David Bowie — Rebel, Rebel (1974)
Another tale of what happens when the beats make the panties drop
Rebel Rebel, you’ve torn your dress
Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess
Rebel Rebel, how could they know?
Hot tramp, I love you so!
As a manner of introduction, the universe calls me dj marcie barbarella, written in lower case because I submit my will to the groove. I’m not the kind of DJ who just plays gay nights, fetish parties, and the latest Madonna knockoff pop star’s album release party for their Sex album, though. Semi-related, I do have Dominatrix’s “Dominatrix Sleeps Tonight” on vinyl, and I definitely busted it out early on tonight, playing it between Depeche Mode’s “People Are People” and Mantronix’s “Got To Have Your Love.” My gig tonight was in Vegas, but it certainly wasn’t with a poolside view of 36 women with 36D breasts and surgically implanted asses covered in neon pink string bikinis dropping it low to rap’s greatest hits from 2008 remixed for 2018. It wasn’t even while on a stage and controlling the next track to play with my right hand, and throwing my left up in the air as a cascading waterfall of glittery gold confetti falls on my head as I played my Daft Punk/Swedish House Mafia mashup. Hell. This isn’t even the Vegas Strip. Shit. It’s technically not even VEGAS. It’s Henderson, about 20 minutes south of the airport. But I was there, at a benefit for the Lion Habitat Ranch.
I met Serra by the bathroom near the outdoor patio where I was scheduled to play “that cool music that cool people like from 9 PM on the nose, until precisely midnight,” as was stated by Big Steve Sampson. We’ll get back to Serra in a minute. First, we HAVE to discuss the state of her uncle, Big Steve.
This is Big Steve as in “hey Marcie, I’m Big Steve, well you’re a big tall lady, huh. You hit the weights much? Ah…not much of a talker. Well, where to first?” He was the Golden Corral Buffet chain franchiser who was throwing this “Save The Lion Habitat” event. He picked me up in the company car — a black, 2018 RAM 3500 Special Edition “with real wood and chrome pieces, plus top of the line Pioneer stereo system” — at McCarran International just three hours prior. Steve stunned me because he was a massive guy …say six feet six inches tall, and a good 310 pounds…with a bald head and look similar to Steve, the security guard from the Jerry Springer Show. He was also wearing a full-on, actual blue jean suit, complemented with actual black and white, snakeskin Footjoy golf shoes, and a white, collared, “Las Vegas Knights Charity Long Drive Classic” golf shirt. And yes, he was wearing the unmistakable scent of Drakkar Noir.
I explained that I needed to pick up the toiletries and essentials that I forgot to pack. He drove me to the CVS down the street from the venue, playing a CD he popped in with “CUNTRY” hastily scribbled across the top in red Sharpie. Hearing Exile’s “Kiss You All Over” as we cruised down Highway 11, his deep-set and exhaustion-circled brown eyes set upon me, and he roughly grabbed the top of my hand to “reassure” me that “everything’s gonna be okay, and, “whatever you buy, it’s on me.” He was two seconds from a “Me Too” violation as he sang “I wanna kiss you all over…and over again…dun dun dun dunnn dunnn,” but thankfully the CD stopped him as the Hammond organ that starts Vicki Lawrence’s incredibly manic depressive “The Night The Lights Went Out In Georgia” piped in. “That’s the night that the lights went out in Georgia,
that’s the night that they hung an innocent man” doesn’t really get the love vibes stirring thankfully. However, as we pulled into the only CVS I’ve ever seen that is framed against a picturesque desert sunset, he creepily followed me in. I could hear him grunt “Hmmmpfh” under his breath as I purchased expensive MAC and Revlon supplies to get my face together for standing in front of, what I perceived would be dead ringers for Jed Clampett, Blanche Devereaux, the cast of Who’s The Boss and One Day At A Time, plus a bunch of other people who were 25 years past the level of “hip cool” that my “exactly three hours” DJ set was aimed at.
To set the stage even better, let me give you a sense of what I look like these days, as most of my look is forever evolving. I’m a half-Native American and half-black woman who’s six foot five in six-inch heels, with an hourglass 32–23–36 build in 139 pounds. This body STAYS at 139 pounds because I’m in the gym or running through the streets of some city in the world before 7 AM for a total of 15 hours a week, every week. My hair is all my own and has been bleached platinum blonde and worn in not an “Ariana Grande ponytail” for six weeks now. Everyone and their mother thinks it’s a wig, but it’s unquestionably not. I was born with black eyes, but they’re currently hazel due to my desire to wear contact lenses that are brand sponsored. Not to get too ridiculous in my self-description (oh but I will), but I’ve been been on this kick of wearing micro mini black pleather tube tops covered by bold colored Express for Men 1MX tailored shirts, and black lululemon leggings at gigs. If I’m not feeling particularly sexy, I’ll complete the outfit with white and black Nike Air Hurache sneakers. If I’m feeling sexy and/or inspired, it’s the same style of four-inch and ankle-strapped Steve Madden heels that I’ve been wearing for the past five years. Top that off with Bono-style sunglasses and my Beats by Dre headphones, and there I am.
But Serra. Ohhhh Serra. We can’t forget the 19-year old girl by the bathroom at the lion reserve 25 minutes outside of downtown Las Vegas. We really can’t. But again, we’ll get to her. Oh we totally will.
I’ve been a “world famous DJ” for five years now. For 20 years prior to that, I was a “world famous model.” I speak with “air quotes” about both because my aunt, the author of some of Amazon’s favorite self-published “African-American Erotica,” has written my bios for the past 25 years. Now that I’m 33, I think that my portfolio — and no, while it’s not like, Tyra Banks or Linda Evangelista’s portfolio — is significant enough where if say, you were watching the video for MOP’s “Ante Up,” were in a Journey’s in the Simon Property Group collection of malls for six months of 2008, or you were watching the official 2012 Ultra Music Festival recap video, you KNOW you saw me.
Since being “discovered” at Ultra in with my back in the day, global model girl squad in the 2012 Official Aftermovie, I’ve become a globe-trotting disc jockey of sorts. I say “of sorts” because, though I’ve definitely learned all of the songs and where they fit into an ideal DJ set, I’m not exactly good at well, “wikki wikki” with the records, CDJs, and Serato or whatever. I’m the DJ that the purists warned you about. The “chick that’s only up there because she’s hot.” It is what it is. Five years in, I’ve played what seems like the “sponsor’s lounge” at every festival — EDM or otherwise — in the world, plus played ABC and MTV in the same night for New Year’s on live TV, as well as the Tournament of Roses, Macy’s Thanksgiving Day, and New York Gay Pride parades. Haters gonna hate? Or something. But, I’ve started taking gigs like “playing cool music for uncool people,” if only to show people that I’m not the “cunty celebrity DJ chick” that everyone makes me out to be.
In the past twelve hours, I’ve thought Serra Camino was a) a bathroom attendant, b) too hot to be a waitress at this event, c) someone using a pseudonym, d) actually, definitely someone using a pseudonym because she fucked like a porn star, or e) all of the above.
We were both standing at the sink when she finally said, “yo…fly kicks. I got Huraches in all white in my car right now.” I stared down at her. Serra was five foot two and looked like a dead ringer for Brittany Murphy in 8 Mile. Her messy pixie cut was seemingly at day five of unkempt disrepair, and her eyes were glassy as if she’d definitely gotten stoned before work from whatever was in the roach clip she perpetually kept in the driver’s side cup holder in her dingy, yet still white, and definitely key-scratched, 2008 Chevy Prius. The all-white female and very blonde waitress and hosting staff for this event were all inexplicably wearing beige, capped-sleeve gowns adorned with red velvet roses, and in Serra’s case, no shoes, showing off fire engine red painted toes that matched her fire engine red painted lips, and the shimmering ruby pendant that hung from her neck on a herringbone-style chain. A confluence of fashion and fury, I was intrigued.
“Dope. Is there like, more light in here? I can’t believe I’m doing my makeup in a bathroom.”
“Yeah. Looks good though. You’re the DJ, right?”
“Yeah, I’m the DJ. marcie barbarella. I’d shake your hand but…(motioning with a point of her index finger and raised eyebrow to her mascara brush) I’m a little busy.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of you. I have the set you played before Iggy Pop went on in Detroit on my iPhone. Soooo much Bowie.”
“Well, you know, it’s Iggy, so it’s only right. What was funny about that, is look at me. Blonde black glamazon dropping blonde white glamazon. I was trying to have my little cute ass political moment or whatever…you have to try…”
“Ha! Yeah…well…true. It was cool meeting you! And if you could play some Bowie later, that might be cool.”
“Gotchu wit yo cute ass. Ha!”
I winked at her. I couldn’t help myself.
Then, I noticed it. When Serra left the bathroom, I noticed a slight tear at the bottom of her chiffon-velvet gown. In my head, I built my whole entire set around the moment I’d drop David Bowie’s “Rebel Rebel.”
I finally got the dance floor kinda moving with a solid hour left in the event. Prior to just DJing a proper set, I was the The Roots’-style “awards show band” for the evening. In an inspired choice, as Big Steve Sampson got up to accept his “Donor of the Year” award, I played The Very Best’s “Warm Heart of Africa.” I was in a mood. The show dragged, as gangly old white women with long purple hair, glittery and beaded black gowns, and ugly black pumps talked about how Jane Fonda and Gloria Steinem would be proud of them for taking political stands. Bitch, please. I played Genya Ravan’s “Whipping Post,” Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman,” and for the old, creaky looking, powdered-makeup covered, and affectedly gay white queen who had literally donated her collection of African lions from her Hollywood estate to the Lion Habitat, I played Sylvester’s “You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real).”
This was one of those crowds where an entire mess of asexual and arrhythmic motion is clearly where the party is headed. To get to “Rebel Rebel,” I kicked things off with AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” into “You Shook Me All Night Long,” into the Charlie Daniels Band’s “Devil Went Down To Georgia.” I then slammed on the breaks as the crowd began to hoot and holler while golf shoes, cowboy boots, and ugly high heels stomped on the parquet wood floor. David Bowie’s “Moonage Daydream” tends to pull any party to a screeching halt, and while the white, paunchy, heavily-jowled, and cisgendered male section of the floor began to boo, the grandmothers, wives, sisters, and college-age daughter began to do their best Stevie Nicks-meets-Ann Wilson style pirouetting and air guitar playing on the floor. I caught a glimpse of Serra sneaking back into the party, and we locked eyes. I laughed out loud, and probably flashed a too-knowingly inviting, and of course, very blindingly white-toothed grin at her.
Rebel Rebel, you’ve torn your dress
Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess
Rebel Rebel, how could they know?
Hot tramp, I love you so!
I dropped into “Rebel Rebel,” and I noticed Serra start to do a seductive little hip swivel and booty shake thing as she was breaking down the heat lamp at the smoked beef brisket station across the dance floor. She stared over her shoulder in faux seduction, seemingly at me. I pointed my finger at her and mouthed “rebel rebel, you’ve torn your dress…” and as she looked down, she was fake aghast. She looked down at her dress, then pointed at me as well, laughing hard and smiling broadly. At that point, I was absolutely certain of what was to come.
It’s Vegas, so of course it was straight to the buffet after the party. Serra tagged along, as, after everything was broken down and I was paid, on-site, for my performance, she was curiously mopping the same spot on the floor as she was two hours prior. We were both in her uncle Big Steve Sampson’s garishly large RAM truck, Glen Campbell’s “Rhinestone Cowboy” blaring off into the night as the back tires kicked up gravel in the entrance and the truck zoomed down the highway.
“So gals, you’re going to the diner, and then where? Not much to do out here except drive back up the highway to the Strip.”
“Well, unc, I don’t know about the superstar here, but I was just gonna kinda kick it at the buffet. I know the bartender and he lets me drink, and GOD, tonight was long as hell. Plus, I left my car back at the reserve, so I’ll just take an Uber afterwards.”
“Yeah, Serra’s right, I’m EXHAUSTED. You didn’t tell me those old biddies were so needy. ‘Play this…play that…oh god, you’re so pretty, take off your sunglasses indoors…the music is loud…shit. I barely got into a groove. Was it okay?”
“Yeah Marcie, it was great. As long as my ex-wife’s kids and the big donors were happy, and they were, you earned every cent of fifteen THOUSAND dollars.”
“Well, it’s like KISS said. You wanted the best, you got the best…”
Steve peeled off kinda fast after the diner. Once the second round of Heinekens hit the table and the 19-year old started in on drinking this bottle faster than the first, he looked uneasy.
“So…well…yea…Serra…you probably wanna slow down…you have to drive back home, and well…”
“Steve. What? My mom? EL. OH. EL. You already know. She’s IN VEGAS tonight, with that new magician boyfriend. I’m not gonna see her until Monday morning.”
“Marcie, I guess you don’y have kids, do you. If you did, I’d hope they weren’t like this whippersnapper right here. 19 going on 30. But she’s taking online college courses, so I guess she’s smarter than the whole family ever was. Keep an eye on her, though, will ya. When she gets all like this, I don’t want to be around her.”
“It’s cool. I was 19 once. Gotchu.”
Big Steve’s leaving the diner dovetailed with Serra squeezing in close to the space Marcie statuesquely occupied on the faded, burnt sienna cushions that surrounded the orange and white, silver metal-ringed formica dining table.
“Hey gurl. So what kind of trouble are we getting into tonight? I have my car. I have a change of clothes from Fashion Nova in the trunk. I’m trying to go to Omnia. I KNOW WHAT MY UNCLE PAID YOU. We can TOTALLY get a table. And can you wingwoman me a Las Vegas Golden Knights player?”
“I like girls.”
“Whut?”
“Yeah. I like girls. And lobster. And Netflix. And beds. If we’re doing anything, let’s get the fuck out of here and do that.”
“Ummm, yeah. So like…”
“Yeah. THAT part. You down?”
I definitely lowered my sunglasses and locked hazel eyes with Serra. She looked scared. I tried to look overpoweringly confident. I dropped a hundred dollar bill on the table and we rolled out.
Five-star spa resort hotels are in my rider because I paid $250,000 to a Russian bot service to artificially vote for me one million times to become the number seven ranked DJ in the world in 2015. It worked, and suddenly, here I am, eating butter-soaked lobster with my fingers in a literally hand-carved and engraved, oaken, king sized bed as a hot tiny blonde girl covered head to toe in the cutest little black moles is taking off my black lululemon leggings and commenting on the intricacies of the Versace shirt-style paint job on my big toes.
On a scale of one to “holy shit, I’m squirting pussy juice down your throat,” Serra Camino was a 15. I had specifically asked for satin sheets because I just broke up with Magdalena, my one-name, Catalonian, “fly-in for two days to New York while I’m there, be seen on the red carpet at the Grammys as a beard for an undercover gay R & B star one day later” “girlfriend,” and I just wanted to feel good about myself. Well, I didn’t necessarily feel emotionally better, but physically, I felt fucking amazing. Serra had dug her toes into the plush beige carpet, as behind her sat her torn velvet and chiffon dress, and yes, her white Hurache sneakers next to mine. Problematic was her eyelashes being caked with too much mascara, and her hair having the remnants of hairspray making both spike ever so ticklishly against my clean shaven box. These beige satin sheets were getting a workout as well. The vintage silver tray holding the plate with my jumbo Maine lobster and Caesar salad was already tipped over, and there was a growing grease stain just to the left of my face. But, if I’m a “rock star DJ” now, this is all a part of that “rock star DJ life,” so it is what it is.
I’ve probably had a million orgasms in my life. Most I’ve caused myself with the aid of a Hitachi Magic Wand that I’ve had plugged into the wall socket of every bathroom of every condo or apartment I’ve lived in since college. Sex was always funny, as, after losing my virginity to Philippe, the Cote D’Ivoire born hotel porter with Seal’s good looks at the Grand Hotel in Paris, I immediately got back to school at the University of Miami, and was “accidentally seduced” by Alice, my rugged, heavily-muscled, square-jawed, and very Nordic college roommate. Of course, when those nude shots of me on the Champs Elysees were released, that’s when my modeling career took off, so I quit school probably three weeks after Alice “drunkenly crawled into my bed and started rubbing my clit for no apparent reason.” Comparing Philippe doing the sexual equivalent of punching my vagina into a concussed state and Alice using her rugby-strong body to forcibly hold down my then, 113-pound frame and alternate between roughly caressing my body or powerfully scissoring my pussy into puddles of orgasmic bliss, I chose women.
Serra was humming on my clit like her mouth was a vibrator. She was also very skillfully using her left hand to hold my pussy open, while sliding her right middle finger into my ass. Not that I had particularly asked her to do this, but, whatever’s clever. I wrapped my long tanned legs around her shoulders, and after staring at my Versace-shirt painted big toes approvingly, closed my eyes and sighed as my pussy juice wet Serra’s entire face.
“Ohhghhhhhghhh.”
I reached out with open arms and pulled an overwhelmed Serra up into my arms. My sexual juices were dripping from her chin, which I licked as we then made out. My tongue tasting like fresh buttery lobster and hers tasting like a mix of Moet champagne, inexpensive marijuana smoke, and my vagina was amazing. She gripped me as she hugged me in a way that was really quite tender. It was as if she wanted to be held, and she knew that I was the kind of influence that she wanted in her life. It felt like we were incestuous sisters cementing an illicit familial pact more than anything.
Rebel Rebel, you’ve torn your dress
Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess
Rebel Rebel, how could they know?
Hot tramp, I love you so!
I softly sang David Bowie to her and licked her left earlobe as I softly circled her clit while fingering her cunt with my left hand. She came, and came hard. I placed my thigh between her legs, and as I wrapped my left hand and arm back around her, she began to hump my leg. I wiggled my cooling clit onto her slender right thigh, and we began to hump each other to yet another amazing orgasm. As I came, my left leg shot up from laying idly along the side of the bed, triggering the remote to flip on the 52-inch flat-screen TV on the wall.
“Gurl. This is hilarious. How is the George Michael sex video on the hotel Music Choice channel like, RIGHT now.”
“OMG!”
“Yeah. But damn. That…that was really good. Are you like, regularly fucking girls?”
“No…this might be like, the third time or something?”
“THIRD. Woman. Oh god. What are you doing next week? I’m going to fly you to Seattle. Seriously. I’m going to give you my card when I leave, and totally send my assistant your name and info.”
“Fuck. Really?
“Really. Just saying. I’m not one for dating, but…it gets…lonely…in hotels and shit. You know?”
“I’d imagine.”
“So…Serra. With two r’s. And Camino. Like the car. Like the homie Paris says, ‘that’s hot…’”
“I’m named after the saint. You know, Junipero Serra. The missionary? Yeah. My mom is one of those like, CRAZY Catholics. And my dad, he’s half-Mexican, so he’s like, ‘si…das cool.’ And Camino, well, that’s just my dad’s last name.”
“God, that’s like, kinda boring. Let’s just leave it as ‘hot bitch with a cool name from Vegas named after a car.”
“Funny. Okay. But, yeah. You?”
“marcie barbarella. All lower case cause I submit myself to the will of the beat.”
“Yo, that sounds so cool. You come up with that yourself?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Oh god. Do…do you mind if I eat your salad? I…I honestly haven’t eaten since this morning.”
“You ate my box already…what’s a salad by comparison…”
