She says she's a bit OCD: "I hate the sound of metal on metal. And if something isn't even, it weirds me out — like if my girlfriend hits me on the right side of my butt, it feels numb on the left." She cracks her knuckles. She's a compulsive boob-grabber. She's seen the movie Due Date literally eight times this week.
Last year, she bought a 12-bedroom mansion in Beverly Hills, but it's taking forever to renovate ("The pool has been a nightmare"), so in the meantime she's renting an apartment in Westwood with Melissa and Oliver, her toy poodle. She loves going to the grocery store and cooking for herself; enjoys a nice chardonnay at the end of the day; forgoes weed (or at least claims to); and has a killer story about getting blackout drunk on bathtub moonshine while on vacation in Mexico. She digs true-crime reality shows like Beyond Scared Straight and Snapped ("about women who snap"), and she says the last book she read was called Mafia Princess. She's also chronically late and doesn't have a driver's license, but otherwise is as down-to-earth and un-diva-like as anyone with 1,500 pairs of shoes can be.
At one point during dinner, something catches her eye. "Oh, my God," she says, lowering her voice, "Colin Farrell is right there. And there's all those crazy rumors about us right now!"
Sure enough, across the restaurant, the Irish heartthrob is having what appears to be a business dinner with some associates. Last November, he and Rihanna were on a British talk show together, where she told a story about an awkward bikini wax; since then they've been rumored to be trading salacious texts. "He probably thinks I'm starting all these crazy rumors," she says. "We don't even have each other's numbers. I wish. He's smoking."
Just then, Farrell looks over. Rihanna waves. A few minutes later he comes over, radiating Gaelic charm, and swoops in for a hug and a peck on the cheek. "Hello, sweetheart. Good to see you. How you doing?"
"I'm good," beams Rihanna, "how are you?"
"I'm good, thanks." He nods toward the door, where the paparazzi are gathered. "Our friends outside are gonna get some good mileage out of this. We're gonna be texting each other all fucking night!"
"Right?" Rihanna laughs. "That's hilarious."
"It's good to see you, baby." He gives her another squeeze, then ducks through the kitchen and out a back door.
Sure enough, the next day, the blogs are all over it. Perez Hilton says the pair were "spotted having dinner together." According to Hollywood Life, they "were careful to leave at separate times so as not to be photographed." MediaTakeout refers to Farrell as Rihanna's "new boyfriend" and tells readers with "100 percent assurance that the two were on a date." (It also calls Giorgio Baldi "L.A.'s top Irish restaurant.")
The truth is, Rihanna is unattached. "I'm not dating," she says. "I'm not sexing, I'm not even sexting. It's on complete nil." She says she hasn't been with anyone since breaking up with Dodgers slugger Matt Kemp, which went down before the public found out in December, so it's been at least four months since she got any action. "You think you're disappointed?" she says. "Try being in this body."
Still, she says, there are alternatives. "When you're not with the person you want to be intimate with, a picture is the next best thing. Well, Skype is safer. But a picture lasts a long time. When you're alone, and those horny moments come up, pictures can be very handy."
That said, she adds, "I haven't gotten a dick picture in a long time. I think people are a little afraid. It can turn out bad."
Unfortunately, she knows this firsthand. Two years ago, the Internet got ahold of several photographs of her in various states of disrobement, several of them pretty graphic. Rihanna still remembers when she found out, having just landed on a flight to Hawaii. "I got off the plane, and I had 27 messages. I remember Katy's message stuck out because she said, 'Babe, are you OK?' Right away, I knew it was serious." When she read the one from her manager breaking the news, she says, "I could barely stand. I went to the first bathroom I saw and just sat in the stall with the door open. People kept coming in and staring at me sitting on the toilet bowl. I was mortified. I didn't even want to leave the airport."
For the next few days, she says, "I fucking shut off everybody. I didn't talk to my family. I didn't talk to my managers. The next day was Mother's Day, so I sent my mom flowers and just waited for her to text me."
But then her mom did, and she made her feel a lot better. These days she has a healthy sense of humor about the whole thing. Recently a fan sent her a link to some pictures, asking what they were. Her reply? "That would be . . . ME, when I was skinny!"
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