Prologue - Naomi
Lars and I were kissing, and it was delicious.
As delicious as a spoonful of Nutella. You know you shouldn’t indulge, but at the end of the day, you can’t resist. And why would you?
He detached his lips from mine, dove back in, kissed me some more.
It was hot.
Nutella with sparkles.
But then he stopped, looked at me with fire in his eyes and dropped the bomb that would define our relationship.
“That’s why I love your kind of girls so much.”
It wasn’t a cold shower. It was an Arctic Tsunami.
I was just another preconceived notion, and this manslut of a rock star might have had an Asian fetish.
I was never one to follow who fucked who in Hollywood. I knew who Lars Trouble was, but I had no idea whom he was with. Pushing him slowly away, I pretended I needed to go to the bathroom and promised to resume what we were doing soon after but added a condition in my mind.
We would continue our making out session depending on what I would find on my Google search.
And there it was, the sexy drummer of the Darling Devils, woman after woman, picture after picture, perpetuating the centuries of clichés of yellow fever.
The fetish of the “Asian girl” was real in the white man’s world.
Would he have said the same to a black girl?
Would he have said, “That’s why I love black girls so much?”
And how would she have reacted?
Because for me, Lars Trouble had just become my worst nightmare.
As sexy as he was, I couldn’t be put in the basket of any other “type of girl” he’d fucked.
When I had tried to explain this to my acquaintance, Julie, who had stopped hanging on the lips of the bassist of the Darling Devils to come with me to the bathroom, she had totally dismissed me.
“Art likes them young, Dan likes them feisty and Lars likes them Asian. That’s their types.”
And I knew she was right.
Our common friend Anna was a feisty one and Dan Darling, the lead singer, was trying to get her in his bed. That’s why we were hanging out backstage before a sold-out concert of the band.
My Google search did tell me that Art preferred younger women—I wasn’t sure why he was in a full make-out session with Julie—and every online picture of Lars was with a girl from my ethnicity. He didn’t discriminate on the country they were from though.
But Asian wasn’t a type.
It was the continent I came from. It was an ocean of misconception.
It was a melting pot of cultural mishaps of western minds.
And being Japanese, I hated men thinking I could become a Geisha once in their bed.
I liked sex. I liked men but not because I was born in Japan, not because I could become a mistress, and not because porn had made “Asian girls” the ultimate tight pussy to fuck.
I liked sex because I was me.
So, coming out of the bathroom, I rejected Lars.
And after the concert, when he was already kissing another woman who had an Asian heritage, I did everything I could not to feel a pang of regret.
Because I had hoped there was more to Lars Trouble than what meets the eye.
I was hoping for more than the simple rock star liking tight pussy kind of guy. In the few minutes we had talked, I thought that maybe he could be something else.
Unfortunately, I had to talk to him that night, and when he thought I came for more, I burst his bubble.
He had never heard of an Asian fetish and was convinced it wasn’t a thing.
I told him to check it out.
I explained why I didn’t have sex or date men who fell in this category.
He listened.
He learned.
And we ended up talking all night, and then some more on the phone the next day and around coffee after that.
We talked about who we were, who I was, where I came from, what he liked, how he became a rock star, how it changed his life.
We were spilling all of our secrets.
Or almost all of them.
We learned everything and anything there was to know about one another.
We spent nights together, talking for hours, falling asleep next to each other.
We were together for most of our free time, even if we barely had any.
We were always attached at the hip whenever we could be, wherever we would go.
It all started with a hot kiss, but Lars Trouble had become my most beautiful story.
He had become my best friend.
1
Naomi
“Is that an erection poking the back of my head?” I ask Lars while trying to move without having my skull impaled by the boner my best friend is sporting.
“If you lay your head on my lap to watch TV, Na, that’s the risk you take when there is a naked lady on the screen,” he says, adjusting himself and adding a pillow between his dick and me.
“That’s ridiculous. You got laid last night. You’re such a horn dog.” I sit next to him, abandoning his comfortable lap.
“Did I? Shit, I should pay attention to what my dick does.” He chuckles while I roll my eyes.
“We were at that party, and you left with that girl…” I press pause on the show.
“So you think I got laid. Maybe I didn’t…”
“You didn’t?” I ask, surprised he would pass up such an opportunity.
If Lars Trouble isn’t a manwhore, he isn’t a monk either. If the opportunity presents itself in too tight clothing and an open vagina, he’ll take it.
“Well, we need to define ‘getting laid.’ Are we speaking dick and pussy entertainment or dick and mouth?” He smirks. I reach for the pillow behind my back and slap him with it.
“Ouch! Don’t be jealous! Just because you aren’t getting any doesn’t mean you have to hate me coming in a girl’s mouth!”
“I am getting some, and I’m mad because you ditched me to get sucked off! If only you had given her an orgasm, but nope, Mr. Selfish let her do all the work and gave her nothing in return.” I shove him with my foot, and he takes it in his hand. His fingers start to work their magic right away, and I have to suppress the moan I know will rile up in me from his enchanted touch.
“I told you to stop calling my dick Mr. Selfish! Also, I consider the girl from last night very lucky! I gave her the gift of a Devils’ cum. It was the fastest way to empty my balls and still spend the evening with you. Not my fault you bailed.”
His smug face annoys me.
The Darling Devils had a show in a small venue, something they still like to do for fun from time to time. Then an after-party where pussy was everywhere. There are never a lot of dicks around the Devils, except their roadies, and I’m not attracted to any of them.
Anna and Dan were sucking face.
Art was undoubtedly off somewhere pounding inside a pussy, and I was alone, surrounded by fans trying to get their attention.
So I bailed.
“Whatever. Is your dick limp again so I can resume my position, or should I skip the sex scene altogether?”
His eyes narrow on me. “My dick is never limp. Asleep maybe, but not limp.”
“You’re ridiculous, and I’m hungry. Are you going to feed me?” I ask, fighting for my foot’s release.