[UPDATE: This exerpt is apparently fake. Having actually read 'Confessions of a Video Vixen', we simply assumed Karrine had experienced a falling-out with her ghostwriter, possibly after finding him in bed with another women after experiencing simultaneous orgasms with him just moments before. We kind of still believe it's real, but if someone made this up, we would totally do him.]
New York Times bestselling author Karrine "Supahead" (the nickname is about her brain, see) Steffans has a new book, The Vixen Diaries, on the way, and it looks poised to be a huge departure from her most recent masterpiece Confessions of a Video Vixen.
Because she proceeded as she promised God and ceased writing about how big every hip-hop star's dick was to focus on penning messages of hope and inspiration for other impressionable young women like she said she was going to? Um, well somewhat? Diaries, for instance, provides a more nuanced portrayal of the role of penis-size during sex — Jay-Z, for instance, is "real thick and juicy but you cant stand looking at him when he's on top," and Busta Rhymes believes that "because you are left sore he thinks he did something." And where Confessions leaves us off with a bout of "simultaneous orgasms" Karrine achieved with Usher, Diaries begins, according to an excerpt in MediaTakeOut, with an, um, lesser Usher experience!
It was fu**ing horrible and on top of that it was smelling back there. This man is not packing, his d*ck is way small and he was having a hard time trying to find my hole. Then ol' boy did something out of this world, he yelled out something Haitian. I was sick to my stomach. I got dressed and ran out of there.
Did that passage leave you a little, um, sore? Then maybe you should skip the the part about Big Pun's dick being the size of a can of Glade, and stay here. We pulled out our old copy of Confessions for an interlude of the literotica comfort food that was a session with Ice-T:
I picked up the room key at the front desk. Once I was settled, there was a soft knock at the door and my heart seemed to skip a thousand beats. I straightened my clothes, smoothed out my hair, took another deep breath, and flung the door as wide as it would go until it hit the adjacent wall. I jumped into Ice-T's arms and held on tight as I could. I smelled him, taking in every molecule.
Ice and I spent most every day together. I craved to be near him. I needed him. I needed Ice to teach me, to make me better, and to undo all of the awful things that had been done to m. Ice taught me a lot about how to make it in Los Angeles — where to eat, where to shop, how to negotiate, and how to know my worth professionally. He usually wore a hat of some sort, sat with his legs crossed, appearing as if he was deep in thought. He rarely moved until it was time to go.
On the night when we stayed in — and there were many — Ice and I would just quietly lie together, enjoying each other's presence. Sometimes, we drove around in his black-on-black Mercedes, and I held his hand. Ice taught me that I should never hold someone's hand completely, just the smallest finger. This would show that I'm not asking for all of him, just a small part.
We spent a lot of time at his office in Hollywood, where he had a "pimp room." The office was on the top floor of the building and it overlooked the city. The pimp room had oversize red velvet curtains and black leather sofas. There were a few accessories that stood out — a giant "pimp-tionary," a dictionary of pimp terminology, and a video-camera set upon a tripod. In this room we watched porn and made a few flicks of our own. When we were together, I felt like a woman. I was all his.
I remember that first Christmas in Los Angeles. It fell on a Sunday, and he told his then longtime girlfriend and their young son that he was going to the bank or something. He came over and spent time with me so I wouldn't be alone. We both knew there was really no excuse for him not to be home on Christmas morning since everything was closed, but that never mattered to us. He operated in his own space and time. No one made Ice do anything he didn't want to do.
When we made love, it was never sexual; rather, it was like he was feeding me. With every slow, wet stroke, with every warm, sweet kiss, he gave me pieces of himself and let me know that he trusted and cared for me. I felt grown-up, knowing I could please a man like that— a man with so many more years and experiences than me. At those moments, I felt complete.
Leaked! Excerpts from Superhead's New Book [Media Take Out]