Hey everybody! It has been a long time since I have posted here, LOL. So I was listening to the song "Starring Role" by Marina and the Diamonds (hence the title) and was inspired to write this. Honestly I'm not sure how I feel about the ending; I had neglected this piece for about a month or two before deciding to finish it but overall this turned out better than I had anticipated. I hope you guys enjoy! ~Kate

Warning- this is kinda smutty. Also, mentions of being used for sex and implication of suicide. If this bothers you, then please don't read it. Also, I realize at parts that she is being melodramatic, but please don't judge too harshly. Thanks!

Starring Role

The lipstick sweeps across my lips, turning them a deep rouge colour. I know what you like, what is expected of me. You want the bubbly playmate, the vivacious girl who loves to play out the fantasies, who is just in this for the fun.

I know my place. I'm not her; I'm not the starring role within your heart and I likely never will be. At the very least, I am supporting cast, the cheap facsimile for your passions.

My mask in place, I stare up at my reflection. My role has grown to such heights that I no longer recognize myself anymore. The old me, the me that existed before you and our little arrangement, would never have curled her hair into such elegant curls, just because she knows that you love running your fingers through it or yanking on it at the height of your ecstasy. The old me would never have worn such heavy makeup simply because she desperately wanted to leave her mark on you, to leave some small sign that you were hers in some way. That girl would never have dressed like some no account whore, just so that she could feel every inch of your hard, toned body against her as you slowly, but inexorably brought her to closer to satisfaction. She would never saunter around like a wanton, just so that she could see your eyes spark with lust and watch the flames rise as your hands grasp frantically at her.

However, no matter how frequently our meetings, I can never get enough. Your very presence inflames me, ignites me and turns me into this harlot who doesn't care if she isn't the woman you love as long as she remains your lover. As long as you keep coming to my bed and my arms, I don't care what you feel for her.

As I hear your knock at the door, I shake off that small voice inside of me that tells me what I just said was a lie. I do care; I want to be her, I want to be the starring role in your affections. I love you.

But as always, I repress my feelings and give myself unto your devilish hands as they glide up my arms. I've turned away, as I know you love to start our meetings like this. You never second-guess my motivations for letting you use me like this; you never stop to think that I just like to have you all to myself for a few scant hours in time. In a way, I'm glad; I don't want this to end, not now. I've become so desperate for you; you're like my drug and I need you. No matter how much it hurts or how much I despise myself later.

"Mmm…" you moan as you place kisses along my neck. "You're wearing the perfume I got for you."

For me. More like, the perfume you got to heighten your fantasies. After all, a good substitute has to be as close to perfect as possible. And what kind of surrogate would I be if I didn't embrace my role and deign to smell like her?

That was the only reason I ever accepted your gifts. I won't accept payment, won't lower myself to the status of some prostitute, no matter how close to that marker I am at this point. But if something you give me keeps you coming back to me, then it becomes a tool, not payment.

Later as I lie there, moaning and holding your form as tightly to mine as possible, a thought breaks through the haze of pleasure. What happens when you and she finally get together? When the visits stop and I'm left with nothing but trinkets and memories of a warm body crushing me into the silk sheets, filling me with passion, setting my very soul aflame?

I can't even bear the thought and I tighten my hold on you even more, resting my head in the crook of your neck to hide the tears that have started. You don't notice, you never do, so wrapped up in living out the fantasy that plays in your mind, even as you fuck me into the mattress. I don't want to think about what I'll become after you leave for good, when I am no longer of use to you. For a brief moment, I am ready to push you away and say that we are done. But then you caress me and whisper sweet words (for her, always for her) into my ears just before you hit that oh-so-sweet spot and I'm lost in you again.

You never stay long afterward, resting for just a moment before getting up and dressing. I just lay there, composed mask in place, cringing internally as you lean down to kiss my forehead. I hate it when you do that; it only makes me love you more and want to drag you back to me and never let you go. I don't understand why you feel the need to do it after every one of our clandestine encounters; reality has already set in and pulling the fantasy back out feels wrong at this point.

But I say nothing as usual and watch as you saunter out, going back to be near her or going home to shower before going to sleep to dream of having her in your bed, another piece of my heart breaking off and falling to the ground.

As soon as you are gone, I curl up into the spot your body just occupied, burying my face into the pillow. As I soak up your warmth, the pillow soaks up my tears. Reality is a cruel and cold mistress; the kind I should be, but was too weak to become.

I know that this little arrangement won't last forever, but oh, how I wish it could. Because the longer I have you, the longer I can ignore the reality of how much I need you. And how I'll never be able to let you go when she finally sees how devoted you are to her. My devotion to you will be the death of me. And it will come to pass the exact moment you say goodbye.

Because when the star enters the picture, nobody remembers the supporting actress, even when she has been there all along.