Hey all, my lover Grayson, known for BSB Magic' and Brain and his Wil', dared me to write a celebrity story. Being a big fan of Ricky Martin, well you could guess who my first choice was. Now, I am new to this genre, so questions, comments, and such can be directed to dmetrixavier@hotmail.com.
The usual disclaimers apply: underage- no. illegal in your area- no. You get the point. This story is fiction and not meant to imply anything about the true sexuality of singer Ricky Martin.
Now I know where I want this story to go, but I am always open for new ideas.
He's All I Need, Part I:
"First Impressions"
By: Dmetri Xavier
The day started out pretty typical. My alarm jolted me out of bed causing me to step on my cat, who she in turn scratched me because I scared the shit out of her. Then while running to the bathroom for my morning pee and to clean the nice scratch she left me, I tripped over the bathroom rug and fell face first onto my bathroom floor, not before hitting my head on the edge of the toilet. I was in pain, really ticked off, and late for work! I rushed (carefully) as quick as I could, only to find that I had missed my train by a measly five minutes. I ran down to the platform and through the turn-style in time to see the train take off without me. So here I am, standing on the subway platform, my hair a wild mess because it had slipped out from it's ponytail while I was running, a huge blue lump on my forehead, and I hadn't even made it to work yet.
I called the salon I work at from the subway platform to tell them to cancel my morning appointment because I was running late. Kristy, the receptionist, was concerned, "Jimmy, you late? You'se never late? Wassa matta?" she said in her Brooklyn accent.
"Nothing Kris, just having a really bad morning. I'll be there as soon as I can. I just have to get my bearing and catch the next train. Better yet, I think I'll treat myself this morning and take a taxi."
"Oh, okay Jimmy. You'se better be here by 11:00 though. Orlando scheduled you to work on a VIP."
Interesting. I usually don't get the VIP's until later in the week, and this was only Monday. "Who is it Kris? Ivana? Sophie? Julia?"
"No, none of them Jim. All he told me was that this guy was very important and that you'se needs to do you're damnedest to make him happy." Kristy answered.
"Oh.okay. I should be there soon. Probably a half-hour at the most, okay?" I hung up with her. Him? A guy? I usually don't do the male VIP's. Orlando usually handled them himself. He liked checking them out, giving them his infamous "gaydar" quiz. Orlando prided himself on knowing who wasn't gay and who was. And he was convinced that certain stars could be if given the chance. I hailed a taxi and got to work at lot sooner than I expected. Technically, I was only 15 minutes late. I prided myself on being early always because I liked to get my workstation and equipment prepped and ready to go. Orlando immediately hailed me into his office, and told me to sit down.
"Jimmy, you've got a VIP coming in this afternoon. He's not a regular, and I want his return business. If he starts coming in here, we'll start picking up even more, and I can stop doing hair period and stick to running this place." Orlando said.
"You always say that." I muttered
"Say what?" he asked defensively.
"That you want to quit doing hair and 'run this place'. Orlando, you'll quit doing hair when Tom Cruise comes out of the closet!" I replied.
He looked at me thoughtfully, "Mmmm...interesting possibility. Anyway, I'm begging you, as a friend and mentor, please do a good job today."
"He's kind of antsy this morning. Wonder what's got him in a bunch?" I thought to myself, "Hey, who is this guy anyway? And why aren't you doing him?" I asked him boldly.
"Sweetie, its Ricky Martin. Why would I waste my time with him? Everyone knows that he's gay already. Besides, you speak fluent Spanish."
I was floored. Ricky Martin. I was going to cut Ricky Martin's hair. I, along with most of the gay boys and straight women of America, harbored a crush when it came to him. It sounds corny and cheesy I know, but c'est la vie? I'm human most of the time just like everyone else. But the fact remained: I still was going to cut Ricky Martin's hair!
I hurried to my workstation, unpacked my things, cleaned my razors and such, and fixed my own rat's nest of hair. I began to wonder whether or not to cut it, but I never had the nerve. It took me god only knows how many years to grow it out. It was long and blonde, down to my waist now. I dyed it once in awhile because I had uneven natural color. Some parts were darker blonde, almost brown, and some were almost platinum. Genetics I guess, I don't know. The longer it was, the darker the ends got, so I just dyed it one even uniform color. And I was sitting there musing about my own hair, I didn't here Orlando and the VIP walking up behind me.
"Ehh-hummph.." Orlando `coughed', "Jimmy, you know Mr. Martin. He's ready for you now."
I turned around and extended my hand, "So sorry, Mr. Martin. I had a bit of trouble making it to work this morning, and I seemed to have had messed up my own hair in that process. I was trying to fix it before you got here, because, after all, I wouldn't want you to think that `oh god, this guy can't even do his own hair!'. Anyway, please have a seat." I said nervously, indicating the salon chair.
Ricky shrugged and gave me one of those signature smiles, "It's okay. Shall we start?" he said sitting down.
Orlando walked just past me, grinning like a Cheshire cat from ear to ear, "Good save."
I simply mouthed back the words `bite me'.
I turned around and almost bumped into another man that was just behind Orlando. He was tall, dark, and brooding. And he didn't look like he was in a good mood. I pulled up one of what we call the `stupid man chairs' and asked him to take a seat, just adjacent from Ricky. He glared at me, stood behind the chair and firmly stated in a heavy accent that he would prefer standing. I backed off and said simple, "Suit yourself," and then turned back to Ricky, who was seated in front of me, "Now what would you like today? How can I possibly make you look better?" I cringed inside. How could I say something so corny?
"You know my style?" he asked me.
"Well, yes, of course. Everyone been requesting it." I answered.
He laughed a little, "Have I started a trend?"
I looked at him through the mirror, "You can't tell me you haven't noticed?"
He just smiled and continued, "I want to lighten the color a little more too if that's possible."
"Anything is possible Mr. Martin." I said, almost smacking myself for sounding so coy and cute.
"Ricky please. My father answers to mister." He answered slightly shy.
"Oh well, okay, Ricky. Let's get to work." I ran my fingers through his hair to judge the thickness and consistency, then pulled out a chart of dye swatches that I thought would be particularly good on him. He chose his shade, and I immediately began mixing it up. While I was doing so, his friend in the chair scooted forward and started whispering to Ricky in Spanish. Not that I was trying to eavesdrop or anything, but I can't help it if I understand the language now can I?
The other man, whose name was Pablo from what I gathered, was pretty pissed at Ricky because of something about his "...career coming first. When are you going to have time for me?"
Ricky was visibly shaken at the way this guy was acting. Things started to escalate, and I just stood there playing the mute white boy really well while these two had a screaming match. Actually, Pablo was doing all the screaming while Ricky was just answering quietly. Ricky finally said something to the effect of, "You like the money, but you won't let me work. Well, then, if you aren't happy with me perhaps you should leave and find someone who can deal with your never-ending bullshit and lies. Go find someone who will take care of you who you can screw out of money like you do me. I really don't understand you." All the time that this was happening, Ricky kept a very cool composure. I was impressed; I would've broken down at that point.
Pablo turned really red in the face, and looked like he was about ready to haul off and slug him. I turned around just at that right moment, still playing dumb white boy, and asked Ricky, "Okay, are you ready to start with the color?" Pablo gave me a glare, spit in Ricky's face, and stormed out of the salon. Then came one of those unbearable silences. I had to break it.
"Well, not that I know the whole story Mr. Martin, but like my mama always said, good riddance to bad rubbish." I said to Ricky.
Ricky just looked at me, and I could see the tears forming at the bottoms of his eyelids, "You could understand us?" he asked very quietly.
"Not that I was trying to listen in, but yes, I did understand. Every word. And I am sorry." I answered him back, in flawless Spanish.
Ricky just looked at me and burst into tears. I didn't know what else to do, so I knelt down next to him and put my hand on his shoulder. He immediately responded, and I pulled him into a hug. Nothing sexual about it, just a comforting hug. He cried on my shoulder for at least ten minutes before looking up at me and asking, "Is this bothering you? If it is, I'm sorry, but I thank you for the support anyway." he said softly.
"Uhhh...No it's not bothering me Mr. Martin. What man or woman in their right minds wouldn't mind having Ricky Martin in their arms?" I asked incredulously.
He actually laughed. I got Ricky Martin to laugh. "Okay, what now?" I asked myself. "Do you want to go ahead and finish your hair, or do you want to call it a day? I mean, I understand either way, after what just happened and all." I told him.
"Please, do finish. I don't want to waste any more of your time, and I actually think that it might make me feel a little better." He answered.
"Out with the old and in with the new," I wrapped a smock around him.
"Where did you learn Spanish? School? And please, do call me Ricky." he said to me.
At that moment I think I might have blushed, I don't know why, so I answered quickly "Actually, my mother was Argentinean, so she taught me. It was what she and I used to speak to each other when we didn't want my father to know what was going on. Worked great at Christmas time."
"What about your father? What was he?" Ricky seemed genuinely curious.
"American. Born and bred. But his parents were Irish and German." I told him.
He whistled, "A lethal combination."
"It can be, if you upset any of us." I laughed.
It took me another hour and fifteen minutes to finish his cut and color. During that time, we continued talking. And not just the normal minor small talk I share with clients who are in my chair. No, I kind of felt like we were actually getting to know each other. But I didn't want to hold my breath, because this after all was a famous recording star and I was just... well I was just me.
When I was finished, Ricky stood up in the chair, bent over the vanity for a moment, pulled out his wallet, and handed it to me with a small wad of cash. I started to protest, but he insisted, saying "Thank you, Jimmy. I would like to continue this conversation, but I have to go now," he shook my hand, "I hope to see you soon." Then he left.
I opened my hand and unfolded the money. Inside, there was a note scribbled on the back of one of my business cards. It read:
`Jimmy, you've made me feel better than anyone else in a long tiem. I'd really like to see you again. I'm in room 617 at the Plaza hotel. Show this card, and you won't have any problems.'
---Ricky
I just about fainted. What now I asked myself?
Well, tell me what you think. You're comments are an author's only compensation here. If you do like this story, feel free to check out some of my other work: "Coming of Age" (adult friends), "Dream Man" (beginnings), "The Festival" (high school, something I didn't finish because of lack of response). Dmetrixavier@hotmail.com