slut_in_white
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Oct 6, 2013
- Posts
- 2,732
The screaming crowds. The adoring fans. The light. The heat. The sound.
Dahlia Black - her stage name, of course, but it had been her identity so long that even her parents had started calling her that - was a pop star. A sensation. She sold millions of albums. Anything she wore or used or touched became an instant seller, especially among teenage girls. Every girl in the country wanted to be her. And yet...
Dahlia wasn't happy. She hadn't been for a long time. Her manager told her it was stress and got her a prescription for some kind of anxiety pills. They'd helped, a little, but it was like a bandaid on a gaping wound. There was something wrong with the way she was living her life, but she didn't know how to fix it.
When she was on-stage or otherwise in a position to be using her stage persona, she was an airhead. She laughed at stupid jokes, spoke like a valley-girl and obsessed over clothes and make-up. Her manager said it was because she needed to be "accessible" - girls needed to relate to her. And Dahlia didn't argue. She wanted to be able to reach out to them, to help them. Most of her songs were about boys and parties (again, said her manager, accessibility and popularity were the keys to reaching these girls), but a few had been about accepting yourself, about standing up to bullies, about becoming who you want to be. Those songs had helped people. A little girl fighting cancer had told her once that one of her songs helped to give her hope, and Dahlia had cried. It was moments like that that made everything else worth it.
Sometimes, she questioned whether her sexualization was required, whether she needed to behave like an airhead all the time. Did girls really need to look up to someone who was that ignorant? But her manager, Sean, told her that it wouldn't do for her to make her fans feel stupid, and so she kept putting on the show, hoping he was right.
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High Note Studios was one of the most prestigious recording studios in the USA. Sean had booked it for her to start recording her new songs almost a year ago.
When she arrived, she looked almost nothing like her on-stage self. She wore very little make-up, giving her a naturally lovely appearance, instead of that ridiculous party-girl look she had to wear most of the time. She wore simple clothes - a loose, comfortable sweater and jeans - in place of her over-the-top, hyper-sexual outfits. She looked like a normal young woman, rather than the caricature she became on stage. Few people would even recognize her like this.
She walked into the studio, alone, looking around for someone who worked there. "Hello?"
Dahlia Black - her stage name, of course, but it had been her identity so long that even her parents had started calling her that - was a pop star. A sensation. She sold millions of albums. Anything she wore or used or touched became an instant seller, especially among teenage girls. Every girl in the country wanted to be her. And yet...
Dahlia wasn't happy. She hadn't been for a long time. Her manager told her it was stress and got her a prescription for some kind of anxiety pills. They'd helped, a little, but it was like a bandaid on a gaping wound. There was something wrong with the way she was living her life, but she didn't know how to fix it.
When she was on-stage or otherwise in a position to be using her stage persona, she was an airhead. She laughed at stupid jokes, spoke like a valley-girl and obsessed over clothes and make-up. Her manager said it was because she needed to be "accessible" - girls needed to relate to her. And Dahlia didn't argue. She wanted to be able to reach out to them, to help them. Most of her songs were about boys and parties (again, said her manager, accessibility and popularity were the keys to reaching these girls), but a few had been about accepting yourself, about standing up to bullies, about becoming who you want to be. Those songs had helped people. A little girl fighting cancer had told her once that one of her songs helped to give her hope, and Dahlia had cried. It was moments like that that made everything else worth it.
Sometimes, she questioned whether her sexualization was required, whether she needed to behave like an airhead all the time. Did girls really need to look up to someone who was that ignorant? But her manager, Sean, told her that it wouldn't do for her to make her fans feel stupid, and so she kept putting on the show, hoping he was right.
------------------
High Note Studios was one of the most prestigious recording studios in the USA. Sean had booked it for her to start recording her new songs almost a year ago.
When she arrived, she looked almost nothing like her on-stage self. She wore very little make-up, giving her a naturally lovely appearance, instead of that ridiculous party-girl look she had to wear most of the time. She wore simple clothes - a loose, comfortable sweater and jeans - in place of her over-the-top, hyper-sexual outfits. She looked like a normal young woman, rather than the caricature she became on stage. Few people would even recognize her like this.
She walked into the studio, alone, looking around for someone who worked there. "Hello?"
