Jillian stared at the people in line for autographs. The fervor of the fans almost scared her. They were mostly young men, in their mid-teens to late-twenties, with too many creepy forty-year-old guys thrown in. The younger fans had bad acne or body odor, and the older guys were… disturbing. But they were all fanatical about the show.
We love you, they said. You’re so beautiful, they said. Most of them called her T’pet, her character’s name. It didn’t seem to matter that she was from Kansas City, not the planet T’pling’k. And they all wished she’d worn her costume, a revealing, skin-tight body suit.
Finally, with her jaw aching from wearing a false smile and her hand cramped from signing her name so many times, the studio PR assistant escorted her to the VIP dining room where she could have some privacy, some normalcy. The back corner booth had a large round table with a white linen tablecloth that reached to the floor. She relaxed when she saw her co-star, Rachel, already seated at the table.
“I see that you survived your first fanboy feeding frenzy,” Rachel said. She was the show’s vixen—a little older, busty where Jillian was lithe, brunette to Jillian’s blonde.
“God,” Jillian asked, “is it always like that?”
“Pretty much. But the advertisers pay our bills ’cause the fanboys love us.”
“How do you stand it? They’re all so… obsessed.”
“Obsession,” Rachel said languidly, “isn’t such a bad thing. You just have to focus it properly.” Then she leaned back, smiled, and patted the young man whose head was between her thighs.
The End
