“There’s a woman in the room next to mine,” I say into the phone as soon as it’s answered. Before he can reply, I continue. “Do you want to know how I know this? I know this because five minutes ago she knocked on my door.”

“You’re welcome?” Chris from the front desk replies with a chuckle.

“Chris,” I growl, knowing that my voice sounds like a wolf’s on the other end when I’m this irritated.

I hear him sigh. “Yeah, sorry about that but it couldn’t be helped. Last minute bookings. You know I always try to help you out, but there’s some medical thing in town. Doctors are notorious for being secret freaks. Obviously they’re going to want rooms here.”

“What do I pay you for?”

“You pay me to make sure that room doesn’t get booked—unless there’s no other option. Like I said, last minute.”

I should ask for my money back but the loss of goodwill isn’t worth it, so I hang up instead. Not only does Chris make sure I always get my favorite room at the Sexton Hotel on a regular basis, he makes sure I have enough privacy to blast my music without any issues.

In the quiet, my mind works too hard, too fast, too untethered. It all leads to one thing, writer’s block. Or at least the vocal equivalent. Lately, even the music hasn’t helped much. Last night’s show was lackluster at best. That’s why I have this room for most of the week instead of my usual one-off days. Maybe I’m losing my touch? Maybe I’m just getting bored with it?

Radio personality. That’s what Eros Media has labeled me. Sex Jock is the colloquial name thrown around by my fans, a group that is now nearing almost a million strong. Sex on the Line with Mr. XO started as a lark, a podcast I flirted around with a few years after I was kicked out of Princeton. I dick around, discussing one topic on sexuality or another, half tongue-in-cheek, half serious and informative. I certainly have the voice for radio. I had always used it to work my magic with the opposite sex in college, why not reach a wider audience? The bonus is that I get to have fun piercing that puritanical bubble American society still seems to operate within. Heaven knows I have good reason to.

The best part about what I do is the audience, the anonymous people who call in with their own titillating topical tales. Since I’m strictly web-based I happily fly under the radar of the FCC, thus opening the door to absolute freedom of expression. I love being a medium for others to air their own bits of exhibitionism, spilling their secrets, desires, and sexual adventures for the world to voyeuristically devour. Why should I be the only one having fun?

Not that anyone knows who Mr. XO really is. I haven’t been able to take the final step of outing myself. Perhaps it’s because I’m aware of the chaos that would ensue, compounding the path of disaster that already lies in my wake. As if my family hasn’t already considered me a write-off a hundred times over.

I stare out at New York wondering who’s staring back. A smile touches my face when my next-door neighbor pops into my head. Kinda cute, if a bit prudish. Then again, I do set that bar pretty high. Still, those nipples poking through that t-shirt. And that slight twang in her voice. Not quite southern, but definitely not East Coast. Sexy as fuck.

I feel my body start to react. I reach down a hand to casually help myself along. I wonder what those hazel eyes would look like staring up at me as her pretty mouth surrounds my dick. I wonder what those nipples would look like without the obstruction of her cotton shirt. I wonder what that voice would sound like moaning my name.

That’s the stuff.

I don’t bother removing myself from the window. Anyone down below me this late at night, staring a bit too hard at the hotel windows, knows exactly what they came to see. And I’m more than happy to oblige.

Hazel Eyes goes to work in my head and I close my own to get a better picture. It doesn’t take long and it’s only when I’m practically limp again, my fist covered in my own cum, that I open my eyes, gazing out at the city I’ve loved from day one.

“You’re welcome, New York,” I say with a grin before heading to the bathroom to clean up. As I wash my hands an idea dances around in my head.

Neighbors.

It has promise as a topic for the show. Lonely suburban housewives and young, well-built lawn boys paying for college during summer breaks. Or perhaps, lonely divorced dads and the former babysitter, all grown up and perfectly legal. Horny, young recent grads in cramped living situations. Hell, maybe even horny, older recent retirees in senior living communities (one of the best calls I ever had on the show was from a couple, both over seventy years old). Coed dorms with communal bathrooms (something I remember happily utilizing once upon a time). Campers with tents pitched near one another, all alone in the woods.

Two guests staying next door to each other in a hotel known for its views.

A smile touches my face. The possibilities are endless. It plays around in my head until I officially have a new topic for next week’s show. I suppose I owe my own neighbor a thank you.

First, I have to find out who she is. She’s a writer, but what kind?

One thing’s for certain, I have to see her again before she checks out.

She’s the first thing that enters my mind as my eyes snap open the next morning.

The girl next door, how apt. Especially considering what she looked like last night, standing there in nothing but that t-shirt and those pajama shorts. She definitely has that girl-next-door vibe down with her messy blonde hair in a bun and hazel eyes. The tiny spray of freckles across her pussycat nose was the icing on the cake. Even the way she self-consciously covered those tiny pointers staring me in the face was adorable.

It’s enough to get me out of bed and ready to take on the world, especially now that my Sex Jock block has been temporarily suspended. I throw the covers off and stand up to stretch, giving the city a good view of me in my birthday suit as the morning sunlight shines through the windows. I never sleep clothed, especially not at this hotel. What would be the point?

That’s what I love about the Sexton. It all but advertises that it’s a hotel for exhibitionists, allowing the public to get close enough to the action to indulge in a cheap, voyeuristic thrill, but far enough away to avoid outright scandal. It’s that fine line, that tease of danger that makes it fun.

It’s actually pretty liberating spending almost every waking hour au naturel. There’s something freeing about not having your body burdened by clothes. The first time I stayed here it was for the thrill of it. Now I’ve found that I do my best thinking when I let it all hang out. Literally.

Besides, if you’ve got it, flaunt it.

I once again think about the fallout if I was actually exposed. More importantly, who would be affected by it. A tiny smile tugs at the sides of my mouth, then disappears. That’s one road I don’t need to ruin my day with by going down.

Usually, I order room service, but today I think I’ll venture down to the restaurant. Who knows which one of my lovely neighbors I’ll run into?

Ten minutes later, I’m standing at the elevators with what I’m sure is a shit-eating grin on my face. I’ve thrown on a pair of jeans, a retro Black Sabbath t-shirt, and a pair of black Converse shoes. Being team commando, I don’t bother with the mental heavy lifting of deciding between boxers or briefs. Life is complicated enough as it is.

The elevator opens and I take it to the first floor, then head to the restaurant. The hostess gives me a bright smile, biting her bottom lip, which is the world’s most obvious tell. She’s cute and any other day I might nibble at the bait. Today I’m after a more intriguing lure.

And there she is. The girl next door.

She’s sitting cross-legged at one of the tables along the far wall that has one long, booth-like bench on one side and several two-person tables placed along it with a chair opposite. There’s a triangle of toast with jelly held in mid-air as she jots something down into a notebook. Her hair is down today, falling in waves to frame a face that’s hidden as she looks down at her words. It’s spring and she’s wearing a pair of jeans and a light pink t-shirt. I duly note the presence of a bra this morning. Shame.

“Can I show you to a table, sir?” the hostess asks, coming from around her podium.

“Actually, I see my girl over there,” I say, pointing in the direction of my hotel neighbor. “Thanks, though.”

Whoever she is, she’s concentrating hard on what she’s writing. She doesn’t even notice me as I walk right up to the other side of the table and wait.

“Hello, neighbor. Mind if I borrow a packet of sugar?” I reach out just for show to pull a white packet out of the little container at the edge of the table.

Her body actually jumps out of her seat, her legs unfolding from underneath her and her head snapping up in surprise. When she sees me, she quickly drops the pen and her hand falls to the notebook, fingers splayed to cover every inch of the page in view.

“What are you doing here?”

“A man’s gotta eat, and this is the closest place.”

The look of surprise is quickly replaced with one of annoyance. “Well, if you don’t mind…,” she hints, in an attempt to get rid of me.

“Don’t mind if I do.” I grab the chair across from her and spin it around to sit in it backwards, resting my arms atop the back.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Being neighborly.”

“I think last night was enough, thank you very much. In fact, I hardly recognize you with your clothes on,” she says with a hint of tartness to that mild twang. She blushes slightly as her eyes dart down to where the table blocks my body. One area in particular.

“We could take this back to my room so you can re-familiarize yourself.”

She gives me a look of disgust, which I absolutely love. “I’m actually trying to get some work done here.”

“All the more reason for us to share a table. Perhaps I can help. What is your article about?”

“It’s not an article, it’s a book.” Her brow suddenly furrows with regret, perhaps realizing that she’s given too much away with that one reply. “You know what? I don’t even know why I’m bothering talking to you. Can you please find another table?”

A book. Interesting. I scrutinize her, trying to size up what genre she’s in. I’m pretty good when it comes to reading women. Heaven knows I should be, seeing as I’ve made a pretty lucrative career out of it. With this one, it could only be a handful of things.

“Let me guess. A children’s book.”

She gives me a smug look. “Nice try. Now if you don’t mind, I’d—”

“Romance.”

Her mouth falls open.

“Bingo.”

That causes it to snap shut again.

“See? That wasn’t so horrible, was it? Now that it’s out in the open, let me assure you that I can definitely help.” I grin, so she knows exactly what type of sordid benefits I bring to the table.

“First of all, I never said it was romance. Second, even if it was, I seriously doubt you could help in any way.”

“Why, because I’m a man?”

She just gives me a pointed stare. Then she realizes that the toast in her hand is still there in mid-air and she brings it to her mouth to bite down on.

“What better way to find out what women like than by asking a man? I’m more than happy to take you under my wing and guide you.”

She just chews and gives me a skeptical roll of the eyes.

“After all,” I say and lean in closer, “how many women have you personally pleasured?”

That causes a bit of toast to go down the wrong tube and she begins coughing.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say handing her the glass of orange juice on the table. “I guess that answers that.”

Her brow creates a deep vee as she glares at me over the glass. When she finally recovers, she takes a moment to close her eyes and exhale. She opens them and the daggers are still there, pointed directly at yours truly.

“Listen, I don’t know what kind of connection you think we have, but it just isn’t there.”

“There might be more of a connection than you think,” I say in a teasingly ambiguous voice.

What the hell am I doing? Only a handful of people know that I’m Mr. XO, and I’m playing a little too coy at this point. Something tells me that beneath that naïve facade, she’s actually quite perceptive.

“Let me guess,” she says, giving me a good once over. “Your specialty is those pick-up artist books or classes or whatever, showing men how to trick women into dating them?” She leans in closer to me. “If so, it seems like maybe you’re the one who actually needs the help of the opposite sex.”

“Ohhh, my poor, fragile ego,” I cry, putting a hand to my chest and giving her a wounded look. Kitty’s got claws, I’ll give her that. I quickly revert back to my usual teasing mode and lean back in. “What would you say if I told you that I also write romance?” It’s as good a cover as any.

She replies with nothing but a laugh.

I raise my eyebrows in response, just to convince her I’m not kidding.

She goes quiet and narrows her eyes. “You’re kidding.”

I smile.

“Really?” she almost whispers, leaning in conspiratorially as though we’re discussing plans to rob a bank.

“Why do you think I chose this hotel? It allows my…creative juices to flow,” I say with a wicked grin, feeling myself get wrapped up in my own little non-truth.

“Eww,” she replies, pulling away from me. Then, she eyes me suspiciously. “What name do you use to write?”

The phrase “hoisted on my own petard” comes to mind, before I eye her carefully, grasping a small straw to wriggle my way out. “Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

Her face colors and she diverts her eyes.

“I thought so,” I say feeling justified, relieved, and a bit guilty. “So can I at least get a real name?”

She considers it for a moment, then sighs. “Prynne Dawson.”

“Prynne,” I repeat, savoring the word on my lips. It’s unique, but there’s something about it that’s familiar in an old-fashioned, almost antiquated way. Why does that name ring a bell?

“Yes, Prynne,” she says, abruptly cutting right through my thoughts. “And you?”

“Rhys Connors,” I reply, a grin appearing on my face as I reach across the table to shake her hand. She gives me a reluctant smile and shakes her head as though wondering how she succumbed so easily, but reaches out to accept.

“So, now that we’ve become a bit more neighborly,” I begin, “did you actually try it out last night?”

“Try what out?” she replies quickly. A little too quickly.

“As her cheeks become an alluring shade of rose….” I muse when I see the glaring pink hue in her face. “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” she snaps, the pink turning into a more fiery shade. “Whatever perverted rituals you have as part of your concentration, feel free to keep them to yourself.”

I just laugh, not buying it one bit. “Oh come on, we’re here for the week, we might as well—”

“You’re here for the whole week?” she interrupts in stunned surprise.

“It’s where I do my best…writing,” I say, quickly remembering my slightly off-white lie.

“But that’s—my room alone is $400 a night!”

“And mine is $1100 a night.” Prynne’s mouth falls open. I’m beginning to enjoy it. “Like I said,” I give her a smile and a wink, “I know what women like.”

“Apparently,” she mutters before she can stop herself.

“So, are you willing to bare it all for me?” I ask suggestively.

“Does everything that comes out of your mouth have to be a sexual innuendo?”

“Only when I’m so wonderfully inspired,” I reply with a grin.

That one actually gets a reluctant, small laugh.

Come on, Prynne. Let’s play.