C is for “Chelsea Rodgers” #atozchallenge

Chelsea Rodgers


I’m thoroughly enjoying being buried deep inside of Chelsea but from her lack of enthusiasm, I don’t think she feels the same.

And it’s killing my mood.

I’m trying my best to get her to come first but from the expression on her face, I know that behind her closed eyes, the only thing on her mind is going to the A-list event we’re attending tonight.

Actually, that’s a lie. About the event, I mean. We aren’t invited to the event, Chelsea is. Her agent scored her an invite and by default, I have to go too since I’m back in New York between concerts.

The first time I ditched one of Chelsea’s events was also my last. The paparazzi had a field day speculating about our on again off again relationship and rumors that we had broken up again started trending. Vania had royally cursed me out about all the time she had to spend spinning a story about me being under the weather. The truth was that I just wasn’t in the state of mind for a roomful of fake smiles, silicone tits and from on the down low celebrity men trying to get me on their team. No thanks on all accounts.

Instead, I had spent the evening rocking out on with my guitar to some of my favorite ’80s tunes and it was heaven. So yeah, it’s easier to go along with Chelsea to this event tonight to avoid a problem before it could even begin.

In life, sometimes you’ve simply got to do what you’ve got to do, even when you don’t want to.

Just as I’m about to give up on Chelsea and concentrate on my own release, the doorbell rings in the distance followed by a loud knock at the front door. I ignore it until I hear the creaking of an opening door open and a gaggle of voices. Startled, I quickly shift off and out of Chelsea’s body.

“What the fuck?!!”

Unphased, Chelsea rolls out from under me and pulls on her robe. “Don’t worry. It’s just the crew to help me get ready for tonight.”

“You let them have carte blanche to your place like that?”

“Of course. What’s the problem?” She glances down at my still-hard dick. “Sorry Baby. I’ll make it up to you later. I promise.” She gives me a quick kiss and with that, she disappears from the bedroom to greet them.

“Close the door,” I remind her and she leaves to me alone with my now semi-hard hard-on.


I grab my dick, unroll the condom I’ve got on and toss it into the trash. If it wasn’t for the fact that her team is just on the other side of the bedroom door and that I am more than pissed at the intrusion, I might have finished myself off. But the last thing I need is someone accidentally walking in as I jack off so I decide against it.

Carte blanche access is crazy and dangerous.

I’m going to have to talk to her about that.

Chelsea Rodgers, former model and current reality television star with her eye on the big screen, is my girlfriend…again. I first met Chelsea when she was the newest and hottest thing on the fashion runways. It was at one of those Victoria Secret type of parties that everyone in the industry goes to just to say that they went. She was tucked away in a quiet and I was attracted by the way she seemed to want to stay on the outskirts of the fray. I approached her and in talking, we discovered that we had attended the same New York high school but had missed each other by a few years. She was sweet and a little shy compared to most of the other girls at the party who bolded approached me.

We hit off. And I also thought that it was more than a coincidence that she just so happened to be wearing my favorite color (purple) and that she had the exact same name as a Prince song.

We dated for about a year before her career skyrocketed and she was in demand everywhere. I encouraged her to spread her wings and to think about herself first, not me. I’m not for holding anyone back from their dreams and I had my career too. But every few years, Chelsea and I seem to gravitate back to each other, maybe out of love and habit. But with each reunion, Chelsea is less of that sweet and shy girl that I knew way back when and much more of the strategizing woman she needs to be in this difficult business of crazy.

I lay back in the bed and listen to the chatter behind the door. I can picture Chelsea sitting like a queen bee in her make-chair in the other bedroom that doubles as her “get-ready room” while her worker bee entourage of hair, make-up and fashion people get her dressed. They will easily be at it for hours so I’ve got plenty of time on my hands.

But they have the worst timing. Twenty minutes more and we could have conquered round two in bed. I close my eyes, turn over and drift off into a semi-sleep.

On days like these, I thank my fucking stars that I’m a man.

To get ready, all I really need to do is roll out of bed, hit the shower, and throw on the Armani suit that Chelsea’s stylist picked out for me to match her dress.

After about an hour of dozing, I’m restless. I wrap my lower half in the bedsheet and make my way to the door to check out what’s going on.  Blond curly extensions are being installed to match her current hair color, face contouring is taking place and someone is taping her tits up to give her cleavage a little added “pop”. Her runaway modelling days are over and I totally get that she wants to catch the next wave of whatever is coming after all the reality show fame starts to wane. The need to be in the right place at the right time to meet the right people is what she’s all about since we got back together.

Been there, done that.

It wasn’t fun and I’m glad to no longer be in that position. I hate schmoozing with fake people in the industry and networking with a purpose. But I’ve got to support my girl and will do what I need to.

Chelsea spots me standing in the doorway and blows me a kiss.

“Baby, you had better start getting ready,” Chelsea calls out to me. “Go take your shower. I don’t want to be late.”

I nod and head to the bathroom, feeling all of the ladies eyes on my half-naked body. As soon I shut the door, I hear their hushed giggles and a return to their girl talk.

After an extra-long shower, my cell rings with Bobby’s ringtone. I wrap myself up in a towel and grab my cell from the bathroom counter.

“What’s up Niko?” Wherever Bobby is, the music is louder than a rock concert and he is almost yelling.

“Bobby? Where the hell are you?” Before he can answer, I hear the familiar sounds of whistling and the pulsating beat of the music. I already know where Bobby is. “A strip club? Are you looking to accidentally get married again? Or do you want to get drugged and relieved of your wallet for the umpteenth time?”

“Niko, Niko, Niko, don’t worry! It’s just a night out with the good old boys,” he laughs. “I’ve learned my lesson. Or should I say “lessons”. And I can’t get remarried when I’m not divorced from Betty Boop yet.”  Betty Boop was the stage name of the last “accident” Bobby had on a night out with his old crew.

“Are you drunk?” I ask out of concern. He has a tendency to overdo things when he isn’t babysitting me on tour.

“Not enough but I will be soon! But before I do, did you call Jessica?”

My mind draws a blank. “Jessica who?”

Through the din and roars in the background, Bobby sigh is clear. “Dude! The publicist in Cali I told you about! I gave you her number when we were in Minneapolis weeks ago.”

“Oh fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! No, I totally forgot.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re probably too busy doing just that to Chelsea.”

“Look, I’ll touch base with her right now. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Yeah, do it today. We need to lock her and her agency down because they are what we need. And we need a spin doctor in place if something comes up.”

“I know, I know. I’ll handle it. Don’t get too stupid with your old cronies, okay?”

“Who are you calling old?” Bobby laughs. “You know I will!”

I towel off, run some gel through my damp hair and get myself dressed in the suit that has miraculously appear laid out on the bed for me while I was in the shower. It takes me all of 15 minutes to get ready and make myself look presentable. I join Chelsea and her team in the other room and take a seat on a couch far from their madness.

One look at me and I can tell that Chelsea’s not impressed with something. “You’re not shaving? Those are her words but her tone nags with “you should shave.”

My hand immediately runs across the facial hair I have neglected to get rid of because I kind of like it.

“He looks hot with that short beard Chelsea! Makes him look even more hot and manly than he already is,” the nameless woman states as if I’m not even in the room, “I’m going to touch up his face a little as soon as I’m done with you.”

Chelsea raises her eyebrows as if she concedes and sticks out her long leg like Cinderella for one of the girls to strap on a gravity-defying heel. Chelsea wriggles her toes and then extends her other leg. I take my cell out and scroll through my cell for Jessica’s number.

I might as well get the call out of the way while I’m waiting.

It rings, rings and rings some more until I hear the beginning of a voice mail that I don’t listen to. I hate leaving messages because I always find myself rambling so I simply hang up. I scroll my social media feeds that my social media team now handles to check out what is being said about me in the latest Tweets and Instagram photos from fans taken at my concerts.

I’m so engrossed in some of the over-the-top sexy comments that some fans have left that I barely notice Chelsea get up from the chair and drop her robe to reveal her naked body to the entire room. With all of the quick changes on the runways all over the world, nakedness is second nature to her. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing but it’s her. Three women hover around her, holding the dress so that she can simply step into it and not mess it up with her make-up.

The make-up lady motions for me to sit and I follow her instruction. She slaps some barely-there foundation on my face and within minutes, we’re ready to go.

“You are both hot but together, you guys are smoking hot. I’m surprised that the paparazzi haven’t nicknamed you yet, like Branjelina, Bennifer, TomKat and now J-Rod. You know like…NiChe or Chelnik.”

Utter stupidities coming out of this woman’s mouth. Three out of those four couples are no longer together and one still has to make it down the aisle again…for the fourth time, I think? And is “hot” the only word in her Paris Hilton vocabulary? 

I want to kiss Chelsea but I know better than to lean in because she won’t want to ruin up her newly painted red lips.

Someone says that the car is waiting at the back entrance to Chelsea’s building so we head downstairs. As we exit the elevator, I place my hand on Chelsea’s lower back and she startles as if she’s taken by surprise.

“What’s wrong?”

“Sorry. Just a little on edge I guess. There are going to be a lot of powerful people at this event and I need to be on my best game,” she explains as I open her door and she slips into the town car. I slide in next to her and hold her hand.

“Don’t worry. You’re a go-getter and never fail to impress.” I squeeze her hand and then kiss it.

“Thanks Baby. You’re too sweet to me. And sorry about before…you know…” she says referring to when her team barged in.

“It’s all good Chelsea. And you’re going to make it up to me, remember?” I tease. Knowing that she’s nervous, I keep the conversation to a minimum until the town car stops at the hotel entrance to where the party is being held. The driver steps out, circles the car and opens the door for us. I step out and extend my hand for her to take.

“Are you ready?”

“I am. Let’s rock.”

© Copyright 2019 Marquessa Matthews. All Rights Reserved

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