Not In My Wildest Dreams (Dream Series)

by Isabelle Peterson

  We were headed to see the musical Cats! It happened to be a nice, mid-March evening, so after taking the 1 Train to Penn Station, we decided to walk to the Winter Garden Theatre. We were walking up Seventh Avenue in Times Square when she looked up and froze. I turned to see what she was looking at. And there it was. A GUESS! jeans billboard. I hadn’t realized the billboard was up. I’d done those shots nearly eight months back. I looked good. The model with me, Claudia, also in the shot, looked incredible and was hanging on me.

  “Is that you?” Kari asked, almost breathless.

  I ran my hand through my thick, black hair, suddenly embarrassed. I don’t know why her reaction set me on my heels that way. Normally, I’d puff my chest and be all ‘Yup! Don’t I look awesome?’ but the expression on her face told me that such a reply would be bad. “Yeah,” I muttered.

  “And is that—”

  “Claudia Schiffer. Yeah. Super nice. You’d like her a lot.”

  “Wow. Um. Okay. I need to sit down for a moment.”

  I whisked her into a nearby coffee shop. It wasn’t a nice one, but not much in Times Square was really nice. I hope they clean this place up. I’ve heard all sorts of stories about how great it used to be.

  I got her a coffee with her four sugars, shuddering—how she drank that stuff with so much sugar, I would never know. I sat down across from her and looked at her. She looked white as a ghost.

  “So, you’re a… model?” I nodded. “Now I understand the looks from the other girls in class. They all stare at you, you know. And they glare at me since we started seeing each other,” she said, blowing into her paper cup.

  I nodded. I’d seen how the girls stare. I was used to it. But something about Kari’s soft mannerisms and terrific smile drew me in. She was so different than the models, and wanna-bes, and groupies I was used to. She wasn’t brash. She wasn’t arrogant. She needed protection. Of course, Becca’s challenge was ringing in my ears, too.

  “Look,” I started. “I chose you.”

  “But why? I’m not as pretty as those other girls.”

  “You’re way prettier. They all need hair crimpers and layers of makeup to even come close to your beauty. And you have a beauty they will never have. You’re kind and sweet and smart. I’m with you because I want to be with you.”

  She swallowed and searched my face. But the look on her face told me that she didn’t believe a word of it.

  “Kar—I’m a model. Not an actor. I’m serious here.”

  She licked her lips. Her gorgeous, soft, pink lips. Her large hazel eyes blinked a few times, then she nodded. I stood and held out my hand. She took it. Quietly we walked to the theatre. We enjoyed the show. I enjoyed it a lot more than I thought I would. But something from that point on with Kari was different. I felt her pull away.

  A couple of weeks after Kari’s discovery of my job, and two nights before we were going to be heading to the Waldorf, I went looking for Kari in the library in her favorite corner on the horrible orange sofa. I nearly flipped my lid when she was sitting with another guy. A blonde surfer type. I stood and watched them, disbelieving and hoping I was misinterpreting something. This guy had his arm draped around Kari. And he was saying something low, and she giggled. My girl! My blood boiled. I couldn’t hear a thing. He was dragging his finger, his fucking fat handed fingers, up and down her arm. Kari’s eye flitted to the side to see his hand.

  “Get your fucking hands off of her!” I shouted.

  Kari looked up at me surprised, and … guilty? She paled to as white as a ghost and looked completely uncomfortable. The guy just smirked at me, and pulled Kari closer to him.

  Something in me unhinged completely. She was mine to protect, and protect her I would. And maybe it was that I was at three months of no sex, and two days from gettin’ some.

  I charged in, grabbed the dirt bag off the sofa by his Izod shirt and decked him in the face—rancher style. I was sure I broke his nose as the blood spewed from his face while he laid sprawled out on the ground. In an instant we were surrounded by students.

  “What the fuck, dude!” he said, making his way to his feet.

  “I’m no ‘dude.’ I’m your worst nightmare,” I growled stepping into him. “Touch my girl again and you’re a fucking dead man!” I spat.

  The guy was as dumb as a box of rocks because what he said next couldn’t have been more wrong. He leaned into my face, blood still dripping from his nose, and spat back, “She’s not a possession, asshole. She can see whoever she wants. And right now, she’s choosing to be with me.”

  I started to punch the shit out of him to the cheering crowds. Or were they telling me to back off? I couldn’t tell. All I knew was this guy thought he had any territory over my girl. And Surfer Dude didn’t get one swing in. Wimp.

  Long story short, I found myself locked up a jail cell with a swollen hand and surrounded by a dozen diseased dirtbags. I was informed that the Surfer Dude ended up in the hospital and that both he and the University were pressing charges. After Becca bailed me out, I quickly explained all that had happened and made a beeline to Kari’s place to apologize, stopping only to pick up two dozen long-stemmed roses. She refused to answer the door. I sat there the whole night until an officer came and told me I had to leave or I’d be locked up again. So I left the flowers and looked forward to seeing her in class the next day.

  The next day at school was brutal. Upon my arrival at campus, I was summoned to the dean of the department to discuss the whole incident. I was on probation. One more slip up and I’d be out. When I showed up to psych class, her seat was, and remained, empty. I chalked it up, convincing myself that she was simply ill that day. I hung around after class to talk to Professor Michaels. I asked for a second set of the handouts from the day so I could get them to Kari, but she informed me Kari had transferred to another class. When I got home, I found an official envelope with an “Order of Protection,” otherwise known as a restraining order, filed by Kari keeping me away from her.

  I called Becca and asked her to meet me at my place. When she got there, I quietly handed her the nine-foot, kangaroo-hide long tail. I tossed off my shirt, dropped to my knees, and asked her to give me twenty-five lashes. She didn’t ask any questions. She didn’t have to.

  Becca stayed with me for two days nursing my skin… and my heart.

  The next semester, Kari transferred to Yale. That did it for me. I wasn’t meant to have one woman. I wasn’t meant to be a part of a couple. I resolved to become a confirmed bachelor and enjoy my domineering kinks, no strings attached.

  CHAPTER 17

  May 1996

  Making it through an Ivy League Business school is fucking hard. A shit load of fucking hard work. And maintaining a successful modeling career and working for a modeling company, all while attending classes, writing papers, working on projects—both independent and group projects—is fucking near impossible. But I did it. Took me six years. But I did it.

  My sex life suffered some, especially with New York trying to clean up its act. All the sex clubs were shutting down, including “ours,” but Becca kept my emotions in check and she helped me hone my skills with the whip. We both would give each other sessions whenever we needed it for emotional release but because we were both after women, the sex was still just a release not a connection, although I had a sneaking suspicion that things with Becca and Rita were more and more exclusive as time went on. The women I bedded ranged from those saying they could handle being a submissive but really couldn’t, to women who were so submissive they were boring. That said, I had school to keep me occupied and Becca to give me my punishment when I’d crossed the line with girls.

  Graduating from the Columbia School of Business was a high point for me. Getting Cs in high school was an achievement back in Colorado, so graduating from college, especially an Ivy League, was a feat for sure. And that I was the first Stevens from the Charter Oaks, Colorado Stevenses to go to college was even more amazing. I invited my whole family to the
convocation. I hoped everyone would come. I even offered to pay for their trip and stay. Only David, my oldest brother, Mike, Paul, Sharon and Laura came to watch me receive my diploma.

  Mary and Patrick didn’t come because they were managing the ranch, and Mary was due to have her fourth baby any day now. David said that Dad, at eighty-two, was dealing with some health issues, and couldn’t come. I was certain that his issue wasn’t health related, rather how I’d gotten the money to pay for college. Laura confirmed that suspicion when she spilled that she overheard him talking to Mom saying he wouldn’t be surprised if I’d bought my diploma rather than earned it. He wouldn’t even try to understand that modeling wasn’t all naked women and sex, although there was plenty of that. (If he only knew!) I offered to help with medical expenses but Mike said that the old man would hear nothing of it, again saying Dad called it “sin money”. Mom, who was now seventy-one, cried tears of joy when she heard that I’d finished college, but didn’t come to my graduation. Instead she stood next to her husband’s side and supported his point of view, that my success was a result of sin.

  The plan immediately after graduation was to dive in and start my own company, with Becca as a partner, but she wanted nothing to do with the major operations. She just wanted to be the secretary, and would put in her two cents if I asked for it.

  By September, JSS Modeling, Inc. had opened its tiny door and after a year, we had five readily marketable models on the roster. We decided to try it my way, using only male models. William retired and sent me two of his best boys. It felt great to realize my dream, a dream I never knew was in me. It was going slowly, but it was going. Becca wasn’t willing to be more than a silent sort of partner, except when I was banging her—yeah, I still made her scream. I’d heard her scream louder with Rita and it was always a challenge I kept in the back of my mind that I wanted to make Becca scream louder with me than Rita, but to date, I’d not been able to realize that challenge. The more I thought about it, the more I thought Becca was actually a lesbian, not bi.

  Struggling with my own company, I started to admire William more and more. It’s hard to branch out on your own, and when William started, he had experience and a background of managing models. Now that I was the one managing models, I felt that when I went to the table to pitch, those in charge of casting were thinking I was a joke. I’d worked with many of them as a model, and they didn’t know what to make of me as a businessman.

  I couldn’t believe that the girls kept coming. Yeah, most were out for getting their own careers jump-started, but were more than willing to give me jollies. And I tended to only date women ten years younger than me. Gave the tabloids and industry rags some good gossip, but I didn’t care.

  A few years into my business’s life, Becca convinced me to bring on a few chicks to ‘pay the bills.’ She was right. She always was. And with those few women, we started to gain a serious foothold in the marketplace.

  In 2000, I was still trying to send my family the random check to help the ranch stay afloat. And every check I sent was returned. I was near desperate to find a way to help, and in talking with a fellow business school graduate from Columbia came up with a plan. There was a new push on the market place seeking organic beef. Dad ran his ranch ‘the way God intended’ and never considered growth hormone, blanket antibiotics, or restricted herding with his livestock. His herds enjoyed free range and grazing of untreated fields. I sought out restaurants that used certified organic beef, and convinced a few of these restaurants to simply reach out to the Stevens Ranch and see if they could strike a deal. Bingo! Dad took the contracts and was proud that his beef had made its way into the high-end restaurant scene in New York City. Not saying it wouldn’t have happened without my secret intervention, but my hand in the orchestration was the key in this case. Soon, four restaurants were serving Stevens Beef.

  My business also continued to grow until 9/11 hit, and we were knocked back, nearly to square one. I’d lost more than a few trusted friends that day. It was a tough pill to swallow, but I had to push on. I couldn’t ‘let the terrorists win.’ By 2005, we were back to where we’d been prior to the attack on the World Trade Center Buildings. And in 2006, I saw my dream… Male modeling could be the way. David James Gandy had just won a British competition like Tyra Banks’ America’s Next Top Model. A gorgeous male model. If I had enough in the bank to put up as collateral, I would have sacrificed it all to bring him into JSS. I knew in my gut that he could sell ice to Eskimos.

  Needless to say, I couldn’t afford Mr. Gandy up against Select Model Management, but I took what I’d learned about his looks, and others who had been making it big, applied my Columbia education, and contracted twelve new faces to redefine JSS Models, Inc.

  And it worked! Thank you, Mr. Gandy and an Ivy League education. In much less time than it took for William to break into the upper tier of model management, I found my way. I was hot. I was a trend-setter. I was respected. I was no longer Jackass Jack from Charter Oaks, Colorado. I had fully shed my old self.

  Being a success was a thrill. I poured my whole self into my job. It was how I defined myself, for the most part. I guess I had always kind of thought I’d meet that right gal. We’d fall in love and get married. There was a time when I thought Kari was that girl. But as time went on, I saw that dream fade and I decided it was for the best.

  I wasn’t complaining. I was living most men’s fantasy. Sleeping with women without commitment. Gorgeous women. I embraced my Dom side whenever I wanted, which was often. I came and went as I saw fit and it suited me. Many of my friends married and divorced. Some more than once. I saw their failed relationships destroy them, emotionally, financially or both. Becca and Rita were the exception. They were rock solid. They had their moments, but for the most part, they were the example of a fabulous relationship. On July 30, 2011, six days after the legalization of same-sex marriage in New York, Becca and Rita made it official. As for me, I settled into bachelorhood very nicely. But truthfully, after once or twice with a chick, I was bored. So, it was a footloose and fancy-free life for me. Simple and clean.

  CHAPTER 18

  April 2, 2013

  Peter Allen was a godsend. An incredible manager. He thrived on the pace of the job, didn’t mind the babysitting of the models with attitude and eating disorders that the job entailed, and reigning in the partiers. He’d just returned from a six-day on location shoot and was craving steak after being surrounded by the vegan and ‘non-eating’ models. So, we went to one of our favorite haunts, Ed Scott’s Steak House, on Lexington. But as soon as we sat down, and Peter dove into the recap of the shoot, the photogs, and crew, and who said what, and did what, and with whom—I was entranced. Not with what Peter was saying. Fuck, I didn’t hear any of it. I saw her.

  I’ve been surrounded by ‘beautiful people’ my whole adult life. I’m surrounded by ‘beautiful people’ every day. But sometimes I see a ‘beautiful person’ that radiates beauty. Someone who has a beauty not just on the outside, one that’s not over styled with makeup and hair styling and photo editing, but also a beauty on the inside. Much like Kari. The inner beauty isn’t just kindness or demeanor, but a confidence complimented by a vulnerability. The ‘girl next door’ that glows. On the one hand, I was tempted to walk over to where she was sitting as she scrolled through her iPhone and ask her to be a model for JSS, but I couldn’t seem to move.

  I studied her. Her skin was an alabaster. Flawless. Clean, clear, and bright. No tanning. No wrinkles. I couldn’t place her age. Her eyes were alluring. Her delicate cheekbones didn’t need any makeup to enhance them. Classic jaw line. Her attitude said “I’ve been around, I know how it goes,” but she seemed younger, as if she was trying to find her way, and excited about the possibilities that lay ahead.

  When she smiled at her server, my heart swelled. That smile was genuine. Her smile reached every part of her body. Yes, I worked with models all day; models who would smile but you could tell it was an act.

  A
s she ran her fingers along her neck, I wanted to run my tongue along the same path. I wondered if she’d spritzed with Chanel No. 5. Or did she even wear perfume? I wanted to know what she tasted like. When she caught me staring at her, I didn’t look away. I held her gaze. I knew at that moment that I was a goner. She was mine. I was going to do what it took. I would sacrifice everything. Bachelorhood be damned.

  She ate her salad quietly, while scrolling through her phone. Was she texting or emailing her lover? My blood boiled. I didn’t want her to have someone else; I wanted her to be mine. Her tongue darted out to catch a drop of dressing left behind on her full lip, and I imagined that tongue doing all sorts of things. Those lips wrapped around my dick. That tongue licking slowly up and down my shaft. My cock twitched and throbbed in my slacks. He wanted to be buried balls deep in her.

  As I continued to study her, I watched her grow a little unnerved. Why? Didn’t she know how amazing she was? There was a little something about her that seemed familiar, but that was probably because I looked at women all day. It wasn’t that she was a model, I was sure about that. I wanted to get up and walk over to her, but just as I was about to, her server went up to her table. The two chatted a bit, My Beauty paid her bill, and then nearly ran out of the restaurant, avoiding looking in my direction. I started out of my seat to go after her.

  “She’ll be back,” Shelby called to me, as she set lunch down in front of where Peter and I were sitting. Shelby was the best bartender I knew; trustworthy and had a good heart.

  “Who?” Peter asked.

  “The pixie cut. She’ll be back.”

  “What would make you say that?” I asked. Leave it to Shelby to not miss a beat.

  “Just a hunch.” She winked at me and I knew it was more than a hunch.

  “You care to elaborate?”

  “No,” she said, suppressing a smile.

  “So,” Peter interrupted. “Any word on a new bartender to replace David?”