Since Jocelyn broke up with me that I haven't been the fucking same. How could I? It might be a fucking dumb thing to say, but she ripped my fucking heart out and stepped all over it. And I still can't take her out of my fucking mind. I'm going fucking crazy here, that much I can tell you.

I thought of packing my shit up and catching the first plane out of the fucking States, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not yet, at least. Not while my mind is in fucking tatters. Before I make a decision, I need to fucking unwind, and what better way to unwind than to be in a place packed to the ceiling with hot sluts? That's exactly the reason I'm out tonight. Yes, that's right; Lance Anders is fucking back, ladies. At least for today.

"Whisky, neat," I ask the bartender, leaning on the counter and scanning the dance floor. The fucking nightclub is completely packed, and since I've chosen one of the most exclusive venues in New York, it's packed with hot young ladies. Just what I fucking need right now—women, bright lights and loud music.

A few of the women on the dance floor are already eyeing me, but I don't feel like going up to them. If they're that interested, they can be the ones to approach me, and they can also buy me a fucking drink, once they're at it. It’s a brave new fucking world, ladies, fuck chivalry. Yeah, I’m in a foul fucking mood, in case you still haven’t noticed. Can you fucking blame me? Thought so.

"You're Lance Anders, aren't you?" I hear someone say from the side. I turn toward whoever is talking to me—a twenty-something blonde wearing a dress so tight it should be fucking illegal. Her tits are almost jumping out of her bra, and her eyes tell me everything that I need to know; she's on the look for some fucking action tonight, and she has set a target on me. Maybe she thinks I'm famous, maybe it's because I'm better than all the chumps in this place. Whatever it is, I don't give a fuck. She’s hot and has the curves to prove it, so she gets my fucking acknowledgement.

"That's me. Lance fucking Anders," I tell her, gulping down the whisky the bartender has set in front of me. I point to the glass and ask him for another one. He could just leave the fucking bottle, as far as I'm concerned, but I don't want to look like a fucking drunken asshole, even though that's probably what I am right now: a fucking drunk with his heart in fucking pieces. Yeah, yeah, I’m a fucking cliché, get over it.

Moving subtly, she comes up to me, laying her hand on my arm. She's fucking trying to reel me in, and I might just let her do it. I mean, why the fuck not? It’s not like I owe it to someone to be fucking faithful. Not anymore.

"I've heard about you," she tells me, a fucking lewd smile on her lips, a hint of white teeth showing. Her eyes wander all over my body, and I can almost bet the fucking slut is picturing me naked. If I had a dollar for every time a woman looks at me like this, I’d fucking rolling in money.

"Yeah, what did you heard about me?" I ask her, turning my attention to the whisky in front of me. She's fucking hot, I'll give her that, but it's not like I'm fucking interested right now. It's fucking weird, to be honest; if this were happening before Jocelyn came into my life, I'd already be taking her to the bathroom so that I could fuck her brains out. I’d make her moan, I’d make her come; I’d spray my cum all over her face without even worrying about how she’d look like when leaving the club. Yeah, I’m an asshole, didn’t you know that already? I'm not saying that something like it won't happen, but it's going to take a lot fucking more than her just knowing my name. I'm flattered, sure, but please try fucking harder.

"I've heard... rumors," she says, licking her lips wantonly, almost as an invitation to slide my cock deep in her mouth. "I was wondering if there's some truth to them."

Rumors—yeah, they spread like fucking wildfire. My mind automatically translates what she's saying, and the true meaning behind her words is twofold: is my cock as big as people say, and do I want to fuck her? The answer to the first question is yes, to the second one is maybe. Hey, I’m not ruling out a fucking thing.

"My name is Samantha," she tells me, replying to a question I didn't fucking make. I look at her, expressionless, and take a sip of my whisky. She doesn't seem taken aback by my silence and, in fact, takes it as fucking encouragement. "I live just around the corner. Five minutes by cab." Well, this one is as blunt as they fucking come. I like that. I mean, I would like it more if I could get Jocelyn out of my fucking mind, something that's starting to look more and more like an impossible fucking mission.

Fuck! I need to man the fuck up, and I need to do it right now. Why the fuck am I sitting here, wallowing like a little girl? I'm Lance Anders, and I'm fucking better than this. It’s time go fucking crazy.

"Do you have a goldfish?" I ask her, grinning as I take the whisky to my lips. Her eyes widen, and she finally seems taken aback, surprised by my response.

"A goldfish? I... No, I don't have one," she replies, not knowing what else to say.

"That's a pity. Because if you had one... You could take me to your apartment... so that you could show it to me. I have a weak spot for goldfish." Her eyes widen some more, but then she smiles, realizing what I'm saying. Yeah, it's true; these girls will go for something as dumb as what I just fucking said. It's not like I needed to say it, though, she was already down for taking me to her place... But why ruin the fun? I just fucking love to mess with cock-hungry women like her.

"Oh. I was being silly. Of course I have one... I completely forgot about. And I'd love to show you my goldfish." Oh, I bet you would... I bet you fucking would. Maybe seeing her, ahem, goldfish is exactly what I fucking need right now.

"Well, lead the way," I tell her, downing the rest of my whisky in one single gulp and giving the bartender a neatly folded bill, tip and all. She grabs my hand and pulls me in, turning her back to me and guiding me through the crowd. I follow after her, and a few girls stop dancing as we go through—first they fucking eye me, and then they turn to Samantha, jealousy flickering in their eyes. Fucking nasty creatures, women.

Finally emerging on the other side of the fucking dance floor, we go past the bouncers and out the door, into the cold air of the street. She holds my arm as if I were her fucking boyfriend, her body close to mine. I hail for a taxi, and we get inside; she tells the driver the directions, placing one hand on my knee as she leans toward the opening in the divider. I'm definitely in a fucking off mood; if this was any other day, I'd already have my hand on her pussy, and I would make her cum at least once before we got to her place. Well, at least I’m going to her place, so I guess that's a fucking victory.

Just like she said, five minutes and the taxi stops in front of an apartment building. I pay the driver. a rastafari guy with a thick accent, and he gives me a fucking wink and a nod, knowing that I'm about to fucking score. Thanks, random taxi driver, I appreciate the fucking support.

Samantha and I leave the taxi and I follow after her as she gets inside the building. She calls the elevator and we step inside as the doors open with a subtle ding. Inside the cramped metal box, she grabs my arm again, looking up at me expectantly. I simply smile, not giving her the fucking reaction she's expecting. If this were a good day, she'd be having her second orgasm of the day before the elevator reached its fucking destination. As it is, all I manage to do is fucking smile at her. Fucking pathetic.

We get inside her tiny apartment, and she doesn’t even bother with turning the lights on. The moment she shuts the door she’s on me, her huge tits pressing against my chest as she looks into my face expectantly. Her eyelids start to droop, and she parts her lips, waiting for me to lean in and kiss her. Jesus fucking Christ, why is my heart racing? Fuck, and it isn’t racing because I’m getting fucking hard, let me tell you that. It’s fucking racing because this is fucking wrong! What the fuck am I doing here? Fuck!

I take one step back, pushing her away from me. Her eyes widen, confusion taking over her face.

“Is there something wrong?” she asks, fear settling in.

“Yeah,” I say at once. “Where’s the fucking goldfish?” With that, I turn on my heels and fucking bolt.

I leave her there, completely stunned, and enter the elevator without even bothering to look back. This was fucking harsh of me, I know, but fuck…! When she pressed her body against mine, one name echoed in my mind: Jocelyn’s. I fucking love her. What the fuck was I thinking, going out at night looking for fucking trouble? The woman I love is at home.

She told me it was over. She told me I was nothing more than a fling. But her words don’t ring true, and fuck me if I’m going to give up on her without going to the bottom of this!

As I step out into the cold New York streets, there’s a look of determination on my face. I feel fucking renewed. My head is clear, my heart is in the right place: I’m not giving up on the woman I love. The situation might be a fucked up one, if I take my father into consideration, but I don’t give two fucks about that.

For the first time in my fucking life, I know what the word love means. And it means everything.