The Pop Star wanted gloves. They had always been a signature of hers, ever since she first began her career. This was back when lace and leather were staples of her “costumes” (a.k.a. her everyday wear). However, after transitioning into a new, more “mature” look, The Pop Star abandoned her gloves—usually fingerless and made out of lace (though sometimes, leather)—in favor of going “bare.” On her hands, that is. And well, to be honest, most everywhere else. Nudity was part of her “shock value.” And for a while, it did seem very valuable to people, which could be part of why she held so steadfastly to that “shtick” for so long. Even to this day, she remained accused of baring too much. And especially “at her age.”

Maybe there was some part of The Pop Star that was trying to recapture the youth that had branded her, in the eyes of the public, as a sex symbol. Back in the days when she was wearing all that leather and lace. This was why, after decades of forgoing her “old style,” she had started wearing gloves again. But it wasn’t really about “channeling her younger self.” Though it was related to age. And to a reason far less about “style” and much more about covering one of the most “giveaway” signs of a person’s age, especially a woman’s: her hands. Though she had done everything to make them looks as supple, unwrinkled and unveiny as she could, they remained the biggest tell of her true age. An age that she (and her plastic surgeon) had worked meticulously during all these years to conceal, to mitigate. Perhaps more to the point, to control. The Pop Star had done quite an adept job of that. Or rather, her money had. But since her money was an extension of her—of all her hard work (paired with those many brand deals that didn’t involve much effort at all, really…except for attaching her name to something)—it was the same thing. Yes, she was responsible for fighting Father Time. Who was, quelle surprise, personified as a man. It made all the sense in the world to The Pop Star that it wasn’t Mother Time. Because if a woman truly were controlling the hands of the clock, she wouldn’t be pushing them forward, and certainly not so quickly.

No, in this patriarchal society, Father Time would be just the type of bastard to deliberately speed time up so that women would “age out” more quickly to make room for a “fresher” batch. For it’s no secret that men are obsessed with girls. To the point where the entire world is run by a nefarious cabal of pedophiles. Something that The Pop Star always kind of knew, but never wanted to probe too deeply. She felt her precious few free hours were much better spent probing younger men instead. The latest one had lasted a fair amount of time thus far—by the standards of keeping her interested anyway. For no “boy toy” usually lasted more than three years…and even that was often only for very special penises—er, people.

So yes, that day in early October in Paris, the press was already very used to seeing her with her latest “conquest.” And as she walked into the Acaba glove shop (or gantier, as the French say) with a man thirty-eight years her junior, The Pop Star did her best to keep a low profile in denim jeans (designer, obviously, with all the rips in them being highly strategic, rather than an actual sign of wear and tear) and a black bomber jacket. Needless to say, everything about her look screamed “quiet luxury” with a pointedly “rebel” flair. She had dressed similarly in the 80s, when she used to walk the sidewalks of Los Angeles (after parking the car somewhere, of course) with a love interest her own age (though still two years younger). In fact, she had made the mistake of turning that love interest into her husband. At a time in her life when she was perhaps still naively trying to fit into some version of a conventional mold for a woman. It only took about four years of being married to the man she now referred to only as The Douche to realize that she wasn’t cut out for being someone’s “missus.” Instead, she wanted to be the one undeniably in control. And for whoever her so-called partner was to understand that. Though they weren’t really her “partner” in the sense that they would never be her equal. She would always have more power and more money than whoever dared to stand at her side at various red-carpet events.

While, at another time in her life, this reality might have “bummed her out,” in the present, it brought her great happiness. She was finally at peace with knowing what kind of relationship worked best for her. And it was one where she could call the shots with her significant other du moment understanding that “pushing back” on anything she said was grounds for punishment. At least in the boudoir, where she could exercise her S&M fetish whenever she felt it appropriate. Though, when she thought about, it wasn’t really too much of a punishment to be taught a lesson that way, now was it? In this regard, and so many others, she felt that her beneficent nature was constantly being underestimated. Worse than that, the media was always trying to paint her as some sort of “mega-bitch.” To corroborate that image, they would deliberately lie in wait to catch her unwittingly throwing some kind of “angry face” or general “sourpuss.”

Today at the glove shop was no exception to that longstanding rule. And though she knew she ought to try to either keep a totally stoic expression or plaster a smile on (even though that would work against the plastic surgery), she was angered, in that instant, as she realized that she was still, after so many years, trying to “perform” for these fuckers even on her off days. That even her intended purchase of some gloves, which could go for upwards of three hundred euros a pair at this place (granted, that was but chump change to The Pop Star), was part of her innate conditioning to perform. Which is why she thought to herself, No, I will not by another fucking pair of gloves. This prompted her to turn on her expensive heel and walk away from the entrance, not only yanking her boy toy by the arm and leading him back to the awaiting chauffeured car, but even going the extra mile of actually ripping off the pair of gloves she was currently wearing to liberate herself from this performance.

Naturally, the next day, when she saw how much of a field day the European tabloids were having with ultra-close-up shots on her “corpse hands,” as one outfit called them, she regretted it. Reminding herself that constant performance was the very core of being a pop star, let alone The Pop Star. She had let her emotions get the better of her, and she wouldn’t let it happen again. This was perhaps part of why, soon after, she even swapped out the boy toy who went with her to the glove shop for another model. She felt she was getting too attached to the other one.