All About the D

by Lex Martin

  “Aww, you’re sweet.”

  She smirks. “I know.”

  I’m feeling a little lighter, less worn down, until I think about why I’m getting this outfit in the first place, which sobers me. “Ken, what if I don’t get the invite? I’ll have spent all of this money for a dress I won’t ever wear.”

  She nibbles her lip a moment and then brightens. “How about you get the dress because I know this is going to happen for you, but to assuage my little nervous Nelly, we’ll double-check the return policy and save the receipt. Just in case.”

  When I don’t say anything, she tugs on my wrist. “Come on. Take a chance. When have I ever steered you wrong?”

  I almost laugh because I can think of a few times, but I know she’s right. I need to take a chance. But more than that, I want to take a chance.

  The moment I open the front door to the house, my old Australian shepherd Chauncey greets Kendall and me with an enthusiastic tail wag and a little slobber.

  “Hey, boy.” I scruff the fur behind his ear. “Sorry I’m home so late.” He flops at my feet, and I rub his belly.

  I turn on the lights and let Chauncey out into the back yard before I pour us drinks.

  “Still haven’t unpacked, I see,” Kendall says as she looks around.

  “Hey, I unpacked the important things. My bed, my books, and the booze.” Yes, I still have moving boxes lining the walls six months after I bought this place, but my job is a total time suck.

  I hand her a glass of my finest and motion toward the living room.

  “Two Buck Chuck?” Kendall asks, taking a sniff of the wine.

  “Nope. I splurged for you and bought the stuff in the box.”

  She snorts and takes a big gulp.

  We collapse on the couch, and once I get some wine in my system, I decide to tell her about work.

  “So I have this potential client, and he could be big, but I’m not sure I can sell him to the partners.”

  Kendall kicks off her shoes and tucks her legs underneath her. “What does he do?”

  I consider how I need to phrase this to maintain my potential client’s confidentiality.

  While I’ll take Josh’s secrets to the grave, like his real identity and anything related to his contract negotiations, there’s nothing illegal or unethical about generically sharing the broad strokes of what I do or who I work for.

  “He has a blog.”

  She waits for me to tell her more, but I opt for the easy way out. “Just check it out for yourself.” I grab my laptop and type in the web address before I curl up next to her.

  Her eyebrows lift as she scrolls down. “You’re fucking with me.”

  “God’s honest truth, this guy called me yesterday and wants me to represent him.”

  “And you waited the whole night to mention this?” She elbows me hard, and I flinch.

  “Ouch.” I rub my arm and laugh. “Honestly, it’s kind of embarrassing.”

  “Oh, honey, there is nothing embarrassing about this guy.” Her head tilts as she studies an up-close photo of Josh’s manhood. “He’s… wow. He’s…”

  For the first time in our friendship, the woman is speechless. I laugh again, slightly mortified, and hide my face behind my one decorative pillow and mumble, “I know I’m crazy for even considering this.” I sink deeper into my overstuffed couch.

  “I think I’d do it just to know who’s behind the goods,” she whispers. “Oh, this one is kinda cute too. The way it’s tilted over like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.”

  “That’s his thing. A theme, I suppose.” In between pics and gifs of him jerking off are fairly beautiful shots of his dick as the Eiffel Tower, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Falling Water, or the Burj Khalifa.

  When I lower the pillow, Kendall is still staring at the screen, but now her cheeks are slightly flushed. “You’re turned on.” I snicker.

  “Uh, yeah, I’d say so.” She wheezes, her eyes wide. “Can you introduce me to him so I could be his fluffer?”

  “Fluffer?”

  “You know, stroke him so he’s hard and ready for his shots. That way he won’t strain his wrist.”

  “We wouldn’t want that.”

  “No, we definitely don’t want that.” She sits up straight and tucks her hair behind her ears. “Tell me everything, Evie—well, everything you’re allowed to tell me—and I’ll help you come up with a plan to get those old geezers at your job on board.”

  I smile, relieved, because Kendall could probably talk the devil into doing her bidding. And I’m probably going to need a little of her magic if I hope to reel in this big, uh, fish.

  4

  Josh

  Monday morning at 8:01, my cell phone rings from a 503 Portland area code number that I don’t know. Whoever’s calling me isn’t in my contacts, and I’m suspicious since I normally don’t give out my personal number except to family and a few close friends. Everyone else gets routed through my secretary, who doesn’t come in until nine, like the rest of my employees.

  Right now, though, I’m the only one in the office, and I stare at the phone ringing and loudly vibrating on my glass-topped desk, questioning whether I should answer it.

  What kind of person is this? Who the hell calls first thing Monday morning? And who the hell calls a cell phone?

  Civilized people text.

  But if I let it run to voicemail, I’ll have to check it, and that’s an even bigger pain in the ass.

  I hit answer, irritated at the interruption, until I hear a familiar, low, seductive voice. The irritation is gone, quickly replaced with a shot of lust, something that wakes me up faster than any injection of caffeine.

  “Josh? This is Evelyn Mills.”

  She sounds wary, slightly more tentative than she did last week, and I realize with a smirk what the difference is—now she’s seen my blog and understands why I’m being so cagey. She knows her task will be to protect my identity, and she’s had a whole weekend to Google-stalk me, find the articles written about the mystery man behind the famous dick—on BuzzFeed, Wired, Cosmopolitan, GQ—and see the photos on my blog.

  Of my junk. Hard.

  I want to laugh with embarrassment, but I can’t. I have to stay professional. This is my dick we’re talking about. It’s no laughing matter.

  Okay, it’s a little amusing.

  “Hey, thanks for getting back to me.”

  I hear her let out a breath on the phone, and my thoughts go dirty, just like that. What I wouldn’t give to hear that provocative voice when I’m working on my blog. And by working I mean—

  “I reviewed your blog over the weekend, and I have some concerns before my firm agrees to take on your representation.”

  A flash of annoyance races through me. Cartwrights don’t have to jump through hoops to get service.

  But she doesn’t know I’m a Cartwright.

  And maybe, just maybe, since I’m asking her to be the front person for a pornographic internet site, I should let her voice her reservations. To represent me effectively, she has to be comfortable with the subject matter.

  I loosen my tie and pace behind my desk. “Let me guess. You don’t know if you can even present my blog to your partners because of the subject matter.”

  She pauses, and I know I hit the nail on the head. “Even though I want to help you, I’m not sure if our traditional law firm can take you on as a client.” The honesty in her voice is palpable.

  But this is what I want. I don’t want a brown-noser. I want someone to tell me the truth, to protect my interests and not feed me a line of bullshit.

  She continues, “Waller has a reputation to uphold.”

  “So do I,” I interrupt. “That’s why I contacted you.”

  My reputation has more to lose than Waller’s. They have many clients. One won’t destroy the firm’s standing in the community. But me? I bring with me all the history and stature of being a Cartwright. We aren’t porn stars—not that I’m a porn star per se. Admittedly, I’m the one wh
o voluntarily put my dick on the internet, but I take responsibility for my inappropriate actions. Although now that the blog is flourishing beyond what I ever thought was possible, I want to capitalize on it. As long as I can ensure that no one ever connects me with this project.

  I push back. “My reputation is just as important.”

  “I know.” She sounds frustrated, and I feel bad for her, but goddamn it, if she’s going to be my attorney, she needs to be able to put up with me. Her business-like tone returns, and she says the next part in a rush. “I would be pleased to take on the challenges of representing you, but to be frank, I want to make sure you’re who you say you are.”

  That’s funny. “I haven’t said who I am.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  It’s silent for way too long, and in the pause, I realize she’s exactly what I need. An attorney who asks questions, doesn’t accept things as they appear to be, and verifies I’m getting the best offers possible. So while she’s being a pain in the ass and not jumping on the chance to represent me, I appreciate her approach.

  I’d hate to have to call every firm in town to find another attorney and tell them about my dick blog. Once is enough.

  It’s quiet on the phone. Someone has to move this stalemate forward. I pick me to save time. “A consultation with a lawyer is confidential, right? You can’t tell anyone I contacted you?”

  “Generally, the name of a client is not a secret, but your case is unique. If you ask me not to tell anyone, I won’t. Anything you disclose to me is between you and my firm and doesn’t go beyond that.”

  I think about this for a moment. No one, absolutely no one can find out.

  It’s her job to keep this secret. In some ways, I suppose I can trust her because I’ll be paying her. Right? But there must be a hundred employees at her firm. That’s a whole lot of people knowing who I am.

  As if she hears me, she continues, “To be clear, work on any project is on a need-to-know basis. I must, however, present you to the partners to determine if they want to bring you on as a client, so there will be discussion of the subject matter, but I’ll do my best to minimize the connection with your name.”

  I’m stuck. Do I trust her? Does she trust me? Am I really going to show my face to someone that can connect me with my explicit internet activities? Activities that are not widely accepted in society?

  And if I do tell her who I am, will it be wasted because her firm will reject me as a client?

  I need to move on this because I can’t afford to be without legal representation for my upcoming contract negotiations. “Meet me for coffee at The Coffee Pot on Broadway. At nine.”

  She doesn’t respond immediately, and I quickly understand why. She probably still thinks I’m a creeper. Who can blame her? I take pictures of my dick and post them online.

  I’m a modern-day flasher in a raincoat.

  But there’s a difference. I’m not sending anyone unsolicited pictures of my dick—I’d never do that—and I don’t direct message anyone.

  I lower my voice. “Evelyn. It’s a public place. I’d suggest your office, but if I’m seen there, it might raise questions I’m not prepared to answer. At least this way, you’ll see I’m a real guy, not an internet weirdo.” Then I can’t help but laugh. “Well, maybe I am an internet weirdo, but I’m the legit kind.” That’s not helping, and I let out a breath. “Look. I’m from a very prominent Portland family. I can’t have anyone know who I am.” My tone gets harsher. “That will be your job. To ensure that no one ever finds out my name.”

  “Understood.”

  “It goes without saying that no one knows I’m doing this. Well, no one except my best friend.” Which is probably one person too many.

  “I read that on your blog.” And she quotes me. “‘You’re seeing my dick because I lost a bet.’” She laughs, and it’s gentle and light. I immediately want to make her do it again. “Now that’s a story I want to hear.”

  Not on her life. But I’ll tell her my name when I see her.

  Less than an hour later, I walk into The Coffee Pot, look around and realize I have no idea who I’m looking for.

  The Coffee Pot is a Portland institution, a throwback diner with small, brown mugs and squat amber water glasses. But the hipsters have gotten to it, so the coffee is excellent and the menu is updated, with a few odd items like liver and onions for an attempt at authenticity. It’s crowded at the moment, full of college students, office workers, and tourists, and I scan the room looking for a woman by herself who looks like a lawyer.

  Problem is, there are about a dozen. Is she brunette? Blonde? Redhead? About now I’m really wishing she’d put her picture on the firm’s website. Other than her voice, I have no way of identifying her.

  Worse, she has no way of identifying me, either—that’s the whole point. And the only pictures she’s seen of me are of my dick. How’s this for a creep move? Go up to one of the professional women sipping coffee and ask, “Excuse me, are you the one who has seen my dick?”

  I should have thought this through better.

  My phone buzzes with a text. I’ll be at The Coffee Pot in five minutes.

  She’s not here yet.

  I grab a seat and text her, I’m sitting in the last booth on the left-hand side.

  Grateful for the relatively private table, I order coffee and a waitress slops it down and gives me a flirty smile. I push up my glasses, run my hands through my hair, making it stand on end, and look over to see a woman standing at the edge of the booth with an inquisitive look on her face.

  “Are you Josh?” There’s that voice.

  “Yes,” I say in relief and stand. Then I get a good look at her.

  She’s fucking beautiful.

  Clear, pale gray eyes, with dark lashes that look natural, not fake. I tear my attention away from her piercing gaze, half-hidden by bangs, to see she has smooth, shoulder-length dark brown hair, and a body to die for—all tits and ass and hourglass curves.

  This is my potential attorney?

  She’s wearing a black blazer over a white Oxford button-down shirt that strains at her chest, and it’s all I can do not to stare. I mean, men look at boobs, and we lose focus. I want to see those buttons go flying. The outline of a white, lacy bra peeks through the thin material. Her blouse is tucked into her black pencil skirt, and she’s wearing black heels that are a little scuffed.

  The outfit doesn’t look particularly fashionable, but her beauty more than makes up for it.

  She holds out her hand. “I’m Evelyn.”

  Slim fingers grip mine. Her skin is soft, and I can smell her perfume, a light, sweet scent that makes me want to hold her hand longer.

  It takes a moment to come to my senses, to remember that she’s seen my blog, my dick, and all the ways I like to jerk off.

  This could be embarrassing. I need to keep this meeting as professional as possible.

  Clearing my throat, I let go of her hand. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Evelyn. Please, have a seat.”

  After we sit across from each other in the booth, she sets down a yellow legal pad, and rummages in her purse for a pen.

  Then she smiles, and it’s breathtaking. Her lips are full and pink, not from lipstick, just the natural tint of her skin, and when she swipes her tongue across her lower lip, I almost groan.

  Fuck, this might be harder than I thought.

  No, moron, if it gets any harder, this is definitely gonna get awkward.

  Taking a deep breath, I motion to her. “Let’s get you coffee first.” I flag down the waitress, who is no longer smiling broadly at me. After she takes Evelyn’s order and walks away, I scan the area. No one is paying attention to us. The people seated nearby seem wrapped up in a little cocoon of food and legal stimulants, and there’s enough ambient noise to drown out our voices. I relax into my seat and lift my eyes across the table. “Okay, here’s the deal. My name is Joshua Cartwright.”

  Evelyn stills as her eyes widen.

/>   I nod. “So you get it.”

  My family has been part of Portland for a hundred and eighty years. There is a Cartwright Square and a Cartwright Shopping Center. Cartwright Avenue extends up and down the entire city.

  My mother even has a fucking prize-winning rose named after her in the famous Portland Rose Garden.

  Cartwright Mansion overlooks the city on the northwest side, making sure no one forgets who built this metropolis.

  And lest my family be accused of being underachievers, my brother is running for the United States Senate.

  Which makes this in-person meeting an extremely bad idea.

  She could ruin me.

  Her head dips as she whispers, “Those are really pictures of you on that blog?”

  “I take them with my phone or with a tripod, and then use Photoshop to, uh, create the effects.”

  She smiles, her stunning gray eyes alight, and she shakes her head. Just then the waitress returns with a cup of coffee for Evelyn.

  “Sugar?” I ask.

  “Yes.” We both reach for the condiment at the same time, and I accidentally graze her hand. We draw back and apologize, but I’m not sorry at all. In fact, I want to touch her again.

  Concentrating on the sugar dispenser, she pours a spoonful into her coffee and stirs, then sits back. “Your website pictures are beautiful and artistic. They’re creative and humorous.” She looks into her coffee. “They’re hot, too. But I can’t believe a Cartwright runs that blog.”

  “I’ll prove it to you,” I say, and I stand up, hand on my belt.

  “No, no, no,” she starts, holding up her hands.

  “Relax.” I laugh and lower my voice. “I’m not gonna flash you. I was just going to prove that it’s really me.” And I push down the side of my pants and lift up my button-down shirt slightly, exposing part of my hip. “I have a mole right here. You can check the blog. It’s in every picture that shows my waist.”

  She mutters something under her breath that I don’t catch. Then she looks at me. “Yes, I noticed the mole.” She swallows, her face burning bright.