6. #2
"Maybe he just knows what he likes," I argued weakly, already trying to justify it. The thought of a man paying my bills was a powerful sedative, dulling my instincts.
Before I could back out, before Jessica could talk me out of it, I typed a reply.
A sundress it is. Starbucks on campus at 3?
He replied instantly. Perfect. I'll be the one in the boring suit.
The next day, I felt like I was preparing for a job interview from hell.
I stood in front of my closet, a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach.
I only owned one sundress—a cheap, floral-print cotton dress from Target that I usually wore as a beach cover-up.
I slipped it on. The fabric felt flimsy, a costume for a person I didn't want to be.
I put on a touch of makeup, trying to look "refreshing," not like a broke cheerleader on the verge of a panic attack.
I walked the half mile to the campus Starbucks, my palms sweating, my mind a chaotic mess of what-ifs. What if he's a creep? What if someone sees me? What if he's for real and I can get him to pay me three grand a month?
He was already there, sitting at a small table near the window. He looked exactly like his picture, just cheaper in real life. The fabric of his suit had a slight sheen to it that screamed polyester blend. His shoes, which I could see under the table, were scuffed at the toes.
He stood up when he saw me, a broad, greasy smile spreading across his face.
"Chloe," he said, taking my hand. His palm was damp and cool. "You're even prettier in person."
His eyes weren't kind. They were lecherous. They didn't look at my face; they did a rapid, hungry scan of my body, lingering on my chest, then dropping to my bare legs under the table. I instinctively crossed them at the ankle.
The conversation was a disaster. He wasn't a "senior VP." He was a regional sales manager for a company that sold industrial shelving. He wasn't talking about art or museums; he was bragging about closing a big deal in Bakersfield and complaining about how his wife didn't appreciate his "drive."
He kept leaning in, his hand "accidentally" brushing my knee under the table.
Every time his damp skin made contact with mine, my stomach lurched.
This wasn't the sophisticated, powerful transaction I had fantasized about.
This was a sad, middle-aged man trying to buy a piece of young ass to make himself feel important.
He was a cheapskate trying to score a bargain.
After twenty minutes of his boring monologue, he finally got to the point.
"Look," he said, leaning in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his breath smelling faintly of stale coffee.
"I like you. You're smart, you're hot. My company puts me up at the airport La Quinta every Tuesday night.
I could give you three hundred bucks a week.
You come to my room around nine, you stay for an hour or two and we have some fun. It's that simple."
Three hundred dollars. To fuck a sad, sweaty man in a cheap motel room next to the airport runway.
His offer was so far from the fantasy that I almost laughed out loud. Disgust rose like a sour taste in the back of my throat. I refused to be some kind of discount hooker haggling over pennies with a loser like him.
"I have to go." I stood up so abruptly my chair scraped against the tile floor. "I have a class."
"Wait, Chloe," he said, his face falling, confused. "Did I say something wrong? We can negotiate ..."
I didn't look back. I practically ran out of Starbucks, my face burning with shame, and didn't stop until I was back in the familiar, dingy safety of my own apartment.
I slammed the door, leaned against it, and burst into tears. I had just tried to sell myself, and the market had decided I was worth three hundred dollars and a room at the airport La Quinta.
I stormed over to Jessica's laptop, logged back into the profile, and deleted it without a second thought. That pathetic, desperate fantasy of a quick fix died right there in my kitchen.
The tears dried on my face, leaving my skin feeling tight and salty. I sat on the edge of the sagging sofa as the silence amplified the thoughts of frantic, self-loathing that were ricocheting around my skull.
I had just tried to sell myself.
Beneath the shame, something else was churning. A sharp, stinging guilt.
I hadn't just betrayed my own dignity. I had betrayed Tyler. I had gone on a date with another man with the full intention of cheating on him for cash. In my heart, I had been unfaithful.
That realization made me sick. I needed to see him. Tyler. My boyfriend.
I needed the familiar, uncomplicated reality of his body to wash the memory of "MarkP_Exec" off my skin. I needed to seek absolution from the man who had pushed me into this mess in the first place.
I grabbed my phone, my thumb hovering over his name.
Can I come over?
The reply was instant. Door's open.
I walked into his apartment without knocking. He was on the black leather sofa, a controller in his hand, his eyes glued to the massive flat-screen where he was playing Madden. The room was dark except for the flickering blue light of the video game.
He didn't look up when I came in. "Hey," he grunted, his thumbs flying across the controller.
I didn't say anything. I just walked over to the sofa and knelt on the floor in front of him. I gently took his free hand, the one not currently mashing buttons, and held it in mine.
He finally paused the game, the screen freezing on a chaotic pile of digital bodies. He looked down at me, his brow furrowed with confusion. "What's up? You look weird."
I leaned my head against his knee, closing my eyes. I felt like a stray dog crawling home after getting kicked one too many times. I just wanted the familiar smell of him, the solid warmth of his leg against my cheek. I was apologizing without saying a word.
He seemed to sense my distress. His hand softened in mine. He used his thumb to rub small, soothing circles on the back of my hand. For a moment, he was the boyfriend I needed him to be.
Then, an idea—a stupid, desperate, intimate idea—formed in my head. I looked up at him through my lashes, forcing a slow, teasing smile onto my lips.
"Would you like a real thousand-dollar blowjob?" I said.
Tyler's eyes went wide. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
I didn't wait for him to answer. I leaned forward, unzipped his jeans, and reached inside. He was already half-hard, the skin hot and tight. I freed him from the confines of his athletic shorts.
And I gave him the best head of his life.
I didn't just go through the motions. I performed.
I used every trick I had ever learned, every move I had ever seen in a movie or read about in a magazine.
I wanted to erase the memory of the sad man in the Starbucks.
I wanted to prove, to myself and to him, that this mouth, this skill, belonged to him and him alone.
I started slow, licking the head of his cock, swirling my tongue around the ridge. I tasted the salt of his skin. He groaned, his head falling back against the leather cushions, his hands coming up to tangle in my hair.
I took him deep, ignoring the burn at the back of my throat, my eyes watering slightly. I bobbed my head, creating a wet, slurping suction that echoed in the quiet room. I used my hand to cup his heavy balls, massaging them gently, feeling the muscles in his thighs start to tremble.
"Oh fuck, Sloane," he panted, his hips starting to buck weakly against my face. "Jesus. What got into you?"
I pulled off him for a second, a string of saliva connecting his glistening tip to my chin. "I just want to make you feel good," I said, before taking him back into my mouth, sucking harder this time, more aggressively.
I could feel him losing control. He wasn't thinking about Madden, game film, or bookies anymore. I had his full and undivided attention.
"You're so fucking good at that," he gasped.
He was close, I could tell. He grabbed my head with both hands, his grip tight, almost bruising. He held me in place, his hips starting to thrust in a frantic, unstoppable rhythm.
"Don't stop," he begged. "Fuck, don't stop."
I didn't. I kept sucking, my jaw aching, swallowing a river of pre-cum, taking him deeper than I thought I could.
His whole body went rigid. His back arched off the sofa.
"Oh god!" he moaned.
And then he erupted. The first jet of his semen hit the back of my throat with the force of a fire hose.
It was thick, heavy, and incredibly hot.
I swallowed reflexively, my throat contracting, but he kept coming.
Pulse after pulse after pulse of thick, bitter seed flooded my mouth, a seemingly endless torrent.
I swallowed again and again, trying to keep up, choking slightly on the sheer volume of him.
He collapsed back onto the sofa, panting, his body trembling with the aftershocks.
I knelt there for a moment, lips still tingling, his taste coating my tongue, and I felt a sense of achievement. I had done it. I had erased the ugliness of the afternoon. We were back where we needed to be. Everything was going to be all right.
But then Tyler spoke.
His eyes were still half-closed, a lazy, satisfied smile on his face.
"You could do it, you know," he whispered to me.
I froze, my hand still resting on his thigh.
"You really could save our future with that mouth."
The warmth that had been building in my chest, that feeling of intimacy and connection, evaporated instantly.
I pulled back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I looked at him, at the satisfied, selfish bliss on his face.
I hadn't erased anything. I hadn’t fixed anything. All I had done was give Tyler a free demonstration, prove to him that that was all I was worth.
And after the soul-crushing failure of my afternoon, who’s to say he wasn’t right?