by Amy Brent
I smiled at the question. “Hundreds of times,” I said, head bobbing. “We all do it. It’s simple human nature.” I gestured toward her. “Haven’t you?”
“I suppose,” she said with a sigh that made her frown at the tablet. So young, I thought, but so many regrets. Bad haircuts. Bag hangovers. Bad relationships. Hot guys who ended up being total douche bags who fucked her best friend. Her story was not unique. I’d heard it all.
“You’re young,” I said. “We all make lots of mistakes in our youth.”
“I’m not that young,” she said, glancing up into my eyes, her fingertips tucking the strand of red hair behind her ear again. “I’m twenty-six.”
“Wow, twenty-six,” I said with a grin. “My darling, I have suits older than you.”
“You’re only thirty-nine,” she said, scolding me playfully with her eyes.
“Actually, I’m forty,” I said, putting a hand to my chest, making a pained face. “Granted, I’m a very young forty.”
“Whatever. Forty is not that old. You still look… I mean…” She gave me the first genuine smile of our time together. It made her face light up. I gazed into her blue eyes until she looked away.
“I still look what?” I asked playfully as the imaginary door between us started to creak open. “Please don’t say that I still look good for my age.”
“You still look very nice,” she said, uncrossing her legs. She turned sideways to face me on the sofa and held the tablet to her breasts. Lucky tablet. “At any age.”
“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Good, because that was how it was meant,” she said. “Now, tell me more about the tradeoff of sex for affection.”
Ah, warming up, but still on the clock. That was perfectly fine. I still had half an hour before the seminar began downstairs in the Grand Ballroom. Plenty of time to do whatever came next.
I said, “Quite simply, the male/female relationship is a series of tradeoffs and exchanges. Women trade men sex in exchange for affection. And other things, of course, like attention, security, safety, and hopefully, eventually, love. Men trade women affection in exchange for sex. Men are not nearly as concerned about where it might lead.”
“Because men just want to get laid,” she said, one eyebrow arching in judgment of all men and their naughty cocks.
“You’ll get no argument from me,” I said, smiling, nodding. “It’s the way we men have been wired since the dawn of man. It’s in our DNA. From the moment our cavemen ancestors first came out of the cave, we have been wired to want and need sex, to procreate, to spread our seed. To get laid.”
“In the book, you refer to men as ‘bees with penises, spreading their seed like bees spreading pollen through a field of sunflowers’.” She narrowed her blue eyes at me again. “Do you really believe that?”
“I wouldn’t have put it in the book if I didn’t,” I said playfully, leaning in and rolling my eyes. “Yes, men, by our very nature, are wired to spread our seed to ensure the survival of the species. Think about it this way, if it wasn’t for the male libido, the male need to reproduce, the human race would have died out eons ago. If we waited on women to initiate sex, well, there goes the planet.”
“Because most men are too lazy to get off the couch,” she said, giving me the look I had just given her. “And the only thing that will get them off the couch is the promise of pussy.”
I grinned at her use of the word. “Yes, the promise of pussy. And maybe beer and nachos. It depends on the man.”
“What does it take to get you off the couch, Dr. Curtis?” Her tongue went across her lips. The little gold ball in her tongue wedged between her teeth. She glanced around the hotel room. We were alone. The door was locked.
“What do you mean?’” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Is the promise of pussy enough to get you off the couch?” she asked, pursing her lips. “Or do you require beer and nachos?”
I smiled. Bingo. I turned to mirror her posture on the couch. “The promise of pussy can make me do all kind of things,” I said. “Especially when I don’t even have to get off the couch for it.”
She picked up her phone and tapped the button to turn off the recorder, then set the tablet and phone on the coffee table and slid toward me. Her hand started at my knee and slid slowly up toward my cock, which was waiting patiently and smiling slyly.
She cooed at me. “So, you wouldn’t get off the couch to have sex with me, Dr. Curtis? My pussy hair is red, just like the hair on my head. Most men love red pussy hair. Do you love red pussy hair, Dr. Curtis?”
“I am a big fan of red pussy hair,” I said, setting my hand on the back of the couch as she slid closer, her hand finding my cock chubbing up inside my linen pants. She gasped a little at the size of it. “And I would definitely get off the couch for you. Although, as hotel couches go, this one is pretty nice.”
“Can I suck your cock, Dr. Curtis?” she asked suddenly, her tongue rolling across her lips. The gold ball glistened with her spit. “I think you’ll love my technique.”
I pretended to glance at my watch. “Are you sure you want to do that now? We only have about ten minutes left, but you could come back later tonight and—”
“I’m sure,” she said, her voice low and husky. Her hand kept rubbing my cock until it was rock hard. It felt like it was going to rip through the linen material. A wet spot appeared at the tip, prompting her to tug at my belt. “I want your cock in my mouth. Now.”
“Have I answered all your questions?”
“Yes, just shut up and get your cock out,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am.” I leaned back and lifted my ass off the couch so she could open my pants and work them down to my knees. My cock was thrilled to be set free. She giggled when it sprang out and bobbed in the air before she could wrap her fingers around it.
“Wow, Dr. Curtis…” she said, her fingers working up and down the ten-inch shaft. “Your legend is true.”
I put my hands behind my head and took a long breath. “My legend?”
She smiled with the head of my cock at her lips. “My friend, Ursula, works for People Magazine. She gave you a blowjob when she interviewed you in Las Vegas last year. She said you had a huge cock and could make it do magical things.”
I chuckled. It always made me smile, the things these young girls talk about. Guys in biker bars talking about the pussy they’ve had had nothing on these girls. I shrugged as she took the round head into her mouth.
I sighed. “Well, so much for what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
She cupped my balls with her left hand and started to milk the veiny shaft with her right hand, twisting her fingers as they slid up and down. She stuck out her tongue and rolled the little gold ball under the head of my cock. Wow… she was right… I did love her technique.
As she took me fully into her mouth, stopping only when the head of my cock hit the back of her throat, my cellphone on the coffee table buzzed. It was Arianna, my agent and handler, calling from downstairs to let me know that everything was all set and the seminar would start on time.
There were several hundred people in the Grand Ballroom downstairs, mostly women, waiting for yours truly to bring a little wit, wisdom, and advice into their otherwise empty lives.
They wanted me to tell them it was okay that they were totally fucked up because there was a fix. There was hope. And it was detailed fully in my latest book, which they could have autographed for $50.
If they wanted a selfie with me it was $100.
If they wanted to attend the private VIP dinner later on tonight that was $1,000 a head. The dinner was capped at 100 and had been sold out for months. I still had a hard time believing anyone would pay $1,000 to dine in the same room as me, but I sold out these events wherever I went.
I can honestly say that I love my job… especially since I usually got one of these wonderful blowjobs or a nice quickie in the elevator before every event and usually had seve
ral ladies to keep me company for the night afterward. I loved one-on-one sex, but I really loved it when the bed was crowded with naked bodies.
My phone stopped buzzing. I looked at my watch. It was time to get the show on the road. I put my hands on the sides of… what was her name… oh yeah…Meredith… I put my hands on the sides of Meredith’s head and helped her along, bobbing her head over my cock, hitting the back of her throat without so much as a gag. Her fingers tightened around the shaft as she milked it up and down, twisting as they went, the ball in her tongue rolling over the underside of my cock, setting off a thousand tiny nerves that made my whole body tense.
She could feel my muscles tightening. She let my cock slide from her mouth, then used her spit to lube the shaft. She started pumping faster and faster. “Fuck… I’m gonna cum…” she said, though I had not had the chance to even touch her pussy. “Shoot your cum on my face… Dr. Curtis… make me… fuck… I’m cumming…. Yes… yes… yes…”
I pointed my toes and let the orgasm hit, crashing into my balls like a wave slamming into the shore. As Meredith pumped my cock like an oil derrick, I shot ropes of milky white goo in the air. It rose and fell on my cock and on her hand. She giggled like a kid watching a funny show and clamped her mouth onto the head and pumped the shaft until I had nothing left to give. She swallowed every drop, then cleaned me off with her tongue. I lay back, spent, struggling to breathe, until someone knocked on the door. That would be Ari. Telling me play time was over and work time was at hand.
I smiled down at Meredith, who was licking her fingers as if she’d just had a gourmet meal. I tucked the hair behind her ear and smiled.
“Did you get everything you need?” I asked.
She licked her lips and smiled. “Yes. Everything.” She pushed herself up and dabbed the corners of her lips with her fingertips. “If I need anything else… can I…”
“Of course,” I said with a smile. “I’ll have my assistant text you my number.”
“That would be great,” she said, leaning in to kiss my cheek as the knock on the door came again. She gathered up her things while I put myself back together. She packed them into her bag, and followed me to the door. When I opened the door, Ari was standing there with an impatient look on her slender face.
Arianna Goldman was fifty-seven, stick thin, with short silver hair and coal blue eyes that could stare down a cobra. She was dressed in her usual black pants suit and silk blouse with six-inch heels that brought her to about five-foot-eight. She wore no jewelry other than the silver Rolex I had given her ten years ago after she sold my first book at auction. Ari was my manager, my friend, my confidante, and my keeper. If it wasn’t for her I’d still be doling out hack psychiatric advice from a tiny office somewhere in Encino.
“It was great meeting you, Dr. Curtis,” Meredith said officially, sticking out her hand for me to shake. Her hand was sticky to the touch. Ari just rolled his eyes.
“It was great meeting you, Meredith,” I said, letting go of her hand and giving her a little nod. “I look forward to reading your article.”
She giggled a bit, then skipped off down the hall. Ari shook her head as we watched her go. “Jeez, man, it sucks being you,” she said. “The last time I had a girl that hot in my hotel room she left with my purse and a big chunk of my pride.”
“I’m sure it was a small price to pay for that moment of bliss,” I said with a sigh. “Is everything ready downstairs?”
Ari nodded as she let her eyes go up and down me. She noticed the wet spot on the crotch of my pants. “Yes, but you need to clean up and change,” she said, rolling her eyes like a teacher scolding a student she was fond of. “Then get downstairs. There are five hundred women ready to hang on your every word and write you a check.”
“Okay, I’ll hurry,” I said, stepping back into the room and leaning against the door. “And you’re right, you know.”
She frowned at me. “I am? About what?”
“It does suck to be me.”
I grinned at her until the door swung shut.
Chapter Three: Lane
Arianna took two ice cold Coronas from the hotel room mini fridge and brought them over to the sofa where I had gotten the Meredith-special earlier in the day. Now, I lay stretched out with my shirt and shoes off and an arm over my eyes. I was wearing a pair of black boxers and nothing else, my body still warm and damp from the steaming hot shower I had just taken after calling it a day. I wasn’t bashful in front of Ari. She was like my mom—or my big sister—and she was a lesbian. We’d seen each other in various stages of undress for years. Hell, back in the old days, we slept in the same hotel room bed and shared a shower to keep costs down. No number of pheromones or glances at my cock or her tits was going to change our relationship. Thank God. Sex just muddied things. That was a complication Ari and I would never have.
She set one of icy bottles between my bare thighs, making me jump, then took her beer and sat on the other side of the coffee table in one of the plush leather chairs. She kicked off her shoes, stretched out her long legs, and wiggled her toes.
“Ah, that’s better,” she said, bringing the bottle to her lips. “That was an incredibly long fucking day.”
I took a long drink and sighed. Drinking Coronas after an event had become a ritual for us. It started years ago when I was doing seminars for a few dozen people at a time in tiny motel meeting rooms. Now, I could fill a major hotel grand ballroom without blinking an eye and could afford to toast with Dom Perignon, but we still drank Coronas. It was our homage to the past.
Ari and I knew we were two of the luckiest two people on the planet, doing everything we got to do and getting paid insane amounts of cash for it. Ari got 15% of every nickel I made, and massive bonuses throughout the year based on sales and productivity. And she was worth every penny.
She not only managed my career, but negotiated book deals, lined up the speaking gigs, coordinated the seminars and events, oversaw the sale of schwag at the back of the room, and managed every other aspect of my life except for getting me laid. And she would have managed that for me if I had asked her to. For now, I had no problem lining up my own pussy. When you have pussy lining up, it’s not that hard.
“That was a long day,” I said with a sigh. I glanced sideways at her with the bottle resting on my chest, the condensation leaving a cold ring of moisture that felt good against my hot skin. I had been onstage for two hours, signed autographs and posed for pictures for another two hours, then held court at the VIP dinner for three hours. I was tired and sweaty and wrung out like a dish rag. All I wanted to do was finish my Corona and collapse into bed. I was so freakin’ tired it didn’t even bother me that I would be sleeping alone, for a change.
“Long, but profitable,” Ari said, the dollar signs dancing in her eyes. Ari had been a successful lawyer and accountant before I convinced her to chuck it all and roll the dice on a no-name psychiatrist and first-time author with big dreams of building an empire like Dr. Phil’s. We weren’t quite there yet, but we were getting closer and closer every year.
I smiled at the look on her face. She was grinning like the Grinch and counting dollars in her head. “I bet you know exactly how much we made today,” I said, narrowing my eyes at her. I licked the beer from my lips and waited. “Come on. Give. How much?”
She pushed her thin shoulders up and down. “We’re looking at a couple hundred thousand net, give or take the price of lobster.” She was referring to the cost of the VIP dinner of one hundred steaks and lobsters. Attendees had paid a thousand-dollars a head, giving us a hell of a profit margin. Ari smiled with the bottle at her lips and said, “Either way, we came out okay.”
“That’s good,” I said, stifling a yawn with the back of my hand. “Maybe now we can take a break and enjoy some of that cash we’ve been stockpiling since this book tour began.”
We’d been on the road nearly six months promoting my newest book, Trade Offs, with book signings, speaking at seminars and big e
vents, and I had no idea how many personal appearances. And we had done an endless stream of radio, TV, cable, and satellite promotion. I had talked so much about the fucking book that I wanted to poke my eyes out. It was fun and nothing like real work, but the road was kicking my ass. I hadn’t been home to my place in Malibu in months and it was starting to wear on me.
“We have another month of this,” she said. She propped her bare feet on the coffee table with her ankles crossed. For a woman of her age, she had exceptionally pretty feet. And don’t ask me why I noticed that. Ari is a lesbian and old enough to be my mom. Still, I’m a dude. Dudes notice shit non-dudes never do.
“Another month?” I whined, blowing out a long breath. “Fuck, Ari, I need a break. Six months on the road is too much.”
“You want that villa in Tuscany?” she asked, one penciled-in eyebrow cocked.
I huffed into the bottle. “You know I do.”
“Then stop your whining because when this tour is finished you’ll be able to pay cash for it.”
“Well, I just hope I’m still alive enough to enjoy it,” I said, leaning my head back on the cushion to stare at the ceiling. “It just gets old sometimes. You know?”
“I know, sweet cheeks,” she said, her head bobbing. “Just think how I feel. I’m doing all this with you for a lousy fifteen percent.” We smiled at each other. Her fifteen percent had totaled over five million dollars last year, not to mention another million in bonuses, and a new Tesla that she had never even bothered to drive.
“Tell you what,” I said, turning on my side to face her. I propped up on one elbow and aimed a finger in her direction. “You get me some time off and I’ll raise that to twenty-percent for the rest of the tour.”
“As tempting as that sounds, my dear one, the schedule is set in stone,” Ari said, mocking me with a sad face. “Quit your fucking whining. It’ll all be over in a month. Just hang on. Then you can spend an entire month at Northwoods decompressing with your usual gaggle of girls.”
