Celebrity Fanfic, non-erotic
Detective John Travolta and the Case of the Sexy Woman Who Wanted To Have Sex With Him Which Was Cool Because He’s Into That.
Detective Travolta grinned as the cops filed out of the hotel room. “I’d say that’s another case closed,” he said. His client, an incredibly sexy woman, walked over and pressed herself against him. She was squashy. He smiled, because he definitely enjoyed that.
“Thank you ever so much,” the woman purred. “I knew you could find the man who killed my husband. Now, it’s time for me to show my gratitude …” She pressed harder against Detective Travolta. He could feel her curves against him and he was glad. She raised her face and as he bent to kiss her, he thought for the millionth time how funny it was that sexual arousal was so similar to the feelings of wanting to throw up and cry. Just before their lips met, however, he remembered that he had more work to do. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said, letting go of her so she fell back on the bed with a squeal. “But as much as I’d like to do all that stuff, I’d better neaten up in here first. All this phone cord should be wound up, and there’s that broken glass… I’d hate for anyone to get cut.”
“Just don’t take too long,” she cooed, stretching out on the bed in a way that any man would find attractive.
Even though Detective Travolta was very much looking forward to the coitus that was waiting for him, he kept remembering more things he really needed to do. When he finally finished three hours later, the woman was fast asleep. He considered waking her, but decided that would be rude. He tiptoed out. In the lobby of the hotel, he found his best friend and detecting partner, Kevin, waiting for him. “Johnny,” Kevin said, smiling Detective Travolta’s favorite smile, “I’m sorry you didn’t get to have sex with that extremely sexy woman, but at least you solved the case. Come on, let’s go home. I’ll make you some soup.”
As they walked away hand in hand, Travolta reflected on what a great thing best friends were. No matter how sad you were, or disappointed about not having sex with a sexy woman, best friends always made you feel happy, and safe, and that other good feeling he’d never been able to quite put a name to.
Mr Rogers and the Porn Actress
Mr Rogers smiled at the porn actress, who was now wearing a bathrobe. “I hope you understand,” he said, “that the reason I don’t want to have sexual relations with you is not because I don’t think that you are an attractive person, or because I believe you wouldn’t be good at it. It’s just the vows I made with my wife include not having sex with anyone but her. I’m sorry I didn’t read the casting notice more closely; if I had I might have realized this was a pornography movie.”
She smiled and nodded.
Mr Rogers continued, “And I hope you know what a special person you are and that you can do anything you want as long as you try your best. I hope that you will continue doing the pornography for as long as it makes you happy, and that when it stops making you happy you’ll start doing something else instead. I know that a special person like you can do anything.” Mr Rogers hugged her, and went home to his wife. The porn actress had a very successful career in pornography and enjoyed it very much, until she stopped enjoying it, at which point she quit and became a veterinarian.
Bjork, Hero of the Resistance
Bjork tiptoed into the room, wiggling her fingers in greeting to the SS Agent, who stood behind a table spread with whips and chains. One of the chains had fallen in such a way that it looked like the outline of a furry woodland creature whose name might be Melvin.
“Now,” the Nazi snarled, as the moonlight twinkled off the buttons on his uniform. “You will tell me where to find the headquarters of the Resistance!”
Bjork put her hands over her mouth. “Oh no, I cannot do that. It is a secret.”
The SS Agent brandished a whip threateningly, but Bjork just crinkled her nose and blinked twice. The sound of the window smashing was like a thousand silver bells.
Herr Commandant never saw the winged unicorn that impaled him on its horn, but before he bled out he got to listen to Bjork singing as she flew off into the night.
Gary Busey, Vampire Hunter
He smashed the coffin but before he could strike, the vampiress stood with a smile and a toss of her long, black hair. “I was hoping you’d come,” she purred. She was taller than he’d expected, and her boobies were much bigger. He wished she wasn’t so naked, it was confusing. She pressed herself against him and she was cold, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable cold like when he accidentally spilled slurpee down his shirt; it was an exciting cold like the time he’d gotten lost on that mountain and ate what’s-her-name.
He knew he should slay her, knew that he was here for one reason only, but his blood was surging in such a way that his member was actually as impressive as he claimed on internet forums.
“You can’t fool me, Busey,” she whispered, her lips tickling his neck and making him wonder if for once a girl was going to bite first. “I can smell the blood rushing to your trousers.”
There’d be time for slaying later. He swept her up in his arms and carried her towards the door, figuring the balcony outside would be the perfect place to bend her over and stick stuff into other stuff. But as he kicked the door open, she screamed, and it wasn’t the good kind of screaming or even the bad kind he was used to. A moment later, dust was running through his disappointed fingers. Damn it, he’d forgotten about the daylight thing.
Sidney Poitier and the Free-Loving Sixties
“Sidney,” the hippie girl cooed, “we’re all going to go into the other room and take off our clothes and do whatever seems natural and free. Don’t you want to join us?”
“No,” Mr. Poitier replied, putting on his coat and going to a nice restaurant.
David Bowie, Wedding Crasher
The reception was not going well. The parents of the bride had been fighting all day and the parents of the groom were simply not speaking to each other. The maid of honor was fuming over not seeing any of the cute single guys she’d been promised. The couple at table four were arguing viciously in low voices and making everyone uncomfortable. Cousin Ann kept saying she was so sorry Bob had to work and everyone was pretending to believe that he wasn’t on another bender and that her black eye was from a car accident. The waitstaff had just found out they weren’t getting their bonuses after all and frankly didn’t care who had the chicken and who had the fish. The band was doing their best, but panicking because the lead singer had a bad cold and could barely sing.
David Bowie walked into the room, wearing a perfectly tailored but slightly rumpled suit, and leaned casually against the wall.
The mother and father of the groom looked at their son and then each other, seeing past the years of animosity to the moment they’d first held him in their arms, and smiled and nodded. The father of the bride gazed at his wife, amazed at how beautiful she still was, and she beamed back, decades of love in her eyes. The maid of honor finally admitted to herself that there were plenty of cute guys, she just wasn’t interested in them. She began, at long last, to look around for the cute girls. The couple at table four stopped fighting and stared at each other, tears in their eyes. They’d made a good go of it, but it was over, and it was for the best, and they’d always be friends. Cousin Ann realized she was in a room full of people who loved her, who wanted to help and protect her, and she knew she wasn’t ever going back home. The waiters and waitresses were struck with the knowledge that this really was the last straw, that they were quitting in the morning to follow their dreams, and now the people they were serving weren’t the enemy but their last customers ever. David Bowie walked across to the band stand and gently took the mic from the sneezing singer, giving the bride and groom the distraction they needed to sneak off and find an empty room with a door that locked.