Nina's Story About Why You Don't Want To Be A Spy
Posted: 07 Oct 2016 21:01
The people and events in this story come from my brain, not the real
world. Regardless of what that tells you about my brain, it means that I'm
not writing about you, your mom, your friends, or your friends' friends.
So you can't sue me. Neener neener.
If you're underage in your territory (and you know what I mean), then
read something else, please. If you're easily offended by sexually
explicit fetish content, may I suggest reading something else? If you're
easily offended by sexual content and are determined to help yourself to a
dash of moral outrage, I put it to you this way: you have too much time on
your hands.
Note: I know, I know. I've been gone a while. Here's a concentrated
burst (ew) of what backed up in my imagination while I was away. I chose
to do a short about Nina. You remember her, from the second Akiko series,
right? I'll be honest: I love her. Hopefully after this, you will too.
(c) 2002 by Aerosol Kid. Protected under the Berne Convention. Yes, my
erotica is protected by copyright law.
_____________________
September 29, 2003 -- Sydney, Australia
Yes, these are weird times. Terrorists talk about blowing up this or
that, and occasionally follow through. Since they're not formally attached
to any nation state, it's hard to fight them. The whole world is jumpy.
You hear people talking about Doing Something About It, and occasionally
someone decides to become a government spook. They're usually young,
idealistic types.
Like, oh, me for instance.
I know I don't look like a spy. Think about it! Would you want your
spies to look like spies? Anyway, I'm here to give you the details that
your friendly recruiter leaves out of his/her pitch. Think of me as the
voice of caution. I did a two-year stint with the Global Intelligence
Agency, and I can tell you that there are worse people out there than
extremist yokels with C4. While I was there, I endured things that hounded
me even after I resigned. I'm going to tell you a little story, and
afterwards, if you've got the apricots, then by all means, enlist. They
could use people like you.
My name's Nina Suenaga-Wentley. If you're reading this from where I
think you are, you probably know me through Akiko Masumi, and you know
where I'm going with this.
I'll start with Akiko. We didn't meet under ideal circumstances - we
were both deep undercover on what was essentially a tropical slave camp,
and this scary lady named Ophelia decided I was going to be Akiko's toy
girl. I'd been brainwashed, so I wasn't really in a position to argue, but
I took a shine to Akiko right away. She's so pretty it hurts to look at
her, and she has this way of making you feel important and special. Plus,
I've never met anyone so loyal in all my short life. When my cover got
blown, she really saved my brickies. She's gentle and sweet and funny and
I could go on all day.
I thought we were in love, but after the mission, things took a turn for
the weird. She holed herself up in this expensive apartment in Harajuku,
never went out except to drive in the country, and didn't ever check her
answering machine. When she would see me, she treated me like some dumb
little kid. Any time we'd talk about us, she'd start her sentences with
"When you're a little older," like she was fifty or something. I think she
was being irritating on purpose, and it worked because she pushed me right
out of her life. So I resigned from the Global Intelligence Agency and
went back home to Sydney with a brand new broken heart.
Yeah, I felt sorry for myself for a while. Took to chain-smoking,
sitting out in the rain, going out on benders with my friends. Eventually
I went back to music, which is what I'd done before that gung-ho recruiter
from GIA talked me into serving my country. (She never mentioned I'd be
doing it on my back, by the way, but more on that later.) I wrote a few sad
little songs and recorded them at my brother's studio, but none of the
labels I shopped were interested. The A & R guys would look me up and
down, taking in my perky bod, my tan, the platinum dye job and the blue
contacts. And they'd say, "Well, Ms. Nina Suenaga-Wentley, we don't think
your look matches your sound. Furthermore, the kids don't want to listen
to an hour of sad love songs." As if any of them actually remembered
puberty.
More rejection. Great, right? I got pissed, but the business wasn't
going to get less shitty because I was crying about it. My spy money
wasn't going to last forever, so I went back to the drawing board. Maybe I
wasn't Prozac-and-Ritalin-soup happy, but I could at least go through the
motions, and eight cheery pop songs later, yours truly was signed to Virgin
Records. And no, the irony was not lost on me. The Virgin marketing
people were in love with my mixed heritage (thanks to my loveable lunk of
an Aussie dad and my kooky violinist mom from Osaka). What I had, they'd
say in hushed tones, was International Superstar Potential. I'd just bite
my lip and giggle, while I made notes on my PDA of things to go over with
my lawyer.
These people were itching to break me into America, before I even sold a
record at home, so they herded me onto a plane to Los Angeles to meet with
producers. The label folks in L.A. spent an entire week wining and dining
me. I may be a little naïve, but don't think I let all the attention go to
my head. Flying first class was nice, and getting driven around in a limo
was fun. The all-day spa makeover was heaven, and getting randomly chatted
up at Nobu by Josh Hartnett was cute.
Okay, so maybe L.A. *was* affecting me. A little.
My minder for the week was Christa: a cute bundle of fun in a tan, tight
package. Unlike most of the locals, she had real lips, real boobs,
naturally curly red hair, and she didn't buy into her own hype. She was a
chronic party girl with expensive taste and - oh, the humanity - she was
straight. I can't tell you how many times I had to just grind my teeth as
I walked behind her, my eyes locked to her yummy, wiggling butt. And no, I
don't jump her bones later in this story.
On my last night in town, Christa decreed that it was time to let loose,
and drove me to a posh party. This shadowy millionaire held monthly bashes
at his estate, which were all the go with movie industry types. No one
knew what he did for a living, but he was in with the execs at the studios.
Now pay attention, because we weren't there twenty minutes before
everything went straight to Weirdville.
I was in a strappy, blue tissue of a dress, nursing a martini. Christa,
whose dress was translucently porn-worthy, ditched me to smoke a joint with
some New York newspaper guy. After days of her leading me around by the
nose, I was kind of at a loss.
world. Regardless of what that tells you about my brain, it means that I'm
not writing about you, your mom, your friends, or your friends' friends.
So you can't sue me. Neener neener.
If you're underage in your territory (and you know what I mean), then
read something else, please. If you're easily offended by sexually
explicit fetish content, may I suggest reading something else? If you're
easily offended by sexual content and are determined to help yourself to a
dash of moral outrage, I put it to you this way: you have too much time on
your hands.
Note: I know, I know. I've been gone a while. Here's a concentrated
burst (ew) of what backed up in my imagination while I was away. I chose
to do a short about Nina. You remember her, from the second Akiko series,
right? I'll be honest: I love her. Hopefully after this, you will too.
(c) 2002 by Aerosol Kid. Protected under the Berne Convention. Yes, my
erotica is protected by copyright law.
_____________________
September 29, 2003 -- Sydney, Australia
Yes, these are weird times. Terrorists talk about blowing up this or
that, and occasionally follow through. Since they're not formally attached
to any nation state, it's hard to fight them. The whole world is jumpy.
You hear people talking about Doing Something About It, and occasionally
someone decides to become a government spook. They're usually young,
idealistic types.
Like, oh, me for instance.
I know I don't look like a spy. Think about it! Would you want your
spies to look like spies? Anyway, I'm here to give you the details that
your friendly recruiter leaves out of his/her pitch. Think of me as the
voice of caution. I did a two-year stint with the Global Intelligence
Agency, and I can tell you that there are worse people out there than
extremist yokels with C4. While I was there, I endured things that hounded
me even after I resigned. I'm going to tell you a little story, and
afterwards, if you've got the apricots, then by all means, enlist. They
could use people like you.
My name's Nina Suenaga-Wentley. If you're reading this from where I
think you are, you probably know me through Akiko Masumi, and you know
where I'm going with this.
I'll start with Akiko. We didn't meet under ideal circumstances - we
were both deep undercover on what was essentially a tropical slave camp,
and this scary lady named Ophelia decided I was going to be Akiko's toy
girl. I'd been brainwashed, so I wasn't really in a position to argue, but
I took a shine to Akiko right away. She's so pretty it hurts to look at
her, and she has this way of making you feel important and special. Plus,
I've never met anyone so loyal in all my short life. When my cover got
blown, she really saved my brickies. She's gentle and sweet and funny and
I could go on all day.
I thought we were in love, but after the mission, things took a turn for
the weird. She holed herself up in this expensive apartment in Harajuku,
never went out except to drive in the country, and didn't ever check her
answering machine. When she would see me, she treated me like some dumb
little kid. Any time we'd talk about us, she'd start her sentences with
"When you're a little older," like she was fifty or something. I think she
was being irritating on purpose, and it worked because she pushed me right
out of her life. So I resigned from the Global Intelligence Agency and
went back home to Sydney with a brand new broken heart.
Yeah, I felt sorry for myself for a while. Took to chain-smoking,
sitting out in the rain, going out on benders with my friends. Eventually
I went back to music, which is what I'd done before that gung-ho recruiter
from GIA talked me into serving my country. (She never mentioned I'd be
doing it on my back, by the way, but more on that later.) I wrote a few sad
little songs and recorded them at my brother's studio, but none of the
labels I shopped were interested. The A & R guys would look me up and
down, taking in my perky bod, my tan, the platinum dye job and the blue
contacts. And they'd say, "Well, Ms. Nina Suenaga-Wentley, we don't think
your look matches your sound. Furthermore, the kids don't want to listen
to an hour of sad love songs." As if any of them actually remembered
puberty.
More rejection. Great, right? I got pissed, but the business wasn't
going to get less shitty because I was crying about it. My spy money
wasn't going to last forever, so I went back to the drawing board. Maybe I
wasn't Prozac-and-Ritalin-soup happy, but I could at least go through the
motions, and eight cheery pop songs later, yours truly was signed to Virgin
Records. And no, the irony was not lost on me. The Virgin marketing
people were in love with my mixed heritage (thanks to my loveable lunk of
an Aussie dad and my kooky violinist mom from Osaka). What I had, they'd
say in hushed tones, was International Superstar Potential. I'd just bite
my lip and giggle, while I made notes on my PDA of things to go over with
my lawyer.
These people were itching to break me into America, before I even sold a
record at home, so they herded me onto a plane to Los Angeles to meet with
producers. The label folks in L.A. spent an entire week wining and dining
me. I may be a little naïve, but don't think I let all the attention go to
my head. Flying first class was nice, and getting driven around in a limo
was fun. The all-day spa makeover was heaven, and getting randomly chatted
up at Nobu by Josh Hartnett was cute.
Okay, so maybe L.A. *was* affecting me. A little.
My minder for the week was Christa: a cute bundle of fun in a tan, tight
package. Unlike most of the locals, she had real lips, real boobs,
naturally curly red hair, and she didn't buy into her own hype. She was a
chronic party girl with expensive taste and - oh, the humanity - she was
straight. I can't tell you how many times I had to just grind my teeth as
I walked behind her, my eyes locked to her yummy, wiggling butt. And no, I
don't jump her bones later in this story.
On my last night in town, Christa decreed that it was time to let loose,
and drove me to a posh party. This shadowy millionaire held monthly bashes
at his estate, which were all the go with movie industry types. No one
knew what he did for a living, but he was in with the execs at the studios.
Now pay attention, because we weren't there twenty minutes before
everything went straight to Weirdville.
I was in a strappy, blue tissue of a dress, nursing a martini. Christa,
whose dress was translucently porn-worthy, ditched me to smoke a joint with
some New York newspaper guy. After days of her leading me around by the
nose, I was kind of at a loss.