Do Kim and Kanye do it on a glittering bed of mermaid scales? And other pressing questions.
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I love it when trashy celebrities get it on. My eyes dilate, my palms sweat, I get breathless – I’m like Jennifer Aniston on ovulation day. With piles of US Weeklies at my feet, I try to cram as much crap celebrity romance into my frontal lobe as possible. The break-ups! The make-ups! The hate-filled divorces! It all makes my heart pulsate like a magical flux capacitor of love. Look – there’s Riri giving CB a BJ at a basketball game! There’s Russell Brand with his hand on a prostitute’s ass! Sometimes, I dream that I’m married to Kris Humphries, but he won’t divorce me, and then the nurse gives me my meds and puts me in the day room.
Maybe celebrity relationships fascinate me so much because they’re a concentrated version of real-life relationships. In CelebWorld, you can cram 20 years of normal marriage into just three weeks, and that includes children, losing the baby weight and getting a deal with OK! Magazine.
Then there are the logistics. Who knows what they get up to when the cameras are off? I regularly bring myself to the point of psychosis by imagining Kimye’s domestic arrangements. Do they do it on a glittering bed made of mermaid scales? Are they Skype-ing God from their blood diamond-encrusted private sex jet?
And no matter where you look in Celebrity Love Land, there’s still a whole world of mind-bending WTFs and OMGs. Who would put up with Megan Fox? Does Jessica Simpson eat during the act of love? If you date John Mayer, does contact with his bodily fluids automatically make you an idiot, too? I’m still reeling from the revelation that Harry Styles and Taylor Swift split because she wouldn’t put out and was always talking about antiques. ANTIQUES! You couldn’t make it up. Forget that guy jumping from the edge of space, this is what actual incredulity feels like – Harry slumped on the couch watching X-Factor while Taylor fondles an 18th century snuff box.
Since celebrities are by nature emotionally stunted, it follows that their relationships will be a disastrous buffet of love chunks and hate gristle in acrimony gravy. None of them can pass a mirror without humping it, let alone navigate the delicate obstacles that a marriage involves. But at least they have the courage/stupidity to go large, while the rest of us do our boring jobs and take out the trash. Compared to the constant, churning drama of their relationships, ours look woefully vanilla. Every day I say to my husband: “Why can’t we be more like Kris and Bruce Jenner? Cover your face in Saran wrap and let’s bicker in a marble bathroom. NOW!”
I know my love of celebrity relationships is futile, but I’m fascinated. As George Eliot once wrote: “One is constantly wondering what sort of lives other people lead, and how they take things.” And that’s the way I am with celebrities – I want to know how they take things. The answer is usually: comfort eat, take drugs, drive cars into a walls, fuck everyone in sight, end up in prison, go into rehab and do it all over again.
The best part is that I know my love of celebrity love affairs is going to be lifelong, because like people in soap operas, stars NEVER LEARN. They will continue making the same mistakes, behaving badly and divorcing each other. Personally, I can’t wait for Lindsay Lohan to find the man of her dreams. I’ll be reading the gossip pages, wearing a frou-frou hat and sniffing delicately from my vial of amyl nitrate, trying to hold back the tears. And if I know anything about celebrity relationships, they always end in tears…
I regularly bring myself to the point of psychosis by imagining Kimye’s domestic arrangements. Do they do it on a glittering bed made of mermaid scales?Lucy Sweet
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