Screengrab by Various Today in Nerve's film blog: We list our greatest guilty pleasures. You can't imagine the shame!
61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Nerve's videogame blog: A piping a hot plate of Tim Curry, Half-Life for a dollar, and adventuring with Adventure.
I need not itemize the ways in which the most recent stock market
plunge, coupled with taxes falling due on last year's already-spent
profits, can put a damper on marital zest. Not that Max actually came
out and accused me of squandering our fragile nest egg, but
still — an offhand remark like, "Oh, is it your birthday? I forgot,"
leaves a girl yearning for a mate who negotiates life's slopes of
elation and despair with a bit more panache.
Sean "Puff Daddy" Combs, the rapper and CEO of Bad Boy Records
strikes me as a master of ups and downs. His dad gets murdered when he's
three? It doesn't stop him from becoming an entertainment mogul by his
mid-twenties. Best friend and protegé, Biggie Smalls, killed in a
drive-by? Puff's song of mourning goes platinum, instantly launching his
singing career. This is a guy who ping-pongs between the cover of Forbes
and the docket in felony court without ever getting nailed. He's
obviously not the sort of man who'll treat you like a loser just because
you lost your shirt on NASDAQ.
Just recently acquitted of pulling a 9mm piece from his waistband
in a crowded nightclub and firing into the faces of his fans, Puff,
still reeling with relief from the verdict, tosses himself on my couch
like a sack of benjamins. Mr. Daddy's wearing raiments from his very own
Sean Jean label, not the fur coats he promised PETA he wouldn't promote,
then did, but one of those gorgeous white suits he wore to court. His
defense was that he was so rich and famous that all the prosecution's
witnesses wanted to prove him guilty just so they could sue him for
millions, and, when you saw him in those sue-me-for-millions suits, you
could believe it.
Entirely suitless now, Sean tells me if I'm nice he'll let me sit
on his jammie. I say my tag is Snoop Kitty Kat and I'm all that, so
don't be frontin', I'm Puffy huntin'. I say it sweetly, not like Dr.
Dre-ho, 'cuz Puffy still gets weepy about J-Lo going solo.
Please, he begs me, cut the Bulworth bullshit. He explains that
he's not the gape-jawed ghetto-blasta that the press makes him out to
be. Although arrogance is definitely one of his flaws, he admits, he's
really about peace, God's love and enormous wealth, not gang war,
misogynistic sex and enormous wealth. And besides, even if he has possibly
beat up a record exec or two, those photos of him with his mouth hanging
open in court are libelous. I nod like a drinky bird, fixating on his
rock-hard abs, the exquisite curve of his skull, his tightly kinked
pubes and his, well, love gun, a nine, if you're not talking
millimeters.
I so rarely fantasize about gorgeous six-foot-tall moguls my own age
who happen to be in peak condition and are swigging Cristal champagne
from the bottle while sampling Sting that my throat is stopped with
desire. We kneel and thank God that Sean won't have to do hard time like
Robert Downey Jr. or have his nose shot off, like that poor litigious
girl in the club.
After that, we embrace, shyly at first, like two people uncertain
why they're together, then, feeling the jolt you get when a surge of
sexual energy dissipates cultural differences, like a couple of maniacs.
As he slips his long, slim fingers down the back of my jeans, I can't
wait for him to discover my butt. There it is, big and smooth as
Jennifer's. His eyes get complicated, remembering her, wanting me,
furious about that see-through dress she wore to the Oscars, thrilled by
the curve of my hip. I have to make every inch of myself as alive and
warm as possible to block Jennifer from his thoughts. I widen my eyes,
grin exultantly, until I hear his heart rapping against his rib cage and
feel his hips pick up the beat.
I never found gansta rap sexy because lines about "bustin' pussy"
always make me think, "uh-oh — time to apply some Elmer's Glue." But
Puffy's a Rhymer, not a Busta: all the voguing and posing that damaged
his street cred boosts his satin sheet cred to the top of my chart.
"Puffy hold me down baby!" I shout, echoing 'Lil Kim on "It's All
About the Benjamins", and when he does, I'm deeply, deeply pleased. All
that repentant anger and moody sense of loss — all that brag and
hustle, all that never say die, never give up, never stay down — he's a
guy you want to fertilize your nest egg, a guy a girl in need of a few
million can really respect.
, featuring curious yet marvelous infusions of cucumber and rose petal.
