Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

I made a mistake in yesterday’s Chapter about the age in ’My Hips Don’t Lie.’ It was supposed to be 21, but I mistakenly wrote eleven. I fixed it, sorry. On a side note, we are going with the...R18 scene.

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******

”Come on, come on, come on,” Avril chanted in a quiet, urgent undertone. It was the tone of someone who has already definitively decided what the outcome should be, and is verbally encouraging the universe to not screw it up.

When his name was finally announced, she produced a loud, triumphant sound that was approximately, ”YES!”

She immediately followed it with a sarcastic, ”Well, obviously,” delivered in the exact, arrogant tone of someone for whom the outcome had been painfully clear for the last six months, and the golden gramophone was simply the slow, boring institutional confirmation of a pre-existing reality.

But his acceptance speech made her go completely quiet, in the way that very, very few things ever made Avril go quiet.

The opening acknowledgment of Erykah Badu—she thought that was incredible. It was brave, it was right, and it was exactly the kind of punk-rock thing that required intimately knowing you were completely secure enough in your own massive talent to say it to the establishment’s face. The poetic description of the seven million sales as ’decisions to remain open’—she thought that was the exact kind of brilliant, lyrical thinking she desperately wished she could do in spoken word with that terrifying ease.

And the final line about the music being real... she instantly grabbed a pen.

When he looked at the camera and said, *The music is real—it’s nice when the institutions confirm that*, Avril wrote it down in the margin of the math homework she had been completely ignoring for the last three hours. She added three black underlines and a massive star next to it.

Later in the broadcast, during the chaotic press room segment, when Marvin made the arrogant, sarcastic joke about telling the seven million people that his EP wasn’t actually pop music and just waiting for the fallout... Avril laughed out loud. It was the sharp, genuine, delighted laugh that only ever escaped her when something hit her exact, sarcastic wavelength perfectly.

”He’s so—” she started to say aloud to the living room. The room was completely empty because her exhausted parents had gone to bed over an hour ago. She finished the sentence internally, her heart doing a completely un-punk-rock flutter: ’—so incredibly good at this. And so freaking hot.’

She looked at the television screen where Marvin was now gracefully accepting the massive Record of the Year Grammy. She thought deeply about what it actually meant to be ”good at this.”

Not the shiny award. Not the boring ceremony.

Not the corporate industry mechanics of it. But the actual thing itself. The raw music. The bleeding making of the music. The terrifying quality of absolute courage required to make something that vulnerable, release it into a brutal world, and then stand arrogantly behind it on a massive stage when the world inevitably had loud, stupid opinions about it.

She was fourteen. She was in the painful process of deciding exactly what kind of artist she was ultimately going to be. Which was a massive decision that was also a terrifying series of other, smaller decisions: about what she was actually willing to say out loud, about what she was willing to be seen saying, and about the complex relationship between the messy, private version of herself and the armored, public version she was rapidly beginning to understand was both entirely necessary and completely separate.

Watching twelve-year-old Marvin Meyers navigate the brutal Grammy press room with the quality of ease that only came from intimately knowing exactly who you were, and exactly what you had made... she found this incredibly instructive, hot and attractive.

She grabbed her pen and wrote something else in the margin of her math homework, right beneath the first quote:

*Know exactly what your music is before you ever have to explain it to a suit.*

She underlined it twice.

Avril finally went to bed at midnight, completely exhausted by the adrenaline of the broadcast. She lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about that specific sentence, and the incredibly handsome boy who had inspired it, for a very long time before she finally slept.

---

The live television broadcast of the 40th Annual Grammy Awards was not simply an American industry event; it was a synchronized, global shockwave.

Across the world, in living rooms separated by oceans, time zones, and cultures, a unified phenomenon was actively occurring. Every single time the telecast cut to the front row of Radio City Music Hall, every time Marvin Meyers’s impossibly handsome, aristocratic face filled the cathode-ray screens, the exact same reaction erupted.

In Bridgetown, ten-year-old Rihanna was literally jumping up and down on her faded carpet, screaming with sheer delight every time he smiled, her young heart hammering a frantic, joyous rhythm. In Wyomissing, eight-year-old Taylor Swift was bouncing off her floral couch, frantically clapping her hands and squealing into her blanket, completely overwhelmed by her first, massive celebrity crush. In Texas, little Selena Gomez was pointing at the screen and giggling uncontrollably, completely mesmerized by the boy king. In Colombia, Shakira was clutching her notebook to her chest, blushing fiercely, utterly captivated by his dark, magnetic charm.

And in Ontario, Avril Lavigne was cheering loudly, pumping her fist in the air, completely forgetting her punk-rock stoicism the moment his dimples flashed.

They were all already massive, devoted fans of his music, his books, and his movie. But tonight, watching him conquer the adult world with such terrifying, flawless ease, their infatuation deepened into devotion.

This absolute hysteria wasn’t confined to these few; it was merely a reflection of a global obsession. Across the world, millions of fans had elevated Marvin from a mere prodigy to an untouchable idol. But this fever-pitch devotion was overwhelmingly, dangerously potent among the female demographic. It went far beyond the typical bounds of celebrity worship—it was a primal, inescapable pull.

Clad in impeccably tailored fashion, radiating an aura of unshakable confidence, and speaking with an intoxicating blend of arrogance and raw truth, he was simply mesmerizing. He possessed an impossible, almost unnatural handsomeness.

He possesses a level of grace, physical handsomeness, sexual attractiveness, sense of style, and social poise above what is normally achievable by humans and it just kept getting better as he got older.

Though he currently inhabited the physical form of a twelve-year-old boy, the quiet, supernatural allure of his Incubus lineage bled through his every glance and gesture.

It was a flawless, predatory beauty that completely defied logic and age. It didn’t matter how old he looked on paper; his presence carried a heavy, mesmerizing gravity. Women of every generation—from hysterical teenage fans plastering his face on their bedroom walls to the most seasoned, cynical Hollywood veterans—found themselves helplessly drawn to him, spellbound by a profound, otherworldly magnetism they couldn’t even begin to understand.

He possesses an overwhelmingly hypnotic presence that ensnares the minds of all who lay eyes upon him.

---

Kentwood, Louisiana. February 1998.

The humidity of the deep South pressed against the windows of the family home, but it was nothing compared to the crushing, invisible atmosphere inside the walls. Sixteen-year-old Britney Jean Spears sat cross-legged on the faded living room carpet, clutching a throw pillow so tightly her knuckles were white. The house was quiet, but for Britney, the silence was always deafening—filled with the unspoken debts, the desperate familial ambitions, and the terrifying reality that she was the sole financial lifeboat for a drowning family.

She was watching the Grammy Awards, but not with the wide-eyed innocence of a teenager dreaming of stardom. She watched it with the deeply fractured, hyper-vigilant psychology of a girl who had already been fed through the industry’s meat grinder. She had survived the grueling, competitive crucible of *The Mickey Mouse Club*. She had endured the ruthless auditions, the scrutinizing gazes of adult executives dissecting her body and voice, and the quiet, agonizing realization that her parents didn’t just love her; they *needed* her to pay the bills. She was an asset. A commodity wrapped in a sweet, Southern smile.

And in exactly seventeen months, Jive Records was going to unleash her onto the world, carefully packaged in a terrifying, contradictory cage of virginal innocence and hyper-sexualized marketing that would permanently warp her identity.

Britney was already fracturing under the weight of it. To survive the constant demands, the forced smiles, and the lack of autonomy over her own life, she had learned to quietly dissociate. She tucked the real, hurting Britney away in a dark, silent corner of her mind, letting the polished, eager-to-please pop star pilot her body.

But then, the *Marvin 1* EP had arrived.

Her manager had sent her the cassette tape via FedEx with a sterile, corporate note: *This boy is what is currently competing for your future audience. Listen to it carefully.*

She had listened. And in the dark isolation of her bedroom, the wordless, agonizingly beautiful music had bypassed every single psychological wall she had built. It didn’t ask her to smile. It didn’t demand she perform. The music reached into the pitch-black, suffocating waters of her mind and pulled her to the surface, allowing her to take her first genuine breath in years. While the tape played, the crushing anxiety, the fear of failing her family, and the loss of her own voice vanished. She felt safe. She felt seen.

But the tragedy of the cassette was that it had an end. Every time the tape finally hissed to a stop, the suffocating darkness would immediately rush back in, leaving her desperately clawing at the silence, frantically hitting rewind just to survive the night.

Now, watching Marvin command the Grammy stage, the profound lifeline of his music was suddenly matched by the overwhelming reality of his presence.

She also thought Marvin was extraordinarily, paralyzingly attractive.

It was an intense, blushing truth she held close to her chest, managing it with the tragic practicality of a girl forced to grow up far too fast. He was twelve. She was sixteen. Those were biological facts. But in the magical context of watching him completely dominate the room, those facts dissolved. What captivated her broken psychology was the impossible reality of watching someone who was fully, dangerously, and unapologetically *free*.

He was standing in a massive room full of adults who were desperately performing fake versions of themselves, and he refused to wear a mask. He wasn’t owned by a record label. He wasn’t a workhorse for his parents. He was power, wrapped in grace.

Watching Marvin effortlessly navigate the vicious press room later in the broadcast, Britney felt a profound, aching shock of recognition—and an agonizing surge of envy. Her handlers dictated what she ate, what she wore, and how she spoke. Marvin dictated reality itself.

When a frustrated journalist asked him if he was always this evasive, Marvin offered a devastating, dimpled smirk that practically melted the television screen.

*”I am absolutely never evasive,”* Marvin purred into the press microphone, his magnetic charm radiating straight through the broadcast feed, cutting through the static of Britney’s living room. *”I simply prefer the term ’surgically strategic with my information.’ It sounds vastly more expensive.”*

The press room erupted in laughter, and Britney pointed a manicured, trembling finger directly at the television.

”That,” Britney whispered to her own reflection in the dark glass of the window, tears suddenly pricking her eyes. ”That is exactly it. He doesn’t apologize for existing.”

Another journalist shouted over the din, *”Marvin, you have three massive Grammys tonight! Where on earth are you going to put them?!”*

Marvin didn’t miss a beat. *”My mother has officially mandated that they serve as very expensive, heavy bookends for my middle-school math textbooks,”* he said, his face deadpan. *”She informed me that if I fail pre-algebra this semester, she will personally melt them down into paperweights.”*

The reporters roared. Britney hugged the pillow tighter against her chest, a genuine, unguarded laugh escaping her throat—a sound she hadn’t heard from herself in months.

*”Are you single, Marvin?!”* a female reporter joked loudly from the back.

Marvin looked directly at the camera, his blue eyes flashing with wicked, knowing amusement.

*”I am currently twelve years old, madam. I believe the State of California legally requires me to at least finish the eighth grade before I am officially licensed to start breaking hearts professionally. Though, I assure you, my schedule is completely wide open for the spring of 2004.”*

Britney threw her head back and laughed loudly in her empty living room, her face burning hot.

He was so charming. But beneath the blush of a teenage crush was a much deeper, profound psychological yearning. She didn’t just want him; she desperately wanted to be *saved* by him by anyone. She wanted someone to stand in front of the flashing cameras and the greedy executives and protect her the way he protected his own peace.

When he had accepted the historic Record of the Year award, she had deeply internalized his poetic phrase: *seven million decisions to remain open.*

It terrified her. She was already closing off, building a fortress of dissociation just to survive the people who were supposed to love her. To remain open in this brutal industry felt like a death sentence.

But as she watched him gracefully deflect frantic questions about his next EP with a single, devastating tease—*”closer”*—she felt a strange, impossible hope take root in the bruised, exhausted corners of her heart.

”Closer,” Britney whispered aloud, testing the heavy weight of the word on her tongue like a promise.

She looked at the gold Grammy resting in his elegant hand. She noted the composed ease with which he carried his historic victory. He wasn’t begging the world for validation, because he already knew his worth.

She thought: ’I want to get exactly there. And I want to meet him.’

What Britney’s fractured, sixteen-year-old mind did not yet know was that the universe was already bending to make that happen.

*****

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