In this installment of Shuffle and Splooge, Sophie Saint Thomas wonders what St. Vincent’s bush looks like, and enjoys a turkey sandwich with Jared Leto.
“Cheerleader” by St. Vincent
Videos by VICE
We meet in an open air cafe. I have chosen this spot for their loose-leaf teas, but as always she surprises me, and orders a strong local beer. Her hair smells of sweat and lavender. I’ve had good times with some bad guys, I’ve told whole lies with a half smile. Now when I cannot sleep it is her I think of, touching myself until orgasm, feeling the flood of endorphins, nature’s best sedative. I try to look as if I’m listening when she tells me her woes, she’s played dumb when she knew better, but all I can wonder is what her vagina looks like. That head of hair has taken out some guess work. She whispers that she doesn’t want to be a bird eater anymore. I am too nervous to ask her if this means what I fear. One shift in her eyes and her beauty changes from soft and lovely to fierce and frightening. I don’t know what I deserve, but for you I could work.
“Closer to the Edge” by 30 Seconds to Mars
There is nothing more infuriating than being turned on by someone you loathe. This is my second time interviewing Jared. Despite the crippling guilt of fucking someone so pompous, a year later he still turns my crank. My heart flutters as I enter his hotel suite. I told you, he says, that one day maybe we’ll meet again. A brief moment of piercing eye contact and then he forcibly bends me over the bed. No kiss, clothes stay on. More like 30 Seconds to Mars, I think to myself. NO! NO! NO! NO! I will not regret!
“45: 33 Part 3” by LCD Soundsystem
After fucking Jared Leto I need something good for the soul. We meet on a Friday. He takes me home and plays David Bowie. I take off my pants and dance. I wait until the next morning to fuck him (as I am a lady) then we spend the entire weekend in bed. We have condoms and turkey sandwiches and wine delivered because we live in New York and anything is possible. I stare at the mole on his back while he fucks me and feel as if I already know him. We plan future dates for Fuerza Bruta and acid trips and oral sex marathons. I lose track of orgasms. I reluctantly head home on Sunday with my hair in dreadlocks. I realize I never caught his last name but know I am in love.
Previously –
More
From VICE
