So, I’m getting out of the shower and staring at my naked body in the steamy mirror.

This little ritual is something I love to do, and it gives me pleasure to watch my cock harden as I grin at myself, staring at my spectacular six pack abs and bulging biceps. I don’t see anything bad about feeling good about yourself, especially if you look this damn good.

I don’t hit the gym seven days a week for nothing.

Is it so fucking terrible that I give even myself a hard-on? I mean, if you could see me…

It’s not like I’m fucking attracted to myself or some shit. But let’s face it. I’m a dude, and it doesn’t take much for me to get hard. And when I see my rock-hard body, well, I think about how hot I look when I’m railing some chick.

I mean, I think about sex ninety-nine percent of the time. The other one percent? I’m probably between dreams when that happens.

The steam in the room billows and curls around my skin, blanketing me in what reminds me of fog through a dense query.

Yes, I can also get deep and dark if I want to.

I lean over to pat my legs dry when I hear a notification ping that chimes through the air in the bathroom, alerting me that I have a new message.

My heart skips a beat, and I cringe at my behavior. I don’t fucking get like this. I’m not supposed to get excited thinking that a woman I’m into is potentially texting me.

I can’t act like a fucking giddy school girl here. I’m a fucking beast.

Carefully, I walk over to the sink and swipe my phone screen up to see who the message is from.

It’s not from Chloe.

Damn.

Oh well…shake off the disappointment, you fucking loser.

It’s Mr. BadBoy. I stare at the screen and read what he has to say. Let’s just take a moment to gauge this guy.

I’d love to accept your invitation to dinner, the text reads.

Great. Fucking great. My catfishing plan is working. He’s buying it hook, line and sinker. At least I think that’s the expression.

Whatever. It took a few days and quite the effort on my part, but it’s all good now.

I’m baiting, and Mr. BadBoy is biting. Alright? That’s the way it’s supposed to work on my website. That’s how I make sure these rich assholes are legit.

Just like my abdominal muscles, this shit takes real blood, sweat and tears. I’m talking power and work. I can’t get ahead in anything I do unless I give it my all, one thousand percent, because one hundred percent is just not fucking good enough for me.

Okay, I’m going to go out on a limb here and be brave.

Would tonight be good for you? I text and pause while holding my thumb over the send button.

Fuck it, I don’t care if he thinks I’m presumptuous. That’s what these men want, a sexy, naughty little girl that isn’t shy about what she wants or accepting offers…or even bribes for that matter. If he takes this, I’ll know he’s into me big time—or at least, the person he thinks he’s going out to dinner with.

Yes. I can’t wait to finally meet you in person, he writes back.

Of course, this can’t really happen because I’m simply posing as a girl, the elusive and mystical Ms. Winters. I’m sure Mr. BadBoy would fucking shit a brick if he showed up to the restaurant and there I was, sitting at the table in a suit and tie. The idea of it makes me laugh out loud.

So that’s obviously not what he wants, but I still have to take the game as far as I can and stretch it beyond my comfort zone.

I’m excited too, I tell Mr. BadBoy, and after I hit send, I stare at my face in the mirror once again as a devilish sneer spreads across my lips.

I fucking love my job. I’m not into duping people, but I like being good at what I do.

Hmm…What should I wear tonight?

A black suit and a red power tie?

No…that won’t work. Too strong.

Should I go for a trendy look?

No…it’ll look like I’m trying too hard or something.

The restaurant we’re going to is upscale, and when I say upscale, I’m talking white table cloths while a man in a tuxedo plays classical piano next to your candlelit table.

Romantic, yes.

It’s a damn shame that Mr. BadBoy won’t get to go home with Ms. Winters tonight. It’s gonna be such a heartbreak for the poor guy.

Sometimes even I forget that Ms. Winters is a fictional character that exists only in my imagination. I’ve become so engrossed in playing her lines that it’s becoming automatic for me to think and speak the way she does.

Maybe I’m just that fucking good at my job, or maybe it’s just my ability to dream up the most elaborate schemes and concoctions in my brain. My creative abilities and end up being talents. Not that I’m complaining. I ensure my company is top-notch and at the same time, I’m amused. Win-win.

Walking to my closet, I stand there pondering what attire will be best to go with tonight.

I know I’m not going to be able to really meet Mr. BadBoy tonight, because he’ll be expecting a woman, something I’m obviously fucking not. He’s hoping to catch a glimpse of Ms. Winters, something I’m technically not either, but I’m certainly the brains behind the operation. It’s natural I’d want to look the part.

I retrieve a stylish long-sleeved black shirt and a pair of pants to go with it and begin dressing myself right away. Then I go back to my bathroom where I splash on the hottest cologne I have with the best fragrance.

These audits are vital to the operation of the Bad Boy website. The whole purpose of setting up these little dates or engagement interactions is to scope out the clients to see if they fit the Thebadbosy.net brand image I’m going for. We can’t have posers using our name to scam people. That’s how you do business, you cross-check carefully. That’s how I built our name, and how I got to the top.

I chuckle as I place my watch on my wrist. Any guy ballsy enough to use the name “Mr. BadBoy” on a site named Thebadboys.net has to fit the exact image that I’m trying to promote here with my site. He’ll stand for everything the women seek to find in here. Or at least he better. I mean, that’s why I’m checking him out.

The guys have to…how do I put this? Have a certain allure, an attractive nature. They need to be brooding, handsome, alpha, and of course…the kicker…wait for it…

Fucking rich. Fucking rich as fucking shit.

If they don’t fit these standards, then the woman using my site to meet men won’t be satisfied, hence they won’t return as customers. That can’t be good for the business.

The worst thing I can do for my company is promote the wrong type of brand. In this case, the brand is the male character. The women have to get the quality they’re willing to pay for.

As I turn to switch off the light in my master bedroom, I glance over at my bed.

The white sheets are tousled around, and the pillows are all askew. It’s any neat freak’s worst nightmare. Just allow any run-of-the-mill obsessive-compulsive person to take one glance into my room before they have a panic attack.

I’m not necessarily messy. I like to keep a tidy home, don’t get me wrong. I just haven’t had a chance to make my bed today, okay, and I gave my housekeeper the day off. I’m a very busy man with a lot of shit to do. And no one’s checking if I made my bed. It’s not like I’m bringing anyone over to see.

The white sheets make me think of Chloe. The bed itself reminds of our freaky time in the club. I haven’t actually invited her back to my apartment and wrestled her in these particular sheets in this particular bed…yet.

I want to.

Oh, fuck yes, I want to.

Ah, Chloe. Damn, she’s one distracting female.

Why the fuck does she have to be so hot and alluring? She’s captivating and is sure as shit a temptress. She lives up to my standards of what I think a woman should be like, that’s for damn sure. I’ve seen plenty of women, some of them equally enticing. But never as memorable as Chloe.

For a brief moment, I think back to the other day when I was musing over how I’d never find a woman up to my standards for my son. Jesus fucking Christ, I am not seriously going there with Chloe in mind, am I?

Fuck. No.

Shaking my head, I turn off the light and walk from the room, but the damage is done. Thinking about romping in my bed with Chloe after we’ve but Ben to bed for the night has me totally hard as a stiff rod right now. What the fucking fuck?

My imagination runs wild as I absentmindedly fumble for my keys on the counter, grabbing my wallet and phone.

Her ass, her lips, her pussy…now they’re all front and center in my mind.

Fuck, I want to taste her lips, the ones on her gorgeous face and between those perfect legs. They taste like honey. Her sweet nectar draws me in and I’m addicted, even though I’ve only been with her once.

It was the best night of sex I’ve ever had, and that’s saying a hell of a lot because I’ve had plenty…believe me.

I’m a man slut. What can I say? I don’t deny it, I’m proud of it. I get pleasure from the women and pleasure in knowing how good I am in bed. Keeps a healthy inflated ego. I like to refer to it as being ‘seasoned’ in the bedroom if we want to take it a classy step further.

Fuck, how I wish I was taking Chloe to dinner tonight, but as I walk out of my apartment and lock the door behind me, I remind myself that it’s just not in the cards for tonight. I’ll just try to focus on work to distract me.

Before I walk to the elevator, I stop right outside of it and lean against the wall, trying to pace my breathing. I need to calm the fuck down. I chuckle and actually look down at my crotch.

“You can’t have her tonight,” I tell my cock in order for it to stop bulging in my pants, protruding like a fucking eyesore.

Oh, come off your damn high horse. Like you’ve never talked to your genitals before.

Either way, I have to tell my cock that it won’t be seeing Chloe tonight or exploring her warm wet hole. I have to let him down easy, and fast before the night presses on.

When I get in the elevator, I send Mr. BadBoy another message, arranging the meeting place outside of the restaurant.

On the long ride down, I think that this might be a mistake. Mr. BadBoy is going to end up being too good to be true. He’s probably some fat sack of shit wearing a white wife beater t-shirt with spaghetti stains on it. People always lie about who they are on the internet.

I should know. I’m not really Ms. Winters. My alter-ego is the way I snag top-shelf clients, but at the same time, it’s a lie.

Maybe we should refer to the term of ‘catfishing.’ Yes, that sounds a little softer. And a bit more hip and trendy. Fun, even. Just maybe not for the guy who gets fished.

As I step out into the fresh Manhattan night, the only thing I can think of is the fact that tonight should be interesting, to say the very least.