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I Hooked Up With a Celebrity: What Happened - Cosmopolitan

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We met in the glowing buzz of a packed comedy festival after-party in San Francisco. I was 23, fresh off a breakup—the BIG one—and ready to have meaningless sex with a stranger. But what happened was even, well, stranger. I locked eyes across the room with a handsome 5’11” man with delicious salt and pepper hair. There was something about him that drew me in, almost like we’d met before—something that seemed so inviting, so familiar, so comfortable.

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“Well, aren’t you pretty,” he said, his soothing voice tickling my eardrums. My hair stood up on my arms as I tried helplessly to grasp for words. I smiled and introduced myself, cheersing his cup. “Hi. I’m Todd*,” he said.

Oh. My. Goddess. THAT’S why he felt so familiar. Suddenly, I recognized him as the star of one of the popular TV shows that dominated streaming services at the time. Here I thought we were past lovers in another life, when really he’d been on the television in my living room countless times.

Somehow, I found myself surprisingly unflustered in the face of stardom. He may have been on the A-list, but all I cared about was his D. Sure, there were lots of celebs and Hollywood up-and-comers at this party—my friend knew the event organizer, so we graciously accepted a VIP pass—but he was the only one I cared about. And while I may have been a non-famous if well-connected Normal Person who’d lucked into an evening of rubbing elbows with fame, Todd’s fixed attention made me feel like a Very Important Person indeed. We flirted all night long, creating our own medley of inside jokes, witty banter, and sexual tension so thick I could barely hear him through it. He was saying words, but all I could think about were his soft, plump lips pressed against mine. His tongue gliding up against the back of my neck. His sturdy hands navigating a solo journey to my pleasure center. I wanted this man and I wanted him bad.

“So, where’s the after-after-party?” he asked me. Like a line out of a bad porno movie, I responded, “At my place. It’s super exclusive. Only you’re invited.” He picked up what I was putting down. We called an Uber, made out all over the backseat, tipped the driver a hefty gratuity, and went inside and ripped each others’ clothes off.

I was sharing the AirBnb with my friend, who knew exactly what was going down. She quietly watched TV and ate her 1 a.m. cereal while, in the other room, Todd was eating me. He took my pussy in like he had been stranded on an island for weeks and this was his first meal back on the mainland. He savored every lick while I quivered in delight. He’d come up every so often to kiss me and tell me how much he loved my pussy, but I’d send him right back down where he belonged. Was this really happening? I thought to myself. Oh yes, yes it was. It wasn’t even over yet and I already needed it to happen again. After half an hour of worshiping my clit, he put his large, veiny cock inside of me and I was in heaven. He rode me until the sun came up.

In the morning, we kissed goodbye and followed each other on Instagram, as one does. We said we’d see each other again, but I don’t think either of us really believed it. He lived in NYC and I lived in LA, which meant this cross-coastal love affair only lived in our dreams. What followed was months and months of Instagram likes, DMs, and the occasional comment—we couldn’t be so obvious that DeuxMoi would be all over it.

Every time I saw his Instagram handle pop up—“Todd liked your photo”—a rush of blood slamdanced to my brain, sparking flashbacks to our night together that played in my head like an old movie on a projector wall: his face in my pussy, his hands around my neck, his tongue down my throat. It felt almost like a distant dream, one I knew would only live on in our memories.

Until....

About two years later, I was headed to New York for a work event. Hollywood loves a reboot, so obviously Todd and I had to take advantage of this rare opportunity to give our night of passion a well-deserved sequel. I slid in his DMs the same way he slid into me, and he was as ecstatic as I was about our rendezvous redux.

“It’s about time. I was just thinking about you,” he said with a winky emoji that had me vividly imagining all the dirty details of what, exactly, he'd been thinking about.

My parents don’t live far from the city, so they decided to come visit me and get me a hotel room since my freelance gig didn’t cover the expense. They booked two rooms next to each other—one for them, one for me. Just me. Or so they thought.

I told my parents I had a drinks sesh planned with a work friend. I had a quick dinner with them and then escorted myself and my secret off to a chic cocktail bar. Todd was no friend, but we were definitely going to put in some work.

I could see him in the window from the sidewalk on the street and instantly felt a wave of wetness dance out of my pussy into the panties I wasn’t wearing. The cool New York winter air kissed my skin as it tickled my bare thighs, my hair standing up on its ends again. We hadn’t even said hello yet and I already wanted to get him the hell out of there and into my plush hotel bed. Our eyes locked, just like the first time in the packed after-party in San Francisco, as I swung open the bar door and melted into his embrace.

We smiled softly at each other, neither of us breaking eye contact—not even to blink. It was like a sexual staring contest that I didn’t know I signed up for. He took a sip of his martini without moving his eyes away from mine. I knew we were both watching the same movie projector flashes in our minds. He grazed my hand and it sent an electrical shock up to my ear, making my spine shoot up straight. “That’s it. Finish your drink. Let’s go,” I said, standing up and buttoning my plaid peacoat. He knocked back the remainder of his martini, threw a $100 bill down on the table, and we were on our way to my hotel.

We made out against the green door in the hallway outside my room, my ass pressed against the cold door handle. With one hand grasped tight around my ass cheek, the other holding my back close to his chest, he grabbed my bare breast underneath my dress as I wrestled through my Rebecca Minkoff purse, desperate to find the hotel key card. No sooner had the door opened than he swiftly pushed me onto the bed and lifted up my dress, revealing all that is holy. The hotel room was small, but big enough to hide our secret from the outside world. I put my foot on the wall, leveraging my hips towards him as he entered me with his large, throbbing, famous cock.

It felt impossible to stay quiet. We kept our noises to a whimper, the tension heightening the nerves in my body and catapulting my pleasure even further. The screams yearned to escape me like I was being choked by pleasure itself. Todd pumped into me as my fingers grasped desperately at the crisp linen sheets. With each thrust, our sexy shared secret got shoved deeper inside of me—his strong, meaty thighs slamming against my bare ass, both of us drenched in each other’s sweat. My leg still up on the wall, he pinched my nipple hard as he choked me lightly with his other hand and rode me, quietly, till dawn.

Sometimes that’s all a woman needs—a good fuck that reminds you who the fuck you are.

I had a pep in my step at hotel breakfast with my parents the next morning. The daily mundanities of bagels, coffee, and a newspaper laid on the table suddenly seemed as fabulous as I felt.

“How was your work meet-up?” my mom asked naively. I smiled and took a nonchalant sip of my coffee. “It was great! We got along famously.”

A few months later, I was at a party in Los Angeles when the topic turned to celebrity crushes. Unassuming friends and acquaintances were throwing Todd’s name around the same way he threw me around that hotel bed. I smiled to myself, hiding my insatiable glee by taking a sip of my beer.

“Who’s your celebrity crush, Serena?” someone asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really have one.” What they didn’t know was that I did have one…and I’d already fucked him. Twice.

But while Todd’s name came up from time to time, just daring me to spill the dirty little secret I dutifully kept, I never saw him again—except for on my TV screen. And honestly, I don’t need to. Sometimes that’s all a woman needs—a fuck from a stranger that reminds you how sexy you are. A lover who is an equal participant in heightening your pleasure. A nice guy with a huge cock that’s good at keeping a secret. An evening affair that makes you feel empowered and alive. A good fuck that reminds you who the fuck you are.

*Name has been changed.

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I Hooked Up With a Celebrity: What Happened - Cosmopolitan
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