Charlize Bennett
FIFTY SHADES OF LIES
I frowned at myself in the mirror. Damn my substandard average lips—I think they are so frick’n thin; well at least in comparison to my sisters—and damn Bleu-Rae for being sick and subjecting me to this outlandish ordeal.
As I was getting dressed, I inwardly cursed Rae and my thin lips all morning long. I tried to apply my lipstick, but it kept bleeding passed my lip-line and onto my skin. Not cute.
I recently had read in a beauty magazine that if you purse, suck and bite your lips, constantly, this action will cause the blood to surface, hence, temporary making your lips appear larger. Think, nineteen-seventies, the way little tarts allowed men to suck on their necks, giving them a half a dozen, tacky hickeys. Eww. I hoped this part of history does not repeats itself.
Anyway, to plump up your lips naturally, do a pursing, sucking and biting daily mantra, kind of like giving someone a hickey. They article claimed the side effects to this ritual are quite remarkable. Aside, from the consequential swelling, if done subtly, the beauty advisor emphasized the word subtly, guys will find all this kind of sexy. So purse your lips—don't forget to bat your lashes while flashing your man coy little bites to your bottom lip here and there.
In the mirror these facial contortions looked kind of retarded to me, but I was willing to try anything. Curl, purse and bite. There were five words of caution: do not over do it. This could cause bleeding, bruising, and make you look like an imbecile in the midst of being seductive. I kept that in mind.
I recited this five times as a mantra whilst I tried, once more, with fattening my lips up. I quickly applied a thick, gooey plumping gloss over my tender lips. This helped. It really did, but not enough. I wanted Angelina Jolie lips. God, what we do to ourselves to look beautiful is outrageous, at times. Nonetheless, I knew the day was coming where I would concede to painful lip injections. I bit my lower lip. Hard.
“Ouch. Fuck. That hurt,” I whined out loud from the self-inflicting pain.
Before exiting the bathroom I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. Wow. Damn. This biting mantra might work after all. My lips already appeared more swollen. I tossed my head from side to side. Don’t hate me because I am beautiful. I hastily threw my make-up bag under the counter and excited the bathroom. I didn’t want to be late for my—no Bleu-Rae’s, TV interview with Mr. Maximillion.
Bleu-Rae is my sister—my twin sister. She had a once in a lifetime TV interview, and a chance to appear on one of the hottest reality shows, but, unfortunately, she had come down with a major flu bug. There was no way she could attend in her condition, so she asked, well, rather begged for me to go in her place. After all we are identical twins. No one could tell us apart if they didn’t pay close attention. We both had full big red curls, pale skin, rosy cheeks and large alluring blue eyes with the longest, thickest and the blackest set of eyelashes one shouldn’t be so lucky to adorn. In this case two of us were. Bleu-Rae once did a commercial for mascara, what a scam it was since she already started out with luscious lashes to begin with. There were two minor exceptions in our looks—this included one defining facial feature, and one body characteristic that we did not share; I was one inch taller than her, and she had much fuller lips than mine. However, she wasn’t born with big luscious lips; these were the handy artistry of Dr. Joel who gave her amazing injections.
When I entered the living room, Bleu-Rae was sprawled out on the sofa. An episode of Judge Judy was blaring on the TV. As usual she was reaming someone’s ass off. Blue-Rae was coughing and laughing her ass off too. Judge Judy is one of our favorites TV shows.
“Turn that down. Jeez it’s loud enough to blind a deaf man.” I shouted.
Hum, did I say that right? Oh well, it sounded quite profound to me. Similar, to what I had read in a Chinese cookie, once. God, sometimes I shocked myself—I feel I am fairly intelligent, witty and clever like one of my favorite authors, Earning Flemingway. He was this famous author that wrote the epic book called Love Story—I think. I believed, he became a drunkard and died of a broken heart—I think—well, all I know was he was a super intelligent man, just like me. Of course, in my case I am a woman. A friend of mine who is not very bright is always challenging me, telling me Earning Flemingway’s real name was Earnest Hemingway. What an idiot she can be at times… who would name their son Earnest? Seriously…
Secretly, I felt somewhat honored that Blue-Rae had chosen me to stand in for her today. Okay, that’s a bit unfair, because choice has had nothing to do with it; she was downright sick and begged me to impersonate her. Technically, having me do this was all about saving her ass. She knew I didn’t want anything to do with lying. I had never told lied in my life.
I had previously planned to go to the beach with some friends; to enter into a Miss California bikini contest. I should have been at the mall getting my pale skin bronzed at No lines r us Tanning salon. Instead, I was going to meet the CEO of this dumb show. Allegedly, Mr. Maximillion is an exceptional tycoon, who is a major benefactor for the show, kind of similar to the Donald’s role, as a media mogul, and owner of the Miss America Pageant.
I had never really understood why this mega tycoon, Donald Duck was involved in the Miss America Pageant in the first place. Wasn’t hanging out in a fantasyland enough for him? I guessed they needed a mascot with ridiculous hair, someone who would not out shine the contestants. But, seriously why the Donald? A good friend of mine who was a past participant on the show said that the Donald was a real quack. She said, I quote, “He cracked me up… then fired me,” but that is another story.
Back to Bleu-Rae, and how she got this gig. Her road to fame, as it was told to me, happened in a serendipitous way. Mr. Maximillion’s talent scout saw my sister’s photo on the wall of this really cool pancake breakfast place in West Hollywood. This restaurant has a policy that if you can eat all your pancakes, which is like three pounds of dough, anyway, they will post your picture on the Wall Of Lame—I mean the Wall Of Fame. This wall is a real hot spot for advertising your mug—or to get mugged. Hollywood Dick are always there scouting for new talent. That is how this all began for Rae. The term Dick, is the alias name for a private scout, on the lookout for hot girls for big movie directors, producers and all that, yada, yada, yada. Your chances of running into a big Hollywood Dick, is very probable. If it can happen to Rae it can happen to anyone. The best advice I would give to a wannabe scarlet is to “stay alert,” because you never know when a Dick is watching you… so, be on your guard.
Mr. Maximillion’s people contacted Blue-Rae and offered her this interview and a chance to be the next bachelorette on his show. She had never met him in person, thank God; otherwise there was no way I would have agreed to impersonate her. Rumor has it Mr. Maximillion is a very powerful player in Hollywood. He can make or break someone’s career, maybe even his or her life. I couldn’t believe he had this much power, but that’s rumors for you. I also heard he’s so fucking gorgeous, were talking blazing hot—hotter than the devil himself.
“I don’t know if I can do this Rae.” I snapped at my sister over the blaring television. “Turn that down already. Shit. I can’t hear myself yell at you.”
“Gray-Ana I’m sorry.” Bleu-Rae blurted back, as she stabbed the TV controller, turning down the volume.
“You know I have never told a lie in all my twenty-one years. This is going to kill me. I just don’t—” She interrupted me.