by Amiee Smith
Lately, Venice hasn’t felt like home.
Lately, the four walls of Alex’s tiny studio feel more like home than anywhere I’ve lived at (or crashed at) in the last decade.
Lately, falling asleep to him softly snoring offers more tranquility than ocean waves drifting in through my open bedroom window.
“Brittney, if you’re going to look at me like that all night, you might as well just take off what little clothes you have on and get in the bed.”
My voice, my most sacred instrument, betrays me.
“Is that an order, Dragon?”
I bat my eyelashes and lick my bottom lip, leaning over the table so my pierced tits are in full view. I’m mimicking the way I’ve seen Lynn flirt with lots of guys. It works for her, maybe it will work for me?
“So, now you’ll listen to me? Stand up. Slowly remove your bra and panties,” Alex says with a smirk before biting into a taco.
He’s testing me. Testing if I’m serious. What he doesn’t know is that I worked as a burlesque dancer when I was getting my masters in Boston. A natural entertainer, I always leave my audience wanting more.
As if orchestrated by heavenly hands, the record ends. The room silent. Standing, I sway my hips to the beating drum in my chest.
I don’t need to borrow Lynn’s sexy. I’ve got my own seduction siren. And when it sounds, Alex will be mesmerized, lured in, and swallowed whole.
I take center stage. His blue-green stare transforms into an ocean of people, applauding and shouting my name.
I extend my fingers toward the ceiling and launch into my best burlesque routine: tossing my long curly hair, rolling my shoulders, bouncing my hips, dipping low, spreading my legs, twirling around and around, stepping and touching.
I’m killing it.
This is a performance Dragon will remember forever.
EIGHT YEARS AGO
ALEX WILLINGHAM
I hate to admit it, but the networking event was a disappointment. Every man Roxanne introduced me to tonight was a rich, overprivileged, douchebag.
Many stockbrokers are just hoodlums in expensive suits. I knew that, I just didn’t care before. But after spending all this time with Brit, I’ve acquired a conscience. While most of her crazy left-wing conspiracy theories are a bunch of hogwash, one thing is for sure: Wall Street does not give a shit about anyone other than the 1%.
For the last two years, I’ve visualized moving to New York, working as a stockbroker, crushing my sales targets, and earning increasingly larger bonuses year after year. I’d make a name for myself, a new identity as a winner. Someone my dad would be proud of.
Then I’d start a wealth management company. Settle down, get married. Maybe have a kid or two.
I want to leave my reputation as the fuck-up Willingham behind. Leave my dad’s disappointment behind. But now working as a stockbroker feels like a prison sentence. Even if I did everything by the book, Brit would never respect me.
And I ache for her respect.
***
I’m a fucking weirdo too.
Brit’s smart girl striptease is seriously turning me on, and she hasn’t removed any of her clothes.
She’s strutting and twirling around my apartment like she’s giving a show for the guy sitting in the back row. And I hope that guy is sleeping, because I don’t want any dude but me to watch her shake her tits, kick her long legs, and jiggle her thick thighs.
She didn’t need to do all this. I’m not complaining, any opportunity to see her move is a gift. But I’d much rather see her move with my cock inside her.
And girl is really exerting herself, sweating and breathing heavy. If I don’t stop her soon, she’ll be passed out across my bed before the encore. I’ve waited seven months for this. I deserve a double, no, triple encore.
Man, she’s in the zone. How do I interrupt this performance without seeming like a horny asshole? I’ve studied Brit. I know my window of opportunity to fuck will come and go in a wink, and she’s doing a hell of a lot of winking to her imaginary crowd.
I stand, fully ready to get a condom and take her on my table.
But I can’t do it.
This is not a woman a man just hooks up with. She’s not a friend-with-benefits. There is something stronger between us. Unfortunately, I’m not in a place in my life where I can offer her more. To act on this sexual tension would be a douchebag move. And I’m really trying not to be that guy anymore.
Brit turns her back to me and unfastens her bra, eyeing me over her shoulder. In a graceful, fluid motion, she tosses the black garment on my lap. Her bouncy pierced titties, now on full display. A visual forever imprinted on my mind. A visual I will use in the shower again and again.
Why did I pick tonight to gain a conscience?
“Brit, we should probably get some sleep. We’re opening the store tomorrow.”
She hooks her long black nails on either side of her panties, shimmying them down her tall frame.
“Yes, Dragon. We should go to bed,” she says, with a sultry pout and smoldering eyes.
Where the fuck did that look come from?! Why didn’t she break out her smart-girl-sexy months ago before she got under my skin with all her do-gooder philosophies?
“I’m going to shower,” I say, leaving my dinner show.
I keep my eyes fixed to the floor until I reach the bathroom, shutting the door. One more glance, and I would have dropped to my knees and gone caveman, feasting all up in her full bush.
Brit has gone cavewoman, refusing to give up. The tap of her nails against the door causes my dick to swell with need.
“It’d make more sense to shower afterwards, Dragon. Let’s go to bed.”
Her voice seductive, lustful.
“Ah, Roxanne mentioned this article in the business section of the L.A. Times, so I was going to check it out,” I say, staring at the newspaper Brit left on the floor in front of the toilet along with her nail clippers.
“Well, bring it out. I’ll read it to you while you go down on me.”
Brit is saying all the right words. All. The. Right. Words.
And I hate myself for what I’m about to say, but every guy knows there is only one way to shut a cavewoman down.
“Thanks for the show, but it just didn’t do it for me. Petite girls are more my type,” I say, cringing at the bullshit that just came out of my mouth.
There is a pause. Any other woman would be furious, but this is Brit. She doesn’t fight or bitch.
“I’m so sorry, Alex. I know I’m not your type. I did not mean to violate your boundaries. I’ll gather my things and leave. I’m so sorry. I hope we can put this behind us and still be friends.”
I reach for the door handle but stop myself. If I peer into her cognac eyes, I’ll kiss her so deeply there will be no doubt she’s totally my type.
One day, I will be worthy of her. One day, I won’t be a total fuck-up.
As I listen to my front door open and close, I know in my heart the window of opportunity will come again.
***
“Brittney, your phone keeps vibrating.”
I watch her speak with the people tailgating next to us, trading two bottles of our Sierra Nevada Torpedo for two shots of their homemade apple vodka.
She’s all delicious legs and thighs, wearing black wedge sandals, black high-waist shorts, and a white blouse. I look like an overgrown frat boy in tan shorts, a green polo, and tan leather flip flops.
It’s been a month since our failed hook-up. Since then, we’ve cruised in the friends-only lane. I still ask if I can go down on her, but only in my mind.
It’s the end of summer. I leave for New York next week.
We are in the parking lot at the Hollywood Bowl for a Dave Matthews Band concert. Earlier this week, Brit traded another sales associate a pair of black Prada pumps for two tickets to the show.
I glance at her vibrating phone on top of the ice chest between our folding chairs. The car parked on the other side of my BMW blares
a live version of “Too Much.”
Brit hands me a shot before sitting down in her chair.
“Thanks. Check your phone.”
With her long black nails and rings covering each finger, Brit cradles her razor flip phone, reading the messages.
“Oh great, Lynn got a job at Google and is moving to San Francisco. I saw her this morning and she didn’t say anything. I bust my ass all summer to pay rent and now I have to move. I’ll deal with that shit tomorrow. Let’s have fun,” she says, dropping her phone into her purse.
“Can you move into graduate housing on campus?”
“I’ll try, but it’s really too late. Classes start the week after next.”
“You know if you collected your inheritance this wouldn’t be an issue.”
“I told you never to mention that.”
Last week, Brit and I saw the Wayne Shorter Quartet at Royce Hall. It was the highlight of our summer of concerts. After the show, we went to Canters on Fairfax for a late dinner.
Over pastrami sandwiches, pints of beer and whiskey shots, Brit launched into an unpoetic rant about the patriarchy that led into her sharing that her dad died at the beginning of the year and left her a house in the Silver Lake neighborhood of L.A.
While details of the night are spotty— I was high on seeing a jazz legend and Brit was buying the drinks (she also paid for my very expensive cab ride home)— I do recall being appalled this woman spent all summer working double shifts to rent a room in Venice Beach, when she could be living in her house.
“If your dad left you the house in his will it’s because he cares about you.”
“No, he’s just trying to control me from the grave. The terms of his will are a direct attack on my feminism.”
“What are the terms?”
“They are so disgusting it is difficult to say them out loud. Just leave it alone, Dragon.”
“Tell me, Brittney. I know quite a bit about estate planning. We can come up with a plan.”
“No plan can usurp the injustice.”
“Injustice, huh? Now I really need to hear this. If you tell me, I’ll do everything in my power to help you get what is rightfully yours.”
“Do you mean it? You have a way of shining people’s shoes with words.”
It’s the one thing Brit dislikes about me: I’ll say whatever, to whomever, if it’ll get me what I want. I know how to turn it on, saying all the right things, and orchestrating an illusion of smoke and mirrors. Mistruths. Exaggerations. But never fully dishonest.
Brit can work a room too, though her pendulum swings in the opposite direction. Knowledge. Unbridled honesty. Sincere admiration. Passion. She can charm the wallet out of a pocket sewn shut. She was the best sales associate this summer, topping my mom’s other two retail stores, Beverly Hills and New York City.
I’d never describe her as sweet or naïve. For a woman in her mid-20s, she knows exactly how powerful she is and how to apply the right amount of humility to every situation.
Music and fashion are her only weaknesses.
“I promise. Tell me the terms of your father’s will.”
“Shameful! The terms are shameful!” Brit bemoans.
Her mother is often called the Susan Lucci of France. Liquored up, Brit’s genetic roots are starting to show. When under the influence, her rants about the ills of the patriarchy become dramatic performances.
“Brittney, be a good girl.”
She sighs, and words drop out of her mouth.
“My inheritance. It’s not just a house. It’s a mansion. And three million dollars. But I have to be married to collect it.”
Yeah, she’s right. The terms of her inheritance are fucked up. Especially for a woman who believes Prince Charming is patriarchal propaganda crafted to oppress women. She told me her theory on marriage at the beginning of summer while waiting in line to see jazz bassist, Christian McBride.
I’ll always remember the night. Brit wore sparkly peep-toe heels, reminiscent of Cinderella.
***
This is definitely not a jazz show. Dave Matthews Band fans are nuts, screaming and chanting “I love you, Dave.” But their passion for the music is as infectious as the smile on Brit’s face.
Her eyes are closed and her powerful voice pierces through the crowd as she sings along to “Crash Into Me.” It’s one of those songs I’d never admit to enjoying, but tonight it sounds like angels calling me home.
“I’ll marry you,” I say in her ear.
She stops singing and swaying to the music. Her pretty face distorts. Her nostrils flare and I can see the underside of her nose ring.
“Don’t ruin this, Dragon. We’ve got a good thing. I like being friends with you. You don’t need to rescue me.”
“You would be rescuing me from a life as a capitalist asshole. If we get married, I wouldn’t have to work on Wall Street. All I need is a half a million. I could stay here and start my business.”
The song ends, the crowd roars around us. Brit just stares at me. I lift my empty plastic cup and motion her toward the concession stand to get another beer. I continue, as we wait in line. I’ve gotta sell this plan to her.
“Brittney, what better middle-finger to the patriarchy than to marry on your own terms. Also, you’d be saving a soul from a career as a stockbroker. Nothing would have to change. We don’t need to live together. We’d just be married on paper.”
“I wouldn’t be marrying on my terms. This is your idea.”
“Okay. What would make this work for you?”
“Would I be an investor in your business?”
“No, but California is a community property state. As my spouse, half of everything I earn is yours.”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“Okay. What are you thinking?”
“Um, you have to donate 15% of your profits to charity. I get to pick the charities.”
“7%.”
“12.5%.”
“Brit, you barely budged!”
“Fine. 25%.”
“You can’t go up! That’s not how negotiations work.”
A grin curves across her pretty face. Other than a bit of eyeliner, she doesn’t wear makeup.
“Okay, Dragon. 10%. Best and final.”
“10%, I’ll make the donations quarterly once I turn a profit.”
“I doubt it will take long. You can sell anything... even marriage to a feminist.”
“So, do you want to get married?”
“Sure. Why not.”
EIGHT YEARS AGO
BRIT PALMER
“One more thing,” I say.
“What?”
Alex and I are in line at L.A. City Hall, waiting to get our marriage license.
In the last week, we’ve spent almost every day together working out the logistics of our marriage of convenience.
Other than the money I’m giving him to start his business, I will maintain full control of my inheritance, but per the terms of my dad’s will, the deed to the house would be issued in Alex’s name. We agreed if I ever needed anything for the house, he’d handle it.
Our arrangement would stay between us. Just two friends getting married. I would never tell the girls. Since we don’t share any of the same friends, it’ll be easy to maintain separate lives. And we’ll still go to shows and watch basketball games as our schedules allow.
“We can never have sex, Alex.”
“Never is a strong word, Brit. We’re both adults, if something happens, it happens.”
“No, this is only going to work if we’re just friends. Sex would complicate everything. Lynn is the only person who can successfully do friends-with-benefits, but her brain is neither here nor there.”
“I would never consider us friends-with-benefits. I find it hard to believe Lynn is more unaware than you. My biggest fear is you’ll periodically forget you’re married.”
“Yes! That’s the exact marriage I want. I don’t want to ever feel like you are the epicente
r of my world and I need to answer to you. And of course, I want you to have the same freedom. No sex.”
“But we can have sex with other people?”
“Yeah, since we’re just friends.”
“What if you have another reaction? And do your smart-girl-sexy dance?”
“Ah, that’s highly unlikely unless I’m tipsy and then you will have to ask for consent.”
“Ask for consent. Got it. Can I go down on you from time to time?” Alex asks with a boyish grin.
“It’s been a while since you’ve asked. I appreciate your restraint over the last month. Okay, you can go down on me, but only on a Friday night,” I say with a wink.
“So, really your answer is “no” because you spend most Friday nights with your friends.”
“Yeah, but you never know.”
***
On a blistering hot day in late August, at L.A. City Hall, I become Mrs. Willingham. In theory. I do not change my name legally.
I wear a white Sophia structured mini dress with a fit-and-flare shape and blue Manolos. Alex wears a deep charcoal suit with a white dress shirt and no tie.
We have our wedding lunch at Canters on Fairfax.
Alex helps me move into the Silver Lake mansion a few days later. I tell the girls I’m housesitting for a family friend. Three million dollars is wired into my checking account the same day.
***
I watch Alex slide the check I just wrote out into his pristine wallet. We stand in the great room of my new home. Unpacked boxes clutter the space.
“Let’s go to dinner and see a show at the Jazz Bakery? We can buy premium seating now that we’re rich,” I suggest.
“I am not rich, Brit. This is working capital. I have an early meeting tomorrow with a retired wealth manager to discuss starting my business. I should go home and prepare,” he says.
“It’s still early. We got married two days ago. Let’s have some fun to celebrate.”
“No. I need to hit the ground running if I’m going to sign some clients before the end of the year. Let’s meet up next week.”
