In this true account, galaxyMafia is pleased to offer you a glimspe of the life she and Glamour Diva live. You didn't know. . .but know ya know. Okaaaaaaay!!!

“Charlie Rose sent another instant message,” Miss Sakamoto said, French manicured fingers flying over the keyboard of the computer sitting on her lap as she scanned the hundreds of invitations and requests received via email for her boss, world-famous blogger, Glamour Diva.

“And what did he want?” Glamour Diva asked, laconic, glancing out of the window of the stretch Rolls Phantom that had been sent by the Senior Editor of Random House with whom GD was meeting in less than an hour to discuss her latest book contract.

Sex and the Sushi, the companion book to GD’s blog with partner galaxyMafia, had been No. 1 on the New York Times bestseller list three months straight, selling an unprecedented 600,000 copies in two weeks. As a result, GD and galaxyMafia were the latest publishing princesses, real-life black Cinderellas who’d catapulted from middle-class ambiguity into slavish megastardom.

However, it didn’t escape GD’s keen perception that they only had one thing in common with Cinderella: the great shoes. Despite all the attention and the fame, neither she nor galaxyMafia had any princes waiting to ride them off into the sunset (pun intended). Of course, galaxyMafia, who’d branded herself as “asexual” claimed not to want a man but GD had to admit that she wouldn’t have minded finding someone nice, and intelligent with decent table manners.

“Charlie wants you and galaxyMafia to come on his show,” Miss Sakamoto told her. “He promises that he won’t ask you any dumb questions like Jay Leno did.”

“I don’t know,” GD said, noncommittal. “He might try to get all in our business like Oprah did.”

“Yeah but going on Oprah was good for the book,” Miss Sakamoto pointed out.

“Yes, in the end, Oprah is good for something,” GD remarked.

“Oh, Matroska’s sending more purses,” Miss Sakamoto said.

“Oh, good!” GD said. A purse from Matroska, the new “It” designer of fashion handbags was a coveted item that women would maim, shoot and kill for. Currently, the waiting list was three years. But, GD and Matroska had been friends before each of them had blown up the spot, respectively, and thus GD never had to wait for one of the purses.

“They want you guys on “The View” again. . .”

“Did anyone call who doesn’t want us on their show, or to interview us?”

“Wentworth Miller,” Miss Sakamoto said, casting a shifty sidelong glance.

“And what did he want?” GD inquired, as if she didn’t care, pretending to be nonchalant when really, she was curious, and if truth were told (as it inevitably would be by somebody who couldn’t keep their damn mouth shut), she was excited.

After all, she’d always thought Wentworth was sexy even before she’d blogged about him in the “Tasty Monday” column. She’d first become enamored with him after viewing “The Human Stain”.

Still, there was no reason to get all fan-girlish. Especially in front of Miss Sakamoto.

“He left a message,” Miss Sakamoto said, whipping out a cell phone. “I saved it.”

Reluctantly, Glamour Diva took the phone.

Honestly, she didn’t know how she felt about Wentworth Miller calling her.

She’d often thought about meeting him, imagining what she would say and what he would say, what kind of person he would be, and how they would react and respond to one another. In her scenarios, he was smart and funny but with street cred; a down to earth type who would know how to keep his sarcasm from turning sardonic; and in the bedroom, he would know exactly how to use her leather paddle.

But, she knew that if she met him, Wentworth might not be any of those things. He might be boring and elitist; or pompous and fascist; or any other distasteful combination of disgusting characteristics.

There was an image of Wentworth Miller in her head that she was loathe to let go of, and she was hesitant to have her fantasy destroyed.

“You going to listen to the message?”

GD sighed. “Why not?” she said, putting the phone to her ear.

Seconds passed, and then she heard:

“Hey, GD, this is Went. Yo, peep this: I read that story you wrote about me, that Bulletproof Love and it was off the chain, fo shizzle. So, I was wonderin’ if me and you could hook up and thangs, and see what it do. What am sayin’ is, I’m feelin’ you, girl, and I wanna know what’s up? You gone let a playa holla at cha, or what? Let me know. Peace out.”

After the message ended, Glamour Diva rolled her eyes.

She didn’t know whether to retch, or pull a Naomi Campbell and beat Miss Sakamoto over the head for not erasing that ignorant message.

How could Wentworth be so damn. . .ghetto. . .

And how could he have thought she’d written Bulletproof Love? Why did everyone think that she had written that charming piece of satire? That damn story had been penned by galaxyMafia but no one wanted to give her props for it.

Well, that was it. The fantasy was destroyed. Far from being intelligent and clever, he was coming at her with trifling slang that people didn’t even use anymore. Dumb fuck, Glamour Diva thought, disappointed. If he was going to use slang, the least he could have done was made it current.

“So. . .” Miss Sakamoto probed.

“So what?” GD snapped, irritated, pissed off at Wentworth’s ghetto vernacular. She felt insulted. Who the hell did he think she was that he could step to her like that?

“So you gonna call him?”

Glamour Diva hesitated. “I don’t know. . .”

“You know you want to,” Miss Sakamoto teased.

“Did I ask you for your opinion?” GD asked, uncharacteristically harsh. Usually, it was that contrary galaxyMafia who bit people’s heads off and spit them back at them.

GD was pissed because Miss Sakamoto was right.

She did want to call Wentworth back.

She wanted to do more than call him. She wanted to lick every drop of water from his body after he stepped out of the shower, and –

“Well, he’s not the only person who called,” Miss Sakamoto said.

“Who else called?” GD asked, dragging herself after from her fantasy.

“Adewale. . .”

copyright 2006. . .galaxyMafia would like to thank Mr. Wentworth Miller for driving traffic to our site. She sincerely hopes that you get some intelligent fans who aren't interested in worshipping you. As Mimi would say. . .you chickens is ash, and we're lotion!!