False Idols

Have you ever had someone say something to you and it just stuck? Like a kind of glue, you’d recall it over and over until it becomes a mantra, losing all context? That’s happened to me. A fan sent me a letter asking “When you’re not on stage, what’s the ‘real you’ like?” and that’s when it struck me: I don’t know. I thought I might write this, this confession or whatever normal people call it. I’m breaking a hundred non-disclosure agreements writing this, and if this ever found its way into the media there would be an uproar, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get another time to write it.

I suppose we’ll talk about the real me.

I was the first in the very successful series of experiments that allowed companies to create their own perfect celebrity idols. With the government the way it was during the recession, it didn’t take long for private companies to buy out and privatize sections of government, easing the laws on cloning and designer children. I was the first child to be created by a record company with the express purpose of becoming a star.

I was going to make them millions.

From day one I was told I was special. And genetically speaking, I was special. Much more than a normal person. My genes had been handpicked for the best of the best; I would have more energy to perform and tolerance to illness, my face was mapped through a computer before birth, charting growth over my years through age projection. I would be beautiful, aging gracefully, never once looking overly mature or awkward.

They picked the best features from hundreds of people, pale skin, large doe like eyes of uncommon green. My face would be rounded, with high cheekbones to give definition. Each feature was picked for maximum selling points by the design team, a culmination of years of research. Blonde hair was too “American” and alienated possible international markets, red hair too uncommon and strange. The right amounts of curves, not an hourglass figure but designed for the eye to smoothly follow my body. I would be tall but not too tall, in a strange gawky kind of way.

I would have pale skin resistant to blemishes, long dark hair, full lips, and pert breasts. I was designed to be perfect and was planned as an object of desire.

As a child, I was singing at the age of five, practicing every day under the watchful eyes of my parents who were readying me for my future. Thinking back, I wasn’t shocked when found out at fourteen years old that they were not my parents, but rather guardians appointed by the record company. That wasn’t the strangest part of my childhood, I was often separated from other kids, spent long periods in home schooling.

I remember when I turned six, sent to special academy for young starlets; it was run by the record company, and as such I was schooled early on in appropriate etiquette for fans. I put those lessons to good use, making those “boy idols” follow me around at school, tempting and pushing them into places I needed them to be, giving them the illusion that they had choices. I really was a little brat.

I started a career in the public eye at nine years old, the record company didn’t want to over expose me early on. I was placed into a soon-to-be popular television sitcom as an adorable young child, daughter of the main family. The writers always gave me a cute line, an adorable moment but the role had no purpose other than to put me in people’s minds. It was for when I got popular years later that they would undoubtedly say “Oh her, gosh I remember her!” People are that predictable.

At fourteen, I was placed into a publicity/talent school (again run by the record company) and I changed roles into a purpose built sitcom which was actually a spin-off of the original show. I was the star of this show, and the writers took care to make me seem witty and the plot lines memorable. Again, repetition winning overall here, the only purpose of this show was again to push me into people’s minds, which it did. You should have seen the merchandise; Dress-up sets, makeup, toys, you name it.

While I was at publicity school I refined my skills, so as to pull off a dazzling smile, the right angle in all situations. Some skills were harder than others, walking in heels was a pain as was dancing. I always made sure the fans who I met in real life seem loved by me and only me. Around this time I saw the career chart they had planned for me, and I began the third stage of the chart. I had maintained a squeaky clean image up until now but the record company said guys don’t go for girls who are squeaky clean and girls like a girl who is confident, attractive and sexy.

The glint in the eyes that says “Meet me out back in 20 minutes”, the lean forward, and the devil is in the details. I had all the details, I just had to become a little bit devilish. I wasn’t going to argue, not that I could. Not that I would.

At that time, I was sixteen, too young to adopt a sexy image but in preparation for my first solo album, the record company forced me to adopt a school girl look. A short skirt with unbuttoned white shirt, loose tie, plaid skirt. It was “inspired by Harajuku”, “liberating” and “youthful” but each aspect of the uniform was designed to elicit a response from the viewer, even if they didn’t know it. The record company enlisted the help of costume designers and psychologists to design my costumes. My hair was styled in a high ponytail during that era as the ponytail was associated with schoolgirls and high school days. The shirt was custom made to fit just enough to see my breasts, but not enough to seem deliberate, the skirt was a length deemed “just enough” by a team of experts to seem flirtatious but still long enough to convey a sort of innocence about it. It had to be deliberately paired with ankle boots, the mixture of skirt, skin and socks is a delicate balance, and the right balance allows the perfect response from the audience. I wore this all the time, my uniform. I sung about first love, budding sexuality, and youth. I didn’t write any of the songs, the record company found some excellent staff writers to make some great lyrics and they secretly enlisted unknown Internet DJ’s to create hooks that wormed their way into your ears. It was a smash hit, but I had nothing to do with it.

During this time I dated a boy, a boy assigned to me by the company who was working in their film department and we started a romantic sort of fling. We’d have our timetable, Wednesday we might go to the beach to look like a couple, Thursday we’d go out for dinner, it was all structured. He was a nice boy actually, he was quite uncomfortable about the whole thing as was I. We played along together, the paparazzi would follow us and our fans would try and get a peek at us. Although I lost my temper for a bit during this time. I felt confused at what I was supposed to feel; I hadn’t been told how to feel. I got angry at some fans on the internet when they sent me hateful messages about our relationship, saying it interfered with the images they had about me. You should have seen some of the things people made about me, erotic fan fiction, drawings of me in sexual positions I didn’t know existed.

But I was called into the record company office by the head of “human resources” and reminded “The fans are always right, even when wrong.” I was told to be careful of how I portray myself on the networks. I apologized to the fans later and made it up to them.

The fans are right, even when they are wrong; a statement so accurate it almost hurts me at times. They gather outside my hotel room when I’m on tour, chanting, screaming, wanting a glimpse of me, and I’ll give them a glimpse of course. They send gifts to my door but quite often they go too far. They come up to me at dinner in restaurants, climb nearby buildings in an attempt to break in and see me. A few fans managed to find my ‘parents’ and harassed them for details of how to get in contact with me. I snapped on the social networks, releasing a few angry messages. I couldn’t help it, this business is stifling sometimes. Like you can’t breathe, that it clogs all your pores and it becomes a series of hotels and far preceding city lights outside of plane windows. It’s rare for me to feel that, to feel much of anything. I apologized of course and the fans were placated. I say I care about them, and perhaps a part of me does but the fans blur into formless mass. Fans are easily angered while loyal, a sense of entitlement keeping them bound to me.

So the new album? Considerably different, a full departure from the old sound, full of thumping bass and designed for ‘slutty’ dance floor moments. It’s grinding and loud and it capitalizes on the new trend of Deep Bass that is filling the clubs. The advertising is immense, billboards, TV placements, and tie in perfume. It’s all a gimmick of course, all that is in demand is gimmick, and the only desirable trait in each act is what makes it unique. Yet, in trying to stand out among the others, the underlying methods appear stale and monotonous. That’s what my manager says anyway.

I told you about my schoolgirl costume but you should see this new costume, you really should.

I’m standing in it right now in makeup, tight latex stockings that reach thigh level, deep blue with white lining on the back of the thigh that ends in black heels. The stockings clip onto a large pair of tailored boy shorts, made of similar deep blue with white piping designed to hug the curve of my buttocks. The brassiere is a single piece of hard black plastic armor, moulded to my chest perfectly, while displaying enough breast to give a good glimpse to the people in the crowd.

My hair is cut short to show my slender neck; I wear minimum makeup to prevent mascara running or sweat trails.

Everything about it is designed for maximum erotic potential, the erogenous zones highlighted by color, line, shape. Everything about it sinks into the subconscious; you never shake your mind of the sight. I can’t help but feel exposed however, it’s as though I’m almost naked and I know for a fact that the camera angles in the live DVD releases will be voyeuristic, to say the least and indeed most.

All of this is for the fans, if I had a say at any point of all this, its long been lost under subtext and implication. I haven’t said anything meaningful in weeks; or maybe ever. I haven’t been told how.

I have a long way to go now. My retirement from music will happen at age thirty for my entry into motion pictures so there’s still much to do, my world tour starts next year, a launch of a Japanese fashion line, endless guest appearances on tracks and more.

And more is right, they want more, and I give it. I’m held higher than anyone before me, a word from me can spark debate and question, people clamor to simply see the outside me. I am an idol, an object of worship, I am admired, desired, I am quiet and obedient.

I am sexy, I am on the screen and in the pages of a magazine. I am whatever you want me to be and you only want perfection. I exist to gratify something you didn’t even know you wanted, I’ll feel whatever you want me to feel, you can imprint with whatever sick desire you have. Blame me for anything, I won’t mind, I’ll wear that burden silently for you.

I won’t feel it, hit me as hard as you can with whatever you can throw. I’m what I’m told to be: perfect and perfection demands distance from imperfection.

And if you want absolute perfection, then there’s me.

Nothing else.

#popstar #idol #recount #writing #fictions #earlyfictions #retelling #2012story