So far Roxy Sandoval had blown off his attempts to interview her. He’d find her lounging on a couch or squatting near a settee and just as they started to talk, she’d jump up to say hi to a friend, refill her cranberry and vodka, thank Hef for throwing the party, and, the last time, she’d confided to Curtis that she really needed to “go take a dump.” Every time she flitted away she promised Curtis that she’d find him, that she would be back in a minute. Curtis got so annoyed with her that he threatened to call the publisher and resign—implying that this would cancel her advance too—so she finally agreed to meet him in the Mansion’s library in “a half hour or so.”
It was not the ideal way to start a working relationship, but Curtis didn’t care. Roxy Sandoval wasn’t Sophia Loren or Madonna or even Meryl Streep. She wasn’t a star, she was a good-looking young woman who got famous for playing hot and slutty mind games in a stupid TV show. The sense of entitlement these people had surprised him. What had they done to earn it? Give a guy a hummer on network TV? Is that what makes someone a star nowadays?
Curtis didn’t like the Playboy Mansion either. Not that he didn’t enjoy seeing young and buxom women in various states of undress. That wasn’t the problem. It was the fact that the women were flirting with every man in the place except him. He was ignored by hotties, shunned by bunnies. It flashed Curtis back to high school, of only getting to dance at the school parties with the weird girl who liked comic books, or the total humiliation of being picked last for sports, standing in a row of his peers watching as tubby spastics and stick-legged girls were chosen ahead of him.
This feeling of humiliation was compounded by the fact that now, with the flesh and pheromone dial cranked up to eleven, Curtis found himself incredibly aroused. He felt a surge rooted in his scrotum that caused his balls to tingle. He’d have liked nothing better than to drop his trousers and bury his dick into some mindless twenty-two-year-old’s mouth, but that wasn’t going to happen, even if all the men in the mansion, the reality studs and the aging geezers gobbling pills, suddenly dropped dead. Even if he were the last man standing, the bunnies would take one look at him and start making out with each other, which, now that he visualized it, wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
But all things being real, reality being way more real than the reality portrayed on reality TV, he found himself doing what he always did, sitting in a library, typing on his laptop, trying not to think of the square footage of the mansion, the ratio of bathrooms to bedrooms, or the market value of prime Beverly Hills real estate.
…
Sepp had let the raven-haired soccer bunny rub her crotch up and down and back and forth against his torso. He’d helped her out by performing a series of rhythmic crunches to make his muscles pop out as she got more and more into it, lashing his face with her hair and moaning as she rode his rippling belly to a frantic climax.
She collapsed on top of him, panting for breath, her sweat dripping onto him, her body melting into a serotonin bliss. Sepp found himself, for the first time in quite a long time, in a state of arousal with a woman. Dude. Finally. He wasn’t sure if the curse of Roxy was at long last broken or if it was a combination of the bunny’s hotness and the residual Viagra in his system, but he didn’t care. He gave her a kiss and said, “My turn.” She sat up abruptly and shook her head. “That would be nice, but I don’t think my husband would approve.”
Sepp blinked up at her. “You’re married?”
“Yeah. He lets me have my fun as long as I don’t do it.”
“You just did it.”
“Not it. I didn’t do it it.”
She turned and looked at his erect penis. “I’ll watch you beat off if you want.”
Sepp let his head drop back on the mattress. “No thanks.”
She started to say something, but changed her mind and gave his torso a pat. “See ya.”
And with that, she scooped up her clothes and padded out of the tent.
…
Sepp walked out to the pool. He felt the bunny’s juices still wet and sticky on his body, the smell of sex wafting off him like the world’s oldest cologne. His erection still throbbed in his pants. At first he’d been thrilled to get one, like maybe the curse was finally lifted, but now it felt like carrying a burden. He walked with a strange gait, slightly hunched over, like a primate with a waxed chest, following a trail of tiki torches until he came to the world-famous Playboy Mansion grotto.
Several men and women were skinny dipping, affecting a playful splashing foreplay, sipping cocktails, letting their legs mingle under the water.
It was dark and Sepp hoped that the pool might cool his erection, so he slipped out of his clothes and lowered himself in the water. His body glided through it, the chlorinated liquid cleaning his torso. It made him tingle. He felt his mind refresh, like the entire episode was some kind of dream for a new series.
He swam underwater, feeling like a dolphin, until he bumped into a pair of legs and surfaced, his face emerging from the water directly in front of a large pair of perfectly tan and medically symmetrical breasts—breasts that he immediately recognized—the magnificent pair of tits that belonged to Roxy Sandoval. Roxy noticed his boner.
“I guess you are happy to see me.”
…
Harriet walked down a darkened hallway, past a young couple making out, their lips locked, the woman shoved up against the wall as the man ground his crotch into her. She found a door that was partially open and peeked in. What she saw astounded her. It was Hef’s private library.
The fact that a room for books—and from the look of it there were real books collected here—existed in a world that seemed to be constructed to keep out any thought that wasn’t about sex was surprising enough, but what was truly surprising, what made Harriet smile, was the sight of the attractive hipster—the guy she’d met and felt a connection to at Book Soup—sitting on an overstuffed leather couch, typing on his MacBook Air.
“Do they have wi-fi in the mansion?”
He looked up at her, and she could see he was simultaneously embarrassed—perhaps he didn’t want to be caught at the Playboy Mansion—and excited to see her.
“I never expected to see you here.”
“I could say the same thing. Curtis, right?”
Curtis nodded.
“Am I disturbing you?”
Curtis closed his laptop and put it on a backgammon board that doubled for a coffee table. “No. God no.” Then he smiled. “Please. Join me.”
Harriet entered the room and shut the door behind her, locking out the repetitive thud and boister of the hip-hop blaring throughout the mansion’s sound system. She sighed. “It’s like ‘Night of the Living Brain-Dead’ out there.”
Curtis grinned. “Glad to see you didn’t get bit by a zombie bunny or chupacabra or whatever they are in those outfits.”
Harriet laughed and moved toward him. “I’m supposed to be doing an interview.”
“Me too.”
Harriet cocked an eyebrow at him. “Mind if I sit?”
“Please.”
Curtis slipped his laptop back into his backpack and scooted over as Harriet sat down next to him on the fainting couch. In the two seconds it took for her to join him on the couch she decided not to ask about his work—that would only lead to him asking her, and she didn’t want to talk about Sepp Gregory or his ghostwriter. Her mission could wait.
She pointed to the shelves of books. “I’m impressed. This is a real library.”
“Yeah, but do you think he’s read all of them?”
“I’d believe that before I’d believe he really has sex with his girlfriends.” Harriet made air quotes around the word “girlfriends” and then immediately apologized. “I don’t normally do air quotes.” She couldn’t believe how dorky she sounded. Why was she nervous around this guy?
Curtis laughed and shifted in his seat. “Yeah. It’s a strange setup. But a nice house.”
Harriet nodded. “‘Mansion’ seems a misnome
r. It’s more like a chalet.” Harriet liked that word. She assumed it was the diminutive of the Old French word chasel, meaning “farmhouse.”
“Twenty-nine rooms on five acres. A wine cellar. That’s bigger than your average chalet. Let’s call it a mansionette.”
“I’ve never thought of ‘chalet’ as being particularly pejorative.” Harriet turned toward him, letting her leg press against his leg. Curtis laughed.
“Have you heard about the Elvis Suite?”
“Like Elvis Presley?“
Curtis nodded. “Apparently he spent the night there with eight women.”
“How very Scheherazade of him.”
Curtis laughed, a little too loudly, Harriet thought, like he was nervous, but at least he got the joke. Curtis leaned in toward her and, for a brief moment, she thought he might try to kiss her, but instead he whispered.
“Can you imagine what something like this would cost in Manhattan?”
…
“We need to talk.”
Sepp blinked the water out of his eyes and felt his erection quickly fading. He looked at Roxy. “Sure.”
Roxy slicked her hair back. This action, the raising of her arms to squeegee the water out of her hair, lifted her breasts up. Sepp couldn’t help it, he stared as the twin nipples pointed at him.
“So, like, what’s happening?”
“Not here, numbnuts.”
Sepp swallowed. He’d been dreading this showdown. He’d heard that Roxy, like Caitlin, wasn’t happy with one of the characters in his book.
“Wherever you want to go, Roxy.”
…
Curtis had finally summoned the courage to lean in and kiss Harriet Post, world-famous literary critic. He was surprised that she’d responded not by slapping him and saying something dismissive, but by kissing him back. In fact, every move he made—getting from first base to second as smooth as any of the professional playboys in the mansion—was met with equal ardor. It had been a while since Curtis had stuck his hand under a bra and felt someone’s breast, but she’d let him do just that. She even unbuttoned her blouse to enhance the accessibility. His brain began an inventory of sensations, a sexual status report. He’d want to be able to recall the details later, when he was alone. So while his left hand gently caressed Harriet’s breast—his thumb and forefinger taking a lazy spin around her erect nipple—his right hand fumbled with her bra strap, trying to unlock the complicated snarl of hooks and loops that kept him from being able to undress her. Maybe he was distracted by her tongue, which was shoved aggressively into his mouth, swishing and dancing with his tongue, exchanging spit for sensation.
Curtis tried to remember if he had ever met a woman and then been intimate with her on the same day. Maybe there’s something to the Playboy Mansion after all. Maybe it really is a magical place, a kind of parallel universe where sex is as natural as breathing, where people feel free to take off their clothes and copulate, because before Curtis could solve the enigma of Harriet’s bra, she reached back and deftly unhooked it, revealing a pair of beautifully proportioned breasts, dappled with freckles.
…
The crowd in the Great Hall, a mingled mass of bunnies and bozos freak-dancing to the ear-blistering thud perpetrated by the DJ, parted as Roxy plowed across the dance floor toward the stairs. She was like an icebreaker crushing through the polar caps or that dude in the Bible who spread the Red Sea as easy as long tan goalie legs.
Sepp followed in Roxy’s wake, throwing a knowing nod at the dudes and players, all the while his eyes yo-yoing back and forth from the crowd to Roxy’s tight ass and back again.
…
Curtis kissed Harriet again and their eyeglasses collided, causing both of them to be temporarily blinded as their optics went askew. But with his glasses off, he could look more deeply into Harriet’s highly intelligent eyes. He thought he detected something in them, a spark, maybe a glimmer of emotion that looked like desire. Unless he was projecting, which was entirely possible; it wouldn’t be the first time.
But what if her desire was real? When was the last time he’d seen anything like that? He felt his insides quiver as he dove back toward her, their lips meeting, tongues touching. He pressed his body close to hers, pushed her down on the couch, and, in his awkward way, mounted her.
Which is exactly what Roxy and Sepp saw when they entered the library.
…
Sepp stopped. He didn’t want to walk in on a couple who were obviously in the middle of something, but Roxy didn’t care. She strolled in like an actress taking center stage. At first Sepp thought that maybe she hadn’t noticed—sometimes Roxy could be a little self-absorbed—but before he could say anything he saw her look down at the couple clinched on the couch.
“Break it up before I throw water on you.”
Curtis and Harriet separated quickly, Harriet struggling to put on her bra. Sepp watched as she pulled her shirt closed. He couldn’t help noticing her cute freckled breasts. And the way she covered herself was so natural, so innocent, that he felt a stir in his pants.
Sepp frowned. “Come on, Rox. Let’s leave ’em alone.”
“Fuck that. This isn’t a whorehouse.”
Harriet looked at Roxy, then at Sepp. “I’m not a whore. But then I wouldn’t think that would need clarification.”
Sepp had a thought, a glimmer of irony that flickered in his head, and he wanted to make a joke—he wanted to say something about the Playboy Mansion not being a whorehouse because the girls gave it away, maybe, but then it was extra ironic because they didn’t really give it away, they got paid to pose in the magazine so it was more like it was a job to them which is what it is for prostitutes. So, like, Roxy was wrong about it not being a whorehouse.
Roxy flopped down in a chair on the other side of the small room and went into her signature “now I’m gonna do us all a big fucking favor and tell it like it is” stance, a position that she’d used repeatedly during Sex Crib. She put one hand on her hip, cocked her head, and pointed a finger at Harriet’s breasts.
“Those could be C cups easy with some implants.”
Harriet reflexively covered herself even though she had her shirt on. “I like my breasts.”
Roxy gave her a fake smile. “It’s not about what you like.”
Sepp shook his head. Dude. Roxy could be such a harsh bitch. There was nothing wrong with the book nerd’s boobs.
Curtis stood up and extended his hand to Sepp. “Congrats on all the success.”
Sepp shook hands with him and smiled. “Thanks, bro.”
Sepp looked at Harriet and chided her good-naturedly. “So? Where have you been? I thought you were going to interview me.”
Harriet blushed. “I looked for you.”
Roxy snorted. “You find him in that dude’s pants?”
Harriet stammered. Roxy gave Curtis a withering look. “And weren’t we supposed to have a chat tonight?”
Curtis shrugged, attempting to play it off by being cool. “The night is young.”
Sepp thought the dude with the glasses looked familiar. He’d met him before, he was sure of that, but, you know, he was bad with memory stuff.
Harriet looked at Sepp. “Close the door. Please.”
Sepp realized he was still standing in the doorway. “Roxy. We should go.”
Roxy scoffed. “Apparently everyone is interviewing everyone.” Then she noticed Curtis’s shoes. “Nice kicks. Custom?”
Curtis nodded. “A friend made them.”
Roxy smiled. “I know footwear.”
Sepp shut the door behind him. He leaned against it, partly to keep anyone from entering and partly because he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was embarrassed for the nerds they’d caught in a lip-lock and embarrassed because of Roxy’s behavior. Why had they barged in? There were other rooms in the mansion. Why did Roxy always act this way? Sepp knew that Roxy wasn’t going to budge, she was stubborn, so he turned to Harriet. “I’m sorry about all this. We’ll do the
interview. I promise.”
Roxy scoffed. “Men are always promising things to girls. Guys will say anything to pop a load in your mouth.” She leaned toward Harriet and spoke softly. “Real gratitude sparkles.”
Roxy twisted her arm up in the air so that everyone in the room could admire the bracelet on her wrist; dozens of diamonds blinged in the light. Sepp wondered how many blow jobs that bracelet represented. A dozen? A hundred? Or just one really good one?
Sepp cleared his throat. “Rox. C’mon. Let’s go.”
Roxy leaned back in her chair. “I like it here. Libraries are sexy.” Roxy began to examine her French-manicured nails in earnest. “Let’s just do all the interviewing here. It’ll be like an interview orgy.”
Curtis and Harriet exchanged a look. Curtis asked, “Who are you interviewing him for?”
“It’s part of a bigger piece I’m working on. What are you doing?”
Curtis smiled a bit ruefully. “Assignment.”
Roxy laughed. “Look at the nerds talking their nerd talk. They’re so cute.”
With that, Harriet stood up and looked at Sepp. “Let’s just do this tomorrow.”
Sepp nodded. “You can call my publicist and set it up.”
Harriet nodded. “Great. I’ll do that.”
Harriet grabbed her shoes and left the room. Curtis looked at Roxy. “So is this gonna happen tonight or . . . not?” Roxy stuck her finger in her mouth and then held it up, as if testing for wind direction. She shook her head. “Doesn’t look like it.”
Curtis shrugged. “It’s the publisher’s dime.” He collected his things and went into a small bathroom off the library. The door shut and Sepp turned to Roxy.
“How can you do that?”
“What?”
“Treat people that way.”
Roxy stopped looking at her fingers and looked at Sepp. “You know what your problem is?”
“No.”
“You let the help upset you.”
“The what?”
“The help. The background. The little people who run around on the outskirts.” She leaned in, emphasizing her words. “There are two kinds of people in this world, Seppy. The stars—people like you and me—and the help. Don’t let the help upset you.”
Raw: A Love Story Page 11
