by Abby Angel
"So what—you have some crazy stalker now calling at all hours of the night? Keep him on the line and rack up those minutes, girl."
"It's not a stalker. I'm falling for one of my clients."
"You can't be serious?"
"Serious as a heart attack."
"Rule number one, never fall for a client, especially not over the phone! Ashley, come on! He can be anyone. You don't know him at all. You've never even seen the guy. He could be an ex-con with a tattooed face for all you know."
"Actually, you're wrong. I do know who he is, and that's the problem."
I watch as she chokes on her champagne. "Now you've lost me. I don't understand."
"Do you remember Arsen from Scorcher's? Intensely blue eyes, hot body, and billion dollar playboy?"
"THE Arsen Hawke? Sure. I mean, who could forget a guy like that? So, where's this going?"
"Well, last night I found out that Arsen is the client. He's the same person. But he's been hiding that from me for weeks. For countless calls, he's been calling my direct phone sex line and masquerading as a 'King Henry.' We were having the most mind-blowing phone sex. I mean, I was supposed to be getting him off, and yet, there he was, making me come so hard every time. It was like he could read my mind. I couldn't get him out of my head. But as this was all happening, I was meeting up with Arsen—dinner, drinks, sex, and I found myself falling in love with him. But then I started pulling away from Arsen when I realized I was falling for a man on the other end of my phone too. It all became so emotionally confusing. It didn't feel right to be falling in love with two separate people."
"Wait a minute. You're in love with Arsen Hawke?" Yasmine asks, eyes wide in disbelief, and seemingly ignoring a good majority of my story.
I nod my head but before I can respond she says, "You and ever other girl in New York City! Come on Ashley, he's the biggest playboy in this city!"
"That's the thing. I think he loves me too—at least that's what he'd said. I've really fallen for him… well, until a few nights ago anyways. Now I don't know what to think."
"What happened last night?" she asks.
I stare off at the happy couples brunching, smiling, drinking their $6 orange juices, as I recall the events of the Boathouse. "That's when everything came crashing to the surface like some horrific car accident. He admitted to me that he was the man calling into my sex line. He said it so casually, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. I can still hear him ask me, 'is it King Henry?' and right as those words left his mouth, it felt like my entire world was shattering. I knew he wasn't lying—he couldn't have possibly known about that caller any other way—and it felt like everything I'd known was a lie."
Yasmine takes a sip of her champagne and pushes her croissant around her plate a bit with the tips of her fake, neon-pink nails. "I don't know… it just sounds so weird, don't you think? The whole notion that you can fall in love with someone just over the phone."
"I don't want to sound cheesy, but until last night, nothing felt weird at all—it all felt like fate, Yas."
"Fine, fine," she says, throwing in the towel to her argument. "So what's the problem? You're being an idiot. That's what I think. Go get Mr. Perfect. You loved him on the phone, and you loved him in real life."
"How can you say that? You make it sound so easy. I was lied to, remember? He knew all along what he was doing."
"You're over reacting. I get that it hurts to be lied to—I mean, that'd piss me off too, but the bottom line is you're in love with the same person. You pulled away from Arsen after you slept with him, and it's obvious that he was just trying to find another way to get close to you."
"I don't know… it still feels so… wrong. I said things… did things… that were so personal on the phone."
“Listen, Ashley baby,” Yasmine says. “I’ve known Arsen Hawke a lot longer than you. And let me tell you that before he met you, that man knew how to tear shit up.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say to Yasmine resignedly. “I know I could make him happy though.”
“You did from the moment he met you, now that I’m remembering that far back,” Yasmine says.
That stops me up short. I look at her and lean in closer.
“What are you talking about, Yas?” I ask.
She’s silent. I wait. She looks at me. Finally she sighs. “Alright, fine,” she says. “You know that Arsen’s dad used to own the club before he died. He started the whole empire.”
I nod to Yasmine. Arsen has told me all this.
“Well, Arsen used to come in and fuck the girls if they wanted a ride, you know? Kind of like a welcome committee. Not all of them, and not every time. But he’s been known to wet his whistle with a Scorcher’s girl quite a few times,” Yasmine says. What she’s saying isn’t a secret. I used to hear girls talk about Arsen in the dressing rooms. About his body. His appetites. His giant cock. “But what you don’t know is that the night you left early, like a week later he came back.”
Now I’m curious as Yasmine continues. “Comes in and I think oh, maybe it’s time for me to finally take big boy for a ride, and I’m flirting with him.”
I wince as I think about Yasmine sharing the same man that I love but she continues. “Motherfucker completely shot me down,” she says. “Instead asks me if I knew where that pretty blonde haired girl with a nice tits and hot ass and blue eyes went. I told him she didn’t work at Scorcher’s no more. That I sent her over to work at Simulated Pleasures.”
I freeze. Arsen had seen me at the club. And he had been looking for me. He had singled me out. And he had wanted me.
“Guy didn’t even touch one hair on all this,” she says, using her hands to gesture to her body. “I was ready to suck his cock right there on the main floor too – it was one of those nights. But alls he wanted was you, babe. Haven’t seen him inside the club since.”
“He just wanted me…” I say to her softly, but I’m speaking more to myself.
“Since the moment he met you, girlfriend. So I’d go a bit easy on him,” Yasmine says, finally taking a bite out of her chocolate croissant. "If anything, Arsen was trying to protect you."
"How's that?" I ask.
"Well, he sold his company in chunks to the Russian mob. I'm sure he was trying to protect you for as long as he could. They probably would have pressured you for sex or something to keep working there."
Her words stun me. What if that's true? Could that be it? Was Arsen just trying to keep me safe and protected?
I ask, "How do you know all this?"
"I have my ways."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She thinks for a moment, as if she's not sure whether to say anything or not, but then continues, "Do you remember that slightly old lawyer who always hangs around Mr. Arsen Hawke?"
"Vaguely," I say, thinking of the times I’ve seen him on the video conference screen or he’s come by Arsen’s One57 apartment. ‘Gerard?”
"Well, he's the lawyer Arsen uses for everything, including selling the pieces of his company to the Russian mob. And he’s held out selling Simulated Pleasures as long as he can because he’s worried about how the mob is going to treat the girls that work there."
"How do you know that?"
"Let's just say I've seen him—both inside… and outside of the club."
"No—you two are having an affair?"
Yasmine motions her fingers over lips, as if she's zipping them shut.
"Fine, don't tell me," I say. But as soon as I say it, I realize that I may have everything wrong—yet again. If Yasmine is right, then Arsen hasn’t just loved me. He’s protected me. And all I’ve done is to repay him with scorn.
Arsen
I look out the window of the limo as it's drives down 8th Avenue toward my club, a hopping spot named Climax. It’s on 31st Street and 8th Avenue and I can see that the line to the fucking club goes nearly one fucking city block.
Jesus Christ, I think. I'm making money hand over fist on this fuckin
g club. But that’ll be for only another month. Because in 30 days, the ownership of Climax will transfer over to Mozorov. And this will be his club.
“We’re going to fucking crush it tonight!” my friend Jonathan says next to me and I look over. We've known each other since college. Same fraternity. One of my closest friends. But it takes effort for me to smile tonight.
It’s been three fucking days since Ashley decided to say goodbye to me and never look back. Or has it been more? I don’t even know anymore.
I know that she’s not working at the agency; Simulated Pleasures received a formal letter of resignation from her a few days ago. Her line has been silent. She must have blocked my phone number because she doesn’t answer calls, it doesn’t go to voicemail, and she doesn’t answer texts. I can’t find her on Facebook. And no answer comes from my emails.
So like any good friend, when Jonathan saw the misery I was in during our racquetball game, he decided to gather three of our closest friends and go out on the town.
Normally, this is something Arsen Hawke would be ready for in a heartbeat. To go out into New York City and tear it up. Get drunk and fuck women.
“You just need to fuck it out of your system, man,” Jonathan says to me in the limo, bringing me back.
“You’re right,” I agree. “I’m going to fuck it out of my system multiple times with as many bitches as I can find.”
I really fucking hope he’s buying it because right now I’m just faking this whole goddamn thing.
We exit the limo and the five of us start drawing looks from the people who are standing in line to get into the club. They may vaguely recognize me; I’ve been photographed a few times, but they can’t place from where. Still, I look good tonight so its no fucking surprise that they take out their phones and snap pictures in case I happen to be famous.
That’s right. They’re taking pictures of me as I walk to the entrance of the club.
Because I look fucking good tonight, baby.
My 6 foot plus frame.
The way my jeans and shirt are untucked, with my shirt unbuttoned, showing off a part of my chest.
Everyone knows I have a fucking cut body. But tonight, these sluts are just going to love running their hands along my chiseled 8-pack abs and ripped pecs on the dance floor.
I’m going to make them lick me on the dance floor.
I turn and smile and don’t stop the cameras at all.
If I was an asshole before Ashley and I’m miserable without her, well then, maybe it’s time to go back to what worked.
The people outside of the club are staring at me right now. They’re entranced. The way my shirt is tight around my ripped body, highlighting what needs to be highlighted. I know they can see the bulge in my pants, the 12 inches of thick cock that I have swinging between my legs. Ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice to fuck the stray female of the herd that crosses my sights.
I know they’re staring at my face. At my strong fucking jawline. My deep, soulful eyes.
So Ashley wants to leave me, she’s free to go. Doesn’t mean I have to mope.
I swagger to the entrance, completely aware that I own the fucking club. But no one outside waiting in line knows that yet. Or if they do, they haven’t said anything.
Time to show them just how big a deal I am.
I glance at the bouncer and he gives me a nod.
“Welcome back, sir,” he says and I nod back, indicating to my four friends to come inside.
Inside the music is bumping and vibrating and I lead our way to the VIP area where a table is already waiting for us.
But in the time it takes to get there, Jonathan and our friends pick up a girl or two each, talking and spitting game out at the various ladies that we pass. They start with eyes for me, but once I pass, the friends swoop in and take over.
I shrug. This is just how the game is fucking played. The jesters in the court get the King’s castoffs.
I look around me and see the women watching me. We’ve attracted a fair crowd of interest. These women are dressed as skanky as they can get.
Now, don’t fucking worry. I haven’t gotten all prudish and all. I mean come on, I’m in love with a fucking stripper or phone sex operator—however you want to call it.
But these girls, and there are five of them approaching me directly, are trying to dress themselves up so they can look like hookers or porn stars or something.
Because they think that’s what the guys out in the world fucking want.
Well, I’ve fucked porn stars and strippers. And I’ll tell you all I can think about right now is sitting on a couch fucking cuddling with a romance movie on.
Fucking Christ.
The gaggle of girls approach me.
Sure, I won’t lie. They’re cute. I won’t deny that. But they’re cute in a skanky way. Not in an Ashley way.
Fuck, I can tell I’m not in a good mood.
I need a fucking drink.
I open the bottle of scotch at the table and pour some into a glass. I sigh as the girls sit down at the table. I lean back, seeing what they're going to say. It may be too much to hope for, but maybe someone will say something the same way Ashley did. When she used to talk, it used to make me fucking think.
"Evening, ladies," I say, putting my arms back on the sofa. "I’m Arsen. What’s your name?"
"I'm Joanna," the blonde next to me on my right says with a smile.
"I'm Lauren," next to her.
"I'm Sarah," her friend says.
"I'm Deb," the one on my left chimes.
"I'm Carrie," the one next to her says. She doesn't hold back though. "I give good head."
Jesus fucking Christ. So much for fucking small talk I guess.
I look around me. Jonathan is talking to some girl that’s sitting next to Sarah.
The other three friends have somehow gone off in their own direction.
I’m here by myself. Usually, not a problem.
But it gives me a chance to look around me. I mean, really look around me.
To girls who wear as little as possible and go out at night, hoping they find someone to go home with.
To guys looking for something cute to stick their fucking dick into.
To people looking to drink and forget.
To others looking to just forget.
Too many people talking too loud, trying to drown out the fucking silence.
I sound like I’m fucking high right now or something, don’t I? Well, I’m not. Because it’s starting to make sense.
These aren’t bad people. Strippers aren’t bad people. Hell, hookers, phone sex workers, models, web cam girls, these aren’t bad people. The people who provide and the people who consume, these aren’t horrible evil people.
I mean, I remember my Dad started out by writing smut and selling it online. That grew. He didn’t stop. Sure, he was sexual. I mean, I still remember the day outside Starbucks. I was just about to talk to some random gorgeous girl—what little of her that I remember reminds me of Ashley—when I saw him with his two new girlfriends.
I remember we fucking fought. That was the last time I saw my Dad. I traveled and stayed busy for the two months after that. And he died.
Because I was too proud to realize that Dad was making people happy.
We’re all fucking lonely. And some of us are lucky to have that one person or group of people who complete us. Who make us realize that someone out of 6 billion people cares whether we’re alive or dead. It’s a basic foundation of being a fucking human.
And that’s why we crave it. We read about it. We watch movies about it. We join Facebook to connect. Because as human beings, we want to connect on a deeper level than anything else.
Dad was providing one avenue for it. Sex.
Sure, there’s other ways. But I never realized how important that connection was because; up till Ashley I’ve been one of the most disconnected motherfuckers on the planet.
All of a sudden I have to go.
"Where are you going?" Sarah asks.
"Gotta get something done, babe," I say, drawn into the conversation. “I need to see about a girl.”
"Can I come with you?" she asks.
And there it goes. Boom. Why would I take you home with me when I’m going to go look after a girl? After just meeting you? What kind of fucked up alternate reality are you living in?
"No," I say, basically figuring a question like that only deserves a one word answer.
"Can I?" Deb asks, her face lighting up.
What the fuck? She thinks because I didn't take her friend, she now has a better chance?
I sigh and take a large drink of my scotch.
"Do you want to fuck me?" she asks me, batting her eyelashes.
At least Dee is a bit more reserved. She just brings her fist to her mouth and makes a blowjob motion, then smiles at me.
I know what you're going to say to me, okay? Not every girl is like this. There's some with great personalities. I know what you're going to say. Three months ago I would have told you that you were just trying to be nice.
But now, knowing what I know, I agree with you. Because I’ve met the girl for me.
And I’d rather fucking die than give up on her and let her go without even trying.
“Goodbye, ladies,” I say and within seconds I’ve walked out of the club.
Twenty minutes later, I meet Gerard at his house.
“Gerard,” I say, giving him a piece of paper that I hastily scrawled a note on in the back of the limo. “Can you make sure Ashley gets this letter?”
Gerard looks at me. It’s obvious he just woke up. I’m at his front door in the hallway on the 17th floor of his condo.
“You wrote a letter?” Gerard asks me. “By hand?”
I shrug. “She won’t take my calls or texts and won’t answer emails. And she won’t see me, so you know, next best thing is to pass a note.”
“Very well, sir,” Gerard says. “I know just how to get it delivered to Miss Ashley.”
I thank Gerard and walk to the elevator and then out the building.
Sure, it’s a shot in the dark. But somehow, I’m feeling good about this shot in the dark.
