managing Editor and a really nice, easy-going middle-aged guy. It must have been serious if I had to report to his office first thing at 4 a.m.
But of course, I had to see the clip first, I couldn’t go in blind. I slunk to my desk, trying to draw as little attention. Fortunately this early in the morning, full staff isn’t in yet and it’s still a skeleton crew, just enough folks to transition the studio to day-time.
I flicked on my laptop and surfed to the Enquirer’s site. Annoyingly, an ad popped up and I clicked the X in the upper right corner right away. Why hadn’t my ad-blocker screened it? But almost immediately, I wished I hadn’t been so hasty because my face suddenly filled the screen.
Stacey Light Videotaped In the Shower Doing the Dirty! the headline screamed. What the? My jaw dropped open in shock and I could only sit in stunned silence for a moment. What was going on?
With numb hands, I reached for my headphones, fitting the cushions over my ears. Taking a deep breath, I pressed play, bracing for the worst, but it was even more terrible than expected.
Last Saturday night, after I’d come back from the Chargers game, I’d let myself into the hotel room for a warm steamy shower, and it was all on tape now. You saw me rushing over to turn off the A/C, my naked form scampering across the plush hotel suite to fiddle with the thermostat. And that done, I ran for the shower, pink bits still on display.
But that wasn’t all. Because believing myself to be alone, I’d pulled out Mr. Mongo and Mr. Wall Dildo, proceeding to put them in their respective places, in my pussy and mouth, and ride them to heaven, moaning and shrieking, water sluicing over my limbs, my face contorted in dazzling pleasure, my boobs heaving, my hips jerking up and down as the toys did their work.
And did this end after thirty seconds? No, the tape captured my entire sex session, three whole minutes of Stacey Light getting pounded, assets on display, a magnificent clip of female lust, delight, and satisfaction, conveniently on-line for your viewing pleasure.
Numb, I sat back, mouth agape. Oh shit, oh shit. I could barely think. Who had seen this? Who was behind this? What was there to do? Without even realizing it, tears began rolling down my cheeks, there went the end of my dignity, my sense of safety, my bold entry into womanhood, afraid of nothing, girl power ready to roll in the fast-lane.
Suddenly, I heard a soft knock on the wall of my cube and Walter poked his head over the side.
“Stacey,” he said, his eyes immediately taking in the tears and the footage on my screen. “Let’s go into my office, we’ll have more privacy,” he said quietly.
I got up and followed him into his corner office. Goddamn, but he had glass walls and the crew could see us, my tears, my slumped shoulders as I sat, defeated, in a chair.
“Wal- Walter,” I said, choking, “I’m not sure how they got this. How? Does the Enquirer have spies?”
Walter, a kindly middle-aged man, handed me a tissue.
“I’ve done some asking around, on the down-low of course,” he said. “It turns out that someone offered to sell a tape to the Enquirer. Someone planted a camera in your hotel room and videotaped you.”
“I see that,” I mumbled. “But how? How did they get a camera into my room? How is this possible?”
Walter only shook his head slowly, his eyes pitying.
“Stacey, we’re not sure yet but I’m doing everything I can to find out. You know I’ve been in this business a long time, we’ll figure it out,” he promised.
“But how could the Enquirer have bought it?” I asked, the tears coming on even stronger now, my voice choked and garbled. “How could they go public with something like this? I’m a private citizen, my privacy has obviously been invaded, this isn’t right,” I shook my head. “How could they?” I asked, my shoulders heaving now, a hand covering my face. I wanted to disappear altogether, shrink into nothingness.
“I don’t know,” said Walter, coming around his desk to put a hand on my shoulder. “There’s been a ton of litigation about stuff like this recently, remember the Hulk Hogan sex tape scandal? Gawker put up a vid of the Hulk having sex with his best friend’s wife on their site without his knowledge.”
“I know you feel like this is the end of the world but it’s not,” he continued. “We’ll figure this out, I’ve already talked to the station’s lawyers. They’ll get the clip taken down asap,” he promised. “I’m sure not many people have seen it,” he added soothingly.
I wanted to believe him, but knew it wasn’t true. I’d seen the stats and over two million people had viewed the video already, with more than five thousand thumbs up. I hated modern technology all of a sudden, hated how with a single upload, my privacy was destroyed, my naked body for the world to see. I felt destroyed myself, limp, tired all of sudden, my limbs heavy and dead.
“I have to go,” I said listlessly.
“Take the day off,” soothed my manager. “Take a few days off actually,” he said. “We’ll call you with any updates.”
And like a zombie I got up, ignoring the stares of my colleagues, the pitying looks. Because life was over as I knew it.