Sex. Celebrity. Politics. With Teeth
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Sex. Celebrity. Politics. With Teeth

Your Imaginary Boyfriend: Kanye West

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Welcome back to Your Imaginary Boyfriend/Girlfriend, Jezebel's new series in which we explore the wild and entirely fabricated world of dating a famous person. As is the risk with most fan fiction, things might get weird and things might get creepy, but the important thing is that we all have a good time.

This week's imaginary boyfriend is Kanye West.

It was only three months ago that you were working a temp job –- sitting in a windowless room all day and organizing files for an accounting firm -– in an attempt to save money to pay your college loans. Now look at you. You're sitting front row at Paris Fashion Week and having a whispered conversation with Beyonce as she gently bounces Blue Ivy on her knee.


"You're not worried that she'll cry?" You ask quietly.

Beyonce laughs and it sounds like champagne glasses clinking together.

"God, no," she says. "Blue Ivy never cries. Well, unless you ask her to."

"Interesting," you reply, taking a moment to look around and take in your elite company. A waving Mary-Kate Olsen attempts to catch your eye from across the room. You wave back, puzzled. As far as you know, the two of you have never met.


"Don't worry about everyone else," Beyonce says, noticing your nervous glancing. "Let's just have a good time."

You smile and sigh in relief. There's no reason to be nervous really. Beyonce has invited you with her to bond. "Your boyfriend has been touring with my husband," she had said. "We'll be around each other a lot so there's no reason we shouldn't get along, too."


You shake your head. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. You can't believe that Kanye West is officially your boyfriend. This was never what you had intended on happening that night that you first met -– that night you just happened to be visiting your friend who was bartending at Le Bain and suddenly you were asked over to Kanye West's table. You're not usually the nightclub type, you generally don't get worked up by celebrities, but this night, for some celestial reason, you decided to go with it. A few hours worth of bottle service later and you were agreeing to go with him back to his apartment because, oh, what a story it would make.


Of course, things didn't go as you'd planned. He had walked you into his ostentatious living room and offered you a drink before lighting a fire in the gas fireplace. Above the mantel hung a gigantic portrait of his own face.


"Cool painting," you had said.

"Thanks," he replied. "I had the artist mix the paint with gold dust. Gives it an extra shine."


"Yeah, I guess I see it."

He was silent for a moment, staring sullenly into his drink. You were starting to wonder whether or not you should get up and leave when, suddenly, he spoke up:

"You ever feel like people don't know the real you?"

You looked back at him, alarmed with the sudden change in mood.

"Um, I guess so."

"I knew you would. Because sometimes I feel like people don't know the real me."

You had no idea where he was going with this so you sat silently, waiting for him to continue.


"It's like they expect me to be all confidence and bravado all the time, but Yeezy isn't like that. I know you know what I mean."

You didn't, but you nodded your head anyway.

"We don't always have to be what they need us to be," he had said, reaching out and gripping your hand fiercely, his eye contact intense.


"No, I guess not."

For a moment, he smiled brilliantly, but then his face began to crumple.

"Oh, god," you had said, patting him on the shoulder. "Oh, no. Please don't cry."


But it was too late. Kanye West had started to weep.

"I knew you'd get it," he repeated over and over again, curling up in a ball and placing his head in your lap. "I saw you and I knew you'd get it."


You had sat like that for a while -– your hands awkwardly rubbing his back and his loud sobs echoing around the room. Eventually, he quieted. Assuming he had fallen asleep, you made to get up to leave, only to have him clutch at your waist, panicked.

"No," he had said, worriedly. "Stay, please. You can sing to me."

You had almost told him to fuck off there and then, but something –- perhaps it was the desperate and sad look in his eyes — stopped you.


"What do you want me to sing?" you asked hesitantly.

"A lullaby from when you were a baby, one of your favorite songs, anything."

Your mind drew a blank so you started to quietly sing the first song that popped into your head.


"Uh, I hopped off the plane at L.A.X. with a dream and my cardigan. Welcome to the land of fame excess. Am I gonna fit in?"

You had woken up the next morning with all your clothes still on, spooning Kanye West on the sofa. (He was the little spoon.) He roused a few minutes later and asked you to wait.


"I want to give you something," he had said, leaving you alone in the room. He returned a moment later. "Here. It's a diamond."

"Oh, you don't have to -–"

"No," he cut you off. "It reminds me of you."

"Well, thank you. That's very generous."


He had offered to take you to dinner that night and you agreed, though you weren't sure why. Maybe it was confusion, maybe it was concern, maybe it was that you sort of liked him. In the end, the point is that you had agreed and that later that night, back at his apartment, he had asked if he could read you some of his poems and then once again cried himself to sleep in your arms.


You had fallen into a pattern after that and now, only a few months later, he had flown you around the world, introduced you to your heroes and even wrote a song – "Consummate Slut" – in your honor. He still cries, almost every night and, though it worries you, you know that he's just a sensitive spirit and that you, just by being there for him, are giving him as much as he gives you.

"Are you ready to go?" Beyonce asks. "If you want we can go for lunch and then fly to London for a sleepover at Gwyneth Paltrow's house."


"Yeah," you say smiling. "Yeah, that sounds great."

And it is.

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