by Alexis Angel
“If I didn’t have to deal with ugly guys all night, I could still do this,” I tell her. “Hell, I could do a lot more.”
Yasmine pauses for a moment, as if thinking to herself. I wonder what’s going through her head.
Finally, she reaches into her bra, and pulls out a business card. I had no idea she kept things in there, but she hands it to me.
“Take the night off, darling,” she tells me as I take the card. “And call these people in the morning.”
“Simulated Pleasures LLC,” I read aloud.
“Same owner as Scorcher’s,” Yasmine says nodding, referring to the strip club. “Only you can work from home and it’s a phone sex line. They could use someone with as much imagination and intelligence as you.”
I look at Yasmine, grateful. This could totally be it!
“Thank you, Yas—” I’m about to say, but Yasmine has already gotten up from her chair and interrupts me.
“Now go home,” she says. “I’m serious. You’re no good here.”
***
It’s nearly midnight by the time I get my makeup off, tip out the DJ, the makeup girls, Yasmine, the waitress, as well as the club.
I’m waiting on 6th Avenue for a taxicab but tonight, they’re hard to come by. Finally, I see one that stops and I go to get in.
Just as I get inside, the door opens from the other end. A man gets in.
This is my cab! What the fuck!
“59th and Fifth Avenue, please!” the man literally shouts at the driver. I can tell he just came in from the club.
“Hey buddy!” I yell at him and he turns to me. His eyes widen and he looks at me as if he knows me.
I can’t lie. He’s cute. More than cute. He’s gorgeous. He’s muscled and he’s got a smirk and if he wasn’t coming out of the club, I would totally be crushing on him right now.
“This is my cab,” I manage to finish.
It takes a moment, and finally the guy speaks.
“Listen, uhm, Miss,” he says. “My dad just died and the cab is already on its way…”
Whatever. This is the last time I’m going to have to deal with people from a strip club.
“Just make sure you give me the money before you get out,” I say and pull out my phone.
I put on my earbuds and turn on my music. I would have loved to just stare at the guy, but his stop comes by way too fast—in like 5 minutes—and he hands me a $100 note before rushing out.
“34th and 8th,” I tell the cabdriver, wondering what kind of people I’ll be dealing with on the phone sex line.
Regardless of what they’re like, at least I’ll be safe from people like this guy who just tossed me a C-note.
I’m okay if I never have to go inside a strip club again. Or deal with the people who frequent them.
Well, I mean, I wouldn’t mind if I run into the guy who got off at the Plaza again, though.
Just saying.
Ashley
The taxicab is taking me past the Plaza, where Gorgeous Jerk got off, and is heading onto 8th Avenue. I look at my watch as we approach Times Square.
It’s just barely midnight. I can see Peter’s apartment on 50th Street.
“Stop the cab!” I yell to the driver who stops with the characteristic lack of surprise based on having seen everything most likely in his tenure as a New York City cabdriver. I pay the fare and get out of the car, heading toward Peter’s building on the corner of 50th Street and 8th Avenue.
Peter lives by himself in a 4 story walk-up, and as someone who graduated from college a couple of years ahead of me, the fact that he has a job and an apartment to himself makes him a pretty big catch in the dating pool of New York City.
I reflect on this as I take the keys to his apartment out of my purse and open the front door.
That’s right. He’s given me a set of keys. I think he gave them to me last month – after we’d been dating for two months. I know what he sees in me. He thinks I’m hot, or whatever. I mean, I try to work out and look good. I save up for things like dresses or heels or yoga pants. I don’t spend obsessively going shopping all the time, and I’m not vain, or anything. But I try to look cute. And I guess he appreciates it. I mean, if you ask me, there are a thousand other prettier girls you can find at any given moment—I’m not anything that special, but Peter always likes showing me off for whatever reason.
But then again, aren’t I kind of doing the same thing? I know that's what you were thinking maybe, weren’t you? When I said the fact that Peter has a job and his own apartment makes him a catch, I did my own aspect of superficial judging there I think.
I mean, on paper, that’s great. But he’s not perfect. I don’t think there’s such a thing as a perfect guy. He’s okay to look at—he’s tall enough, and he’s not like super hot, but he’s not ugly. He’s just … average.
We have sex. I mean, it is what it is. It’s not like super-crazy sex or anything. Like I’m not yelling at the top of my lungs. Sometimes I don’t really cum. I mean, everyone knows that to be a girl means sometimes a guy’s cock isn’t going to do it for you, right? And Peter isn't a big fan of going down on me, so sometimes I just fake it to make sure everything is going well. I mean, a part of me is really turned on and gets really wet knowing what I can bring him to. What I can do to him.
That’s what I’m thinking about tonight. I’m thinking I want to have sex. I want to fuck. But is his 5-inch cock going to satisfy me tonight? Some nights I’m lucky. If I’m coming from the club, already kind of horny, then sure, I can get off no problem. But some days, 5 inches, no matter how hard, doesn't really do it for me.
Maybe if Peter worked out a bit more. But every time I ever bring it up, he talks about how busy he is from work and how much he needs to decompress. I guess I can understand that. I mean, the guy who shared the cab with me today—he was hot. Obviously doesn't miss a gym day. Gym day is every day for someone like that.
I wonder what having sex with someone like that would be like as I finish climbing the four sets of stairs and open the door.
Maybe tonight I can close my eyes and pretend that Peter is the Gorgeous Jerk. If I keep my eyes closed and not think about the body I’m feeling—the slight man boobs and bit of a potbelly—I guess I could pass it off.
“Oh fuck, baby, that’s so good. Just like that,” I hear Peter say from his room. He’s got a one-bedroom apartment in Midtwon West and I know he basically pays an arm and a leg for it, with very little left over to afford.
But that’s not what I’m thinking about as I hear him again.
“Oh fuck, fuck baby,” I hear him.
Is he jerking off? Maybe I should have texted him instead of just coming up here like this.
I don't know why I make my footfalls softer.
But then again, I also don't know why my heart is beating so hard.
I’m at the threshold to his bedroom. The door is closed. I hear the bedsprings squeak.
Someone is in there with him.
I give myself a moment to close my eyes and prepare for the worst.
I mean, I thought we were good together. That this was as good as it gets. But maybe I was wrong? Maybe I wasn’t good enough for Peter? I don’t know, okay. Have you ever been in a situation like this? Because I haven’t. I don't know if I’m thinking right.
I open the door. I don’t even both knocking.
The reaction is almost immediate.
Peter is on top of someone and he stops while he's raised up. He twists his head back and sees me. His eyes go wide.
“Ashley!” Peter exclaims.
I just stand there as he looks back down to whoever it is below him and then to me, like a deer caught in headlights.
“Ashley, what are you doing here?” Peter asks again.
I say nothing. No, that’s not true. I think I shake my head.
Yes, I’m shaking my head.
“Ashley,” Peter says again, as if saying my name again is going to mitigate what I’m seeing.
And what I’m seeing is searing into my memory. I see Peter get up off of whomever he's with. His dick is hard and slimy.
He tries to cover himself, but the woman grabs the blanket and raises her head.
She’s blonde like me. She has huge boobs. Not so slender. Kind of a fucked-up face.
Yes, okay, I’m being unfair. Whatever. I have the right to be unfair right now.
“Ashley!” Peter says again.
I wish there was something I could do to make everyone see what an asshole my ex-boyfriend is.
I’m not thinking. That’s why I pull out my phone.
I turn on Facebook. I select the option to go live.
Sure, I’m young. I have thousands of friends on Facebook. So does Peter. We have so many mutual friends in common. People from Peter’s work are my friends.
I push the button and voila. We’re live on Facebook.
“Everyone,” I say pointing my iPhone toward Peter who is standing there frozen, his dick is hard. “Say hello to my ex-boyfriend. He used to be my boyfriend, but I just got home from work a few minutes ago. I’m about four hours early. And I found him in bed with…”
The woman doesn’t seem fazed at all. She gets out of bed and I wince as I see her tits sway. Did he cheat on her because I don't have as big of tits as her? I mean, I have D cups. She’s definitely older.
She looks to me.
“Hey, love bug,” she says with a wave as she picks up a pair of panties. “I’m Laura. You can find me on the corner of 42nd and 8th Avenue. I charge $100 for the half hour. $150 for the hour. Do you want my website or something?”
A hooker?
A fucking hooker?
Peter Theller, my boyfriend, was cheating on me with a hooker who stands outside of the Port Authority Bus Terminal?
“Peter Theller,” I say, surprisingly calm. “I just want to make sure all my friends know, so they don't have to ask when they find out why we broke up, that I caught you cheating on me with a hundred dollar whore that you found outside of the bus terminal!”
I zoom into his face. He’s sputtering.
I move the camera down.
Peter’s cock, which was as hard as a 5-inch cock could be, starts to deflate. Despite myself, I can't suppress a smirk. This is insane.
“Ashley, turn that off!” Peter says angrily.
Doesn't matter. He can try to turn my phone off. Hell, he can break it if he wants. It's already gone live. And it’ll play forever. And ever. Till the end of time.
“I have nothing else to say to you, you stupid, selfish, piece of shit,” I say to him. My voice is even calm. Still.
Am I acting crazy? The jury’s gonna be out on that one, babe. But I don't work 8 hours grinding my ass on other guys’ cocks not to be able to roll with the punches. And I’m not gonna put up with this shit.
Not when there are guys who look like the Gorgeous Jerk walking around out there.
I turn off my phone and turn around.
“Nice to meet you!” the hooker calls out. “I’m Laura. In case you didn't get that.”
I don't know how, but I’m out the door.
Peter is calling out to me. But I couldn’t care less at this point.
I run down the stairs. They go by in a flash. All of a sudden I’m outside. I run across the street and down the stairs into the subway.
I catch the downtown C from Port Authority. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m glad that at least I’m headed home.
I sit down on the bench in the train car and I think about crying. But no. No tears for him! Never for him!
I will survive this. I will fucking survive!
Arsen
“I’m sure that had my father been here at this point, he would've been the first to join me in congratulating the Board of Directors of the Metropolitan Museum of Art on their opening of their new Impressionist Wing,” I say to the polite applause and some knowing laughter. “I’m sure he would've been particularly taken with the nudes.”
The laughter is a bit lighter now, people more at ease.
“On behalf of the Met, I am honored that his last act was to grant this gift,” I finish and this time the applause is spontaneous.
Of course it fucking is. People will take money from anyone, no matter how fucking wealthy they already are. Never mind that half the people in this room would've never fucking allowed my dad to come near their daughters when he was alive. And could you fucking blame them? I couldn’t. The guy literally made billions of dollars selling smut. I must've had at least six stepmothers in my life. I lost track after a while. Each one came all giggly, then watched as they fell into neglect as their bodies aged, until they left with their suitcases that they came with, and a fat settlement check.
Now they’re dedicating a wing of the fucking Met to him. Don’t get me wrong. It cost money. But it’s the least I could do, allocating a portion of the money from the sale of the live sex webcams that he controlled and writing a check to the fucking Met.
That’s right. It’s only been ten fucking days and I’ve already started selling pieces of my dad’s smut empire.
Don’t get me fucking wrong. I love to fuck. I mean, the first time you saw me, I was fucking two strippers, remember?
“You’re father would have been very proud of you,” some random old guy says as I descend the podium. I have no idea who the fuck he is, but he takes the stage after me. I navigate around all the fucking leeches that surround this place. As long as I’m making a name for myself by distancing myself from my dad’s smut kingdom, and giving away some money to them, they’re content to come let me inside. But the moment I start going against their rules, they’ll pull back the red carpet and leave me out in the cold.
I find Gerard waiting for me outside the Met on the steps. He’s looking through his phone, checking emails. Always a good lawyer. Always on top of things. Hell, he basically raised me after my Mom died and Dad started marrying women left and right. When I moved out of the house before college because I just couldn’t get into Dad living with three other women, it was Gerard who fucking made sure I didn’t go off the deep end. Sure, I like to party. I like to get wild. But trust me when I tell you that I’d be having a lot more than tattoos on my body if Gerard weren’t there to bring me back when I started to stray.
“Luca Gianoni’s left two emails and a voicemail while you were inside,” Gerard says. “He’s still talking about the rest of the strip clubs as being on the table.”
Great. Does no one in this fucking city buy into the sex business except the fucking mob? I’d rather not sell to them if I can help it, but if no one else is at the fucking table, I can’t really help it.
“We have no more other offers?” I ask, incredulous. “The strip clubs bring in close to five hundred grand a night when you combine them.”
Gerard shrugs. “They also cost roughly three hundred grand a night combined when you add it all up,” he says.
He’s got a point of course. Strippers aren’t cheap. In fact, they’re fucking expensive. But oh my fucking God, what a great fucking expense to throw money at.
I’ve always been a fan of strippers. But I swear it’s like ever since that night a week and a half ago, I can’t get strippers out of my fucking head.
I sigh as I get into the car and Gerard gets in next to me.
“You thinking of heading to Scorcher's again, Arsen?” he asks. He’s got a touch of fucking pity in his eyes. I can’t blame the guy as I nod.
“I got to find this girl,” I tell him. I’ve been searching high and fucking low for the stripper who was on the pole. I don’t know her name. I don’t know when she works. No one else at the club seems to either.
You want to know the bitch about the whole thing, though? It’s that same night I shared a fucking cab with her. I could've asked her for her name at least that night.
Don’t you knock me for being quiet that night. I’m sorry, it was just that my Dad had just died, okay? Sex wasn’t really going t
hrough my head at that point. This isn’t like some fucking plot hole or something you can mention in the review. You try getting news that your estranged family member has just hit the fucking bucket and you have to manage a sprawling multi-billion dollar sex empire and see if you remember the small details.
The car pulls up outside the strip club where I had first seen this gorgeous, blonde haired, perfectly curved woman ten fucking days ago. With a name like Scorcher's, I’m not sure what I'm going to find instead. But fuck it. If I come up empty, maybe I can fuck another stripper.
Way to look at the fucking bright side, eh?
I walk in, and instantly I’m greeted by the House Mom, Yasmine.
Yasmine’s been eyeing my fucking cock for years. She’s got to be the oldest one in this joint. And a fucking vet too, seeing girls come and go.
“You’re here for another one of my girls tonight, Arsen?” she asks me with an arched eyebrow.
“I’m looking for someone,” I tell her. Sure she’s been eyeing me, but I’ve never really given it up to her. Never really know why. Just the circumstances weren’t right probably.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Yasmine says as she turns around. I look at her ass flex and instantly I’m reminded of the blonde. Yasmine turns her head back to look at me. “To your office.”
I follow dutifully. Fuck it, if I don’t try to get my dick hard thinking about boning Yasmine. But it’s like every time I think about ass, or tits, or pussy, there’s just one image that keeps coming into my head.
Yeah, you fucking guessed it. The blonde goddess that I saw last week.
We get upstairs and the music is a bit more subdued.
Yasmine slides over to me, rapidly erasing any personal space that I may have had. But I don’t mind. I wrap my arms around her back and squeeze her ass.
“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time, Arsen,” she coos. “I knew you were coming tonight. You’ve been here every night. But ever since you had Sophie and Heather, you haven’t taken any other girl. I think I know why.”
