Three Men and a Virgin
Bermuda Triangle, August 2002
Up to this point, the only thing that had kept my mind off this horrific flight was staring at the cute little ears, broad shoulders, and wavy-haired heads of the three hottest men I’d ever worked with in my entire life.
That’s right. I, Taddy Brill, sat behind un, deux, trois of Europe’s finest. They were hunky, lean yet muscular, and just about the sexiest specimens of male, ever.
Good Lord. I wanted to rip my sundress off and scream, “Take me!”
But I didn’t.
Not once this week had the boys given me the time of day, let alone a flirtatious glance, leading me to believe that I didn’t have a chance.
If I thought about them too much I’d get depressed. Instead I closed my eyes and tried to figure out how we were going to get through this one-way flight to hell.
I hate airplanes, especially tiny ones that I can’t stand up in without hitting my head. You wouldn’t believe the problems that come with being six-feet tall. My friends call me a glamizon. Trust me, there’s nothing glamorous about freakishly towering over people.
Before anyone asks, no, I didn’t play women’s basketball at the Avon Porter Academy. And yes, my date to prom my senior year was much shorter than me. The poor bastard had such a Napoleon complex that I’d even worn flats.
It’s not like I can wear my Manolo stilettos when flying. Knowing this, I’d picked up these tacky-ass, bedazzled flip-flops from some overpriced gift shop on Collins Avenue before we left for Martinique. I had to watch every penny until I got paid by my agent. Buying these overpriced flip-flops had made me rather angry. Surely I didn’t sport footwear like this back home in New York City. Not unless I wanted to have the dirtiest feet on the planet, even if they did have a gazillion Swarovski crystals glued to the top of them. Recently I’d been riding the subway to get around town. No limos for moi. Not anymore.
I sat in 12B next to my gay best friend (GBF) Blake Morgan. His legs are longer than mine. We must look like two giraffes crowding under a tree.
Blake resembles a younger version of Jude Law meets Matt Damon. When we went to the premiere of The Talented Mr. Ripley a few years ago, I couldn’t decide who Blake looked more like.
Next to us in 12C was my best friend forever (BFF) Lex Easton. Famed daughter to rockers Eddie and Birdie Easton, she’d recently discovered her submissive side with a dominant she’d referred to fondly as Master Ford. Right now, Lex was zonked out on anti-anxiety medication. Let’s pray she doesn’t end up like her pill-popping mother. But I don’t think that’ll happen. She just hates the idea of being cramped on this flying tin can as much as I do. Her curvy caboose barely fits in the seat.
To top it all off like a vodka floater shot, my very best friend (VBF) Vive Farnworth sitting in 12D is buzzed. Ever since our recent incarceration over an accidental explosion at Lex’s penthouse, Vive’s been tossing ‘em back, more than usual.
We’d only been locked up for a day or so. Not six months, like the time before when we’d all been accused of murder and spent a semester in juvie. I’ll get into that, much later.
In addition to my flip-flops wanna know what else I hate? The Caribbean! For reasons I’ll elaborate on in just a second. However, I’ll give ‘ya a clue. It starts with the letter “c” and sounds like “trash.”
Now, if someone, anyone, maybe even you, had told me that by the time I turned eighteen my parents, Countess Irma and Joseph Graf Brillford, would’ve disowned me as their only daughter—leaving me unable to pay for the Ivy League education I’d busted my boarding school ass to get into—I’d roll my green eyes, chug a can of Redbull, and offer, “May you never drown in a vat of dog semen, thank you and buh-bye.” And by never, I mean forever and always.
Sure I’m pissy over my folk’s wrongdoings. One might say, since the age of thirteen, after my father’s DNA test didn’t match my own, I’d seen that shizzicane coming. So did my BFF.
Once Lex and I were shipped off to boarding school, we were out that door quicker than a yellow cab gunning it down Park Avenue. But being without any family never gets easy.
Who gets comfortable with having no parents?
The less than über wealthy call it being orphaned. My folks had used boarding school at Avon Porter as foster care when they gave me away. Whatever!
The school’s therapist had suggested, “Tabitha, forgive and forget. That’s what you need to do in order to move on with your life.”
Kinda hard to do when your parents never asked for, nor did they ever want, forgiveness.
And how could I forget?
College starts in less than a week. If I don’t get the money, Columbia University won’t allow me in class with my besties. I can’t imagine not going to school with them. I’ll die.
Lex, Blake, and Vive know this, and offered to help. They all have buckets of money. Always have, always will.
I’ve got nothing but my pride. I can’t take a hand out. Instead, I took this job, and they came along. We do everything together.
If someone, anyone, maybe even you would’ve also told me that I’d turn to the mind numbing job of fashion modeling to make my tuition payments, jetting on a twin-turboprop aircraft from Miami to Martinique for Europe’s snootiest magazine, Claire La Femme with three of the hottest Frenchmen I’d ever met in my entire life, I would’ve puffed on a cigarette, still sipped that can of Redbull and said, “Get the hellaboo outta here!” I certainly would’ve thrown one of these hideous flip-flops at ‘ya too.
Modeling, sounds like fun, eh? That’s what they all say.
I loathe models, let alone me modeling. I’m no dummy.
Sweet brainy Jesus, this past June I graduated top of my class from Avon Porter. My name is Taddy Brill. Teachers hadn’t called me Taddy Brilliant for nothing. Wink!
I’m sure if I hadn’t spent six long months in juvie my junior year, taking the blame for my VBF’s mistake, I would’ve gotten a scholarship for college. Ha! That would so never happen now. Not with my name attached to my group of friends. In the eyes of the press, we’d been labeled tabloid girls, spoiled brats, and troubled teens. We’d heard it all.
None of it was true. Well…not entirely.
Notably, there’s only one thing I dislike more than these itty bitty planes, flip-flops, the Caribbean, and the world of fashion modeling.
Take a guess.
It’s the high-flatulent Frenchmen with their noses stuck up in the air, talking with thick accents sounding like some Grey Poupon commercial. I’m speaking about Gustave Le Cartier, Fabian Henri, and Leon Lartique who are seated inches away from us in 11A, 11B, and 11C.
Yes, the men whose ears I wanted to suck on, shoulders I imagined my legs wrapped around, while they drilled deep inside of me. Oh and that hair. Wavy. Dark. I so wanted to run my fingers through it.
My eyes rolled into the back of my head at the mere thought of it all.
If I leaned forward and to the right, I could get a whiff of Leon. Mmm. Green and citrus!
And when I turned my nose more to the left, the spicy smell of Gustave hit my senses. He made every follicle on my body, even the freshly waxed parts, stand on end.
Then there’s the heady flowery aroma of Fabian that I hadn’t been able to put my perfume-loving finger on yet, but I would. Maybe tuberose. Give me time, I’ll get to Fabian in a minute. He fascinates me.
Blake had teased the guys all week. Over dinner he’d said, “Excuse me fellas, do any of you have any Grey Poupon?”
In response, Vive had cackled. So loud it jarred sensitive Fabian into a flinch. Typically that’s what happened every time she started one of her long-ass laughs, which usually ended with a snort.
“Pardon moi?” Gustave just didn’t get our jokes.
Either that or he couldn’t fathom anyone poking fun at them. After all, they were each, in their own way, heat-inducing and utterly panty-melting. Perfection! Any sight of them made my nipples hard, almost as bad as Lex’s. She had some nipple distend problem but had refused to wear pasties over ‘em. I try really hard not to stare. But sometimes I do, and then I get the giggles. Then Vive will start in on her cackling, and Lex cries.
Note to self: don’t stare at Lex’s nipples when we get to Martinique.
Gustave is the boss and head photographer. From Yves Saint Laurent to Dior, he’s shot every important campaign out there. With a great eye for pictures, he’s the talent. He’s also major machismo and a conceited b-hole.
Oh…I imagine him sexually in that mind-fuckery way, where the couple hate-fucks one another like on TV. Not that I’ve ever hated, fucked, or hate-fucked anyone. But that’s the first thing that comes to mind when thinking about Gustave Le Cartier, hate-fucking.
Why does Gustave flood my mind with such perversion?
He ignores me, causing me to hate him. Since he knows I’m not his fan, he hates me back. Gustave treats me like I’m one of the props on his set. Regardless, I lust after him anyway. When I’d shown up to the Miami studio with my besties, I was in awe over how he took control of the crew, the room, everything. In charge, he thrived on power and was good at calling the shots.
“Separate your lips, Red. Don’t smile,” he’d instructed while snapping his camera. “That’s it, Red. Narrow your eyes. Make them sparkle.”
Gustave had given me the nickname “Red” after my hair, I guess. He’d called me that all week. At first, I was utterly insulted. Why not address me by my name? As the hours progressed into days and the days into a week, he kept ordering me around, posing my body into various positions saying, “Red, this,” and “Red, that.” It became powerfully erotic.
Red!
During a break, I’d said to Vive, “Sweet baby Gus, I would just love for him to take me from behind and let my body go where my mind is.”
“And where’s that, honey?” Vive had asked, eyeing him more fiercely than I did.
“On his darn dick,” I muttered in a low voice so he wouldn’t hear us. Not that he was paying me any attention. “It has to be monstrous.”
“No kidding, girlie. With an ego like his, how could it not?” Vive had spoken from her previous sex experience.
Until a few weeks ago, Vive was the only one out of the four of us who’d lost “it.” Then our BFF Lex joined the-ladies-who-love-to-love club. Now it was Blake’s butt and my vagina which were alone in the corner waiting for TLC-n-probing.
Second in command for Claire La Femme is Fabian. He’s all things creative. His voice makes my eardrums come buckets. No joke. He’ll say, “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Taddy.”
Every fiber of my body trembles when I hear him speak. Often my name rolls off Fabian’s long, wicked tongue as if it’s spelled with two b’s and not two d’s. He almost purrs when he talks to me. I swear, he does, like I’m some long-haired kitten. Well Fabian, you can pet me anytime ‘ya like. Meow!
However, I’m pretty sure Fabian is a bisexual or possibly a homosexual with shame issues. Yup, I love my gays. Don’t get me wrong. However, bisexual? Come on. What is this, the 90’s?
Straights and gays had to choose. Why shouldn’t they?
While pondering over a man’s bisexuality and which way Fabian’s wind blew, I’d said to Blake back when we were in Sobe, “The whole act is kinda piggy to me, doing whomever they please, whenever they feel, sticking their cock into whatever they want.”
Blake blinked his blue eyes at me submissively and said, “When one looks like Fabian Henry, they can pretty much do anything they want, with whomever they please.” My GBF was almost jealous of Fabian’s sexual confidence. At eighteen, Blake hadn’t hit his stride yet, but he was getting there.
Any sight of Fabian, let alone sitting behind him on this very plane as I was right now, sexually frustrated me from head to toe. I just wanna scream, “Enough already!”
Fabian drips testosterone and a faint hint of a softness, making him approachable. Dare I say, almost loveable? Hence why he smells sorta flowery, at least to me he does. Like a heady tuberose, unisex and flirty. I want to lick him.
“I’m too old for this high school gay confusion stuff,” I’d declared in exhaustion.
Blake had flashed his pearly whites and said, “You remember, I came out of the closet when I was sixteen. My parents didn’t talk to me for months.”
“That’s what happens when we’re in boarding school, darling. Our parents can come and go from our lives whenever it’s convenient for them.”
“But they came around. So if my New England, Volvo-driving, Episcopalian family can get behind my lifestyle than I’m sure, if Fabian is a ding-a-ling lover, he can bust those French doors wide open too.” Blake’s voice spoke with more sarcasm than usual.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just because he’s European doesn’t mean the dude’s gay. French men are not like American men, Taddy.” Blake may be an anal sex virgin but he sure is smart. Avon Porter’s Global Cultures class had done that to us.
“True. I bet all that beer and football we have here in the states makes us appear like animals to guys in other parts of the world.”
“God, I love America.” Blake never missed a Giants game.
Sports and alcohol aside, how do I know Fabian likes the company of other men?
Well for starters, he won’t take his dark, magnetic eyes off my GBF. Plus Fabian is superb at doing…my makeup. Regardless, I’d never stereotype a man’s sexual orientation based on how well he blends my eye-shadow to match my long-red hair and peaches-n-cream complexion while getting ready for a photo shoot. Now would I?
By the way, that’s what Fabian had said my skin looks like. Personally I think it’s more a splatter of unfortunate freckles, but I’ll take any compliment those guys give. Come to think of it, that was the only compliment I’d received from them all week.
What-the-flip-ever!
Hmmm, why do I think he’s bisexual and not a homosexual?
When Fabian applies my makeup, he often gets…an erection. Pressing his dick right up against me, he beats my face with a powder-puff. Unintentional, I presume, the erection that is, not the beating.
“Do you like your eyes to appear smoldering, Tabby?” he’d asked, jetting that cock around. Granted he’s always fully dressed and all. Regardless, when it’s hard, it’s visible. Ah-huh, it’s practically in 3-D. In the morning, while he’s curling my hair, I could easily rest my can of Redbull on his bulging crotch as if it were a tabletop. He might as well be naked while he beats my face. His dick jets out, pointing up, waiting for me to unzip his pants and set him free.
Yesterday he’d tested some new waterproof makeup on my face. Fabian had held my jaw with one hand, a mirror with the other, and asked, “Do you like this color, Tabby?”
“I love it.” I stopped correcting him and gave up on T-a-d-d-y days ago. Hell, I wanted to say, “The only thing that’s smoldering on me is the wet spot between my thighs. Who gives a flip about my eyes?” But I didn’t.
Naturally I clenched my legs together in the chair and sat there like a good mannequin. I mean—a nice model. Yes, I bit my lower lip and thought about beating him off while he beat my face ever so perfectly with cornsilk powder.
Would it be wrong of me to come out and ask Fabian to pick me or Blake? Maybe the next time we’re alone I should say, “What’ll it be? Dog or cat? Beef or fish? Ya can’t have both. Not at Taddy’s table or at Tabby’s table either.”
Purr.
Third in this hunkiness triangle is Leon. He handles the equipment and lighting. Between the three, he’s the most gorgeous. So much so that, this morning over breakfast, Vive had admitted, “Sorry I took so long in the shower. I was having thoughts…”
“About what?” Lex had asked.
“Or whom?” I’d corrected.
“Leon. I can’t get him out of my mind. He’s so muscular, big, and sweet. I’ve never met anyone like Leon Lartique, before.”
Ain’t that the truth!
Lex had giggled, cleared her throat, and said, “Well yesterday, when I was napping, I had thoughts about Leon too.”
“Not your new boyfriend Ford?” I’d asked.
“Him too. The both of them. Together. With me in the middle. That’s why I shoved a pillow between my legs to make it stop.”
Side note, since losing her virginity recently to the hot biker cop Ford, known by the NYPD as Officer Gotti, Lex has turned into a nymphomaniac. Humping him, toys, corners of furniture, and now apparently hotel pillows.
And if we’re all gonna share wet dreams, I’d might as tell them. “While working out on the elliptical earlier, Leon crossed my mind, and I…touched myself.”
“No!”
“I honestly did.” Please, from the time we were thirteen, I’d shared a dorm room with Vive and Lex. Whether it was late in the night under the covers or when we didn’t think anyone was looking, we’d all masturbated in front of one another.
Vive’s a screamer.
Lex is a whimper.
We all knew way more about each other than we cared too. That’s why we were bonded for life. Best friends till the day we die, which may be pretty soon. I’m getting to that in a minute.
“So, we all want Leon.” Vive had summed it up.
The answer was yes. Although I couldn’t figure out if Leon was shy or arrogant. From my vantage point, both traits appeared the same.
Why did I even care? Leon was cute, I’ll give him that. But that hunk of muscle hasn’t said more than two words to me on this entire trip.
I’ve been tempted on many nights at dinner to get up, go sit on Leon’s lap, kiss his face, and let him know if he can’t talk to me with words, we can communicate with our bodies.
That’s how strong my sexual attraction to all of them had been, to the point where I was ready to pounce at any minute. These feelings had shocked the crap outta me. Hello, I’m a young lady. Couldn’t I save the pouncing for my cougar days after husband number two or three has died leaving me his vast fortunes? Wink!
Scared I might do something stupid getting all Demi Moore in the movie Disclosure on their asses, I had to put all of this Gustave-Fabian-Leon-sex appeal aside and focus.
Therefore I’d told my agent Minnie Hightower, “Please don’t book me on another photo-shoot with these Parisian photographers again. I don’t care how much money Claire La Femme is paying me to wear couture. I’m done.”
In Miami, Minnie had sneered over the phone when we’d talked. She’d ever so elegantly condescended, “Miss Brill, you can take the bus back to Manhattan, might take you a few days. Or you can jet over to Martinique, dress expensively with a smile and get your picture taken. You decide. I have a hundred other girls waiting to take your spot. I’ll give you two seconds to make up your mind. One…two…”
And here I was, on this plane, ready for another round of the fashion extravaganza, and not the bus back to the Big Apple.
Puh-lease! Minnie didn’t understand the sexual urges looming over me. She had herself a Wall Street husband and Brooklyn lover on the side. From what Lex’s mother Birdie had told me, there was also a special cattle call for her male models held every season. Apparently it took place in Minnie’s bed with her husband, and the lover.
Can you imagine?
Minnie is lucky she didn’t get hurt or poke her eye out. No wonder she pranced around the modeling agency’s office like she had something stuck up her bum. She probably was too sore to walk from the night before.
Speaking of nakedness…in our downtime, at Sobe, the men were nearly in their birthday suits all week long. Hot right? Not! Again, they ignored us. They’d acted like they didn’t speak English. I presume so they wouldn’t have to entertain us when we weren’t working. I hated that.
Three days ago, while Lex, Vive, and I were getting sunscreen at the same place I’d bought my flip-flops, Blake had asked, “Have you girls noticed whenever the sun comes up their shirts come off?” He handed the SPF over to Vive.
“Forget that. What about when the sun goes down?” Vive had sprayed one full coat of the aerosol can all over her legs before adding, “So do their pants.”
Lex had grabbed the can from Vive and said, “Well, it is like a hundred degrees outside, guys.”
“One hundred and two degrees, to be exact,” I’d corrected. Miami during the month of August was such a bad idea. The magazine shot their January winter resort holiday issue now. Who knew they worked so far in advance?
“How else do ‘ya expect them to stay cool?” Lex had admired the view from the hotel gift shop. It was of the Frenchmen in the pool.
They’d worn skimpy, European-cut bathing suits, which made their dicks stand out like diving boards.
“I swear, I’ve never been so sick and tired of staring at three men’s perfectly sculpted bodies and well-hung cocks in my entire life.” Lying through my teeth, I grabbed the lotion and exerted my frustration on the bottle.
Damn. It was empty.
“Why are you in a snit?” Lex had asked, innocently.
“Temptation and I do not work well together. You know I have no self control. Nada. Zilch. I see something I want, I take it.”
“I’m like that about dessert,” Lex had tried to make a joke about her weight. I didn’t like it when she put herself down.
“Taddy, that’s in all aspects of your life, girlie,” Vive had reminded.
“Except when it comes to men. No one can behave that way with the opposite sex.”
“Why not?” Blake had asked.
“I’ll get labeled a slut or a whore. I am neither of the two.”
“That’s sexist and unfair, nevertheless stinkin’ true.” Vive had eyed Blake up and down as if it were his fault, “Men!”
Hopefully they’d come for me. Right? That was my fantasy, being taken by all three of them. If Fabian didn’t have to pick which sex he slept with, why should I have to choose one over the other?
Luckily I’d brought my three besties with me so I wouldn’t feel outnumbered, or lonely—especially since in the eyes of Gustave, Fabian and Leon—I didn’t exist. Only with the lights on, my face made-up, and the camera snapping pics did they notice me.
WTF!
I’m not an object. I’m a girl with needs and desires. Can’t they see that? Don’t they notice how they make my pulses spin and legs shake every time I work with them?
That’s why I’d said to Minnie, “Working alongside these guys is sheer, utter torture. I’ll go to Martinique but this will be my last trip with them. I can’t do it again.”
Let’s get real, I needed the money. This gig paid a small fortune, enough to cover my entire first year of classes at Columbia and living expenses with Vive at the Sherry Netherland. Then I wouldn’t have to resort to dancing on a pole or serving chicken wings while wearing a see-through wife-beater. Not that the two jobs hadn’t crossed my mind.
The chicken joint, while loving my boobs in their uniform, had rejected my resume. No experience! The pole place had told me I wasn’t a good enough dancer to work for them. I’d cried, just a little. Being turned down for a job that you perceived as being the lowest of lows when you went to apply is, in fact, the lowest of all lows one can ever feel. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. Except for maybe this airline!
Alright, onto the “c” word which rhymes with trash. Get that Imodium handy. Here’s the absolute shitter of shits, and I’m not joking here people….
Oh yes, if someone, anyone, maybe even you, would’ve told me that while working as a model, jetting over the Bermuda Triangle to my next location with three of the sexiest French photography crew in the world, along with my BFF, GBF, and VBF, that all seven of us, along with the fifty or so other passengers on board were going to crash…I would’ve knocked your teeth out. But we are. Any second now, Caribba Airways Flight 1728 will nosedive into the Atlantic Ocean.