by Amelia Wilde
The music inside the club is pumping, and the room is sweaty and hot.
The thing about clubbing in New York is that you can never bring a jacket or a coat with you, even when it’s ten degrees outside, because no places have any coat checks and it’s too hot inside to keep it on and too annoying to carry around with you. Luckily, the nights are still warm enough this early in the fall that it’s not much of a consideration.
Caroline and the girls expertly position themselves at the bar and wait for some unsuspecting male to buy them a drink.
I’m about to get my own when Caroline stops me.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” she asks. “The cocktails here are fifteen bucks.”
That’s definitely not cheap, but at this point, I don't really know if I care to make conversation with some guy in exchange for the drink.
My bank account is loaded, and my mind is occupied entirely by Mr. Black.
It has been more than a few hours since I made the agreement to be his for a week, and I don’t know exactly when the week will officially begin.
To say that I’m waiting with anticipation would be an understatement.
“It’s fine, honestly,” I say. “Can I get an Old Fashioned, please?”
That’s kind of a man’s drink, but the taste of bitter orange is enticing.
Caroline and her friends just shake their heads.
It doesn’t matter that they are wealthy all on their own. They are not the type to ever volunteer to pay for something when a man can do it for them.
When my drink arrives and Caroline is chatting up a hot investment banker type at the bar, my phone vibrates against my thigh. I glance at the screen.
It’s Mr. Black.
Meet me at Avenue A and East Second Street.
10 minutes.
My heart skips a beat.
I don’t know what’s there, so I look up the location on my phone.
But nothing really shows up.
Odd.
The only thing I know about that place is that the Upright Citizen’s Brigade is right around the corner and I’ve been to that comedy club a number of times and always had a really good time.
I tap Caroline on the shoulder and tell her that I have go.
“Oh, no, why?”
“I have to see Mr. Black,” I whisper into her ear.
“Really? Mr. Black?”
Her eyes grow wide and a big smile comes on her face.
Clearly, my attempt to keep this info under wraps was not successful.
“Who’s Mr. Black?” The girls lean over inquisitively.
“I’ll tell you later,” Caroline says.
“No, you won’t. Because you promised, remember?” I say admonishingly. “He’s just a friend of mine.”
“Okay, okay, I won’t say anything.” Caroline waves her hand. I don’t really believe her, but I let it go.
“Have fun!” the girls squeal with excitement. I roll my eyes.
I decide to walk over to Avenue A and East Second Street instead of calling a cab or using Uber.
It’s an unseasonably warm night and New York is at its finest.
Within a few blocks, my feet start to pinch as I wobble along in my stilettos, but at this point, I’m too close to the place to bother with getting a cab.
Mr. Black is standing at the intersection, facing away from me.
My eyes land on his perfectly pert ass.
When he turns around, I see that his gorgeous body is dressed in an expertly tailored three-piece suit.
Watching me approach, his icy cold gaze melts and a small smile forms at the corners of his mouth.
I feel a crackling in the air that forms as I get closer and closer to him.
It’s almost as if our bodies are putting off electricity. The sense of anticipation is deafening.
When I am within an arm’s reach of him, we take a moment to examine each other. The man who is staring back at me is dark and dangerous and mine for the whole week.
I look up at his face and lose myself as if I’m in a trance. His cheekbones look like they’ve been sculpted by Michelangelo, and his dark eyebrows make a perfect frame for his thickly lashed eyes.
His nose is prominent and strong to match his jaw and that mouth.
My knees grow weak at the memories of what they did to me last weekend.
Mr. Black takes me by the shoulders and pulls me closer to him.
When he presses his lips to mine, my whole body burns for him.
“Hey there, gorgeous,” he whispers.
Lots of men use that phrase, but in their mouths it sounds trite and boring.
And like a lie.
But when Mr. Black says those words to me, I know that he’s telling the truth.
“Are you ready for tonight?”
“That depends. What do you have planned?” I ask.
“Something very exciting,” he says slowly and deliberately.
The tone of his voice sends shivers through my body.
I’m not a big fan of surprises, but so far Mr. Black has gone far and above in giving me only the most pleasurable surprises.
He stares at me with such intensity that I start to feel faint.
I’m not yet used to the power of his gaze.
It’s both distant, cold, and absolutely scorching hot.
Mr. Black takes my hand and leads me into a nondescript doorway, which looks like it leads to a small apartment building.
We ride the service elevator all the way to the top and when we get off, a substantial man with a clipboard meets us. He asks for our names and Mr. Black gives him his and says I’m his date.
The man smiles approvingly, checks him off, and points us to the door behind him.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“It’s a private club.”
22
Ellie
When things go too far…
I walk in holding Mr. Black’s hand.
My own hand is clearly sweaty and I feel a little bit self-conscious about it.
But as much as I try to squirm away from him, he keeps a firm grip on me.
The room that we walk into is romantically lit.
The walls are padded and red, and the large chandeliers that descend from the ceiling put out a smooth, sensual light that reminds me of thousands of candles.
The people in this room are dressed pretty much like the people at the club.
Women are in high heels and short dresses, tossing their hair with extensions from one side to the other.
The men are dressed in tailored suits and look like they just walked out of the boardroom.
No one looks older than forty-five.
At the far corner of the room is the bar and Mr. Black takes me straight there.
He orders a glass of the top-shelf whiskey for himself and a Cosmopolitan for me.
The light pink drink in the elegant martini glass makes me feel elegant and sophisticated.
Walking in on the arm of Mr. Black doesn’t hurt things either.
“So, what’s so special about this private club?” I ask, taking a sip and looking around.
I’ve heard of private clubs before.
Caroline, for instance, is dying to get into the SoHo House. Besides the exclusive people who are in there and the pool you can use on hot New York summer days, I’m not really sure what value it really offers.
Mr. Black winks at me, but doesn’t answer.
“Is it one of those stuffy country clubs?” I ask. “Like they have in the Hamptons? I’ve been there and they’re not amazing.”
He shakes his head and smiles.
“It has something of a different vibe,” Mr. Black says, squeezing my hand. My heart skips a beat. “Follow me.”
Grabbing my drink, I follow him into another room. And that’s when I come face-to-face with another world.
There are people having sex everywhere.
On the couches, on the desks, on the bar. Some are in couples, but most are in gr
oups of three. I glance at Mr. Black with a horrified look on my face, but he meets my look with a smile and a shrug.
“It’s a sex club,” he whispers. “We don't have to participate necessarily, but it would be more fun.”
I drop his hand. Suddenly, the person that I thought I knew dissipates and I stand face-to-face with a stranger.
Without a word, I turn around and run out.
Mr. Black follows me.
I don’t stop at the bar; instead, I go all the way outside before he manages to grab my hand and swing me around.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
His eyes are wide and perplexed.
He actually has no idea that he’s done anything wrong bringing me there.
“What did you think was going to happen in there?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I thought we would have some fun.”
“Well, that’s not my idea of fun.”
“I don’t understand,” Mr. Black says, shaking his head. I can see it in his eyes that he’s actually at a loss. But I don't care. I’m angry.
“I have to go,” I say.
“But what about our agreement?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You can have the money back. I don't care. You had no right to ask me to go there.”
“How’s this any different than the show we watched on the yacht?”
“It’s completely different…We weren’t right there, for one,” I say. I search my mind for more differences, but besides the fact that there was a glass, I have trouble coming up with any. Shit.
“I don’t know,” I add. “It just is.”
I want to cry.
It takes all of my energy to keep my true feelings to myself.
I flag down a cab and get in without saying another word.
As soon as the cab pulls away, I burst out in tears.
I don't know what has come over me, but for some reason this whole experience feels completely different than what happened at the yacht.
I’m still crying when the cab pulls up to my apartment. I hand the driver my credit card and barely see what I’m writing when I sign my name.
This was not how the night was supposed to go.
There was supposed to be more to this.
As I wash my face and wipe the eyeliner and mascara off my eyes, it finally hits me. The real reason why I got so upset was that I was expecting so much more.
I didn’t even know it, but I had actually developed feelings for Mr. Black. No, I shouldn’t even call him that.
His real name is Aiden.
I mean, I actually thought that because he shared his real name with me, and he wanted to see me again, that meant that he was actually into me.
How stupid is that?
I feel like such a fool.
I walk around my apartment, lost in thought.
I turn on the television so I don’t feel so alone, but I still can’t keep all of these thoughts from swirling around in my head.
I keep thinking back to last weekend.
He toyed with me and pleasured me in a way that I’d never experienced before.
He put off his pleasure to please me.
He punished me for orgasming first and I liked that.
I wanted all that again.
And again.
I’ve never met a man like him before. It’s not just that he’s rich.
He’s also mysterious and in control.
He embodies power and there’s something intoxicating about that.
I sit down at my laptop and try to relive what happened on the yacht.
In the story, I’m about ten thousand words in and I’m just about to be auctioned off.
I sit staring at the screen for a long time, but no words come.
Unlike in the beginning, when the words just poured out of me, this time, nothing comes.
When I think back to the auction, I am no longer excited.
Instead, I’m disappointed and angry.
I’m angry at what just happened and that my expectations of Aiden didn’t conform to reality.
I slam my laptop screen shut and go to the kitchen.
In the fridge, I find a brand new, unopened pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Cherry Garcia.
It’s my absolute favorite.
I’m actually surprised that it’s not half gone since it’s Caroline’s favorite, too.
I climb into bed with the pint and a spoon.
The tension in the back of my neck doesn't let up until the first drop lands on my tongue.
A few spoonfuls later, the tears finally stop flowing.
I flip on the television in my room and focus my attention on The Real Housewives of New York City.
This show and all of its spinoffs have been my guilty pleasure for as long as I can remember.
There is something mind-numbing and saccharine about it that it makes me feel like no matter how shitty my life is at least I don't have their problems.
Sometime in the middle of the episode, when I’m nearly halfway through my pint of ice cream, I hear Caroline come home.
She’s talking loudly and laughing and clearly pretty intoxicated.
I’m about to go out to say hi when I hear a male voice.
I turn down the television, but I still can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but I can hear them laughing.
One of them flips off the television in the living room and then they start to make out.
The sounds of kissing quickly morph into the sounds of lovemaking as Caroline starts to moan loudly while she’s being slammed against what sounds like the kitchen island.
None of this is new to me.
I’m used to this, of course.
We have known each other since Yale and she has been quite open about her sex life for many years.
Some people, who I would never associate with, would call her a slut.
But I hate that word.
It’s sexist because it only applies to women who have a lot of sex.
A man in her position is just a man who likes sex.
A single man in his early twenties.
What else does the world expect him to do?
That’s what I think of Caroline’s sex life as well.
She’s an empowered modern woman who has sex whenever, and with whomever, she pleases.
Just when they are about to finish, my phone goes off.
I look at the screen.
It’s Aiden.
I click ignore and put it away.
I don't want to hear anything he has to say.
Apparently, I was wrong about where we stood and that’s fine. But he keeps calling.
Again and again and again.
When my phone beeps, showing that there’s a voicemail message, I can’t help but listen to it.
“Ellie, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to offend you. Please answer the phone. I really need to apologize to you.”
I click delete and the second voicemail message pops up.
“Ellie, please answer. I know you’re there. I was such a dick. Please let me explain. I’m sorry.”
Four more messages follow, basically saying the same thing.
A part of me wants to talk to him.
But another part is still angry and hurt even though I’m not really hurt and angry at him.
After finishing my pint of ice cream, my thoughts are clearer now.
I’m hurt because I’m an idiot.
I was the one who developed all of these expectations of him that he, or any other man, couldn’t possibly live up to.
I mean, what the hell was I thinking?
I met him a few days ago at a fucking auction for sex.
How could I expect a man who spends his time paying exorbitant amounts of money for girls to spend the night with him to actually have feelings for me?
And to make our relationship anything but what it is?
Just sex?
And why do I even want to have a relationship with him?
/>
Actually, I don’t.
Not at all.
I mean, I really liked all those things he did to me that night, but that doesn’t mean that we have anything in common.
He’s really hot, and his body is to die for, but I’m not that shallow, right?
I mean, I’m not Caroline.
And speaking of Caroline?
Why can’t I just be more like her?
Why can’t I just enjoy the sexual pleasures that life has to offer without becoming some sappy little love struck girl?
There’s more to life than relationships and love.
There’s fun and pleasure and just having a good time.
And there’s nothing wrong with that.
And with all of these thoughts swirling around in my head, I flip off the light and lie down to go to sleep before the ice cream induced sugar coma has the chance to hit me.
23
Mr. Black
When I can’t get her out of my mind...
I don’t really understand what just happened.
Why did Ellie freak out like that at the club?
How’s that place any different from what we watched back at the yacht?
There were people having sex right in front of us and she was turned on and totally game for anything.
Maybe she’s not the girl that I thought she was after all.
And yet, for some reason, I can’t seem to get her out of my head.
Fuck me.
I mean, I didn’t really expect her to join in with everyone. I know that it was her first time.
But I thought that we would at least watch some of the show and then retreat to one of the private rooms for our own good time.
Still, it serves me right, I guess, for just assuming things about this almost stranger I’ve only just met.
The one thing I should’ve known for sure is that she’s not like all those other girls.
She’s different.
Maybe that’s why I'm so attracted to her.
She isn’t eager to please me or make me laugh.
She has her own opinions about things and she isn't afraid to share them.
Oh, how easy it would be to just go for all those normal bimbos that are usually my type.
They’re so much less…complicated.
After watching her drive away in the cab, I turn around and head back inside the club.