Date: Tue, 9 Jun 2015 19:03:45 +0000 (UTC)
From: John Sexton <sexton1980@yahoo.com.au>
Subject: Shattered Ceiling, Falling Sky 01

Author: John Sexton
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===============================================

I hope you don't get the wrong impression, but I have to start by telling
you that I love myself. When I look in a mirror, these days, I love what I
see; and, what's more, I see what others tell me they see, one very hot
stud.

But I also have to tell you that was not always the case. When I was just
twelve I hated myself. I'd look in a mirror only when I had to and, when I
did, I'd always wish that I was different. What I saw was a nerd, an ugly,
awkward geek. I hated my hair, my legs were too short, my arse was too fat,
and my lips were too thick; and that was just the outside!

I loved to read, not just kids' books but historical novels and the
classics; Dickens, Tolstoy and Victor Hugo! I played the piano and was
already studying Senior High School Physics and Maths. But the genius was
well camouflaged, because when I smiled, I looked like I was half-a-dozen
sandwiches short of a picnic.

But the thing I hated most was the secret me, the monster that I dreaded
would be exposed for all to see. I was a freak, and I was paranoid that one
day I'd slip up, and be caught out. That was the inside, that was my
shame. Oh yeah, there was one other physical defect that I loathed: my cock
was obscene.

The irony of all this is the fact that, back then, well by the time I was
fourteen, I was famous; not just here in Australia, but around the world. I
was bigger than Dan Radcliffe had been, back in the day when Harry Potter
had been an early box-office sensation.

Today, when I look at images of me, from back then, I see an absolute
spunk; a twelve–year-old kid that I'd crawl over hot coals to get my
hands on today. That's exactly what I was, an adorable, unbelievably hot
kid, that any paedophile would give their right testicle to fuck, even more
so when I was fourteen.

But back then I hated that girls went crazy at the mere glimpse of me, and
I was even more disgusted with the media hype that surrounded me. The
studios thought they owned me, and went to extreme lengths to try to manage
my image and media persona. I wanted to be taken seriously as an actor, and
that was the only quality that I saw as positive about myself. I truly
believed I could act, and seriously wanted to become a great actor. But, to
the studio, and the media that they spun like a yo-yo, I was merely a
teeny-bop heartthrob with stunning looks and the ability to remember lines.

However, all of that changed on one unseasonably hot November night, and
nobody, not even me, saw it coming...

===============================================

Studio One... Burbank Broadcast Centre... The audience gallery was abuzz
with the oestrogen induced euphoria of the capacity teenage audience.
Shelley Michaels paced the director's booth, to the crew's utter
distraction. They hated her, but she was not just any publicist, she was
the studio's publicist, and she wielded a big stick.

The Los Angeles based media witch wasn't in complete control of her
emotions. Her exit from the Green Room had not been pretty. She'd had a gut
full of that self-opinionated little brat [me] and my "moronic" manager!

Shelley was more anxious than the most ardent young fan out there in the
studio gallery. Her latest protégé, their idol, was the
fourteen-year-old Australian screen sensation, Jesse Morgan. Tonight's
guest spot on "Charlotte Jones and Friends" would be the Aussie kid's
biggest publicity gig since his last appearance on this show, but that
particular outing had not gone well.

A feeling of impending disaster had haunted Shelley all day, through this
first anniversary of that other unusually warm November evening. She had
nagged and badgered me since lunch.

I had faltered badly in that same studio, twelve months previously, to the
very day. So, that night, Shelley was sending me back into the fray, on a
mission to redeem myself.

In fairness to me, despite that glitch the previous year, all of my other
public appearances had been brilliant successes, something even Shelley
could not deny. My first movie, a Christmas release, had been a bonanza,
breaking box-office records around the globe. It had taken out four Oscars,
admittedly all technical, in the process.

But none of that was of any consequence right at that moment; this was an
entirely new ballgame, and the previous year's success was now Shelley's
greatest enemy. The second film, in the projected series of six Jesse
Starbuck adventures, was opening around the world, in two weeks, on the
fifth of December. It would have to surpass its predecessor in every way or
risk being labelled a failure.

Shelley gritted her teeth, breathed deeply and paced the floor more
frenetically.

"Fer Christ's sake, Shelley!" barked the Burbank Studio's director, "either
take a seat or watch it from the floor. Yer driving me nuts."

Shelley scowled at him, but complied. She wanted to watch the show go to
air, even if it killed her.

While Shelley had tried to rationalise that this was just one interview,
one of many, and not even the season's first, we both knew the score: this
was the one; it reached an audience more than its next two rivals combined
and, more importantly, three times its closest free-to-air, network rival
across America; it's audience appeal was broader than anything seen on the
box since the days of Ed Sullivan.

Carried to one hundred-and-seven countries around the world, this talk show
definitely was the one. We had survived my dud interview last year, but
this year was different. The first movie had nothing against which it could
be measured, apart from the best-selling book upon which it had been based,
and some inevitable comparison to the earlier Harry Potter phenomenon.

There were some obvious similarities between the Jesse Starbuck novels and
J.K. Rowling's creation: abused boy hero with magical powers and ruthless
enemies; young hero is rescued and taken to safety for induction into his
secret world; boy hero makes new friends and enemies, and defeats evil;
even a slavish [or loyal, depending on your perspective] film adaptation of
the book series. But the world of science fiction, rather than wizardry,
was my young hero's realm, and alien genes were his source of magical
power.

A decade of cinematic technical advancements, post Harry Potter, mainly in
special effects, and the huge success of the first four Jesse Starbuck
books, had ensured the first movie's favourable comparison to the Potter
series. So it now appeared that the only major threat to this second movie
was the success of the first. This sequel had to be a greater success, and
that meant doing better at the box-office.

However, this movie was hamstrung by the fact that the second Jesse
Starbuck adventure, upon which it was based, was the least popular book of
the series to date. Shelley knew that the studio was not going to allow
that to be used as an alibi for any failure of this film to capture the
market. She also knew that another dud interview tonight would severely
damage the box-office prospects of this holiday release.

Although I had denied it, Shelley was convinced that the problem was my
dislike of the show's host, Charlotte Jones. Shelley could hardly blame me;
Jones was a hound dog. But the bitch was popular, and that was all that
mattered in their game: bums on seats. Whether it was box-office, studio
attendance or telecast audience, that was the name of the game.



Shelley had stormed out of the Green Room, after delivering her final
instructions to me and my manager, Steve Menzies.

As far as she was concerned, I was a precocious brat with too much to say
and too high an opinion of myself. Steve was barely a kid himself, in her
eyes, and the root of the problem. He indulged my every whim.

Shelley hated both of us, and we weren't too keen on her. But, what the
hell! She worked for the studio, which she figured owned my arse. So we
were tied to each other come rain, hail or shine.



"So that little prick had just better perform tonight or I'll have his guts
for garters!" Shelley was lecturing Steve, just as I returned to the Green
Room after a nervous pee.

"Jones might be a bitch, kid," she turned on me, "but you smile and kiss
her fat ass out there tonight, no matter what she asks you, or I'll skin
your useless little balls and feed them to my cats!"

"Yess'am!" I replied in my best American drawl, mimicking a deep Southern
twang that I knew she hated. It was that, accompanied by a cheeky-as-shit
grin, which sent her fuming out of the Green Room in a huff.



Just to add pressure to an already tense situation, this talk show was the
studio's own, in-house production. Which is why I had performed so badly
the previous year and was so dreading the next half hour. The entire
interview would be focussed on moulding my media image to play to the
predominantly female, teenage audience.

The studio audience was being primed by the floor manager and his crew for
the show's opening credits. Shelley's palms were no doubt as sweaty as
mine. The voiceover introduced Charlotte Jones, and the now frenetic
audience screamed and whistled.

"Listen, kid, you're an actor, that's your trade." Shelley's instructions
from that afternoon, just after lunch, rang out in my head. "I don't care
how you feel about this interview or what you think about Charlotte Jones;
just go out there and enjoy yourself. Just remember: those kids out there
are crazy about you, the girls all love you. Block Jones out of your head,
and focus on your fans; this is for them and you!"

Little did she know, I didn't give a flying fuck about girls, period;
especially screaming irrational idiots like those in the audience. I felt
sick to the stomach just thinking about what they thought about me, and the
ridiculous expectation that, somehow, I was supposed to be flattered by
their attention and manic adulation.

The cameras focussed in on a blonde girl in the second row, then zoomed in
on an up-shot of two girls in the aisle, before it panned along the row,
focussing on the manic displays of hysteria.

Shelley's little protégé might be a brat, but he was a prime cut on
the entertainment meat rack, and they were milking me for everything I was
worth.



I felt like biting my nails as Jones called out `Hi, y'all!' and waved to
her audience.

Wild applause answered the host's signature greeting. Jones held up her
hands, and laughed as the audience called and screamed for several seconds
more. She turned, looked directly into camera one, through her layers of
grotesque makeup, and batted her obscenely lashed eyes, as the screams
subsided.

"If y'all wonderin' why our audience is a little on the young side this
ev'nin, it's because my guest, tonight, is the star of the second movie in
the Jesse Starbuck series, JESSE MORGAN!..."

Jones paused for the hysterical screams. She forced a lull by shouting over
the audience... "all the way from his home in Sydney, AUSTRALIA!"

The fanatical fans screamed and hollered hysterically. I cracked my
knuckles angrily.

"Why doesn't that bitch ever get her facts right!" I thought.

I didn't come from Sydney, I hated the big city. OK, I might have spent the
last two years there, living at my aunt's place, since that's where the
studios were; but I was from a coastal town five hundred kilometres north
of the metropolis. I was a country boy and proud of it. Jones's poor
research and lack of professionalism was just the sort of thing that got my
nose out of joint, especially when I was already hostile towards the stupid
bitch.

Steve had once explained that some of these things were deliberate, but I
doubted that this was Jones's excuse. I repressed a sneer, as I recalled
last year's interview, when Jones had persistently used the phrase "back
home in Sydney..." despite my having clarified my place of origin.

I was distracted by the flashback to Shelley's scream of exasperation as
she had tried to rationalise last year's interview: "Everybody knows
Sydney, dammit!"

"Oh, sorry," I had replied angrily, "I forgot we're in America, where half
the population can't find Europe on a map, and the other half don't even
know where Canada is!"

"Well those dumb-ass Americans keep making you rich, kid!"

"Yeah, well you got that right... on both counts, Ms Michaels!" I had
retorted, and the recollection was refuelling my animosity towards Jones,
before this night's interview had even begun.

Of course, my behaviour was not entirely rational the previous year, or
this night either, and I was behaving like a precocious little
brat. However, in my defence, I was under considerable stress, and I was,
after all, just a kid. Was it any wonder Shelley found me so repellent?

My breath quickened as Charlotte Jones continued.

"She's an ugly bitch," I remember thinking, "an Oprah meets Barbara
Cartland caricature; makes you want to throw up: Tammy Baker for the new
millennium!" Yet she was the queen of American prime time, and that was all
that really mattered to the studio and to Shelley.



"For y'all who live on another planet, and haven't heard of Jesse Morgan,
or his character..." Jones paused and pulled a stunned expression that
threatened to crack her make-up.

Then Jones turned to her juvenile audience, to elicit an appropriate
response. They obliged with a burst of titter and laughter.

"Jesse Starbuck," she continued, "is the biggest phenomenon in children's
literature since the Harry Potter series at the turn of the
millennium. Four books in the projected set of six have already sold
one-hundred twenty-nine million copies in fourteen languages, worldwide. Oh
my gosh!"

She paused for applause...

"An' last year the movie adaptation of the first book, `Jesse Starbuck's
Date with Death,' grossed over a billion new dollars. And the franchise is
worth over three billion new dollars, to date."

Jones turned to camera four and cooed.

"So... to tell y'all about his second movie, `Jesse Starbuck in Heaven's
Tower,' here is my very special guest, JESSSEEE MORRRGANNN!!"



It's really weird looking back on that moment, I can still feel the
atmosphere of that auditorium as if I was standing there... right now!
Probably the fact that I'm smoking some pretty mean shit, and I'm whacked
off my dial as I write this, is facilitating that sense of reality and
immediacy. I can still feel the vibrations in the room, the heat and
humidity, despite the fact that the studio set was freezing, and the NOISE!
It terrified me.

Even stranger is what I feel now, as I open my eyes and look back at the
video clip of the interview.



The screams from the predominantly juvenile female audience reached a
crescendo as I was ushered onto the set by the assistant floor manager. I
made my way to the centre spot, where I blushed and recoiled slightly when
I was engulfed in an embarrassing, overpowering hug from the Queen of the
Interview Couch. She reeked of scents and perfumes that were so
overpowering that I wanted to throw-up all over her. In retrospect I wish I
had.

I sat down nervously on the long settee, then sidled away from Jones
slightly, as the audience continued to scream and call out my name.

"Well, Jesse..." cooed Jones, as the din abated. She placed her hand on my
knee, and squeezed my thigh... "you've had a big year."

My flesh crawled; I smiled and shifted uncomfortably.

In my mind's eye I could see Shelley, back in the booth, praying that I
wouldn't make another awkward retreat from the menacing bitch.

I was trying to act relaxed and enthusiastic, but it was a pretty crappy
performance, so much for being a "great actor!"

I brushed my soft blond fringe out of my eyes and gave a more natural smile
that revealed two mesmerising dimples in my smooth tanned cheeks. My bright
blue orbs actually sparkled in the brilliant studio lights, as the audience
screamed and called to me again before I drawled:

"Yeah, it's been pretty spanky. I never thought it would be so cool."

My broad Aussie accent seemed to send the female audience members over the
edge; they screamed wildly, obliterating every other sound.

Jones put her hand to her heart in an overdramatic pose and sighed.

"'Pretty spanky!' eh?"

She dropped her voice an octave or two, to try to imitate my tone.

"Oh, that sexy little voice has gotten deeper. I suppose y'all get teased
about that all the time."

I flushed deeply; I can almost feel the heat radiating off my face after
all these years. I smiled, and the girls screamed as my cute little dimples
cracked my cheeks again.

"No, not that much," I parried her provocation as best I could.

"Do you worry that it will keep getting deeper..." Jones dropped her voice
again... "and deeper?"

I blushed even more, but it was out of anger rather than embarrassment.

My breaking voice had, in fact, been a major source of frustration during
the shooting of the first film. They'd even had to voiceover about thirty
lines of my dialogue in postproduction. It was supposed to be under wraps,
but there had been rumours on the net, and I had been mortified when I'd
learned of this.

"Oh, no; it wasn't really so bad," I lied, "it sort of just changed
overnight; so it didn't really cause any problems."

I tried to smile confidently, and I can remember seeing Steve relax a
little, in the wings of the set.

"And y'all have grown since we saw you here, this time last year."

"Yeah, about six centimetres, I think."

Although I had indeed shot up, since my last appearance on the show, I was
still only about one hundred and sixty centimetres tall.

"So, how tall are you then?"

"About one point six metres."

"Huh?"

"Sorry, about five foot three inches, I think."

"OK. So, this is the second film in the Jesse Starbuck series. How did
y'all find working on this film compared to the first?"

I began to relax a little, this was territory in which I was comfortable.

"I really enjoyed this one, much more than the first. I think we all did."

"When y'all say we, you mean the other members of the cast?"

"Yeah... and the crew, especially Noel Whittaker, the director; he's pretty
cool."

Jones turned to her audience and tried for the second time, quite lamely,
to mimic my accent.

"He's `pretty cool' eh?"

The audience was cued this time; it laughed obligingly.

I squirmed a little more, but managed a congenial smile. She continued.

"OK. We're going to bring out some of your cast pals to join you..."

I looked genuinely pleased. It was my relief at the thought of having the
cast's support on set. However, my bright expression faded slightly as
Jones continued... "in a few minutes. But, first, tell us a bit about Jesse
Starbuck. Last year you told us that you have a lot in common with your
character in the movie. Do you still think that's true."

"Yeah, I suppose... more now than ever. I guess I've become more
comfortable in the role."

"So how are y'all alike?"

"Well... we've both got the same first name and the same birthday."

"That's pretty freaky, huh! You turned fourteen last June."

I smiled amicably.

"July, actually."

I was really pissed that Jones never seemed to worry when she got her facts
wrong. But I could see Steve was relieved that I seemed to be taking it in
my stride.

"Y'all look pretty much alike too."

I looked at her as if she had two heads.

"Yeah, I guess that's why I got the part."

The audience giggled and tittered. In the wings, Steve tensed up; but, if
Jones was aware of my antagonistic one-upmanship, she never responded. She
just looked at me, vaguely, as I continued...

"I guess we're both a bit adventurous, we're loyal to our friends, and..."
I smiled mischievously... "we sort of bend the rules a little without
really breaking them... well not too often, anyway."

The fans responded with delight. Steve smiled at the little spiel that we
had rehearsed.

I suddenly felt comfortable enough to slip into my rehearsed character, so
natural and spontaneous, almost naive, but not quite angelic; there was far
too much of the devil in me for that.

That was probably my greatest asset: I looked and acted innocent and
vulnerable, but I had managed to endow both this public persona and my
fictional character with the same qualities that made girls go to jelly
over me.

I was hot. I was cool. I was a star! I really did have talent. I'd
developed incredibly from the raw, artless boy who blundered his way
through this same interview last year.

However, the cruel irony was that I hated that I engendered that response
from the females in the audience. I eschewed their attention at every turn,
but my job description demanded it. The thought of girls screaming and
lusting over me made me sick to the stomach, primarily because, above all
else, it exacerbated my self-loathing and feeling of worthlessness. Here I
was performing before a world-wide audience and, at my core, all I felt was
shame and humiliation as my inadequacy was reinforced with every scream and
declaration of adoration from every girl in the studio.

"And what about school? Jesse Starbuck seems to enjoy being at the
academy."

I shrugged my shoulders and grinned cheekily.

"Well I haven't been to school for nearly two years, because we've been
filming for most of that time. I have a private tutor on the set, and he's
pretty cool, so I don't mind it so much. But, yeah, the Zenith Academy is
pretty cool, I suppose I wouldn't mind being there for real. It's sort of
like a cross between Xavier Academy, from the X-men, and Hogwarts, from
Harry Potter, I suppose."

Jones turned to the camera.

"All right! Well, we've got a sneak preview to show y'all from `Jesse
Starbuck in Heaven's Tower.'"

The audience cheered and applauded enthusiastically.

"This is the tower scene, where you fight Commander Ferox. For y'all who
don't know, Angus Ferox is Jesse's evil nemesis. Do you want to introduce
this clip for us, Jesse?"

I became suddenly animated.

"Yeah! This is my favourite scene in the whole movie. Anguis Ferox is
Director of the NSA and he's my arch enemy."

In the wings Steve smiled; I had not only corrected Jones on Ferox's right
name and title, but I had managed to do so without inferring she was an
idiot, which everyone knew already.

"We're on top of this massive tower, at the heart of the world's biggest
radio telescope array, in Western Australia. I've just been lured to the
tower by Ferox, who admits, for the first time, that he killed my father
before I was born. Then he tries to kill me. This is where I find out who I
really am."

"OK. Let's watch this special sneak preview of `Jesse Starbuck in Heaven's
Tower.'"



The kids in the audience were mesmerised as the clip flashed up on the
giant studio screen. It was a stunning special effects sequence, using
state of the art computer graphics, which were so realistic that they were
seamless.

The hostess clapped excitedly as the studio lights came back up.

"Oooeee!! That was just amazing, Jesse!" She seemed genuinely impressed and
excited. "I heard that y'all did your own stunts in that sequence."

I smiled coyly, quite genuinely.

"Well some of them, but not all of them."

"Not the explosion."

I laughed naturally.

"No, definitely not the explosion. But the tumbles, the back flip and some
of the fight scene on the tower's edge. It was really great doing all that
on the set, it was the best time."

I was really beginning to relax, until the bitch pulled the first of her
little stunts. I can distinctly remember feeling uneasy and suspicious, as
she leaned in towards me. In fact as I watch the clip of the interview,
now, I can see the change in my demeanour.

Jones leaned closer, as if to reveal a confidence; then, in a rather loud
aside, she whispered:

"Talking of stunt doubles: I read recently, somewhere on the net, that you
had to have a double for some of your dialogue in `Date with Death,' due to
problems with your voice breaking."

Steve stiffened in the wings; that wasn't on the agenda.

The bitch had her facts wrong again. I had done my own dubbing, but the
fact was that she had hit a nerve, and I was still embarrassed by the
half-truth. I was thrown, but amazed myself as I recovered quickly enough
to turn the tables on the bitch. I smiled cheekily.

"Crazy, isn't it... I read somewhere that you're really a blonde."

Some of the kids in the gallery laughed, but it is doubtful that many, if
any, really caught the barb. But Jones evidently caught this one; her
demeanour betrayed her.

I swear I remember hearing Steve exclaim "Shit!" off set.

The camera drew my face into sharp focus, then did a tight cross to the
hostess.

Steve was biting his lip. He knew this could go either way.

Jones had hit a nerve with me, but I'd rolled with the punch, and I'd even
managed to ruffle the bitch's feathers in the process.

I can still feel the tension in the air from that night.

After what seemed an eternity, Jones laughed.

"Just goes to show... you can't believe everything you read on the web
these days. So, is there anything to the rumour?"

I deliberately looked confused.

"What?" My confusion melted into a smart-arse grin. "That you're really a
blonde?"

Jones sneered disdainfully.

"Sassy little one, now, aren't y'all. I'll take that as a no," she laughed,
but even a fool could see it was forced.

The young audience response was minimal; it clearly went over their heads.

Jones gripped my knee, once again, and I moved uneasily on the couch.

"Now," she said, "we took some of our audience to a special preview of
`Jesse Starbuck in Heaven's Tower.' This is what they had to say..."

The tape ran, displaying enthusiastic kids of all ages waxing lyrically on
the brilliance of the movie. Their comments ranged from the special
effects, through the film's faithfulness to the book, to the bravery of the
young heartthrob hero. Jesse Starbuck was very popular; but most of the
interviewed girls, and even some of the boys, didn't seem to want to
distinguish the actor from his character. He, "Jesse," was simply dreamy or
cool.

I found myself wondering which "Jesse" they meant. Having an actor share
his character's given name can be both a blessing and a curse, to both
actor and character. It was usually avoided like the plague by the US
studios.

Steve and I, and even Shelley, had often wondered why the studio had not
insisted on a name change for me, who, it must be said, had been relatively
unknown outside Australia, before the role of Jesse Starbuck had made me a
household name globally.

The final interview clip was followed, immediately, with what was clearly
an amateur home video of a girl who introduced herself as Darlene. She was
obsessed with "Jesse," and flaunted her infatuation. She conducted a
salacious tour of her bedroom, which was cluttered with hundreds of new
dollars worth of Jesse Starbuck merchandise. She finished the tour by
declaring her love for "Jesse," kissing my framed photo and proclaiming
that I was "the most handsome man on earth!"

Steve had obviously been told nothing about this damned clip, he was
clearly furious, even from where I was sitting.

It is obvious, now, that the girl was in the audience and had already been
in several close camera shots. This had been a set-up, a bloody ambush!

On set, Jones turned to me and cooed.

"Darlene is here, with us, in the audience tonight, Jesse..."

I was furious, beyond reckoning, and I looked stunned as I realised that
the blonde girl from the tape was sitting directly in front of me, in the
second row aisle of the gallery.

"And she has a question for you."

My cool evaporated in a flash. I looked uneasy, trying to force a smile;
but I directed it at no one, deliberately avoiding the camera.

The host and the young femme fatale ogled at me across the studio floor.
Darlene rose to her feet, too precocious to be nervous. She curled her neck
across her shoulder and swayed coyly at me.

I eventually looked at her and proffered my lamest smile, my acting ability
was nowhere to be seen. Hers was a pose that was disturbing on many levels,
not least its utter pretentiousness.

"I was wondering..." she cooed lewdly... "if you had a girlfriend?"

This was the trigger that was about to light my fuse. I trembled, whether
from anger, confusion, or abject terror, I still do not know to this day.

I gazed into space, then darted a look at her. I have no idea how I managed
to gather my wits, but I quickly went on the offensive.

"When?" I quipped, as I suppressed a wicked grin, opting instead to play on
the witless girl's stupidity.

Darlene looked perplexed. "Pardon?"

"When were you wondering?" I clarified, but could not suppress my look of
self-satisfaction.

Steve recognised it and realised that his protégé was not thrown by
this ambush, as he had feared. His only concern, now, was that I wouldn't
play too rough with this pathetic little bitch, and turn sarcastic.

As sad as she might be, after all was said and done, it was witless kids
like her who had set the Jesse Starbuck phenomenon well on the way to
becoming the largest media franchise in history... and making Shelley
Michaels and Steve Menzies rich, and me even richer.

"Never bite the hand that feeds you!" I could recall Steve saying.

I took pity on the pathetic girl, and simply decided that I really didn't
want to play this game. I did not wait for the girl's addled reply; I
simply answered her original question.

"No," I drawled sarcastically, with an air that implied that any other
response would be ludicrous, "I don't have a girlfriend, I'm only
fourteen!"

Darlene propped her hands on her hips, then swung her lithe torso into a
pose that said: "Well!" before she vocalised her posture.

"Well, I just turned thirteen!" She batted her eyes and leered at me.

Then Darlene licked her lips.

I could see Steve watching apprehensively, as his golden goose secreted a
nervous smile; I shifted uncomfortably on my seat, as I formulated a
response.

"Well, happy birthday!" I quipped.

The audience laughed, but the girl looked affronted, her infatuation
suddenly deflated. She wriggled another pretentious "well!" out of her
provocatively clad body.

"Don't you like girls?" she teased, her demeanour suggesting a loaded
response.

Stilted laughter and a few provocative murmurs shot through the gallery.

I flushed at the audience reaction, and glared at the girl; time seemed to
stand still.

"Of course I do!" I finally replied, "I really like Jen and Cass, we get on
just great on set."

"That's not what I meant..." Darleen added testily.

This was it! This was the bridge too far... and if I crossed it, there
would be no turning back. It was my Rubicon... I paused for what seemed an
eternity, but on the replay, it was only seconds...

I could have left it there. To this day Steve still wishes I had. But,
through her witless pawn, the precocious Darleen, that scheming bitch,
Jones, had loaded the gun, and I was ready to pull the trigger. This was
something that had haunted me since my faltering performance on Jones's
show last year. In fact it had been gnawing at my gut's well before that,
even before I'd hit puberty.

Finally, out of desperation, frustration or just the compulsion to purge
myself of the shame and guilt of living a lie, I exploded...

"Yeah, I realise that, I think everyone here realises that, and to be
honest I think that Ms Jones, here, should be ashamed for exploiting you
like this!"

Of course the witless Darleen had no idea what I was talking about.

"So, to answer your question, and to give Ms Jones the sort of
sensationalistic crap that she feeds on... no, honey child, I don't find
you attractive..."

I wanted to say more, I wanted to tell the pretentious brat that I'd rather
shove my cock in a meat grinder than even hold her hand. But I had already
hurt her enough and, as much as she needed taking down a peg or two, I felt
sorry for her.

It was Jones that I wanted to smash. I'd already crossed the line by
insulting her on her own show, and added insult to injury with my lame
mimicry of her Southern accent with the "honey child" epithet.

"As I've already said," I continued, "I really like Jen and Cass, we're
best friends. But I don't want a girlfriend, because I'm Gay!"

Steve's jaw dropped in disbelief, as fast as the gasps and chatter rippled
through the audience; I kept him in my line of sight, despite the
detonation on the set, but couldn't tell if he was angry or in shock.

With her feathers already ruffled, Jones went on the offensive.

"How could you possibly know you're Gay?" she scoffed derisively, "ya'll
just said yourself, you're only fourteen!"

"You hypocrite!" I exploded, "you've just set this poor girl up to put me
on the spot about my sexuality, implying that I should have a girlfriend,
that I should be straight, and now you're implying that I shouldn't know
whether I'm straight or Gay!"

While Shelley was going ape-shit in the booth, Steve grabbed the floor
manager by the arm.

"Time out, mate," Steve whispered frantically, "get him out of there! This
is a fucking disaster. I want a four minute ad break, right now!"

The floor manager glared angrily at Steve, as his headset exploded with a
similar directive from the booth. He turned away and cooed softly into his
mike.

"Charlotte, honey, we're gunna hav'ta take four here, pull the pin now,
sweetie pie."

"I..." Jones faltered as she lowered her head and raised her hand to her
blind-side earpiece, then she looked up, still flustered, as she attempted
to regain some composure.

"Well, we'all gonna take a short break, but y'all stay tuned and we'll be
right back after these important messages from our sponsors."

As Jones went to the break, Shelley flew out of the director's booth and
headed for the wings.

===============================================

Now I know that you are here, reading this little tale, in the hope of
getting your rocks off. Sorry that there has been not so much as a single,
soft, blonde, immature, pubic hair to whet your appetite to date. So I
won't torture you any longer.

In chapter two I'll take you back, almost two years, to where it all
began. We'll see, in graphic detail, exactly how Jesse Morgan, the spunky
heartthrob of millions of teenage girls around the globe, came to know for
certain that he was Gay.

===============================================