by Seth King
But my pride got the best of me, as always. “You can drop yourself off a bridge, is what you can do,” I said as I stood taller.
“Death wishes on the first date,” he said with an acid smile. “Charming.”
“I didn’t say you had to die. It could be a short bridge, with a survivable height. Maybe one of those bridges up the river, in Jersey. And do you really want to get into the subject of first date decorum after that train wreck of misogyny back there?”
His face softened. “Okay, Hannah, I’m sorry. Let me start again. I’m Penn Sparks, a guy you matched with on Spark. Who might you be?”
“Hannah, asshole, we already passed the awkward introduction phase of the date, which is now over on account of unprecedented douche-baggery.”
“Yikes. You’re a tough one, aren’t you?”
I smiled. “Are you ever going to drop the condescending tone meant to marginalize me because I am a female, or is that just a constant with you?”
He turned and nodded at the road. “Okay. My car’s here.”
“Good for your car. Fuck off.”
I kept my eyes on the road, expecting some flashy Hummer limo or something to roll up. Instead, a sleek black SUV pulled against the curb, not some tacky stretch limo that Donald Trump or whoever would roll around in to overcompensate for something. Maybe I was wrong about Penn’s dick, I noted to myself. As it came under the light I saw that it was emblazoned with insignia reading Spark LLC, along with the rainbow-hued logo of the Spark app. What was that about? As I watched, a middle-aged man who looked like a cop hopped out and immediately protected Penn with an umbrella.
“Mr. Sparks,” the man said, and Penn nodded at him politely.
“But…” I said as I stared at him. “Your name is Sparks, and you said you’re in tech, and…”
“Smart girl.”
“But that app must be worth, like…billions. Facebook just tried to buy it and got turned down.”
“I created my own destiny,” he shrugged. “And it’s only one billion, technically, but who’s counting?”
I hesitated. So he was the founder of Spark. I didn’t need to read the blogs to know who he was: he was in Forbes, the New York Times, and even People fucking magazine, as the clichéd elusive bachelor whom all the starlets tried and failed to get with. On one level I didn’t give a shit who this asshole was. I was the only poor kid from a rich golf community, meaning I grew up with kids who drove Range Rovers and Jaguars to school – so wealth had never impressed me. But I couldn’t deny that his success was…cool, on some weird level that made the feminist inside me want to shrivel up and die. He’d accomplished things, and that was kind of rad.
“Please, let me start over, sweetie. Take a ride with me, have a few drinks.”
“Why, though? You could turn back into that restaurant and get any gold digging nineteen-year-old you wanted. I’m boring and old and I’m supposed to start a desk job soon.”
He looked genuinely confused. “I don’t know. I just want to. I’ve sort of enjoyed talking to you, as insane as that sounds. Also, we have Netflix in the car.”
That did it. I narrowed my eyes as my heart pounded in my throat. “Okay. For Netflix, I’ll come. But if you call me ‘sweetie’ one more time, I will slice off your dick and feed it to my sister’s cat.”
“Got it.”
“And no more comments about my family dynamics and/or parental issues.”
“Got that, too. Sorry.”
“Oh, and only one drink.”
“Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up a hand as the driver opened the door for me.
Oh, shit. I’m really doing this.
I felt something warm in my core as I slid into the seat. For some weird reason, I heard myself laugh.
“What is it?” he asked as he sat beside me, the air taking on a bizarrely electric atmosphere as we pulled away from the curb.
“You were so not a Boy Scout.”
~
We rode through the city in silence. After we rounded Bryant Park we headed uptown.
“What made you come back?” I asked him after a moment.
“Excuse me?”
“When I stormed out. What made you chase me? I really wasn’t expecting that. I thought I’d scared you off.”
For a moment he looked almost confused. “I guess I was tired of watching women leave, and doing nothing about it.”
I mulled this over, but I couldn’t think of a response.
“So, the Spark logo – it’s cool,” I said as I pointed at the emblazoned napkins, just to break the ice. Retro white letters over a rainbow-hued background font, I appreciated that it wasn’t some bland little icon like every other app. “Who designed it?”
Suddenly he looked sad. “I did, actually. Well – I picked the font. But I placed it over a painting by my aunt. We were really close.”
“Give your aunt my compliments.”
“I would, but she died when I was twenty-two. That’s why I picked that background – it was her favorite painting she did. She was an artist. Or wanted to be, at least.”
“Oh, I’m…I’m sorry. It’s beautiful, though.”
He shook his head. “Thanks, but enough emotional talk for now. Can I bother you with a drink?”
“Ha. Are you trying to get me drunk already?”
“Well, I’m trying to get you to stop acting like a frigid bitch, actually,” he smiled. “Just kidding.”
“Cheers to frigid bitches,” I said as I took a glass of champagne and clinked it with his. “You’re not boring, Penn. I’ll give you that. Damaged, and maybe a little nuts, but not boring.”
We stopped at a touristy corner, and a group of girls saw the logo on the car and started freaking and taking iPhone pictures. He grimaced and looked away. Honestly I almost felt bad for him. Here he was, surrounding by wealth and luxury and selfie-takers, and yet totally alone. The classic bird in the gilded cage, just the updated 21st century version.
“So what’s it like?” I asked, trying to see if there was a living, breathing human under his whole Bret Easton Ellis act.
“What?”
“This weird life you have. Being able to do whatever you want, but knowing everyone will be watching if you do. It seems awful, to be honest.”
“I don’t know,” he said after a minute, letting out some air. “I don’t really think of it that way. When I was young, I wanted success, validation, respect, all that shit. I just looked at money as the byproduct of all that. It’s nice to have, don’t get me wrong, but it was never my goal. I don’t really think about it that much.”
“And the fame, or whatever? I would never want that. Seems…restricting,” I said as I motioned at the tourists.
“It’s restricting if you give a fuck, which I don’t. I do whatever I want, and what they say about that is none of my business.” He bit his lip. “But yeah, I suppose it would be nice to be able to go to a bar and not have fifteen girls ask for a selfie every hour. Actually, come to think of it, the press is a real pain in the ass, because all that attention was part of the reason my fiancé left m-”
My head turned. He’d started to say “left me” but stopped midsentence.
“Uh, never mind,” he said as he cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t complain – I’m a very fortunate man. I’m grateful for every opportunity that has come my way, and I’m committed to using my platform to give back to the community.”
I studied him. That last part had sounded far more like media training than honest emotion. He stared out the window, lost in thought, and soon I almost felt bad for him. “You know, this isn’t the Today show,” I said. “I’m not Kathie Lee Gifford. You can talk to me. You don’t have to give me these bland sound bites.”
He set his jaw. His eyes got lost again. Then they came back. “Okay, Hannah. It sucks. I hate my life and I’m kind of miserable right now. I got my heart broken and I don’t know if I’ll ever find someone I love again. Is that what you wanted to hear?”<
br />
I stared at him. “I feel the same way,” I finally said, turning away. “Except the heartbreak part. My life is a mess. I don’t even know myself anymore.”
We sat in silence. The only sound was the whoosh of the city as it passed us by.
“What would you do?” I asked soon. “If you could do anything, what would you do?”
“Get in an old car,” he said after a moment, his voice dreamy. “Get in a Camaro and drive to Nebraska. Go somewhere real, where people look you in the eye and don’t care about your Page Six mentions. Drive through some cornfields. Listen to some Springsteen. Smoke some pot. Throw my phone out the window. You know, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds beautiful.”
“And impossible. Anyway, enough small talk,” he said as he turned to me and sat a little taller. “Let me fuck you.”
“Ha,” I said, shutting the door inside myself that his vulnerability had opened. “Do not say things like that to me. Ever.”
“Fine. Sorry. I’m still learning how to do this.”
“What?”
“Talk to you. And, say, speaking of being restricted, I’m cramped. Let’s go to my place.”
“Where’s that?”
He fidgeted a little.
“What is it?”
“Well, I keep a room at the top of the Standard, on the High Line.”
“…You live in a hotel?”
“I’m waiting until the final settlement from my company’s initial public offering to throw down serious money on a permanent place. What’s it matter to you?”
“That’s just a massive waste of money. It’s probably thousands of dollars a night.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Who cares?”
“The third-world orphans you could be saving with that money instead. Not me. But no, I will not ‘fuck you’ right now.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? What do you mean why not? I don’t even know you.”
He stared at me, looking genuinely confused. I felt myself grinding my teeth, really starting to get annoyed again. “Okay, listen, here’s what this is. You’re proving your sexual prowess to yourself because you’re hurt. You’re hurt that your girlfriend left you, and it made you insecure. But that doesn’t mean I need to be a participant in your weird little scheme.”
“But you want to be,” he said as he grabbed at his bulge, which I was just noticing was extremely large. “Nothing changes that.”
Uh oh. There it was again, that weird pull he had on me.
“And who said that?” I asked somewhat shakily, glancing away. He licked his lip.
“Your nipples did, by getting so hard under that bra of yours.”
“Ugh. Grow up. Hey, are we near my block yet? I need to-”
“Okay, hear me out,” he interrupted. “You’re a modern woman, correct?”
I flashed a fake smile.
“Okay, well, what is more feminist than casual sex? Taking your matters into your own hands and getting laid? Doing it how the guys do it?”
“Not letting men make my decisions for me,” I responded immediately, and he recoiled. “That’s what’s more feminist than casual sex.”
“Okay, let’s make a deal. I’ll try to get over some of my woman hatred if you try to get over some of your man hatred. Let’s meet in the middle of the hatred scale, if you will.”
“I don’t hate men. I hate assholes. I love sex.”
“So that’s what we are? Sex objects?”
“Serves males right, after years of putting Marilyn Monroe in slutty outfits and giving her two lines of bad dialogue a movie,” I said under my breath. Men had leveled the male gaze at women for centuries, reducing them to nothing but giggling pairs of breasts – it was high time to turn the tables. He was right about that.
“Why do you think you’re so good at sex, anyway?” I asked him.
“I was raised, by, and around, women. It gave me a really unique window into seeing what they want, what they need.”
“And yet it taught you nothing about how to talk to them or treat them.”
“God, enough with the arguing. Can I just kiss you?”
I laughed at nothing, in disbelief that I was even still sitting here with him. Hot sex was great and everything, sure, but I didn’t just go out and sleep with people – I still needed to feel a connection at the bottom of things. Otherwise it was just…well, sex. Sex without emotion was like wine without alcohol – what was the point?
But then again, he was hot…and I was tipsy, speaking of alcohol…
“You know what?” I asked with another laugh. “What the fuck. Why not? You’re a fine specimen, and I’m a woman with needs. Sure, Penn, kiss me. Let’s make out like high schoolers.”
The next few seconds shocked the hell out of me. He leaned in with his lips pursed, but what he gave me wasn’t a kiss. It was a stick of dynamite. Soft and hard at the same time, drenched in moonlight, burning at both ends. It wasn’t a kiss. It was everything.
I scooted away immediately, burnt by the heat between us. Even his closeness, his physicality, was making my skin tingle. “Jesus.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Um…”
“Wow.”
“Wow is right. I wasn’t expecting that, either. What now?”
The kiss had turned me on, I couldn’t lie. And once I got started, I never knew how to stop. I wanted more, but I wasn’t going to be steamrolled. I was going to give him a lesson in Hannah Goncalves. I was going to dominate him so hard, his whole twisted worldview would be turned on its ass.
“Do it again,” I said.
“Do what?”
“Kiss me.”
He turned away. “Now you want it? That’s certainly a change.”
I slammed a glass of champagne and addressed him again. The only thing men responded to more than a vagina was a challenge. “Okay, Penn. The time has come. I think you’re all talk, and I want you to prove yourself to me. Show me what you got.”
“That can be arranged,” he said as he sprung to life and came closer.
“But stop. There’s a condition. I have to go first.”
“What?”
“For the next twenty minutes, you’re mine. Let’s play this game, but I’m in charge first. And then I will be yours.”
“And then I can fuck you?”
“Perhaps. But sex doesn’t have to be a form of punishment, you know.”
“Excuse me?”
“You brandish this like it’s a hate crime. You fuck women because you hate them. Bang bang, pow pow, your cumshot is a gunshot, whatever. But sex can be beautiful. Sex can be art. I’ll show you, if you want.”
Sadness radiated into his eyes.
“Don’t be scared,” I told him, since he almost seemed like a little boy. “It’ll be fun.”
He glanced up at me. “Just twenty minutes?”
“Just twenty minutes.”
“But are you going to leave after that?”
“What?” I asked. For a second he looked even younger – he was like a baby.
“You don’t understand how scared I get,” he whispered, almost desperately. “She left me…she got up and left me…like I was nothing…”
I reached over and touched his hand. “Penn. I won’t leave you until you want me to. I promise.”
Our eyes met. Out of nowhere, his face darkened. “Oh, Hannah,” he said as he scooted closer, his mood intensifying. “You really shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why?”
He pressed something on his phone, and Partition by Beyoncé started booming from the speakers as the cabin screen closed.
“Because you don’t know how much can happen in twenty minutes.”
Penn Sparks
“Nope,” she said, swatting my hand away. “I’m dominating you first. You’re mine.”
“I am?”
“Yep. I was serious. So stop moving and take off your underwear.” Everything about her demeanor was changing right in fron
t of me. “Do it. Now. You’re used to seeing sex through one pair of eyes – your own. It’s time for a new viewpoint.”
My cheeks heated. I didn’t know why, but I picked up my legs and kicked off my pants and then underwear, which were already wet with sweat and pre-cum. No woman had ever taken control of me like this.
“Now we need a change of music. Give me your phone and put on a condom.”
I did as I was told, and she clicked around on my phone until a sad, wistful, angelic voice filled the car. I knew the song perfectly – it was Frank Ocean’s cover of At Your Best (You Are Love). If I knew anything, it was Frank Ocean.
“Good,” she said. “Now hold yourself.”
“What?”
“Hold your dick in your hands for me. Stroke it.”
I reached down and started rubbing myself.
“That’s better.”
For a moment I just stroked as our eyes shot sparks at one another. Then she leaned closer.
“I know you businessmen talk about monopolies a lot,” she said as she reached over and took the head of my dick in her hand. I moaned involuntarily. “But males don’t have one on being rough, either. Lie back now.”
I gave in to her and relaxed. Slowly she began unbuttoning my shirt. For every button she undid, she kissed my lightly hairy chest – and then bit it. Hard. But there was also something careful and measured and almost loving in her touch – she was a masseuse instead of an attacker. Or both, wrapped in one – I couldn’t decide.
“Ahh,” I heard myself breathe as she wrapped her lips around my left nipple. I sprung to life fully as she bit it and licked her way to the next one.
“You’re good at this,” I sighed, my eyes closing.
“And?” Her tone was acidic.
“No comment. You’re just good. But please – fuck me. I know you need it.”
“Nope,” she chided. “I don’t need you. I want you. There’s a difference.”
