Interview with the Rock Star

by Rylee Swann

  Hello, Michael. I’m still interested. Sounds like fun as long as I can have a glass or two of wine. What do we do now?

  My phone rings. I look at it and frown, my finger caught in an indecisive mid-hover over the send key. If only I had caller ID but that costs extra on a landline. I debate answering it, but in the end, my curiosity gets the better of me. It’s almost impossible to ignore a ringing phone. The moment I hear his voice, I wish I had.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, lover.”

  Oh, god. It’s my ex-fiancé.

  “What do you want, Jay?”

  “Oh, come on, lover,” he says, using his smarmy smooth tone that used to not make me want to barf. “Don’t be that way. I just wanted to hear your voice, that’s all.”

  I sigh. Same tune, different day. I need to put a stop to this, I really do.

  “You really need to stop call—”

  “I miss you, lover. I just thought, maybe we could try again.”

  I hear the drunken pleading in his voice, and I almost surrender. It’s so easy to fall back into old, self-destructive patterns, especially when your life is taking its last swirl around the toilet bowl of hope.

  I remind myself of the three years of giving in, of losing myself, of being twisted into a shape that served him much better than me, and I find my strength.

  “Jay, you’re drunk… again. You need to stop calling me.”

  His tone grows petulant. “No, I’m not.”

  I sigh and press my fingers to my temples. “Really? You’re really going with that tired old lie? Of course, you’ve been drinking, or you wouldn’t have had the courage to dial my number. You’re an alcoholic, and I can’t do this anymore. It’s why I left, remember?”

  His tone shifts into a whine. “I love you, Kim. I’ll stop drinking. I’ll do better. I promise.”

  I swallow hard. Jay and I have had this conversation many times, but it still hurts.

  I so clearly remember the day I left, how we looked at each other, hugged in a ferocious “don’t want to let go” moment. Then I walked out, got in my car, and cried. He had been crying as I left, so I don’t think he knows how I sat there and bawled my damn head off.

  I thought he’d been the great forever love of my life. I still choke up thinking about how wrong I was. Again.

  “Jay, we’re no good together. We both know this.” I take a deep, shuddering breath and plunge on. “You broke me, changed me, and I didn’t like who I became when I was with you. And, face it, you wouldn’t be able to respect me if I went back to you now. You have to let go. You have to stop calling me.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Kim. Let’s try again?”

  He’s slurring his words now, and if I hadn’t heard this all before, I wouldn’t know what he’s saying.

  But I have heard it.

  Too many times.

  “Please stop calling me. Please.”

  He mutters something else. I think he’s saying he’s sorry again as I hang up.

  I start to cry big, ugly tears that I hate. I swore I wouldn’t do this again.

  Blubbering, I go in search of tissues and find some in the bathroom. And catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

  I don’t like what I see. That’s the me Jay tore down and rebuilt to his own needy alcoholic manipulations. I’d loved him so much that I fooled myself into believing we were good together. It helped that he loved me in his own perverted way. But he was — is — sick with alcoholism, and try as he would, he just couldn’t conquer it.

  The breaking point for me came when he declared that it was all on me. My fault that he was still drinking and my responsibility to get him to stop.

  I left a week after that terrible night of his drunken proclamations. Soured on men and relationships in general, I left and promised myself that I’d take the time to heal so that I’d never be that person again. Time to make good on that promise.

  Taking a deep breath, I wipe away the tears and force them to stop flowing. And return to my computer.

  I’m at rock bottom. I need the money. I need a new life. And I’m willing to do just about anything to get it.

  I click send before I can think another depressing thought and then run to the kitchen for the wine bottle. Filling my glass, I shake my head. It’s not hypocritical that I’m drinking now. I’m not the one who’s an alcoholic, although this Michael guy might think I am. That’s two emails in a row where I’ve demanded wine.

  Mr. Doe Man/Michael responds within minutes.

  And all thoughts of Jay fly from my head. This is my life now. This is the present.

  Hello again. Now we meet. I have some time open this Thursday evening at 6 pm. Very casual, don’t go to any trouble. This is just to get to know each other, answer each other’s questions. Allegria Hotel in Long Beach, Nassau County, Long Island. Second-floor lobby bar. Are you familiar with it? Let me know. Michael

  Meet him? Meet him! What am I getting into? This is starting to become very real, very fast. Should I really do this? I stare at the screen. It’s a public place. One meeting. If I get any creep-vibes from him, I can scream for help.

  I’m seriously considering doing this. Like, plan my wardrobe serious.

  I know the area, I live in Long Beach. What a crazy strange coincidence. I suppose I should consider this a fait accompli. Nervous giggles want to erupt from me, but I swallow them down with my wine and start typing.

  Hello again to you too, Michael. I know the hotel you’re talking about. Looking forward to meeting you at 6 pm on Thursday.

  I click send, then realize I’ve left out an important question.

  Sorry for the second email, but I realized that I don’t know what you look like. How will I recognize you when I get there? Again, looking forward to it.

  Michael doesn’t make me wait for his reply. His email follows on the heels of mine.

  I’m glad you’re available on Thursday. I, too, look forward to our meeting. And I don’t even know your name. I’ll be the gentleman at the bar, facing the elevators, with a newspaper in my hand. Have a nice evening, Michael.

  Well, he sounds nice. Nice? Didn’t they say Jeffrey Dahmer was nice? Seriously, what am I doing?

  More wine is definitely called for. And today is only Tuesday. Easy enough math. Two full days to contemplate this, to change my mind again and again, and then once more.

  But, I have to be honest with myself. I’m intrigued. Besides, what do I have to lose? Well, aside from my life at the hands of the latest Craig’s List Killer?

  Oh, nothing.

  I take slow sips this time, or I’ll regret it in the morning. I already have a good buzz going, and wine gives me such a headache the next day.

  Seriously!

  What am I doing?

  Well, let’s review.

  I had a husband once upon a time, but that was years ago. Eight years of love and good times, but at the end, we’d turned from passionate lovers into roommates. He’s remarried now. I’m not.

  I had a fiancé a little more recently, but I refuse to cry over that story again. I’m not married and won’t be in the near future. That’s still a raw, open wound that I’d rather not talk about.

  I haven’t had sex in… well, I’m not really sure, but that says a lot about how long ago it was. I miss sex. I love it, in fact, and to have some would do a heck of a lot for all the stress I’ve been under. Jay had been useless in that department. Always so boozed up he couldn’t even get it up for me or for himself.

  Yeah, the stress. I’m jobless, and my unemployment ran out months ago. I’ve been on so many job interviews over the past year that I never, ever want to go on another one. Not even for a dream job. Not even for the promise of an amazing salary and benefits up the wazoo. It’s just no fun, and might I add, demoralizing to be told over and over that I came in second. Second place doesn’t get me a paycheck.

  I clearly don’t have enough money for rent, let alone food and other expenses. Yeah, talk about de
sperate. I’ll continue to eat a lot of Ramen noodles, but I will buy more bottles of wine without a cork in it. If I’m going to be homeless soon, I might as well go out comfortably numb.

  So that’s why, upon reflection, “Can you fuck a fit white male while being watched for doe?” appeals to me. Well, not so much as appeals to me as titillates me.

  Haven’t had sex in a long time? Check.

  Need money? Check.

  Want to continue eating and have a solid roof over my head? Check.

  Hey, don’t judge me. There wouldn’t be a casual sex section on Craig’s List if there wasn’t a big need for it.

  Right?

  Yeah, that’s what I’m going with.

  Wednesday morning comes and goes while I lay in bed trying to rid myself of my nasty wine hangover headache. By noon, I’ve had enough of cotton mouth and tiptoe to the kitchen and drink about a gallon of water. I also manage to gulp down a couple of aspirin.

  That’s when it hits me.

  What I’d done last night.

  My laptop is still booted up, evidence of just how drunk I’d gotten, so all I have to do is wait for it to wake up to check my email. Mere minutes later, I’m in a panic. Yeah, I’d agreed to meet some guy to talk about having sex for money. While someone else watches, no less.

  What is wrong with me?

  I take another sip of water and butt heads with the sad truth again. I need the money. And, I haven’t been laid in a long time. The two together? A perfect combination.

  I can’t decide if I want to do this. Fact is, I think I have to.

  That’s when I go into my bedroom to figure out what I’ll wear to this meeting. I stand in front of my closet for long minutes, horrified by my lack of choices. In the year or so I’ve been unemployed and heartbroken, I’ve put on some weight. My sexy clothes don’t fit me anymore.

  Speaking of weight… who’d want to watch me fuck someone? I mean, look at that belly! And, no oh no, is that a double chin? Is it too early to have a glass of wine? What? I’m not a lush, really!

  At least it’s springtime. That gives me some leeway as far as clothing goes. I can look good in a pair of shorts and a tight tee. I have plenty of sexy bras. When you’re as big busted as I am, you learn to buy several bras at a time when you find one that actually fits.

  Shoes, check. No problem. That sweet little pair of leopard print flats will do. They’re a knock off, but unless you look for the label, you can’t tell.

  So, what am I missing? Sexy panties. When you haven’t had sex in over a year — oh my god has it really been that long? — buying sexy panties doesn’t make it into the budget. Okay, so now I know what I’m doing for the rest of the day. Off to the mall to visit Victoria and find out what her secret is. To pay for them, I can miss a few meals, which will help with the fitting into my clothes problem. Two birds. One stone.

  Well, at least I have a plan.

  I already know I’m not going to get any sleep tonight. Too much nervous excitement and I have all of tomorrow to get through. Maybe I should go for a run. Who am I kidding? A jog is more like it. Nah, walking around the mall will be enough.

  I check how much gas is left in my reliable little Hyundai, then do some quick calculations and determine with fingers crossed and high hopes that I have enough to get me to the mall and back and to my meeting the following day. Yeah, did I mention I was on a tight budget?

  The price of a single pair of Victoria’s Secret panties nearly calls for a need for oxygen. Like when the oxygen masks drop down on an airplane and the passengers start frantically grabbing for them. I swear, for a minute I feel dizzy and see spots before my eyes. But, oh my god, they are so silky and lacy, and I have to have them.

  So, I fork over the eleven dollars and fifty cents plus tax and hope to hell that Mr. Doe… Michael appreciates the effort. I’m going to have to remember to call him Michael.

  Back home, I heat up the Ramen — no I wasn’t kidding about that — and toast and butter some bread. My new panties are on the counter, purposely left in plain sight so I can gaze upon them whenever I want. It’s been a long time since I’ve bought myself something pretty.

  Still no TV, so I power up my Kindle and settle in to read a Fifty Shades knockoff that I’d recently one-clicked during a free promotion. God bless indie authors. Well, five chapters in and I’ve already masturbated twice. Look out Amazon, another five-star review is coming your way!

  I love to tease myself, barely touch my lips and folds while I hold myself spread open wide. I like to see how long I can last before I have to start thrumming away into sweet, glorious bliss. I tease my little nub too. Just the tiniest of soft touching until I’m swollen and engorged. Even then, I dream of a man heavy against me, pressing me into the mattress, unrelenting and hard and thick, pummeling and thrusting. I have no chance to breathe, to think, I can only moan and writhe beneath him, caught by instinct and lust and the need to be driven, pounded into until I scream.

  All the while, my finger works at me, punishing my clit, and I spread myself wider with my fingers, demanding more of myself as I use one, two, three fingers to fill my empty hole. Then I’m working at myself with both hands, fingers madly teasing my clit while the fingers of my other hand pound deeper in and out.

  I’m moaning, crying out, gasping as my body starts to go rigid and that longed for, indescribable tingle starts deep in my belly and spreads outward. I buck and jerk as my orgasm takes me, and my fingers work to a fevered pitch. I prolong my orgasm for as long as possible by not relenting, my finger continuing to punish my now ultra-sensitive clit. Even in the afterglow, I tease and tickle it, bringing forth a head rush of sweet aftershocks. After all, I… very sadly… know my folds and sweet spots like no one else.

  Sated, relaxed, and drowsy, I slip off to sleep.

   CHAPTER TWO

  On Thursday morning, I tear around my apartment trying to get everything done before I have to leave to meet Michael.

  Important stuff.

  Like showering and trimming my bush and then showering again.

  I don’t know whether Michael prefers shaved or trimmed, but since I hate the feeling of shaved nakedness, I go with a careful trimming. I’m still a little sore. I really worked myself over last night, but I manage to get it done without nicking myself.

  What other important stuff?

  How about trying on every single pair of shorts and shirt I own in every combination possible as I attempt to decide which looks best?

  Yeah, I did that. It took forever and then I needed another shower.

  I decide to go with my old favorite standby, black and white. Black shorts and a white scoop neck top that makes my huge breasts look even bigger. That ought to keep his eyes from straying to my rounded belly and thicker than I’d like thighs.

  On a whim, I once bought a thin silver necklace that clasps like a pair of handcuffs. I put that on too and check myself in the mirror while wishing I’d bought the matching earrings. Oh well, I’ll have to settle for my white gold studs.

  It’s afternoon when I realize I haven’t eaten anything yet. I fire up a grilled cheese sandwich, figuring that the butterflies in my stomach would appreciate the gooey treat. Eating, I glance up at the clock, and my mouth drops open.

  When did it become a quarter to five?

  I need to book it if I’m going to get to the Allegria in time. I spend the next ten minutes running through my apartment frantically looking for my leopard print flats. I finally find them near the door where I’d left them so I wouldn’t forget. Great, just great.

  I snort in frustration as I slip into my shoes, grab my over the shoulder handbag, car keys, and sunglasses, then dash out the door.

  It’s a typical hot, sticky late spring day, and I crank up the AC in my car, the extra gas that’ll burn be damned. I don’t want to arrive a sweaty, stinky mess to stand before Michael for his inspection. Traffic is as bad as I’d expected — traffic in Long Beach is always bad during beach season — and
I arrive at five after six.

  Then I can’t find a parking spot.

  I finally enter the bright, airy, upscale establishment at eleven after six. Eleven minutes late, damn it! I like to be prompt, and this is no way to start a first meeting. First impressions are everything.

  The staff at the front desk asks if I need any assistance, and I tell them I’m meeting someone for drinks upstairs. They smile and wave me on.

  I dash to the elevator, but I’m too nervous to wait and climb the stairs instead. Upon reaching the landing, I take a minute to acclimate myself. You can enter the hotel bar from the boardwalk, and I’ve peered in on more than one occasion, promising myself that when I finally land a job, I’ll come here for a celebratory glass of wine or two. Funny how things go. Now, I’m still jobless but here for a job interview.

  The strangest job interview of my life.

  The hotel is beautiful. They spared no expense on the décor, and I find myself gazing longingly at the artwork and haute couture furnishings. Even the floor has that wonderfully ritzy clicking sound I love. If I could afford it, I’d have expensive taste, and if I could, I think I’d live here. I blink as my eyes finally focus on the bar.

  I blink again, resisting the urge to rub my eyes.

  I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Five men sit at the bar, facing the elevator, and each of them has a newspaper in hand.

  What?

  This Michael is a tricky, tricky bastard. He’s set me up. He must have! People these days use iPads or iPhones or whatever tablet has caught their fancy. People don’t bring newspapers to restaurants anymore.

  Right?

  Or has being poor for so long put me out of the loop?

  Nah, he set me up.

  I start to examine the men I have to choose from. They’re all distinguished in their own special way, and all are smiling at me. One of them has what I believe he thinks is a come hither look, and if this is Michael, I’m leaving right now. His come hither expression looks more like he’s constipated than sexy. But it’s not him, I’m fairly certain of this.

  So that leaves four to choose from.

  I dismiss another two as being too young. Michael said he was older and these two can’t be over twenty-five. I’ve narrowed it down to two. One of the two is wearing cargo shorts and a polo shirt with a Lacoste logo. My gut tells me it’s not him either. Mr. Michael Doe Man is wearing a silky black dress shirt and black jeans. I just know it’s him because, of all the smiles being sent my way, his is the cockiest and the most slyly pleased with himself.