Same goes for art. Some of my favorite songs were about sex before I even knew I could do something with my dick that didn't involve pissing my name in snow.
"Summer of '69"? – Bryan Adams was nine. He'd clearly been singing about his favorite sexual position. "I Just Died in Your Arms" by Cutting Crew? – Talks about orgasms. "Ticket to Ride" by the Beatles? – Prostitutes. "Come On Eileen"? That cheery fucking song everyone dances to at weddings? Sexual coercion.
Sex was everywhere. And why shouldn't it be? It's fucking magnificent. I couldn't get enough of it. I was good at it, too. Did I say good? Scratch that. Amazing. That's the word I was going for. For practice makes perfect.
And God knows I've had a lot of practice.
Which reminded me-I needed to order another box of condoms. I had them specially made by a company called SayItWithaRubber. I didn't just design the foil to have my name on it-hey, some chicks wanted to keep that as a souvenir, who was I to deny them?-and pick the colors (I liked red and purple. Yellow made my balls look a little pale. Not a good color for me … ), but I was also picky about the type of rubber, thinness-0.0015mm, if you must know-and the sensitivity level.
"Morning, you," one of the girls croaked, rising from her sleep. She pressed a fluttery kiss to the back of my neck. It always took me a few seconds to remember whom I spent the night with, but this morning was even worse, because I'd spent yesterday drinking like my mission was to liquefy my liver into rum.
"Did you sleep well?" the second chick droned.
My body was tilted to the side, toward the nightstand, as I scrolled down a long-ass text message written by my friend and business partner, Vicious. Most people wrote curt text messages to get their point across. This intense bastard made Siri his bitch and sent me the whole fucking Bible. Waking up to a message from him was the equivalent of waking up to a blowjob from a shark. And this was what he wrote:
Dear Dickbag,
My fiancée brought it to my attention that her headache of a sister might be late to the rehearsal dinner next Saturday because she's trying to save a few bucks taking two connecting flights to make it to Todos Santos.
She is Em's maid of honor, hence her attendance is not fucking optional. It is mandatory, and if I have to drag her by the hair, I will, but I'd rather not. You know how I feel about this place. New York is hard on the body. Los Angeles is hard on the soul.
I have no soul.
I'm asking you as a friend to knock on Rosie's door and shove a new ticket into her hand. Have Sue book her a first-class ticket next to you and make sure she gets on that plane with you on Friday. Chain her to the goddamn seat if you must.
This is the part where you're probably asking yourself why the fuck would you do me any favors. Consider this a favor to Millie, not me.
She's stressed.
She's worried.
And she doesn't deserve this type of shit.
If Em's baby sister thinks she can do whatever the fuck she wants, she's wrong.
Make her realize how wrong she is, because every day she plays the dutiful, frugal saint, my future wife is getting hurt.
And we all know how I react when something of mine is being damaged.
Peace, motherfucker.
-V.
Not exactly purple prose, but that was Baron Spencer for you.
I stretched, feeling a hot body climbing on top of me, fighting the lake of navy blue, seamless, silk sheets between us. There were heaps of rich fabric, hot flesh, and soft curves all around me. The sun poured in from my floor-to-ceiling window, shining over my one-thousand-square-foot balcony, a sea of freshly cut grass bleeding into the Manhattan skyline. Rays of warmth licked at my skin. A wet bar called for me to fix myself a Bloody Mary. And plush, gray and navy loveseats begged me to take the girls on a ride against them for all of New fucking York to see and hear.
In short: this morning was awesome.
Vicious, however, was not awesome.
Therefore, I allowed myself to bathe in the comfort of these women-Natasha and Kennedy-and do what God, or nature, or both, wanted me to do-fuck them hard. Because civilization and seed spreading and shit.
As Kennedy-the lovely redhead, my memory reminded me-peppered kisses down my neck, making her way to my morning wood, and Natasha-the racy, fun-sized yoga instructor-kissed my mouth ravenously, I processed the new information through the pounding hammers of a well-deserved hangover.
So, Millie LeBlanc was stressed about her dinner rehearsal. No surprises there. She was always this goody-two-shoes girl who wanted everything to be perfect and worked hard to make it that way. A stark contrast to the man she was marrying, who took it upon himself to tarnish as many lives as he could using his dry wit and appalling behavior.