I walk in holding Mr. Black’s hand. My own hand is clearly sweaty and I feel a little bit self-conscious about it. But as much as I try to squirm away from him, he keeps a firm grip on me.

The room that we walk into is romantically lit. The walls are padded and red, and the large chandeliers that descend from the ceiling put out a smooth, sensual light that reminds me of thousands of candles. The people in this room are dressed pretty much like the people at the club. Women are in high heels and short dresses, tossing their hair with extensions from one side to the other. The men are dressed in tailored suits and look like they just walked out of the boardroom. No one looks older than forty-five. At the far corner of the room is the bar and Mr. Black takes me straight there. He orders a glass of the top-shelf whiskey for himself and a Cosmopolitan for me. The light pink drink in the elegant martini glass makes me feel elegant and sophisticated. Walking in on the arm of Mr. Black doesn’t hurt things either.

“So, what’s so special about this private club?” I ask, taking a sip and looking around. I’ve heard of private clubs before. Caroline, for instance, is dying to get into the SoHo House. Besides the exclusive people who are in there and the pool you can use on hot New York summer days, I’m not really sure what value it really offers.

Mr. Black winks at me, but doesn’t answer.

“Is it one of those stuffy country clubs?” I ask. “Like they have in the Hamptons? I’ve been there and they’re not amazing.”

He shakes his head and smiles.

“It has something of a different vibe,” Mr. Black says, squeezing my hand. My heart skips a beat. “Follow me.”

Grabbing my drink, I follow him into another room. And that’s when I come face-to-face with another world. There are people having sex everywhere. On the couches, on the desks, on the bar. Some are in couples, but most are in groups of three. I glance at Mr. Black with a horrified look on my face, but he meets my look with a smile and a shrug.

“It’s a sex club,” he whispers. “We don't have to participate necessarily, but it would be more fun.”

I drop his hand. Suddenly, the person that I thought I knew dissipates and I stand face-to-face with a stranger.

Without a word, I turn around and run out. Mr. Black follows me. I don’t stop at the bar; instead, I go all the way outside before he manages to grab my hand and swing me around.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His eyes are wide and perplexed. He actually has no idea that he’s done anything wrong bringing me there.

“What did you think was going to happen in there?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I thought we would have some fun.”

“Well, that’s not my idea of fun.”

“I don’t understand,” Mr. Black says, shaking his head. I can see it in his eyes that he’s actually at a loss. But I don't care. I’m angry.

“I have to go,” I say.

“But what about our agreement?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You can have the money back. I don't care. You had no right to ask me to go there.”

“How’s this any different than the show we watched on the yacht?”

“It’s completely different…We weren’t right there, for one,” I say. I search my mind for more differences, but besides the fact that there was a glass, I have trouble coming up with any. Shit.

“I don’t know,” I add. “It just is.”

I want to cry. It takes all of my energy to keep my true feelings to myself. I flag down a cab and get in without saying another word. As soon as the cab pulls away, I burst out in tears. I don't know what has come over me, but for some reason this whole experience feels completely different than what happened at the yacht.

I’m still crying when the cab pulls up to my apartment. I hand the driver my credit card and barely see what I’m writing when I sign my name.

This was not how the night was supposed to go. There was supposed to be more to this. As I wash my face and wipe the eyeliner and mascara off my eyes, it finally hits me. The real reason why I got so upset was that I was expecting so much more. I didn’t even know it, but I had actually developed feelings for Mr. Black. No, I shouldn’t even call him that. His real name is Aiden. I mean, I actually thought that because he shared his real name with me, and he wanted to see me again, that meant that he was actually into me. How stupid is that?

I feel like such a fool. I walk around my apartment, lost in thought. I turn on the television so I don’t feel so alone, but I still can’t keep all of these thoughts from swirling around in my head.

I keep thinking back to last weekend. He toyed with me and pleasured me in a way that I’d never experienced before. He put off his pleasure to please me. He punished me for orgasming first and I liked that. I wanted all that again. And again. I’ve never met a man like him before. It’s not just that he’s rich. He’s also mysterious and in control. He embodies power and there’s something intoxicating about that.

I sit down at my laptop and try to relive what happened on the yacht. In the story, I’m about ten thousand words in and I’m just about to be auctioned off. I sit staring at the screen for a long time, but no words come. Unlike in the beginning, when the words just poured out of me, this time, nothing comes. When I think back to the auction, I am no longer excited. Instead, I’m disappointed and angry. I’m angry at what just happened and that my expectations of Aiden didn’t conform to reality.

I slam my laptop screen shut and go to the kitchen. In the fridge, I find a brand new, unopened pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Cherry Garcia. It’s my absolute favorite. I’m actually surprised that it’s not half gone since it’s Caroline’s favorite, too. I climb into bed with the pint and a spoon. The tension in the back of my neck doesn't let up until the first drop lands on my tongue. A few spoonfuls later, the tears finally stop flowing.

I flip on the television in my room and focus my attention on The Real Housewives of New York City. This show and all of its spinoffs have been my guilty pleasure for as long as I can remember. There is something mind-numbing and saccharine about it that it makes me feel like no matter how shitty my life is at least I don't have their problems. Sometime in the middle of the episode, when I’m nearly halfway through my pint of ice cream, I hear Caroline come home. She’s talking loudly and laughing and clearly pretty intoxicated. I’m about to go out to say hi when I hear a male voice.

I turn down the television, but I still can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but I can hear them laughing. One of them flips off the television in the living room and then they start to make out. The sounds of kissing quickly morph into the sounds of lovemaking as Caroline starts to moan loudly while she’s being slammed against what sounds like the kitchen island.

None of this is new to me. I’m used to this, of course. We have known each other since Yale and she has been quite open about her sex life for many years. Some people, who I would never associate with, would call her a slut. But I hate that word. It’s sexist because it only applies to women who have a lot of sex. A man in her position is just a man who likes sex. A single man in his early twenties. What else does the world expect him to do? That’s what I think of Caroline’s sex life as well. She’s an empowered modern woman who has sex whenever, and with whomever, she pleases.

Just when they are about to finish, my phone goes off. I look at the screen. It’s Aiden. I click ignore and put it away. I don't want to hear anything he has to say. Apparently, I was wrong about where we stood and that’s fine. But he keeps calling. Again and again and again.

When my phone beeps, showing that there’s a voicemail message, I can’t help but listen to it.

“Ellie, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to offend you. Please answer the phone. I really need to apologize to you.”

I click delete and the second voicemail message pops up.

“Ellie, please answer. I know you’re there. I was such a dick. Please let me explain. I’m sorry.”

Four more messages follow, basically saying the same thing. A part of me wants to talk to him. But another part is still angry and hurt even though I’m not really hurt and angry at him. After finishing my pint of ice cream, my thoughts are clearer now. I’m hurt because I’m an idiot. I was the one who developed all of these expectations of him that he, or any other man, couldn’t possibly live up to. I mean, what the hell was I thinking? I met him a few days ago at a fucking auction for sex. How could I expect a man who spends his time paying exorbitant amounts of money for girls to spend the night with him to actually have feelings for me? And to make our relationship anything but what it is? Just sex? And why do I even want to have a relationship with him? Actually, I don’t. Not at all. I mean, I really liked all those things he did to me that night, but that doesn’t mean that we have anything in common. He’s really hot, and his body is to die for, but I’m not that shallow, right? I mean, I’m not Caroline.

And speaking of Caroline? Why can’t I just be more like her? Why can’t I just enjoy the sexual pleasures that life has to offer without becoming some sappy little love struck girl? There’s more to life than relationships and love. There’s fun and pleasure and just having a good time. And there’s nothing wrong with that. And with all of these thoughts swirling around in my head, I flip off the light and lie down to go to sleep before the ice cream induced sugar coma has the chance to hit me.