Seven weeks later…
“So, what do you like to do in your free time, Harlow?” Barron asked after he took a hearty sip of his wine. He’d ordered us a third bottle of red—a Merlot, maybe?—to share with our meal, and he made a point to let me know every detail of its rare and vintage quality.
“Amazing,” my date said as he swirled his glass around and grinned. “I’m impressed by the legs on this one. Did you notice how the subtle tones of oak and chocolate liven your palate?”
Barron Alexander Conrad III—my date’s full, and let’s be real, very pretentious name—had been rambling on and on about the wine’s legs since the server left the bottle at the table. I literally knew nothing about wine. Tannic. Oaky. Full-bodied. Every word he spoke bled together into a single word in my mind: ostentatious.
When it came to wine, all I cared about was how many glasses it would take for me to get buzzed.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes and just nodded in fake agreement as I tilted the glass to my lips and finished off my first glass from this bottle.
First dates, man. I fucking hate them.
Hell, I loathed anything that could end up in a relationship in general. I wasn’t a commitment-phobe or anything like that. I just knew that long-term commitments weren’t my thing. I’d been burned once, and I’d learned my lesson. I’d spend the rest of my life keeping my hands away from the proverbial hot stove, thank you very much.
I forced a smile. At least, I hoped I was smiling. Do smiles taste like vinegar? If so, I’m definitely smiling. “Well…I stay pretty busy with work. And when I’m not working, I guess I enjoy going to dinner with my friends, reading, seeing movies, going to concerts…” Blah. Blah. Blah.
God, I sounded just as boring as Barron.
Why do I even agree to these things?
Because I needed sex.
I know. Believe me, I know.
But I really did need sex.
Short of swiping right on everything within a two-mile radius on Tinder, dates like these were the only option for a hookup, particularly the kind that ended in penetration, without donning clear heels and a belt as a skirt and hitting the street corner. Though, if this didn’t work out, that option was sounding more and more like it had merit.
It’s been too long, and I’ve reached the point where my daily masturbation sessions just aren’t cutting it.
I need a penis, guys.
“How long have you been with Gossip?”
I sighed internally. At both the sound of Barron’s too nasal voice and the ridiculous job I still called my own. “I guess it’s been about four years now.” Too fucking long.
Gossip was an online and print magazine, and I’d been on their payroll as a columnist for several years. The goal of the magazine revolved around digging, swindling, or bribing the firsthand scoop and juicy gossip from the rich and famous of the world, particularly the ones residing in New York City.
It was trashy and trope-y and just about everything you would expect from something titled Gossip.
Celebrities, as a rule, were all the same; they loved when we noticed them but hated us when we hung their dirty laundry out to dry.
Although, it should be noted, I wasn’t completely on the dark side like some of my fellow columnists in the industry. I only gave my readers mostly factual celeb news with very little embellishment. I followed the yellow-brick road to reality, even if I stepped off onto the grass every once in a while. Other conniving vipers ran around in the forest looking for the juiciest poison apple to plant in a celebrity’s hands.
With that said, I derived unmitigated pleasure from writing about some celebrity heartthrob who’d fucked his nanny while his wife was on a movie set thousands of miles away—his nanny having spilled the beans with proof—and I didn’t think that would ever change.
Of course, the same went for the cheating wives and the asshole celebs who treated their assistants and staff like shit.
To make a long story short, my job at Gossip had started out as a short-term plan after I’d graduated college and left an awful mess of a relationship, but somehow, it had turned into a career. Hell, at twenty-nine years old, when I looked back on my life, I wasn’t even sure why I was still working there.
Seriously? Why am I still there?
I stabbed my fork into the asparagus on my plate and wondered how I’d reached this place, making a career out of something I didn’t enjoy, and going on first dates with men like Barron just because I was that desperate for a penis. Good Lord, when I really thought about it, my life’s train had derailed off the motherfucking tracks.
As if on cue, Barron grinned from across the table and held his fork out toward me. “You need to try this,” he urged me, motioning the fork for emphasis, and I shook my head. “Just try it, Harlow. Their lobster is to die for,” he said and nodded toward the fork that was now two inches from my face as if I were somehow still questioning what he wanted me to do despite the step-by-step tutorial.
“Uh…” I grimaced once the fishy seafood smell hit my nostrils. “I’m not a big fan of fish.”
“But it’s lobster.”
“Yeah…fish…lobster…pretty much anything that swims in bodies of water… I’m not a fan.”
“C’mon,” he continued, and I had the urge to smack the fork away from my face. “No one can resist Daniel’s lobster.”
“Actually, I can.”
He stared at me and I stared at him; Mortal Kombat’s theme song played in my head.
For the love of God, move your fork away from my face.
Eventually, after what felt like an hour, he took the bite of lobster himself, moaning his delight out loud. “God, it’s good.”
If dinner was a preview for later, it was safe to assume I should just get the fuck out of here before the bill came. Fake some kind of emergency. Text one of my friends to save me from the inevitable disaster that would most likely occur before the evening was through.
Good plan, Harlow! Text Amanda.
Amanda was one of my oldest and closest friends from college, and this wouldn’t be the first time she’d helped me get out of a similar situation.
While Barron stayed mesmerized by his wine and lobster, I discreetly slid my cell phone out of my purse and texted my best friend with the hopes that she’d have the perfect fake emergency. And then, I’d beg her to help me execute it.
Me: Help. Me. I need an emergency.
Amanda: Nope. Not this time, Frances.
Me: What??? I’m dying here! (And stop calling me Frances. You know I hate that.)
Frances Harlow Paige. My full name—almost as bad as Barron Alexander Conrad III—that I didn’t go by anymore and no one ever called me. Trust me, Harlow, as unconventional as it was, suited me much better.
But occasionally, my best friend liked to be a bit of a bitch and taunt me with the fact that I’d been named after my grandmother.
Fucking Frances. God, that name was the complete opposite of me.
Amanda: Considering it’s your actual first name *and* I think it’s adorable, I’m ignoring your request. And maybe you should give this one a shot, Harlow. He could be an amazing guy. He could be THE guy.
Me: Now is not the time to begin a career in motivational speaking! This guy keeps talking about his wine’s legs and shoving lobster in my face. I need help in the form of a fake emergency. Anything will do. Come pull the fire alarm. Call in an anonymous bomb threat.
I hit send and then thought better of it. Bomb threats and fake fire alarms sounded a little too dicey. I just wanted Amanda to help me out of the situation, not get arrested and questioned by the FBI. Though, maybe I should do it myself. It’d probably end in a cavity search…
No. NO. Thinking like that was a new all-time low for me.
Me: Wait…don’t do those! They could end badly… Oh! Call me and tell me someone has three hours to live, and I need to get there as soon as possible to say my last goodbyes. PLEASE. I’M BEGGING YOU.
Amanda: Nope. You start your dates, you finish them, missy.
Fucking hell.
Unless I could execute a fake emergency on my own, and obviously, with no thanks to Amanda, I was stuck. Which explained why I ended up staying through dinner. And the boring conversation. And the mundane cab ride to Barron’s place…
Fingers and toes crossed the sex is actually worth this hassle…
Barron’s bedroom was exactly what I’d expected. Everything had its place, perfectly angled to showcase its worth and opulence, and all of his paintings, sculptures, and furniture made it obvious he wasn’t shopping at Target. It was a lux, sophisticated apartment with a view of Central Park to boot. Too bad it felt completely devoid of personality.
Further surveying the surroundings, I spotted two armoires that I absolutely adored. Hmmm… I wonder if there’s any fucking chance he got those from IKEA?
I started to ask him, but when I glanced down at his face—which was currently between my thighs—I decided that now probably wasn’t the time to talk about his furniture.
Okay, yeah. I admit it.
I am currently in Barron’s bedroom, and he is, in fact, giving me oral right this very second.
Can I be honest with you guys?
It’s awful.
But thanks to my focus on interior design, you probably already guessed that.
“Does that feel good, Harlow?” he groaned against my skin, and I bit my tongue to avoid saying something along the lines of Please, stop. I think you’re actually making my vagina sad.
“Mmm-hmmm.” I did my best to feign enjoyment. A little sigh. A well-timed gasp.
“God, you taste so good.”
Oh, fuck. Ouch. What’s he got a spear on the end of that thing?
Ugh. I couldn’t do this much longer. I’d always been a lover of the oral, but holy moly, my vagina could only take so much of whatever he was doing with his tongue. I feared she might end up with some kind of emotional trauma if I let this go on any longer. Do they have therapy sessions and antidepressants for pussies?
Maybe if we just skip the foreplay and go to the sex, it’ll get better?
Some women might have given up, but sex was the reason I’d sat through that dinner and engaged in the most boring small talk ever to exist in the history of humans. Goddammit, I was getting some glimmer of enjoyment out of this if I had to take his penis hostage and do all the fucking myself.
“Fuck me, Barron,” I whispered, redirecting the sad sex train and forcing it somewhere more illicit. He looked up at me with a gleam in his eyes.
Yes. Keep going, Harlow. This just might work…
“Please, fuck me, Barron,” I said again, and instantly, he took action.
The man was on a mission as he quickly removed his pants and briefs, revealing a nicely shaped and sized penis. Thank God. And after the world’s quickest condom placement, he moved between my thighs and started to slide inside of me.
Okay. This is better…
One thrust. Two thrusts. Three more thrusts and I was actually starting to enjoy the feel. Hell, I was even starting to think the entire mundane night had been worth it. The mouth didn’t match the penis, that was for damn sure. His conversational and oral skills were subpar compared to what he could do during sex.
“Turn over,” he urged between panting breaths. “Let me see your perfect ass, baby.”
Ugh. Baby. God, I fucking hated when guys called me baby. Still, it’s okay. This is at least going in the right direction. Don’t lose focus, Harlow.
Barron didn’t give me a chance to make the move myself, instead, he gripped my hips and flipped me onto my belly. Only, he wasn’t superior in the skillset, fumbling the maneuver with a bobble, a shove, and collapsing onto me with the force of his weight. His chest hit my back, and my body catapulted forward, my forehead smacking into the headboard of his giant king-sized bed with a loud and piercing thud. Instantly, my vision blurred, and a jagged line of pain shot behind my eye.
“Oh, holy mother lover!” I cried and held a hand to my forehead. Hot embers focused at the point of impact, making it hard to breathe through the intensity. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph at Applebee’s! What the hell!”
“Oh my God,” he said behind me. Shock clung to his voice. “I’m so sorry, Harlow. Oh my God, are you okay?”
I pulled my hand away from my forehead to mutter some nonsense about him maiming me being okay—and realized I probably wasn’t okay. Bright red blood covered my fingers and palm, and now that I’d moved my hand, a little puddle of it was soaking into the fine silk of his pillowcase as we spoke. Whatever had happened to my forehead during the throes of Barron’s passion for my ass, it appeared it’d done some damage.
I turned toward him.
“Oh, fuck,” he muttered when he caught sight of my injury. “That’s a really big gash, Harlow.”
Uh…ya think?
“Mind grabbing me a towel so I can, you know, not bleed all over your bed?” Any more than I already have anyway…
“Shit. Sorry,” he muttered and hopped off the bed, his now deflated penis flapping in the wind as he jogged toward the bathroom.
I sighed out loud. This was literally the worst fucking night ever. It honestly deserved one of those internet articles about terrible first-date experiences.
Not even a minute later, Barron had a towel pressed to my forehead, his worried gaze assessing my face. I guess it’s nice that he’s concerned.
“Thanks,” I said, and he grimaced.
“God, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
I mean, it really wasn’t fine, but what was I going to say in this situation? Yeah, you should be sorry. You give awful oral, and while fucking me, you managed to toss me into your headboard that just so happens to be made out of glass crystals.
Which, why the fuck was that his headboard? I was lucky I didn’t lose an eye.
I stood up and walked into the bathroom to assess the damage for myself, and Barron didn’t follow me. I looked back just in time to watch him touch the bloody pillow with his hand, move his fingers closer to his face in horror, and faint dead away into the middle of his plush bed.
Jesus Christ.
I shook my head in disgust but stopped nearly immediately. Dizziness took root in the base of my skull and radiated outward, threatening to drop me like the fucker in the other room if I wasn’t careful. After a glance in the mirror, a noticeable and still-bleeding gash on my forehead swelling, I knew I needed stitches.
All I’d wanted was penis. And yet, for my trouble, I was getting a solo trip to the emergency room. No chance in hell I’m waking up Minnie Mouse in there to go with me.
Jesus. It might be time to consider the convent.