"We're adults," Farrow says, chewing his gum slowly.
I add, "And you were twelve barely a month ago."
"I have the heart of forty-years-old," she says with complete seriousness.
Farrow rebuts, "You still have the body of a nine-years-old."
Kinney glares, "I'm thirteen, you turd."
He's Americain royalty. Fame from birth.
I love having him in my mouth, but even more than that, I'm hooked by the way he's staring deeply at me. Like I'm a fantasy. Like I'm something made of heaven and stars that he's dreamt of - and i never thought to ask what a celebrity who could have anyone in the fucking world fantasizes about.
And I wonder how long it's been me.
Connor Cobalt has been People's Sexiest Man Alive three times in the past decades alone.
Each Cobalt is prideful and passionately unique, but when push comes to shove, they'll band together like an army of one.
My mom.
My mom is th emost famous woman in the world. She's the reason her sisters are famous. The reason I'm famous.
The reason we're all famous.
Lily Calloway is the origin to the public scrutinity, the media harassment, the paparazzi invasion in Philadelphia of all cities - but it's not her fault.
It's never her fault.
I wish I could say our fame derived from a pure act of love, of kindness, of rainbows or motherfucking magic - something other than what actually happened.
But it was a scandal. Years before I was born.
Someone leaked information when she was only twenty-years-old.
Lily Calloway, the heiress of Fizzle soda empire, is a confirmed sex addict.
The headline about her addiction rocked the world. A salacious, shocking headline - that's all it took. The news caused every Calloway sister to go from rich obscurity to instant notoriety.
Our fame burns. And burns. None of us need to stoke the flames for it to stay lit.
Ouais, trop cool. Que mon béguin d’enfant devenu mon garde du corps choisisse mon lubrifiant. Ça rendra le fait de ne pas fantasmer sur lui tellement plus facile.
𝙹𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚜. 𝚂𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛-𝚑𝚎́𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚎 𝚛𝚎́𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎.