Carmen would later write that Lucas totally botched the experiment: “Food is the trickiest test of a man’s maturity,” she said. “With skilled hands it’s a kind of physical art. With Nice Guy’s grimy paws it was like a toddler playing with finger paint.”
But Lucas saw this coming and had countered: “There should have been something carnal about it, like fucking a woman who has just devoured prey. But Carmen treated our encounter like she was dining at Jean-Georges and insisting on the precise usage of fifteen different forks. Where’s the fun?”
Empire was billed $4,926 for cleaning services.
CHAPTER 22
In the weeks that followed, Jays messengered an assortment of items to their hotel rooms: handcuffs and a cock ring, erotic graphic novels and a copy of the Kama Sutra. He had them screw in the shower, screw while watching porn, screw while using sex talk from a best-selling romance novel.
At work, a ritual had sprung up. Whenever a new column appeared, Lucas’s colleagues read Carmen’s best lines and zingers to one another, sometimes shouting them across the office. Lucas asked why nobody seemed interested in Nice Guy’s quips and Franklin replied, “Because he’s sincere, which is, like, boring.”
The glee everybody took in Carmen’s arrows was pure schadenfreude—exactly what she’d said about people craving judgment. But Lucas wondered if the column’s popularity was really an acknowledgment that deep down everyone felt embarrassed and inadequate about sex. Maybe they were so eager to skewer the underdog because they empathized with Nice Guy.
Or maybe that was overly generous. Maybe people just sucked.
Lucas hadn’t felt this bullied since middle school. Back then, his nemesis was a kid named Max Ostera. Lucas never understood why Ostera picked on him. Lucas wasn’t a nerd and he wasn’t competition. He was, simply, normal. But the taunting was relentless and, one day, Lucas had had enough. He couldn’t remember precisely how the fight began, but soon he and Max were shoving each other on the baseball field, in front of ten other kids. Whenever Max pushed, Lucas staggered back two full steps just to keep his balance. When Lucas pushed, Max barely budged. It was an impossible matchup. Like juiced-up Barry Bonds against an eighty-year-old George Steinbrenner.
Then Max reached back for a punch. Lucas saw it coming. He could have ducked, thrown up his hands to block. Instead, he had a thought—or maybe it was more intuition, some evolutionary mode that asserted itself: Win by losing. Take it. Take it publicly.
The punch landed squarely on Lucas’s nose. Blood erupted. Lucas fell to the ground. And then everyone rushed over to Lucas, to make sure he was OK. Max—the obnoxious thug—was suddenly isolated. He walked away, feigning victory but left all alone. And once Lucas got over the pain, he stood back up, face bloodied, and asked to be next at bat. Because he was still on the field and Max wasn’t.
Now, thanks to eighth-grade Max Ostera, Lucas the adult had an idea for how to deal with Carmen.
Nice Guy,
I’ve had sex in many bar bathrooms. I’ve done it in the Uniqlo changing room. I gave a guy a blow job in the back of a taxi, and was so stealthy that the driver thought he had only one (very relaxed) passenger. A public quickie is never really about the quality of the sex. I’m damn well guaranteed not to get off. But we ladies do it because giving in to passion is terrific fun. Because the moment you think “I want to fuck that person” happens to also be the best moment to fuck that person. And because the risk of getting caught makes everything more exciting. It more than makes up for the absence of a decent O.
But here’s the rub: I’m not some restaurant critic. Half the city knows what I look like, so now, when I’m out, I can feel myself being watched. My anonymity is blown. You’re lucky you still have yours, Nice Guy. And so, the irony: Our challenge this week was to have a public quickie, something that’s impossible, given my current notoriety. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate risk, and as my previous gentleman callers know full well, I have very little fear. But I’m also practical, and I wasn’t about to parade myself out before the ogling masses.
I’m sure it was to your relief that we did it on the balcony of our hotel room. Safe. Boring. Good view, though.
How real men begin a quickie: They know that time is tight, so they double down on everything. This isn’t half of a sexual liaison; it’s a full one, compressed. Every kiss is harder; every grip is stronger. They push me up against a wall. They slide their hand up my chest and to my neck, the way men do when they’re feeling carnal. They act as though they control my body. They don’t, of course. It’s all make-believe. I play the submissive, because sometimes that’s hot, because the brief charade lets me get what I want out of the encounter. Unfortunately with you, I found it impossible to suspend my disbelief.
Here’s what you did. Standing in the center of the balcony, you put your hands on my hips like we were at some middle-school dance. Then you kissed me. Your eyes opened occasionally to scan our surroundings—oh yes, I was checking. And then, silly boy, you asked if we should get down on the floor. And if I wanted to lie on a towel.
Now let’s explore how real men get going: Clothing comes off quickly, and purposely. We just need access here. Clear a path! And then I’m being fucked. Sometimes they spin me around and we do it doggie-style, but the strongest of them just grab my legs, wrap them around their waists, and lift me up. I am pinned to a wall or a bathroom stall or a door. It is vigorous. It is not considerate. And this is how we want it—because if we felt like making love, we’d have wanted some wine and rose petals and a towel shaped like a swan. But no. We felt like fucking, and fucking cannot wait. For fuck’s sake, Nice Guy! Fucking is fucking.
But you—you stripped fully naked, your dick in the wind. Optics matter, Nice Guy. The other men could fuck me in the dingiest of places—New York dive bar bathrooms are not sexy, even after three drinks—but they moved so quickly, and with such force, that I didn’t care. With you, I saw it all: our sad little staging ground, you thrusting on top of me, the people in the buildings across the street going obliviously about their lives. The weather was nice, at least. And you came relatively quickly, which was also a plus. And then, mercifully, we went back inside.
Carmen,
There’s a moment that haunts me. It was about two years ago, when I was dating my ex. We’d been invited to some fancy corporate party at her father’s law firm—everyone in dresses and tuxes. And after both of us were a little buzzed, my girlfriend whispered in my ear, her breath hot and sweet from the alcohol: “Let’s have sex in the bathroom.” I was afraid, honestly. I could only imagine the shame of a security guard finding us, screaming at us, and kicking us out in front of everyone. My girlfriend felt rejected, though, and the rest of the night was awkward. I stewed on this; I was annoyed at her for forcing me into the role of the prude. Why was I the one who had to do what’s right and responsible, and protect us from social disaster? But now I look back on that moment and think: What an idiot I was. You accomplish nothing by playing it safe.
I’m sure you’ve had quickies in many public places and will tell all our readers about how I don’t measure up. But let’s be clear about this one thing, at least: We were challenged this week to have a public quickie, and I suggested we sneak out somewhere in the world to do it. You insisted we stay in our hotel room and just go out on the balcony. I was ready to take the risk; you backed down.
Under normal circumstances, you’d get no protest from me. In a lot of ways this column is basically every guy’s fantasy: to have a beautiful woman show up, as reliably as if she’d been ordered through Amazon Prime. Let’s go out on the balcony this time and have sex? Yes, let’s! Yes is what I always want to say, since that time I said no. Yes to new things. Yes to chocolate sauce and handcuffs and cock rings. Yes requires more courage, but it leaves you with fewer regrets. To have gotten myself into this situation with you—to be repeatedly and viscerally insulted, and then face you anew anyway—requires a lot of yeses.
This week
I’m not going to insult you, Carmen. I know the encounter was awkward. I know you wanted me to be more aggressive. The problem is, those feelings can’t be faked. You’d know it in a second. Instead, I began kissing you, because that’s at least something real. And doing it out on the balcony, overlooking the impossibly dense, beautiful city with the fresh air and the distant possibility that someone could see us—well, all of that reminded me just how secretive our very public relationship is. For me, that was turn-on enough.
Admittedly, the aesthetics of our aerie didn’t exactly suit a softer approach to sex. The balcony had two uncomfortable-looking chairs and a dirty table. I felt bad guiding you to either. So I asked if you wanted a towel, so we could lie on the floor. You said yes. I got one. Seemed like the right call. When I have sex on the floor, I’m reminded of just how firm our bodies really are. A bed has give: When I thrust into a woman there, the downward motion is accommodated, the springs and cushions an extension of our own movements. There’s none of that on the floor; it’s just body on body, more raw and physical. Carmen, your body on a bed is soft. On the floor, it is firm. It feels smaller, somehow. More fragile, but also more physical. It’s a turn-on. In the moment, at least, before we return to our laptops, you feel good.
When I go home after our visits, I think about you. I do. I know you think about me, too—you have to write your half of this column, which means, at least, that you have to think about why you hate me this week. But I think about your body. I think about the corners of your mouth; your lips form this perfect little wave, equally sexy and adorable, and it turns me on to think about how, in short order, those lips will be on mine again, and on my body. I think about your neck. I think about your tits. I think a lot about your tits. I’ve jerked off while replaying our last night in my mind. Is that embarrassing? I don’t know. It’s true.
What will next week bring? Who knows? You can keep lodging protests. We may both have agreed to this, although obviously that doesn’t mean we have to like each other. But I’ll keep saying yes. I’ll keep trying to please you, because that’s the goal of this game, but it’s also just what I want to do. I don’t like selfish sex—I’m excited more when I’m exciting the person I’m with. Exploit that how you will, I suppose. But if I said no, if I walked away from all this, I wouldn’t have just had sex with a beautiful woman, overlooking the city I love. Even if I’m insulted for it, I’ll still have the experience. Yes at least gives me that. Yes, I want it.
* * *
Lucas was pleased with himself. Yes requires more courage, but it leaves you with fewer regrets. It was good, honest stuff. And on the day it was published, he felt the need to read it again and appreciate it fresh. But now, as he pulled the column up online at his desk at work, he encountered a poll on the Empire website.
“Whose Side Are You On?” it read.
And then, underneath: “Perhaps you read ‘Screw the Critics’ some weeks and think, ‘Are these people even reporting from the same bedroom?’ Now it’s time to keep these two honest. Each week, we’re inviting you to vote for Carmen or Nice Guy. Who made the most convincing case? Who deserved the better sex? It doesn’t matter what qualifications you use; it only matters that you pick a side.”
Lucas laughed. The Editor must have read Nice Guy’s column and felt inspired—a further sign that he and Jays understood each other. If only Jays knew. Lucas imagined revealing himself as Nice Guy one day, over glasses of bourbon. At first Jays wouldn’t believe it, of course. But then he’d realize, yes, of course: Lucas.
There was a little poll on the screen: “Carmen or Nice Guy.” Each had a clickable box next to their names. “Whose side are you on?” Lucas clicked “Nice Guy.” And then the poll disappeared and was replaced with the vote tally so far. Out of 39,528 votes, 97 percent were for Nice Guy.
Lucas laughed harder.
“What’s so funny?” Franklin demanded.
“Oh,” Lucas said, trying to contain himself. “Nothing.”
CHAPTER 23
Lucas hurried into the elevator at The Standard, avoiding the urge to look over his shoulder. Rogue Empire had posted a worrisome comment on Tyler’s “Screw Off!” column: “Snuck a peek at some Empire expense reports and either Jay Jacobson is charging his one-night stands to the company credit card or we know where CK and NG have been hanging out. I say we post volunteer investigators at the Ace and Financial District’s W hotel. Fake mustaches on me.”
Lucas knew that reading “Screw Off!” only fed his anxiety, but he couldn’t help himself. On the upside, reader comments had decidedly tilted in his favor this week. “Nice Guy just laid out the realest shit I’ve ever heard from a man, and now I’m like, where’s my Prince Charming who’ll say he jerks off to me?” one woman wrote. In addition, he’d won Empire’s readers’ poll by a ridiculous margin, which was a resounding personal triumph and a public validation. But Carmen would be furious. Be cool, he told himself. If you can handle failure, then surely you can handle success. He took a deep breath and went in.
“Look at this fucking thing,” Carmen said before he’d even crossed fully into the room. She was sitting on a chair in the corner, holding a small object. He’d expected that upon his entrance, she would start clapping, issuing her sarcastic congratulations about the readers’ poll. But clearly something else was on her mind.
“What is it?” Lucas said.
Carmen tossed it underhand at Lucas. It was an egg-shaped thing with a bunch of buttons on it and one of those U-shaped vibrators that Lucas never quite understood. Where did it go, exactly? Inside and out, like a genital clasp? Lucas looked up at Carmen. “It’s a…”
He stopped. He had no idea what it was.
“It’s a remote-control vibrator,” she said. “Our new challenge.”
“Oh,” Lucas said.
“Jays, that sadistic fuck. He had it mailed to me from Adam & Eve. You see what he’s doing here, right?”
“I … might…?” Lucas took note: Carmen’s bitterness toward Jays trumped whatever antagonistic feelings she had toward him.
“He’s putting you in control. It’s a remote-control vibrator. I wear it; you control it. God, he couldn’t be more obvious.”
“At least he didn’t send a paddle for me to spank you with,” Lucas said.
Carmen stared blankly at him.
Lucas put the vibrator on the bed. “Well, listen,” he said, “this one’s all you. If you don’t want to do it, we can figure something else out. We can go hide the vibrator in the hotel lobby and turn it on to startle people. And then we’ll just file the columns as if—”
“Yes,” Carmen said.
“Yes?” Lucas said.
“Your column. Yes. It’s a good theme. You got me, OK? You win. If I say no to this, then you’ll have an easy line of attack and—”
“That’s not what I’m going for right now, Carmen.”
“Fine. Right. Whatever. Yes. Yes, I’ll do it. Give me the vibrator.” Carmen held out her hand. Lucas stood frozen, unsure what was expected of him. Carmen wiggled her fingers. “Seriously. Give me the vibrator.”
Lucas handed it to her and she slid it inside her pants. She closed her eyes as she maneuvered it and then reopened them as she slid her now-empty hand back out.
“Turn it on,” she said.
“I’m serious, Carmen. I wouldn’t call you out if—”
“Turn it on.”
Lucas took the remote out. What did these buttons do? There was no instruction manual. So he just hit the button on the top, which he figured was a good place to start. A small hum began in the corner of the room. He looked over at Carmen.
“A little stronger,” she said.
He hit the top button twice.
“How’s it feel?” he asked.
“Like a vibrator.”
For lack of anything else to do, Lucas sat down in a chair clear across the room from her.
“Let’s see what else it does,” Lucas said, and hit one of the other buttons.
The steady hum was interrupted by a pulsating rhythm—zzt, zzt, zzt, zzt. After a few seconds, he hit another—zzt, zzt, zzzzzzzzzz, zzt, zzt, zzzzzzzzzzt. He looked down at the remote, selecting the next button to push, then aimed his finger and—
“Don’t change it,” Carmen said. “This is good.”
“Oh?”
Carmen took a deep breath. “This thing is pretty good.”
“Oh.”
They looked at each other. They’d had sex. They’d had lots of sex. He’d looked into her eyes during some of it, when she was willing to hold his gaze, but it always felt distant somehow. And yet this ridiculous scene right now—she, there in the corner with a vibrator in her pants, and he, clear across the room, with a confusing tablet of buttons—was the most intimately they’d ever looked at each other. He felt it. He was pretty sure she did, too.
Carmen took another deep breath. Her cheeks were getting flushed. But she was doing her best to keep a straight face.
“Do you want it more intense?” Lucas said.
“No,” she said. “This is good for now. This is good. I like how this thing, um, this is good. Listen, hey.” She sucked in air. “That column you wrote. That was nice.”
“Oh,” Lucas said, a third time now. Did he have any other words? But she kept surprising him. “Thank you. I mean, I meant it. It wasn’t just some—”
“Jerk off,” she said.
“Yeah.” Lucas laughed. “That part is kind of embarrassing to think about now, but it’s, you know, true that—”
“No,” she said. “Jerk off now.”
Don’t say “oh” again, Lucas thought. He searched for something else. Nothing came.
“You said you do it,” she said. “I want to see it.”
“But I mean, that’s at home.”
“Are you fucking kidding?” Carmen was suddenly no longer breathing deeply; the rose on her cheeks was fading. “I’m over here with your remote-control vibrator and you can’t even—”
Mr. Nice Guy Page 14
