I thought this story was fake when i first read, kind of like reading The Onion, since it reads like a bad soft-core romance novel. I have attached a particularly salacious section for you below:
They rarely left the townhouse-style dwelling, having room service bring them champagne, oysters, steak, anything they wanted. At one point, Smith had a yen for fried chicken, so she sent her limo driver in search of a KFC. He returned with five buckets of Extra Crispy, and container after container of mashed potatoes with gravy — a fave of Smith’s. (At one point, she smeared potatoes and gravy all over Soto’s privates and licked them off.) Soto noticed strains of racism in Smith’s attraction to him, but he was having too good a time to refuse her demands.
“At first, it was all in fun,” Soto details. “She’d call my you-know-what her ‘tomahawk,’ her ‘wooden Indian,’ or ‘big wampum.’ Sometimes she’d ask me to do a war dance naked with this feather from one of her dresses stuck in my baseball cap. I tried to tell her that the Tohono O’odham don’t wear feathers, but she didn’t care. She thought it was funny, and it turned her on, so I did it, though I have no idea if our people even have a war dance.”