Reality Girl: Episode One

by Jessica Hildreth

  Not in the least.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  To have sex or not have sex. So far I hadn’t given it much thought, but now that I was in in the bedroom with Rhett, deciding what I was going to do wasn’t as easy as I wanted it to be.

  If I had sex with Rhett, and then went on to finish the show, the risk of him losing interest in me during the remaining five months of filming was a strong possibility. There was the obvious point that I hadn’t known him for any length of time at all, and that bothered me a little.

  Actually, a lot.

  Furthermore, the likelihood of me later falling for one of the other men – especially after getting to know each of them intimately – existed.

  If I decided to have sex with Rhett, and then again with one of the other men in the latter stages of filming, Rhett would find out about it – as would the other person – as soon as the show was aired.

  My head was spinning with the possibilities of what might happen. There was no way to know what the future held, but proceeding in a manner that was going to be morally acceptable to the viewing public was important to me.

  I didn’t want to be labeled a slut, skank, or a whore. Pictures of me having sex with multiple men in a short period of time being plastered on Instagram, Twitter, and every other social media platform wasn’t something I looked forward to, either.

  Standing at the foot of the bed, I glanced at Rhett, hoping to come to a decision before I made a complete fool of myself. While staring blankly at him and hoping for at least a few seconds of mental clarity, he pulled his shirt over his head.

  His chiseled abdomen stared back at me. After a few long seconds of gawking, my eyes shifted to his chest. Two thick slabs of flesh, perfectly proportioned and tanned, gave his torso the ‘v’ shape that all men sought but very few obtained.

  With his eyes now locked on mine, he reached for his belt, unbuckled it, and pushed his shorts down along his lean, muscular thighs. As the material worked its way past the slight bulge that seemed to be causing the only obstruction, his cock sprung free.

  Dear. Fucking. God.

  And, just like that, my decision was made.

  I was going to fuck Rhett. Or let Rhett fuck me.

  Maybe a little of both.

  I wasn’t living the picture-perfect life of a heroine in a romance novel. This was real life. And, because of the situation I had placed myself in, it had the potential of becoming ugly as filming the show progressed from one man to another.

  But, my decision to fuck Rhett was made, and it was an easy one to make.

  Especially with him standing before me completely naked. Hell, any single woman who was in front of a half-naked former Navy SEAL as handsome as Rhett would live in the moment and deal with the repercussions later.

  For her to claim otherwise would be a complete and utter lie.

  I tossed my shirt to the side, pulled my bra off with a level of expertise I had no idea I possessed, and pressed my thumbs into the waist of my shorts. While I fought to free myself of the tight cotton fabric, he began to walk toward me.

  Obsessed with the girth – and length – of his dick, my eyes remained locked on his thick shaft.

  With my shorts around my ankles, and my knees slightly bent, my eyes remained fixed on his swinging cock. He stopped a few feet from me and placed his hands against his waist. I tossed my shorts to the side and knelt in front of him.

  Eye-to-dick with him, I struggled with what my next move should be. I reluctantly shifted my eyes upward, hoping to find the answers in his returned gaze. Instead, I looked directly into the ceiling-mounted camera above him.

  The reality of it all hit me like a ton of bricks. I was preparing to have sex with someone I didn’t really know while remote cameras filmed it. Potentially, in a few short months, millions of people would watch an edited version of what happened.

  It should have turned me away.

  Instead, for whatever reason, it turned me on.

  I’d seen episodes of MTV’s Real World, The Bachelorette, and The Bachelor. When the participants of the show hooked up, they typically hid beneath the sheets in a darkened bedroom. The infra-red cameras filmed a grainy black and white scene that left a tremendous amount to the imagination of the viewer.

  But we were going to have sex in broad daylight.

  “There’s a uhhm. A camera,” I stammered, pointing above him and toward the globe-shaped device in the corner of the room.

  “I know,” he said flatly.

  “It doesn’t bother you?” I asked.

  His cock twitched. “Not at all.”

  “It kind of turns me on,” I whispered.

  His mouth curled into a mischievous grin. “Me, too.”

  Without so much as a moment’s thought, I reached for his rigid shaft. After a few light strokes with my cupped hand, I guided him into my mouth. The thought of the production crew intently watching while a gave him a blowjob fueled me to perform at the peak of my dick-sucking ability.

  Sixty seconds later, and he was as hard as a diamond. Everything – his cock in my mouth, his muscular physique, and the thought of being watched by a room full of men – had me soaked beyond comprehension.

  I worked my mouth up and down his swollen shaft, exercising caution and care with each stroke. His moans of pleasure that followed left little to the imagination regarding his satisfaction, and I eagerly continued.

  His moaning increased. After a moment, without warning, he pulled himself from my mouth. I gazed up, more than willing to suck him to completion, but also hoping that our first encounter would be fractionally more satisfying for us both.

  His chin raised slightly. “Stand up.”

  I wiped the back of my hand past my lips and complied with his request. Now standing directly in front of him, my eyes nervously danced around the room. It was apparent the kissing and groping that often came with relationship-based sex wasn’t going to happen.

  We were simply two people who were satisfying our sexual desires.

  In short, we were fucking.

  And, even though I really, really liked to be kissed, I decided I was fine with that.

  He motioned toward the bed. “Turn around.”

  I eagerly did as he asked, fully prepared for whatever was next. After waiting a few long seconds, I glanced over my shoulder, only to find him stretching a condom over his throbbing cock.

  An inaudible sigh escaped me as I turned toward the bed.

  He leaned into me and pressed his mouth to my ear. “Looking for Mr. Compatibility, huh?”

  His muscular torso pressed against my back caused my legs to go weak. His warm breath against my ear did the rest. I all but collapsed onto the bed. With my boobs down and my ass up, I was his for the taking.

  I felt his cock dancing between the insides of my thighs.

  “You sure you want to do this?” he asked.

  I raised my head slightly and widened my stance. “Uh huh.”

  Before another word was spoken, he guided himself into me.

  “Holy--” It felt as if I was being impaled. I inhaled a choppy breath. “--Shit.”

  My eyes shot wide. He pushed himself a few inches deeper. I blinked repeatedly and tried to retain my wits, but his massive girth was far more than I was accustomed to. It was, however, exactly what I dreamed I would one day find.

  Following several half-hearted strokes, he began to fit me like a glove. With my hips in his hands and my face buried in the comforter, he began to fuck me like he was trying to teach me a lesson.

  All without speaking a word.

  I found it odd that he didn’t say anything during our sexual romp. The sound of his hips slapping against my ass filled the room, and his thick cock stretched me to an entirely new limit…

  But I wanted a more.

  I yearned to have him talk to me. Even if it was a line of mad shit, telling me I was a cock-loving floozy. Anything.

  Yet. Nothing came.

  And, that lack of communi
cation became a mood killer. All but on the verge of an earth-shattering orgasm, I lost whatever interest I had in finding sexual relief. He continued to pound himself into me while I remained smashed against the end of the bed with my head buried in the comforter.

  A bellow filled the silent room – an announcement of his approaching climax. I feigned equal excitement, and gave my best at faking an orgasm. I couldn’t tell if he believed me- because he didn’t say anything.

  He collapsed at my side, his muscular body tense and covered in sweat.

  I wasn’t angry, nor was I dissatisfied with him.

  However.

  I studied his smiling face and slowly filled with regret.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was day six, and while Rhett was at the gym, I rushed away for a margarita. My trip for a quick thirst quencher, however, turned into an all-afternoon love affair with the relaxing atmosphere of Franky’s establishment. Apparently, the bar was going to become my place of refuge.

  Franky wiped the water spots from the countertop, then flipped the rag onto his shoulder. “So, what’s it like?”

  “What’s what like?” I asked over the salted rim of my glass.

  “Having every moment of your life filmed.”

  I took a sip of the mango-flavored concoction and gave a dramatic eye roll. “It’s stupid.”

  He leaned against the edge of the bar and grinned. “Did you really think it was going to be otherwise?”

  “I hoped it would be.”

  He twisted his mouth to the side. His eyes soon followed suit. “I have no idea why anyone would want to expose themselves to the public’s scrutiny.” He sighed, and then looked right at me. “Did you really think it was going to be anything but a clusterfuck? I mean, really. They’re going to put you out there for everyone to be critical of. And, those guys? Do you really think they give a fuck about you?”

  I pushed my glass aside, met his gaze, then shrugged. Especially after Rhett’s silent sexual exposition, I was beginning to wonder. “I don’t know.”

  “Give me your opinion,” he snapped back playfully.

  “About what?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Do you really think those guys are going to give a fuck about you? Do you think the producer, or whoever, gathered up what, six--” He cocked an eyebrow.

  I nodded.

  “Six guys, that are truly interested in you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He coughed out a laugh. “You do know, but you won’t admit it. They found six guys that all offer different levels of drama, varying looks, and a distinct personality. Something to spike the ratings. But none of them are going to offer you anything.”

  I reached for my drink. “Maybe I’ll hit it off with--”

  He pulled the rag off his shoulder and swung it in a wide circle. “And maybe I’ll take off and fucking fly if I swing this fast enough.”

  “Why are you so--”

  “So unwilling to believe that you’re going to meet your soulmate?”

  I didn’t like the word soulmate, but I nodded anyway. “Yeah.”

  “Because you’re not. You might tell yourself so, but really? They choose six guys and you’re supposed to live with each of them for a month. In the end, you’ll pick one of them, no doubt. You’re going to feel compelled to do it because of your contract, the show’s success, how much they’re paying you, or something.”

  He leaned over the edge of the bar and looked me in the eyes. “But not because you love one of them.”

  I still reserved hope. Albeit a small amount, I clung to it like shit on a shoe. “I might.”

  In hearing myself, my response didn’t sound very persuasive.

  “There’s 320 million people in the United States,” he said. “They hand-selected six of them to be on the show. They picked them for ratings, not based on your likes or dislikes.”

  I felt offended. “How do you know that?” I snapped back.

  “Did you fill out a questionnaire? Give them an idea of what you liked as far as personalities go? Character traits, unacceptable defects, height, weight, hair color, hell, anything?”

  I hadn’t, nor had I really given it much thought. Now that he mentioned it, I felt foolish. I wanted to lie, and tell him that I had, but opted to tell the truth.

  “No.”

  He laughed. “Figures.”

  I took another drink and looked around the empty bar. It was obvious no one in La Jolla was interested in drinking margaritas at 10:30 in the morning but me.

  After searching for answers and finding none, I turned to Franky. “So what am I going to do?”

  He shrugged. “Film the show, get your money, and go home a little richer and a lot wiser, I suppose.”

  I had told myself since my first discussion with Kelli that I was in it for the money. Deep down inside, however, I hoped to find someone to love who would love me in return. After a few moments of silence, I decided I shouldn’t let Rhett’s sexual silence ruin my opinion of him – or the other men.

  “I guess you’re right,” I breathed.

  He nodded his head and then glanced around the empty establishment. A light chuckle followed, and he pulled a small wooden stool from behind the bar. He carefully sat on the rickety seat, then ran his hands through his thick curly hair.

  His eyes met mine. “Boy or a girl? If you could only have one?”

  I finished my drink and slid the glass to the side. “Huh?”

  “Babies. Do you want a boy or a girl?”

  I found the question cute, and although I fought not to, grinned madly. “I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought. You?”

  “Girl. Then, I’d hope she had a dozen kids so I could have a house full of grandkids.”

  “Why a girl, and not a boy?” I asked. “I thought all men wanted a boy.”

  He intertwined his fingers and cracked his tattooed knuckles. “The truth?”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  “Boys grow up to be men, and men are assholes. Despite the diversity of the parents who raise them – and their best efforts to keep them from being so – men are liars, cheaters, and sexual misfits. Girls? Girls only want one thing. To be loved. They’re innocent and simple. So, I want a girl. I’ll screen the boys who attempt to make her their love interest, though. Any shit hats get escorted to the door.”

  His response came quick, almost as if it were rehearsed, although I doubted it was. He always spoke quickly, and seemed like the type that couldn’t get his thoughts out of his mouth quite fast enough.

  I studied his tattoos, and then shifted my attention to his face. It was the second time I had been in his bar, but I felt it was the first time I had actually seen him. Maybe it was his personality shining through all of the colorful tattoos. It very well may have been that beneath the attitude, tattoos, and ridiculously messy hair, he was evolving into someone I felt that I could truly trust.

  “While I’m in here, and we’re just talking, you know, bullshitting, what’s off-limits?” I asked.

  He laughed. “I’m a bartender. Nothing’s off-limits.”

  I offered my best version of a seductive grin. “Do you talk during sex?”

  He scrunched his brow “What?”

  “During sex. Do you talk?”

  His mouth twisted into a smirk. “What do you mean? Dirty talk?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Personally, I love it. I like talking it, and hearing it. Nothing’s better than two people talking dirty to each other while they’re fucking.”

  “Okay, what about just talking? You know, during sex. Not like having a conversation, but just simple stuff like, oh yeah, that feels good. Or let’s try this or raise your leg up a little.”

  His response was without expression. “Depends, I suppose.”

  I needed more. “On?”

  He situated himself on the stool, rested his chin in his hand, and met my gaze. “Dirty talking during sex? I think it’s hot. But. There sh
ould be times during sex, especially if it’s fornication, that both parties enjoy the sound of nothing more than the sex itself.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Fornication?”

  He nodded matter-of-factly. “Premarital sex.”

  “I know what it is, but how does that change things? You said especially if it’s fornication.”

  He stood up and filled a glass of water from the soda gun. “Another drink?”

  I shook my head. “I’m good for now.”

  He took a drink, and then another. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the tattoos on the knuckles of his right hand spelled the word LIVE.

  “When two people are having sex outside of marriage, they typically give it their all,” he said. “After marriage, they relax. The post-marriage sex is always sub-par, especially if compared to their pre-marriage stuff.”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  He took a quick drink. “Not exactly.”

  “Explain, please. And, I’ll take another mango. Salted rim.”

  He nodded, fixed my drink, and quickly returned, wearing a mischievous grin. He pushed the drink across the bar. “I got married, and had it annulled in three weeks.”

  “Three weeks!” I gasped.

  He nodded. “Sixteen days, to be exact.”

  “Wow. May I ask?”

  “Sure.” He finished his water and placed the glass in the sink. “I caught her cheating.”

  “After sixteen days?”

  He shook his head. “Fifteen. I caught her on day fifteen, and did the annulment on day sixteen.”

  “How long were you together before the marriage?”

  He shrugged. “Three years.”

  “Wow. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. Glad I found out when I did. So, technically, I was never married. But, yeah. I was.”

  My eyes fell toward the floor. His left thumb was hooked on the edge of his belt, and his hand dangled loosely by his pocket. The word LOVE was tattooed on his left knuckles.

  LIVE. LOVE.

  I liked it.

  I looked up. “Are you religious?”

  His face contorted, then his mouth twisted to the side. He seemed uncomfortable. I had no idea where the question came from, and I really didn’t care what his response was. I wished I hadn’t asked, and wanted to take the question back.