“This is my cab,” I manage to finish.
It takes a moment, and finally the guy speaks.
“Listen, uhm, Miss,” he says. “My dad just died and the cab is already on its way…”
Whatever. This is the last time I’m going to have to deal with people from a strip club.
“Just make sure you give me the money before you get out,” I say and pull out my phone.
I put on my earbuds and turn on my music. I would have loved to just stare at the guy, but his stop comes by way too fast—in like 5 minutes—and he hands me a $100 note before rushing out.
“34th and 8th,” I tell the cabdriver, wondering what kind of people I’ll be dealing with on the phone sex line.
Regardless of what they’re like, at least I’ll be safe from people like this guy who just tossed me a C-note.
I’m okay if I never have to go inside a strip club again. Or deal with the people who frequent them.
Well, I mean, I wouldn’t mind if I run into the guy who got off at the Plaza again, though.
Just saying.
35
Ashley
The taxicab is taking me past the Plaza, where Gorgeous Jerk got off, and is heading onto 8th Avenue. I look at my watch as we approach Times Square.
It’s just barely midnight. I can see Peter’s apartment on 50th Street.
“Stop the cab!” I yell to the driver who stops with the characteristic lack of surprise based on having seen everything most likely in his tenure as a New York City cabdriver. I pay the fare and get out of the car, heading toward Peter’s building on the corner of 50th Street and 8th Avenue.
Peter lives by himself in a 4 story walk-up, and as someone who graduated from college a couple of years ahead of me, the fact that he has a job and an apartment to himself makes him a pretty big catch in the dating pool of New York City.
I reflect on this as I take the keys to his apartment out of my purse and open the front door.
That’s right. He’s given me a set of keys. I think he gave them to me last month – after we’d been dating for two months. I know what he sees in me. He thinks I’m hot, or whatever. I mean, I try to work out and look good. I save up for things like dresses or heels or yoga pants. I don’t spend obsessively going shopping all the time, and I’m not vain, or anything. But I try to look cute. And I guess he appreciates it. I mean, if you ask me, there are a thousand other prettier girls you can find at any given moment—I’m not anything that special, but Peter always likes showing me off for whatever reason.#p#分页标题#e#
But then again, aren’t I kind of doing the same thing? I know that's what you were thinking maybe, weren’t you? When I said the fact that Peter has a job and his own apartment makes him a catch, I did my own aspect of superficial judging there I think.
I mean, on paper, that’s great. But he’s not perfect. I don’t think there’s such a thing as a perfect guy. He’s okay to look at—he’s tall enough, and he’s not like super hot, but he’s not ugly. He’s just … average.
We have sex. I mean, it is what it is. It’s not like super-crazy sex or anything. Like I’m not yelling at the top of my lungs. Sometimes I don’t really cum. I mean, everyone knows that to be a girl means sometimes a guy’s cock isn’t going to do it for you, right? And Peter isn't a big fan of going down on me, so sometimes I just fake it to make sure everything is going well. I mean, a part of me is really turned on and gets really wet knowing what I can bring him to. What I can do to him.
That’s what I’m thinking about tonight. I’m thinking I want to have sex. I want to fuck. But is his 5-inch cock going to satisfy me tonight? Some nights I’m lucky. If I’m coming from the club, already kind of horny, then sure, I can get off no problem. But some days, 5 inches, no matter how hard, doesn't really do it for me.
Maybe if Peter worked out a bit more. But every time I ever bring it up, he talks about how busy he is from work and how much he needs to decompress. I guess I can understand that. I mean, the guy who shared the cab with me today—he was hot. Obviously doesn't miss a gym day. Gym day is every day for someone like that.
I wonder what having sex with someone like that would be like as I finish climbing the four sets of stairs and open the door.
Maybe tonight I can close my eyes and pretend that Peter is the Gorgeous Jerk. If I keep my eyes closed and not think about the body I’m feeling—the slight man boobs and bit of a potbelly—I guess I could pass it off.
“Oh fuck, baby, that’s so good. Just like that,” I hear Peter say from his room. He’s got a one-bedroom apartment in Midtwon West and I know he basically pays an arm and a leg for it, with very little left over to afford.