by Mia Ford
“Look, Kate, I’m not being a dick here,” he said, patting his hands in the air like someone being a dick would do. “You can call the Kings all day long. The minute you tell them you’re from Sports Insider Online, they will tell you to go fuck yourself and hang up the phone.”
I scoffed at him and waved a hand toward the window, as if Sean Donovan was standing outside on the ledge. “So, Sean Donovan will talk to Sports Illustrated and People Magazine all day long. He just won’t talk to us.”
Walter shrugged his bushy eyebrows and bobbed his head. “That’s about the size of it. And he only talks game with Sports Illustrated and humanitarian shit with People. Nobody has ever done the kind of story you’re proposing because Sean Donovan wouldn’t agree to it.”
I rolled my eyes. So much for keeping emotion out of the situation. “He’s okay with women posting sex videos with him online, but he wouldn’t agree to let me do an in-depth profile of him?”
Walter leaned forward and planted his elbows on the desk. “Let’s be honest here, Kate. Do you think that Sean Donovan would let anyone shadow him for a week? Off the field?”
“You never know till you ask,” I said weakly.
“Sean Donovan is not going to let anyone follow him home, or follow him around nightclubs and watch him get shitfaced and fuck groupies in the bathroom. Even Sports Illustrated has never been to his house. And he has body guards that keep reporters and paparazzi at bay when he goes clubbing.” He leaned back and scratched his chin. “You’d have to work for Playboy or Rolling Stone or GQ to get that kind of access. And even then, I doubt he would agree to do it. He’d be insane to let the public peek behind that curtain, and I don’t blame him. For Christ sake, the guy’s gotta have a private life. You wouldn’t want someone poking around your underwear drawer, would you?”
I blinked at him. “My underwear drawer?”
“Figure of speech,” he said, making a sour face. “The point is…”
I stared at my hands in my lap as Walter rambled on. I didn’t look up when something he said sparked an idea in my mind. I just nodded slowly as if I understood and agreed with everything he was saying.
Walter took my nodding head to mean that the discussion was over. He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. He began to rock, welcoming a change in conversation.
He asked, “So, how’s the profile on Serena Williams coming?”
“It’s almost done,” I said, looking up with a forced smile. “I’ll have it to you this afternoon.”
“Excellent,” he said. He brought his hands down and rubbed them together, making a sound like sandpaper on rough wood. “I’ll give it a look and decide where we want to run it. Maybe we can make room for it in the magazine. Would you like that?”
“Sure, that would be great,” I said, getting out of the chair and walking toward the door. I ignored his feeble attempt to pacify me.
Walter was always dangling the chance that your work might make it into the magazine, which was much more prestigious than just getting it on the website.
At this point, I couldn’t give a shit what he did with the piece. He could shove it up his fat ass for all I cared.
As my coworker Drucilla would say, “What-the-fuck-ever, man.”
“Kate,” he called after me. “Keep up the good work.”
“Thanks, Walter, I will,” I said. I waited until I was down the hall before finishing my sentence. “You asshole.”
Sean Donovan
I passed the joint to Leon, the three-hundred-eighty-pound lineman slouched on the couch next to me, and blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
I squinted at the screen and nudged him with my elbow. “Okay, man, watch this catch…”
“I’m watching, motherfucker,” he said with the joint at his lips.
On the big screen was the video of yesterday’s game against the Chiefs. I was lined up wide-out right, and Leon Lewis, the black monster sitting next to me, was blocking right of center.
When the center hiked the ball to Matt Murphy, our quarterback, Leon blocked like a fucking brick wall to give me time to run down field so Matt could hit me with the ball.
“Here’s it comes…” I said, leaning forward with my fists clenched. “Watch this catch.”
A split second later, Murphy launched a long spiral that fell perfectly into my hands as I ran into the end zone. I jumped off the couch and did a happy dance.
“Touchdown, Sean motherfucking Donovan!” I yelled, throwing my arms in the air and dancing around. I glanced down at Leon and clapped my hands. “Did you see that fucking catch?”
Leon waved a huge hand at me and rolled his eyes. “Man, my granny could have caught that fucking pass.”
“Bullshit!” I said, reaching for the joint. “Let’s see your fat black ass run downfield and catch a ball like that.”
He chuckled and snorted smoke. “Shit man, my fat black ass is too busy giving Matt Murphy time to throw. I swear, that motherfucker moves in slow motion sometimes.”
I grinned and dropped back on the couch beside him. I took a long hit on the joint and passed it back his way. I choked out the words through the smoke.
“Yeah, but when he does throw it, it usually hits the mark.”
“Fucking A,” Leon said, taking the joint, which looked tiny between his thick fingers. “I’m getting hungry. You got anything to eat?”
I grinned at him. “There’s pussy in the bedroom.”
He made a face and shook his head. “I’m tired of eating pussy, man. Got any pizza?”
“I’ll go see.” I gave him a nod and worked my way off the couch again.
My knees were wobbly. I held my hands out like a surfer to steady myself as I stepped over sleeping bodies, empty booze bottles, and crushed beer cans on my way to the kitchen.
The victory party after yesterday’s game had been at my mansion last night, so the place was a wreck. In every room there were passed-out football players and naked cheerleaders, and maybe a groupie or two. No wives or girlfriends were ever allowed at the victory parties. That’s why the guys in relationships either didn’t show up or lied about where they were going.
I made it to the kitchen without stepping on anyone and pulled the freezer door open. It was one of those big stainless steel freezers, and one side was stacked with frozen pizzas.
I pulled out two Supremes and shoved them in the double ovens. Funny, I had a gourmet kitchen, but only knew how to cook pizzas and Pop Tarts. And I usually burned the shit out of those.
I leaned down and squinted to set the timers. I had no idea if I’d set the temperature or the timers correctly. I was too fucked up to concern myself about such things. And too fucked up to care.
I yelled at Leon. “Hey, if you smell smoke, that means the pizza is ready.”
“Heard,” he said. I couldn’t believe Leon was even awake. We’d been drinking and smoking dope for twelve hours, but somehow, he had managed to put on a video game and was killing zombies on the big screen like Daryl motherfucking Dixon from The Walking Dead.
“Gotta piss...” I said to no one in particular. I paused long enough to reach into the fridge for another beer, then dragged my feet from the kitchen and up the stairs to the master bedroom. I had to piss like a racehorse and there was a chick passed out sitting on the downstairs toilet. I had no idea who she was. Nice tits, though.
I gripped the railing with my free hand and pulled myself up the stairs. It was the house rule that my bedroom was off limits during parties. It was the only room in the house that hadn’t been invaded by my guests.
I opened the door and stepped inside, then closed the door and leaned back against it. I rubbed my eyes and blew out a long breath. I suddenly felt very tired.
“What the fuck are you doing, man?” I said as I popped the beer and took a long swig, spilling half of it down my chest. “You gotta fucking grow up.”
“Did you say something?”
The words came from a naked blond with big t
its and a shaved bush who was sleeping in my bed. I stared at her for a moment. I vaguely remembered leaving her there after she got the Sean Donovan special a few hours before.
I tried to remember her name…
Carla?
Cassie?
Connie?
C… something…
“Just talking to myself,” I said, holding up the beer as I started toward the bathroom door. “Go back to sleep. It’s only Monday.”
I didn’t realize that I was naked until I stumbled into the bathroom and glanced in the mirror. I frowned at my reflection.
My body looked amazing (duh), but from the neck up, I looked like hell. My eyes were red and squinty. My lips were cracked and dry. I leaned into the mirror and tilted my head back. White powder rimmed my nostrils. And down below, my poor cock was hanging like a limp noodle.
“Fuck, man… You gotta sober up…” I said to the man in the mirror. “You look like shit.”
I imagined him saying, “You first, motherfucker.”
I huffed at him and turned to stand at the toilet with my feet spread and my hands against the wall to keep me from falling over. I must have looked like a guy waiting to be frisked.
I aimed for the bowl as best I could. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I exhaled when I heard a strong stream of piss hitting the bowl.
The piss seemed to last for an hour. I had no idea how much I had drank, but obviously, I hadn’t taken a leak in while. When I heard the stream slowing to a trickle, I forced my eyes open and looked down. I sighed. I had just pissed all over the toilet, the floor, and the stack of girlie magazines on the floor.
“Fuuuuck,” I said, my words slurring. My knees began to buckle. I swayed as I shook off my cock and wiped my pissy hand on the towel hanging over the rack.
“Sleep…” I said, holding my hands out again to steady myself. I made it to the bed and crawled in beside the naked blonde.
Cassidy…
Carlotta…
I wiggled over onto my back. I put an arm over my eyes to shield them from the daylight coming through the broad windows.
I was just starting to drift off when I felt the woman roll into me. She put her head on my chest and her hand on my stomach. I felt her lips on my nipple. Her hand slid down my stomach to my cock, which responded by immediately getting hard.
“You want to fuck or just a blowjob?” she cooed, working her hand up and down the length of my cock.
I sighed without removing the arm from my eyes. “You choose,” I said.
I felt her lips trailing down my stomach. Her mouth replaced her hand on my cock. I heard her hum. I lifted the arm enough to glance down at her.
She was looking back at me, smiling, with my cock wedged in her cheek.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She slid my cock out of her mouth and licked her lips. She said, “Candy. Don’t you remember?”
“Candy… right…” I sighed and closed my eyes. “Please proceed. Candy.”
Kate
I was certain that Walter hadn’t meant to, but amid all his rambling bullshit, he had given me an ingenious idea.
I wanted to convince Sean Donovan to let me shadow him for a couple of weeks. I knew he wouldn’t let frumpy Kate Asher from Sports Insider Online tag along to his games and after-hour parties, but he might let a buxom blonde journalist from Playboy or Maxim, especially if he was trying to get in said buxom blonde’s panties.
I left Walter’s office and went straight down the hall to chat with Drucilla Darcy, the amazingly-talented graphic artist responsible for the design of the Sports Insider Online website and the layout of the magazine.
Drucilla – Dru to her friends -- was a thirty-something lesbian with buzzed hair and no boobs. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and dressed in men’s jeans and loose flannel shirts. She tells everyone that the only reason Walter hired her was because he thought she --“Drew”-- was a man. And she didn’t bother correcting him until several months after she was hired.
I’ll never forget the look on Walter’s face right after Dru told him that she didn’t have a “cock and balls” (that’s a quote). His mouth fell open and he sort of froze for a moment. His eyes went up and down Dru’s thin frame, then he cleared his throat and said, “Well, of course, you’re a girl… I mean… I knew that… What kind of idiot do you think I am?”
Dru’s door was open. I stuck my head in and asked, “Hey, you busy?”
Dru looked up from the massive computer screen on her desk and gave me a smile. “Hey, you,” she said. “What’s up.”
“Can I talk to you about something?” I asked.
She pushed back from the computer and waved me in. “Sure…
I closed the door and pulled up a chair so we could talk quietly. I said, “I need some business cards.”
She blinked at me. “You mean you need to order more business cards? I think Walter’s secretary handles that. I just lay them out and send her the file for the printer.”
“No, I don’t need more of my Sports Insider business cards,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t even give those things away. I need a special business card, one that will get me in the door at Kings Stadium.”
Dru leaned back and folded her skinny arms over her flat chest. She gave me a sideways look. “What’s going on, Kate? And don’t give me the old ‘it’s better if you don’t know’ routine. If I’m going to forge a card for you, I need to know why.”
I glanced at the closed door and leaned in to lower my voice. “Do you know who Sean Donovan is? Wide receiver for the Kings?”
“Of course,” she scoffed. “Lesbians follow football, too, you know. What about him?”
“I want to interview Sean Donovan,” I said. “But he won’t talk to anyone from SIO. We’re even banned from the stadium. So, I was thinking…”
“You were thinking that you could pretend to work for another magazine, which means you’d need a business card with that other magazine’s name on it,” she said. A devilish grin crossed her thin lips. “Let me guess… Playboy? Maxim? GQ?”
I smiled at her. “How did you know?”
She waved a hand in the air between us. “Sean Donovan is a swinging dick,” she said, rolling her eyes. She nodded at my boobs, which were pushing against the material of my t-shirt. “You go in with the right business card and the right blouse, you flash a little cleavage, and you might get an interview. Heck, you might get laid. Is that the idea?”
I bit my lip. It sounded crazy when she said it. I said, “Yes, that’s the idea. I mean, not the getting laid part, but the rest. Do you think it’ll work?”
“You’ll never know unless you try,” she said, turning to her computer and resting her fingers on the keys. “So, Playboy or Maxim?”
“Playboy, I think.”
I watched her Google the words “Playboy logo”.
The screen filled with images of the famous bunny head. She selected one of the images and pasted it into the business card template she had called up in her graphics program.
Next, she clicked a link to get the address of the Playboy offices in New York City, then added that to the template.
“What’s your cell number?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at me.
“Why?”
“For the card,” she said, tapping a finger to the screen. “You don’t want me to put the real Playboy office number on there. What if he tries to call Playboy to check you out and discovers that you don’t really work there?”
“You’re really good at this,” I said. I gave her my cell number and she typed it into the template. I smiled at the screen. It looked like an actual Playboy business card.
“Okay, next, what name do you want on the card?”
I frowned at her. “What name?”
“You can’t use Kate Asher,” she scoffed. “What if he Googles you and discovers that you work for SIO? Besides, you need something sexy, like a real Playboy Playmate’s name.”
�
�I’m not posing as a Playboy Playmate,” I said.
“Don’t fool yourself,” she said, glancing at my boobs again. “He’s not going to give a serious journalist the time of day, but if he thinks you’re a former Playmate trying to score points with her boss by doing a story on him… Hell, he’ll probably try to fuck you even before you start trying to interview him.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said, scratching my chin. “How about Katie Holmes? Holmes was my mom’s maiden name.”
“Katie Holmes? Like the actress, Katie Holmes.”
“Might make for a great conversation starter,” I said.
“I love it,” she said, chuckling. Her fingers went across the keys. “Katie Holmes, Journalist, Playboy Magazine.”
We both sat back to admire her handy work.
It looked like the real thing.
“Can you print a few cards for me?” I asked.
“Of course, Katie Holmes, hang on a second.”
She rolled her chair over to the printer station and opened a drawer to bring out a sheet of pre-cut card stock. She loaded the card stock into the printer and rolled back to the computer. “Is eight enough or will you need more?”
“With any luck, I’ll only need one,” I said.
“Luck and those tits will go a long way,” she said with a grin.
“Will you stop looking at my tits,” I said, playfully slapping her arm. The printer cranked out the sheet of cards and she rolled over and back to retrieve it.
“For what I’m doing for you, I should get to see those tits,” she said, separating the cards to make a neat stack. She held out the cards to me and raised one eyebrow. “Or at least touch them for a minute. Those are natural, right?”
“Yes, they are, thank you very much.” I took the stack of perfectly-forged business cards and put my hands on my hips. I stuck out my boobs and sighed.
“Fine, but make it quick. Katie Holmes has things to do.”
Sean