by Lauren Rowe
Now that I’m finally in my office alone, I close my door and quickly open my private email account, even though I know nothing will be there. My heart stops. There’s a message in my inbox time-stamped at 2:12 a.m.—about an hour after I went to sleep last night. My breathing constricts just thinking about this message sitting here all morning while I’ve been trapped on a conference call about “projections” and “action items.”
The email is from a sender identified as “Your Beautiful Intake Agent.” Holy fuck. When I click on the sender name, the actual email address is “[email protected].” Oh my God. My pulse is racing. My mouth is dry. I click open the email.
“My Brutally Honest Mr. Faraday:
“This email is not an official Club communication. In fact, if anyone at The Club ever found out about it, I’d lose my job faster than I could say ‘my sweet button’ or ‘petals falling off a flower’ or ‘plunging into me like a hot knife in warm butter,’ or, perhaps, my favorite, ‘cocky-bastard-asshole-son-of-a-bitch motherfucker.’ So, in the interest of me being able to make my next rent payment, I’m hoping you’ll keep this message just between us—you know, our little secret. Gracias.
“I went back and forth and round and round, trying to get up the nerve to send you this note, and then trying to convince myself not to send it (because it’s obviously a horrible idea), and then trying to stop myself from obsessively reading and re-reading what you wrote to me (I wasn’t successful), and then trying to figure out exactly what to say to you if and when I actually sent you a note (which, of course, I knew was inevitable). So, here I am, after consuming a significant amount of two-buck chuck for some liquid courage (or maybe liquid stupidity?), finally writing this note to you and swearing to press ‘send’ when I’m done—even if doing so qualifies as felony stupid.
“I think I’ve finally figured out exactly what’s so freaking important to say that I’m willing to risk the best-paying job I’ve ever had to say it. It’s the thing you value the most, Mr. Faraday—the truth. You so kindly showed me yours, right? Well, then, I think it’s only right I show you mine. Yes, Mr. Faraday, I’ll give you my tit—in exchange for your tat, of course. (What did you think I meant?)
“But the truth is like an octopus when you start trying to pin it down—it’s got lots of moving parts. So for starters, let’s just start with pinning down the easiest parts—the parts I think you’ll like the most.
“Yes, Mr. Faraday, I am indeed a woman. You’re so damned smart. But you already knew that.
“Yes, Mr. Faraday, I thoroughly enjoyed reading your application, just as you predicted I would, particularly your personal note to me at the end. Given the fact that I’ve been raised on Lifetime and Disney and Hallmark, and since I do, no doubt, have a raging good girl complex (among other self-sabotaging complexes, some of which are none of your business), I really wanted to hate your message. Actually, I just wanted to hate you, you cocky bastard asshole motherfucker. But my body had a different idea.
“As I read your note to me, despite my mind’s unyielding desire to hate you, my body went rogue on me and ached for you. It throbbed for you, Mr. Faraday. Yes, my body had the exact physical reaction you predicted it would have. I won’t go into too much detail, because I’m a fancy lady and all, but, yes, a change of panties was most definitely in order. Or, if we’re being honest, the minute I started touching myself, just like you told me to do, I just tossed them on the bedroom floor.
“And, now, goddamn you, Mr. Faraday, I’m having that very same unmistakable physical reaction to you, yet again, just from typing this email to you. And, shoot, I’m all out of clean panties in my pretties drawer, too—and I don’t have quarters for the laundry room downstairs! You really are a bastard, aren’t you?
“That’s a nice segue for another truth. Yes, I think you’re a cocky bastard, as I’ve already mentioned. And worse, you’re a cocky bastard with a raging God complex. Your God complex is so big, in fact, it rivals the size of your raging hard-on, if you can believe it.
“But you’ve also got honest eyes, Mr. Faraday. And they’re sad, too—which is something I apparently cannot resist. And damn, you’ve got some effing kissable lips. And you make me laugh, too (though not intentionally). Oh, yeah, and you’ve got smokin’ hot abs, by the way—but I probably don’t need to tell you that. I mean, you’ve got a mirror, right?
“Yes, Mr. Faraday, it’s true. I wanted to touch myself after reading your note to me, long before I even saw your photos, in fact. Your words alone—your crass and cocky and self-congratulating but honest and confident and insightful and spot-on words—made me want to slide my hand inside my panties. But I resisted because I don’t touch myself, Mr. Faraday. Ever. There’s never been any point.
“However, when I saw your photos, I must admit my self-restraint and ‘not seeing the point’ flew right out the window along with my brain. Suddenly, I was spread out on my bed next to an almost empty bottle of wine, music blaring—and I was touching myself and wishing your warm, wet tongue was doing the touching instead of my fingers. I imagined your gorgeous face smiling up at me from between my open thighs, your lips slick and shiny with my wetness. And then, Mr. Faraday, I touched myself some more and imagined you inside me, whispering in my ear. And for the first time in my life, I felt the promise of incredible pleasure simmering and bubbling inside me. No, it didn’t erupt, of course, because it never has and probably never will—but for the first time, I believed it could. Or, hell, maybe I’d just had too much wine.
“Now, before you start gloating or jacking off or doing whatever it is a cocky bastard like you does to celebrate your sexual godliness, let me tell you a few more truths—the ones you might not like quite as much as the above entries. Brace yourself, Mr. Faraday.
“Despite what you think, you haven’t made every single woman you’ve ever graced with your godliness come harder than she ever has. The unpleasant truth is that some of them didn’t come at all. Perhaps every single woman you’ve ever been with has appeared to come during sex with the Magical Fuck Wizard himself, but, statistically speaking, at least ten percent of them are lying to you. Why? To enhance your pleasure. To spare you from feeling like a failure (considering how much effort you undoubtedly exert). To convince you she’s worthy of an invitation to dinner or some other “Valentine’s Day bullshit” you so abhor. Or, most likely, to avoid her own feelings of inadequacy and shame at not being able to perform what her body is apparently designed for, despite her desperate desire to do so. You think that first faker who inspired your current odyssey of box-lunch-munching is the only woman who’s ever faked it with you or who ever will again? Maybe. But I highly doubt it—statistically speaking.
“Think back on some of those allegedly epic fucks of yours, Mr. Faraday. Really think about them. Could I be right?
“Or, hey, okay, okay, don’t get all worked up about it. Maybe I’m dead wrong. Maybe you really are lighting up each and every one of your sexual conquests like Christmas trees. It’s not a statistical probability, but I suppose it’s possible. There are documented cases of people being struck by lightning on three separate occasions, after all; and I just heard about some guy in Chicago winning the lottery three different times in the same week. So I guess it’s possible you’ve somehow managed to randomly avoid ten percent of the female population during your apparently many, many, many sexual exploits over the past year. It could happen. If that’s the case, though, there’s no way to know if you’re as good as you think you are, is there? Think about it—if you’ve somehow been so lucky as to avoid the really tough nuts to crack, then you really haven’t tested the limits of your skills, have you? I mean, I’m sure you’ll agree that being able to climb Mount Rainier doesn’t guarantee a successful climb of Mount Everest. (Speaking of which, that article about you and your brother in Climbing Magazine was excellent. I particularly liked it when they referred to you as ‘enigmatic.’)
“Of course, there’s also a th
ird possibility. Perhaps you have some kind of innate radar that kicks in subconsciously during your selection process? Perhaps the women you instinctively want in your bed happen to be those women who are innately disposed to go off like bottle rockets at the slightest flicker of your golden tongue—because you can sense it. If so, it doesn’t necessarily prove your alleged sexual prowess, really, it just means you’ve got a handy talent for spotting and plucking low-hanging fruit (which, in and of itself is a dandy talent, indeed). It also makes a girl like me a little bit annoyed, if you want to know the truth. I mean, if you really are that good in the sack, where’s your spirit of charity? Why not use your superpowers to help the less fortunate occasionally? Throw us ten-percenters a bone, will ya? Look at it this way: Is it really fair for you to pass right by a homeless shelter and waltz into the Ritz Carlton next door in order to serve some rich, fat lady a free turkey dinner smothered in gravy? And on top of that, once you’ve done that, should you really go back to the homeless shelter and saunter right up to the poor, starving girl in the corner and brag to her about how expertly you just served turkey to a fancy lady? Really, Mr. Faraday, how rude. (And just to be clear, the poor, starving, homeless girl in this elaborate metaphor is lil ol’ me.)
“I’m not sure which of these three scenarios is The Truth. But it doesn’t matter. Whichever one it is, the result is the same: Despite your alleged hunger for brutal honesty, you clearly haven’t experienced it like you think you have. Why? Because honesty is just the flipside of a little thing called humility. (This word is pronounced ‘hyoo-míl-uh-tee.’ It’s a noun. Look it up.) Without having one, you simply cannot have the other.
“Well, my Brutally Honest Mr. Faraday, have you enjoyed reading my secrets and confessions and wine-induced thoughts? Because I’ve enjoyed sharing them with you. In fact, I’ve enjoyed writing this note to you so much, I took a break midway through to touch myself (again)—all the while thinking of you and your warm, wet tongue and your beautiful, sad eyes and your luscious lips. I’ll leave it to your active imagination as to exactly where in my narrative that pleasantness occurred.
“Well, Mr. Faraday. Perhaps this is goodbye. Probably so. I hope you find everything you’re looking for in The Club, especially the honesty you so desperately crave. And don’t worry—despite the horrific lapse in judgment I’ve displayed by sending this email to you, I’ll diligently process your application according to all protocols and standards of professionalism going forward.
“Oh, yeah, and one last thing (in the interest of brutal honesty, of course)—yes, Mr. Faraday, I would indeed ditch all the Valentine’s Day bullshit to howl like a monkey for the first time in my entire life. Hellz yeah, I would. I’m already apparently willing to risk my job to send you this email, so why not throw a little Valentine’s Day bullshit under the bus, too? The only question I have is whether you, or any man for that matter, could accomplish the job for a ten-percenter like me, a Mount Everest kind of a girl. I highly doubt it. But, damn, I sure do wish someone, someday, somewhere, would prove me wrong—especially someone with exactly your sad eyes and luscious lips and chiseled abs. At any rate, even if you could do it, Mr. Faraday, on the following point I think we can both agree: It would most certainly take you a helluva lot longer than four minutes—two hundred and forty measly little seconds—as you so confidently claim, to do it. Puh-lease.
“Truthfully yours,
“Your Beautiful Intake Agent.”
“Yo,” Josh says, picking up my call on the first ring.
“Is it possible to trace an email to identify the sender?”
“What?”
“How the fuck do I find someone who sent me an anonymous email?”
“Whoa, no need to yell. Someone’s a little high strung today.”
“Josh, I don’t have time for bullshit. Can it be done or not?”
“Calm down. It depends.”
“On what?”
“On what server she’s using.”
“How do you know I’m looking for a ‘she’?”
He laughs. “A wild guess.”
“Fuck you.”
He laughs again. “If I can get her IP address off the email header, then we’re in business. If we’re lucky, that’ll cross-reference with her name on the server’s account records. But I’ll have to get a hacker involved to check the server’s records on the down low—”
“Do whatever you have to do. Just keep it confidential.”
“How much are you willing to spend?”
“Whatever it takes.”
“Wow. What’s—”
“Don’t ask.”
He sighs. “Okay. Don’t get your hopes up on getting the name, bro. It’s unlikely. We might get a physical address, but more likely it’ll be a defined area—you know, like a one-mile radius. Maybe just a city. It depends.”
“Can you do it right now?”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s personal.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Josh, seriously, I can’t—”
“I’m just fucking with you, bro. Forward me the email. I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll forward you the email header—not the message itself.”
“Damn. Sounds like it would have been some interesting reading.”
“Oh man, you have no fucking idea.”
I gather up my laptop and burst out of my office.
“I’ll be gone the rest of the day,” I murmur to my assistant as I whiz past her.
“What about your appointments this afternoon?” she calls after me.
I don’t answer her. I’ve got to get out of here. I reach the reception area and punch the call button for the elevator. My head is spinning.
My Beautiful Intake Agent has never had a fucking orgasm! Not even once! Oh, what I would do to this woman. How I would lick this woman. How I would fuck this woman. Just the thought of her feeling so warm and wet and convulsing around my cock for the first time in her life makes me so hard I have to hold my laptop in front of my pants as I wait for the elevator. I’m going to be the first man ever to witness pure ecstasy on her face, to watch her eyes roll back into her head and her cheeks flush as she comes for the first time in her life—with me—because of me—thanks to me. The thought makes me moan involuntarily, just standing here waiting for the goddamned elevator.
Thankfully, the elevator arrives before I have a heart attack. I step inside and pound on the button for the parking garage over and over as the doors close.
Fuck. I don’t even know what she looks like. I can’t even imagine her face experiencing rapture because I don’t know what her face looks like! Fuck, fuck, fuck. No woman has ever turned me on like this. Especially not a woman I’ve never even seen.
The elevator stops after a couple floors, before I’ve reached my destination, and a woman from the bank two floors down gets on. She’s hot, but I don’t give a shit.
“Oh, Mr. Faraday.” She smiles and bites her lower lip. “Hi.”
I can’t even speak, I’m so distracted. So hard. So utterly disinterested right now in anyone or anything other than My Beautiful Intake Agent. All I want to do is get home so I can close my eyes and let her words wash over me and think about fucking this woman and licking her and making her come. I’ve never wanted to make a woman come so bad.
I nod at the woman and pretend to look at my phone. She gets off at the next floor, her nose out of joint.
I press the button for the parking garage again, even though it’s already lit up.
I’ve got to get home. I want to read that email again and again and again and jerk myself off. Through her written words alone, My Beautiful Intake Agent’s managed to turn me on like nobody ever has. That woman just kicked my ass. Hard. And I liked it. My Beautiful Intake Agent. My smart, sexy, hilarious, pulls-no-punches, kicks-my-ass intake agent. She called herself a “Mount Everest kind of a girl.” Now that’s a girl who knows how to dangle a fucking carrot. Damn.
When the elevator doors open, I sprint toward my car on the far end of the garage—not an easy thing to do with a raging hard-on, mind you. A raging hard-on to rival the size of my raging God complex. I can’t help but smile. Holy shit, I’ve got to find this woman.
Who is she? Where is she? She could be anywhere in the world right now, working remotely from some intake center in Malaysia or India for all I know. But, wait, no—she mentioned Chicago, the Ritz Carlton, two-buck chuck. And, hey, she easily adopted my references to Lifetime and Hallmark, too. Yeah, she’s definitely American.
I reach my car and jump inside, fumbling with the key.
She’s here in the States. Somewhere. And I’m going to find her.
I pull out of my parking spot and peel out toward the exit.
Yes, I’m going to find her. And when I do, I’m going to lick her and then fuck her like she deserves—so well, so expertly, in fact, with such care and attentiveness and precision and unflinching devotion, she’s finally going to discover the incredible power that’s lain dormant inside her for so long. Yes, I’m going to make that woman come so hard, and with such velocity, she’ll see God for the first time in her life. And when she does, she’ll be surprised to find out he’s a cocky-bastard-asshole-son-of-a-bitch motherfucker with so-called “sad eyes” and “luscious lips” who doesn’t have an ounce of humility or charity in his body. Oh my God, I’ve got to find this woman before I have a fucking stroke.
Chapter 4
Sarah
By all outward appearances, I’m doing my job right now, exactly the way I’ve been trained to do it. I’m sitting in my nondescript Honda hatchback, scoping out my assigned applicant’s place of business from an unobtrusive vantage point (in this instance, from across the street), for the purpose of visually confirming the man works where he says he does, looks roughly the way he claims to look in his photos, and, generally speaking, appears to be the man he claims to be.
I am emphatically not staking him out to get my rocks off. I am emphatically not feeling all gooey inside at the possibility that I’m going to lay eyes on the most gorgeous creature on the face of the earth. Nope. Hellz no. Not me. I’m all business, people. This is precisely the way I’ve been taught to do the surveillance portion of my application processing procedure. So, really, I’m just following protocol. So why do I feel like a stalker, then?
