Eight days ago, the record label sent me to Oregon to prod our reclusive star musician into finishing his album. In Shane’s secluded mountain house, behind a wall of his sound booth, I discovered his secret room; a torture chamber of sorts in which he likes to be dominated. It was a shock to this vanilla girl, but I’ll do anything to get this damn album finished. It’s tough being a female executive in the music industry and I need to bring this album back to L.A. to keep my job. If being dominated inspires his music, then that’s what I’ll do.
Another morning dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt on the back deck drinking coffee. When is he going to finish? I got up, went inside the house and walked down to his studio in the basement to see how his progress was going. Shane was in the sound booth, reclined in a executive chair, smoking a cigarette as he looked at bimbo internet models on his phone. He was swiping away, building a stable of bikini photos from women in Portland on his phone. That is until I snatched the phone from his hand.