“Asshole? What in the hell, dude?” Ahh…the dude word is back. Although, I prefer dude to asshole, but whatever. “Are you stalking me or something?” I’m surprised when she walks closer to my car. I don’t dare get out with the apes making their rounds in the parking lot.
I think about what she said and decide to answer. “I guess you could say the ‘or something’.” What in the hell is my draw to this woman? It boggles my mind, but every time I see her, my body goes nuts. Hasn’t failed yet. My jeans suddenly feel tight; I’m not sure what to say next. Skye has already proven that she’s not like the other bimbos that I’m used to.
She looks over her shoulder when someone calls out “Sunny.” I forgot for a moment that is her name here. I can’t make out what she’s saying to whoever until she turns and looks right at me. “You still here for Stella?” Stella? What the fuck is a Stella? I shake my head because I have no clue what or who she’s even talking about.
“If it isn’t Mr. Gorgeous. Hiya, Handsome, you waiting on lil’ ol’ me?” Oh sweet baby Jesus, it’s the dry humper. Not that she wasn’t beautiful…in a far too tan and way too much bleach kinda way. And to think she could pass as a sister to my last dozen lovers. Talk about being caught in a rut. I wasn’t just caught there, but I plowed that fucker deeper and twice as wide. I decided that this was Stella.
“Bye, Stell.” When Skye hugged her, I cringed—I didn’t want her contaminated and this blonde had literally rubbed me the wrong way. “See ya around, Asshole.” She said as she walked past my car to her Focus, slid in, and started the engine. In only seconds, she was pulling out of her parking space and turning back onto Oakley. What in the fuck just happened?
“What are you thinking, handsome?” It took me a sec to realize she was talking to me.
“You have a good night.” I say as I pull away. Glancing in my review mirror, I see her watching me leave. I’m just not even close to interested and if I move it, I can catch up to Skye. Going fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit, I don’t have any clue where she’s gone. Either she drives like a maniac or I didn’t see her turn. Well, that was a big fucking waste of time. Turning onto Fifth, I head toward the gym. My townhouse is only five miles away from my business. I’m thankful that Rich is opening tomorrow—not me.
I’m really not happy with the way the night has turned out. Now that I have a minute to think, I realize that Skye really thought I was there to see the blonde. God, she must think I really enjoyed the lap dance. Which probably meant she really thought I’d wanted the lap dance in the first place. Crap.
And the confusion was all on me. I hadn’t wanted to show my interest in her so I’d pretended to be watching the woman on the stage…Stella. When I shake my head at my own stupidity, the throbbing starts. How the hell does she work in that club and not get a headache?
**Skye**
My head is pounding. I’ve already taken four ibuprofens, and I hoped this bath soothed my aching feet and back. I’ve been on my feet for hours and hours. At least I don’t have to work at the diner tomorrow. However, I work a double at the club. Woe is me, right? Life is a bitch, but luckily so am I. Yup, she’s met her match here.
I know how I want to live and I’m willing to work my ass off to get there. All right, so my ass isn’t going anywhere…if only I could work my ass off. I’m so stupid. When I shake my head at that thought, my headache makes itself known…again. Every weekend I find myself in the same spot: in the tub by candlelight, a glass of Blanton’s in my hand, Billie Holiday drifting from my iPod and me attempting to center myself.
Sue me, I enjoy good music, no matter its age. Oh yeah, you could say I also appreciate a good bourbon. No, I’m not a middle-aged republican white man—I just happen to know good booze when I taste it and at a hundred and twenty bucks a bottle? Blanton’s is definitely a good bourbon, and you pay for quality. I have entirely no business buying it on my wages but I can live off of bourbon and Ramen noodles.
My head keeps replaying the night’s events, and for the life of me, I can’t make sense of any of it. I can’t believe I hit that dude with my tray, head butted him, and had him by the balls all within an hours’ time. It was strange though that he’d been at the diner and later showed up at the club. Wasn’t it?
I’d be worried if he was attracted to me or something, but when the first thing outta his mouth was an insult about my fries? Clearly, I wasn’t his type. Nor was he mine. Not one iota. Sooooo far from the men I’m attracted to. I prefer a nonasshole kinda guy. Yes, yes, I’ve learned that those are few and far between but still I’m a dreamer.
Jesus, the man’s muscles had muscles. What the hell was that? Dude was ripped. Stella’s type all the way and obviously she was his. Good for them. I’m not sure why he felt the need to fuck with me, but I’ve seen all types. Schwarzenegger complex maybe? Pumped guy teasing the fat girl…not exactly original, was it?
However, he had some killer ink. One of my weaknesses…tattoos on a man. I know, I know, not another broad who likes a bad-boy. Yup. Never fails, either. Every time, I swear it will be the last one and every time has been a lie. There is something about men that can rock a pair of ripped jeans, chains, leather, and fuck me hot ass boots. I’m like a junkie. Tap a vein, because mama needs another fix.
Let him be just bad enough that sex is so good, it fucking hurts and just good enough that he grants me the experience more than once. Not that I want anything longer than a few rounds. Hell to the no. I’m not searching for Mr. Right—that’s one of those mythical creatures that I don’t believe in. You’ll see me riding a unicorn with Bigfoot before you see me walk down the aisle.
Truth? I’ve yet to even find a man that can satisfy me in the sack. Thirty-eight years old and I’ve never had a man give me an orgasm. Now, don’t get me wrong, I can orgasm, and I do quite regularly, but never at the hands of someone from the male species…ever…never.
Lets just say I have some rather talented fingers. I don’t always old-school it, my vibrator does the job quite nicely too. I’m not sure why I’ve yet to come with a man. I’ve had some amazing men in my bed. They’ve excited me, they’ve soaked me, but none have ever succeeded in gifting me with an orgasm. I’ve given up and eventually so do they. It does something to a man’s ego when he can’t sexually satisfy his lover, I know, but I’m not capable of faking. One time, I read that faking doesn’t do anyone any good. That I happen to believe. Selfish? Greedy? Nah, why don’t I deserve pleasure as well? If he can’t take it, then, he can move on, and time and time again…they have.
There’s still a need inside me. A need to feel close, to feel intimate, to feel desired, keeps me trying again and again. Even now, I highly doubt it will ever happen, but I still miss having a man in my bed. The way my sheets smell like a man, the feel of a man’s rough hands on my skin, burn from five o’clock shadow on my chest or between my thighs—I miss it all. And if I really am honest, I miss the look in a man’s eyes when I’m on my knees with his cock between my lips.
That’s control, that’s power, and I crave it like a fucking drug. Literally, having a man by the balls. Oh, oh, or when he’s behind me and just to tease him, I lay my chest on the bed and spread my legs giving him the view he wants so badly. Fuck. Every time I look over my shoulder and watch his reaction. I crave it all. I like sex, I love sex—even if I don’t climax. It’s the power a woman holds in the bedroom, a power that I hold in the bedroom.
I like when a man thinks he’s the one running the show and within minutes, I have him eating out of my hands or between my legs. And, every man thinks he will be the one to make me come, make me reach orgasm. I’ve had them swear they’ll grant me with multiples, having me squirting in minutes. Bullshit. All of it’s complete and utter bullshit. I still enjoy sex like a fucking fiend, orgasm or not, but I’d certainly prefer one over the other. Care to guess? Maybe one day, but I’m not counting on it.