Wendy Williams is about to have the orgasm of a lifetime. Her wig is off, her skin is moist and smells like Georgia peach, her eyes are shut, the AC is fighting August weather (and winning, for now), and her man is doing his thing. A tingly feeling is spreading from her guts and seems to be flooding the night streets of Livingston, New Jersey.
But, just when Wendy Williams is about to reach the climax, she feels something --something else. A presence people in the showbizz call the showbuzz, the angst that precedes each and every performance, and that gets dissolved, as quickly as Kool-Aid in water, when the camera is on.
She opens her eyes. There is a studio audience of 78 people (60 women and 18 men, 17 of which declare themselves gay and one who does not declare himself gay, but just made out in the toilet with the guy wearing the foil-like jacquard jaquet two rows in front of him) sitting in black foldable chairs that have been placed around her queen bed, which is the size of two king beds, but she insists on calling it a queen bed because, well, she’s Wendy and Wendy has principles.
Wendy jumps out of bed, making her man’s face fall, mouth-first, in a pillow that was placed under her pelvis to assure some comfort. While Wendy Williams is trying to cover her privates with the wig that was over a lamp, 156 hands pend from limp wrists and, with the trainless training of a church choir, the audience yells:
“How you do-uhn?”
“Say it like you mean it, woo-woo shout it out. Feel it, feel it, feel it”
The theme song is boosting the stereos and the camera is on. Used to sliding the buttery floor of the studio and being tanned by the fake suns of lighting for a daily hour, Wendy takes the stage.
“Thanks for watching! Say hello to my co-hosts, my live studio audience”
Wendy is looking straight at the glassy eye of a camera, the size of a doberman. But she stutter when she gets “studio audience”. The same people who were in her room the previous night are taking the seats turned to the stage.
The audience had slept on her room --the AC officially lost the war against August weather after five minutes, so thank the slow development of humankind for this letters not being able to carry scents.
Her husband and son urged her to call the police, but she knew what happened to celebrities who call the police on stuff: Hot Topics happens. So she decided to sleep the studio audience off. Id did not work. At 5am, Wendy decided she was not going down without a fight.
The sun was still a promise in the horizon when she took her SUV and hit the freeway. The road was empty, except for a sightseeing bus that was always paired with her car, with the studio audience snapping pictures.
She parked her car at the one place where no one would follow her. Her guilty pleasure, that wasn’t shared by a single soul. Wendy Williams took a three hour visit to Costco. But, instead of running away, the pack os fan-stalker was very participative. A dozen of retired women would boo her choices of french mustard or : “Ain’t nobody got money for that”.
There is no explanation to how did these people got there. How can they stalk her with the agility of a fox (Wendy Williams would say “the agility of Amber Rose when she spots a happy marriage she can tear to pieces”, but she is too busy pretending not to be freaking out right now while she is on stage).
But there they are: a face twitching, tongue clicking, crown-wearing audience, exploding in cheer every time she expresses a common-sense with a witty phrase, or dims her eyes and spread bottom lip when uttering her catchphrase.
“Well, it would be news if a picture of her dressed, and well dressed, had leaked”, Wendy says about the new nude pictures of a daytime reality TV star that surfaced. She sips tea and spills T like she does every day, for two generations now. But something is off. She seems tense. There is a twitch in her eye, where usually there’s nothing but shine.
When Hot Topics is done, it is time to interact with the audience, that gets to talk to her in Ask Wendy. So Wendy Williams stands in the belly of the beast, between roles 4 and 5. She is faking a smile and distributing her five feet eleven (and an undisclosed amount of pounds) of native intelligence to doubts of the real people.
“Come on over.”
She says to a white woman with cornrowed hair.
“Hey Wendy, how you do-uhn? I’m Sarah from Idaho. My question is: I recently caught my best friend making out with my brother. She’s a player. What should I do?”
“Was she having a good time?”
“For all I’ve seen, she was”
“Was he having a good time?”
“Well, then you know what to do: nothing.”
The crowd goes insane. For the noise, it seems like there are more people than when the show had started. And there is. The audience was metastasizing. Now the man who had declared himself straight, but had made out with the flamboyant set designer in the foil-like jacuqard jacket, is sharing his sit with a woman that he kisses every other minute and two kids: his wife and children. The very pregnant woman was now carrying a baby covered in placenta.
The show is a success. For everyone, but for the host.
On her way out, Wendy Williams goes through the crowd that lines up in front of the studio, in 26th street. The people who had tickets for that day and couldn’t enter, because the studio audience was already taking the whole studio.
A tourist from Idaho, her best floral dress soaked with sweat under the bosom and an imaginary moustache of salty water polishing her upper lip, yells
“We waited for five hours to get in. You think you’re better than us, honey?”
But Wendy does not. She is just very confused.
“Just cause you got money?”
Wendy does have money. But it’s useless now. She called the best bodyguard companies. No one would touch the stalkers --even Justin Bieber’s crew refused the job.
So Wendy asks Wendy what she should do, while she enters her SUV and sees the shadow of the sightseeing bus pairing with her car. Her driver asks.
“Do you want me to turn on the TV, so you don’t have to look at them? JJ is on.”
And it hits her. Of course. How could she have not thought of it before? She decides to do it Wendy style. She will take her real-life drama to the television.
Wendy Williams is as demurred as Wendy Williams can be, in a black Versace lace dress that covers her upper body, for showing respect, but shows a little legs, for showing off. She sits down as the
Announcer: TV host Wendy Williams is suing 76 unknown people, for following her for the past 48 hours, breaking into her propertie and eating all the Häagen-Dazs she had left in the fridge.
The honorable Judge Judy enter the room, that is actually a television studio dressed as a court. There is a collective gasp when the five feet woman takes her place.
“Mrs. Williams, it is your claim that the defendants have been… following you for the past 48 hours, is that correct?”
“Stalking, your honor”
“Why have them been doing it?”
“I do not know, your honor?”
“Have you tried to take
“That’s not my question. I didn’t ask you if you were I asked you whether you had called the police.”
“No, I have not”
Wendy covers the half of her mouth that is not beeing filmed and, pretending to be telling a secret, she whispers in the loudest voice she can utter.
“I even went to Costco to , your honor.”
Judge Judy laughs.
“Oh, jeez. Costco didn’t solve it? You’re in trouble, young lady”
Judge Judy turns to the side of the defendants. They are all sitting towards Wendy.
“You. All of you! Look at me, not at her! What are your names?”
The crowd stands in a wave, like in a soccer match.
“How you doiiiiiin?”
“QUIET! How did you end up here?”
One of the defendants stands up, hand raised. She wants to say something.
“Oh, so we got a class representative. Go ahead, answer the question”
The woman claws the hand that had been raised, and now if trying to hold a hand microphone that is not there, and starts to talk giddily.
“Hey Judge Judy, how you do-uhn? I’m Sarrah from Idaho. My question is: I recently caught my best friend making out with my brother, She’s a player. What should I do?”
“What? Have you all gone bonkers? Am I having a stroke or is Justice being pointed at the face and laughed at?”
The crowd breaks in laughter.
“ Why are you people doing this?”
Judge Judy gavels the audience back to a state of silence.
“I would sentence you to death if I could. I would, believe me, cause this is more than a tort we got going on here. But, since this is make believe court and I can’t, you’re fined in five thousand dollars each. And five more thousand for every time you approach the”
And, just like it had condensed from thin air, the crowd disassembles in the blink of an eye. There is no one else in the room. Just two TV hosts that won’t change another word after the cameras are off --they will just smile to one another, knowing that some good television had been made that afternoon.
Wendy goes back to spilling the T on TV and having unattended orgasms two times a month. But they will never be as good again.