We’re sprawled on the king-sized hotel bed where we’ve been fuckin since the sun came up.
Her eyes are clamped shut and her face is screwed up as tight as her pussy. “Ohhhh, yes, Connor, yes…” she moans. “I’m going to come again…”
They always do.
This will be her fourth orgasm this morning, and the seventh since last night when we stumbled up to my room.
I slam into her harder and harder. “Squeeze my dick, babe. Fuckin squeeze it… Yeah…”
Her mouth splits open and she cries out, “Yes, yes, oh my god, yes!!” Her nails claw my shoulders. This chick’s a fuckin beast between the sheets.
I’m down with that. “Come on my dick, Juh—” I stop myself because I almost said Jasmine. She doesn’t notice. I don’t think this chick’s name is Jasmine. Jasmine was Tuesday. At least I think it was Jasmine. Or was Jasmine on Wednesday and Siobhan was Tuesday?
Who knows.
I should just stick to calling all of them Babe.
The only thing I do remember about this chick is that she told me earlier she’s half Chinese and half Brazilian. Exotic as hell. Long black hair, tanned caramel skin, perfect bod, killer tits. Crazy hot. You don’t come across a chick like this every day, but I’m going to come inside her in a minute.
When she picked me up last night, she was easily the hottest chick in the club. I spotted her out of a sea of plastic Beverly Hills blondes immediately. I grew out of my blonde bimbo phase three years ago. They’re usually shitty lays. But this chick around my dick is top shelf. Prime Grade. Just like that choice beef they serve down in the restaurants of Brazil. Or is that Argentina? I can’t remember. For me, the month long jungle photo shoot I did down in South America was one big blur of exotic pussy, killer booze, and killer food. The steaks down there are unreal.
I nearly laugh out loud at the thought.
I can’t believe I’m thinking about Argentinian beef while I’m fuckin this hottie, but I am. No matter how much I think I’m into a chick, my mind always ends up wandering during sex.
“I’m coming, Connor,” she squeals as her pussy grabs my dick like a fist.
Yeah she is.
Time for me to let loose myself and get this over with. I’ve got shit to do today. I groan wordlessly as I pump harder and shoot a load into the condom. It’s good but not great.
It’s never great.
But it helps me forget about her.
For a minute, anyway.
The second I roll off Babe, or whatever her name is, and close my eyes, I see her face.
I fuckin hate that.
After seven years, I can’t stop thinking about the last time I saw her face.
One of these years, I’m going to forget about Electra Warmoth.
Or not.
<<<<<<<>>>>>>>
ELECTRA
I didn’t spend four years at UCLA getting a degree in journalism for this. Writing an exposé on a male model who poses shirtless for romance novel book covers?
Please.
What about this assignment says serious journalism?
None of it.
Sleek modernist decor on the seventh floor surrounds me as I walk along the luxe patterned carpeting toward my destination. Early morning light shines through windows at the end of the long hallway, stabbing my eyes. I need coffee. It’s way too early for this nonsense.
I’m beyond irritated about being here.
Why?
Late last night, Vince Pitts, my annoying ass of a Managing Editor over at Trending Magazine, insisted I cover this silly story if I wanted to keep getting work from him. I’m a freelancer, and only a junior contributor at that, which means I barely scrape by on what I earn. Considering I still owe a king’s ransom on my student loans from getting my journalism degree at UCLA, I agreed. So here I am at Rom Com Con 2015, short for Romantic Comedy Convention, which takes place every summer at the sprawling Beverly Hills Resort and Convention Center.
Can you say waste of time?
I told Vince I didn’t care that there will be over a hundred hot hard-bodied male cover models circulating throughout the convention for the next three days, signing autographs and showing off their flawless physiques. I reminded him that a few weeks ago, Hilary Clinton announced her candidacy for President. Whether I agree with her politics or not, I should be following her on the campaign trail, covering her story as she sets her sights on making feminist history. It’s about time this country had a woman for president.
But nooooo, Vince insisted I spend my Fourth of July weekend here covering this trivial fluff piece. The only fireworks I’m going to see are the irritated ones shooting out of my ears.
Walking beside me in the hotel hallway is a guy named Romeo Fabiano. He’s slightly shorter than I am, has olive skin, a coifed black faux-hawk, and a perpetual grin. As we walk, a slick black vinyl trench coat billows out behind him and a monocle bounces from a black string tied to one of his vest’s many buckles. Emo chic. He and I met for the first time this morning. Margaret Lang, my media contact for the convention, introduced me to Romeo when I arrived at the resort. She instructed him to take me up to the interview.
“Are you excited to meet him?” Romeo titters. “I know I am.”
“Excited?” I sigh. “Why should I be excited?”
“Because no one has ever seen HIS face.”
“Maybe HIS face isn’t worth seeing,” I mock, picturing some random meathead gym rat with a dopey expression and a crooked nose whose only asset is his body.
“Surely you jest,” Romeo says. “We’re talking about the Connor. The hottest male model in the business. The man with the perfect body. The body by which all others are measured and found lacking.”
The sour expression on my face says: I don’t care. I could be reporting on the plight of displaced refugees in third world countries. Instead, I’m here at Rom Com Con covering this. Open disdain shows on my face. Poker is not my game. But I am a professional, so I try to think happy thoughts to smooth out my wrinkled brow. It doesn’t work.
Romeo drives his point home. “A Connor Cover, as they’re known in the industry, practically guarantees that a book will sell millions of copies and land a top ten slot on The New York Times best sellers list. His abs put washboards out of business. His chest makes granite statues weep with envy. His shoulders made Atlas shrug in defeat. And those tattooed arms? Mmm-mmm, girl. With a body like his, I can only imagine what his heads look like.”
“You mean, ‘head’,” I correct.
“No, I mean heads. As in, plural. As in, both of them…” His eyes flicker impishly.
I refrain from rolling mine, but the urge is intense. “I hate to break it to you, but the logical conclusion why he’s never shown his face is because it’s not worth showing.”
Romeo nods, “There’s been endless speculation on the fan blogs about whether he’s handsome or heinous.”
“I vote heinous. He’s probably a troll. With two troll heads growing from his shoulders.”
“O, ye of little faith,” Romeo snickers while pulling out a smart phone. He taps the screen and shows me an image. It’s a shirtless and headless male torso on the cover of some random book called Stepbrother Obsessed. I have no idea what that is. Sounds pornographic. But there’s no denying the perfection of the body I’m looking at. It’s hard, cut, masculine, inked, and it makes something squirm between my legs, something I thought was either hibernating or flat out extinct.
“You’re blush-iiiing,” Romeo singsongs.
“No I’m not,” I bark. I clear my throat and try to sound professional. Yes, I can appreciate a gorgeous body as much as the next woman or obviously gay man like Romeo. But I’ve always preferred brains over beefcake. “Who is this Connor guy again? Does he have a last name?”
“Nobody knows what it is. He’s very protective of his anonymity. Some people believe Connor isn’t his real first name at all.”
That’s no help. I sigh heavily, “Look, my edi
tor literally gave me this assignment last night and I didn’t have time to research Connor Whoever.” The truth is, I didn’t want to do any research because this is such a meaningless non-story. It’s not like interviewing a headless male model with no last name at Rom Com Con 2015 is going to win me a Pulitzer. “So unfortunately I don’t know the first thing about this guy. Can you fill me in?”
“Don’t you read?” Romeo gasps. “Connor is the thing in the romance books business.”
“I read the Wall Street Journal and Ms. Magazine. Not frivolous romance novels filled with gratuitous sex. I know about 50 Shades of Grey.”
“Your loss,” Romeo shrugs. “Sounds to me like you could use some frivolity and gratuity in your life.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” I bark.
“Here we ARE-rreeee!” Romeo sings, ignoring me.
We stand in front of room 714.
“Are you ready to meet him?” Romeo asks anxiously, his eyes shining gleefully. “I know I am.”
“I guess.” I fold my arms across my chest and shift my weight impatiently onto the heel of one pump.
“The man of my dreams is on the other side of that door.” Romeo beams while he knocks. “Do you think he’ll be wearing a mask? Like a sexy but mysterious professional wrestler?”
I didn’t realize professional wrestlers were sexy. As before, I try to keep my confrontational comments to myself. I reach into my conservative purse and flick the power button on my mp3 voice recorder to make sure the battery is still good. It is. Distracted, I ask, “Why would he be wearing a mask?”
“Maybe he’s horribly disfigured like The Phantom of the Opera. Yes, that’s it! Once a dashing young man, he lost his looks in a tragic opera fire.”
“Opera fire?” I ask doubtfully.
“Yes, bear with me,” Romeo says seriously. “Now he’s wounded, his heart damaged beyond repair. He yearns in secret for the love of a strong young woman to save him from his solitary misery!” Romeo’s eyes light victoriously.
“You’re hopeless, Romeo,” I chuckle.
“I know, right?” he smiles and winks at me. “Now THE Connor is finally going to make his first ever public appearance this afternoon, mask and all, exclusively for Rom Com Con 2015!!!”
I arch an eyebrow.
“It’s an historic event,” he says seriously.
“An historic event?” I mock. A woman president would be an historic event.
“That’s what I said. Did I misspeak?”
Misspeak? Romeo is definitely in a class by himself. I frown at him and nod toward the door. “Never mind. Let’s get this over with. Let’s meet THE Connor.”
Romeo knocks on the door and we wait.
And wait.
Wait a second…
No way.
A jumble of loose thoughts suddenly straighten in my mind. It’s just a coincidence, right? Thousands of men are named Connor. It seems highly unlikely that this Connor is…him.
Connor Hughes.
I haven’t seen or heard from Connor in seven years. I haven’t even thought about him…
Dark memories lasso my guts and cinch tight. I wince internally, forcing down nausea, not letting it show. I never let it show.
Keeping a straight face doesn’t stop the distressed thoughts from pinballing around in my head.
It can’t be him…
<<<<<<<>>>>>>>
CONNOR
“I can’t believe how good you are in bed, Connor,” Babe, or whatever her name is, says breathlessly. “I’ve never had so many orgasms in one morning.” Her lush lips spread into a grin.
Mine don’t.
I stand naked at the foot of the bed having just dumped my condom in the bathroom trash.
Babe is a vision of caramel delight on the rumpled white confection of the hotel sheets.
I couldn’t care less.
She runs her hands across her breasts, massaging them briefly before sliding her manicured fingers down her taut stomach and between her slick thighs, stroking herself invitingly. She locks eyes with me, hers half-hooded with naked desire for more. “Mmmmm, Connor. Do you have any idea how yummy you are?”
Yes. Some other chick called me yummy last week. Yummy turned into a chick cliché four years ago. I hear it all the time.
“Your cock is twitching. Does that mean you want to go again?” she purrs.
I’m always up for fuckin. Working out seven days a week makes me horny as fuck all the time. And I have to admit, Babe is fuckin hot. But hasn’t she had enough of me? I’ve had enough of her. As hot as she is, she just didn’t do it for me. They never do. I sigh, “I don’t mean to be a dick, but I have an interview here in the room in a few minutes. I need to clean up before they get here.”
“Interview? For what?”
“It’s nothing. Some, uhhh, fitness thing,” I lie. “Some guy’s YouTube workout channel.”
“That sounds exciting.”
I always tell girls I’m a fitness model, but I never go into more detail than that. I hate talking about myself. “It’s pretty boring. Kind of technical. Blood sugar levels, triglycerides, recovery intervals. Boring shit like that.” Usually the technical talk turns them off.
“I don’t mind,” Babe purrs. “I’m sure I’ll learn something.”
Maybe this chick has potential…
She does that stripper thing where she sticks out the tip of her tongue and runs it across her top teeth. When that doesn’t work, she tweaks one of her nipples with her fingers, lifts her tit to her mouth, and licks the nip.
…Then again, maybe not.
Why’d she have to go and ruin it?
“Trust me,” I chuckle, “You’ll be snoring inside of two minutes. And the guy is a nobody. I think his biggest video has like 700 views. I’m doing it as a favor for a friend.” I’m making all of this up as I go along. Babe will never know.
“It’s no big deal, Connor. I really don’t mind.”
This always happens. A girl like her has guys throwing themselves at her 24/7. I saw it at the club last night. Five hundred different guys talked to her, but she went back to the hotel with me. What should’ve been a one-nighter is suddenly turning into a pain in my ass. I don’t know how to break it to her that I’m not interested. After fuckin them, I never am.
So, how to get rid of her?
Usually, I like the direct approach.
“You need to go,” I grunt.
<<<<<<<>>>>>>>
ELECTRA
Romeo leans his ear against the door, “I don’t hear anyone inside. Do you have a drinking glass?”
“Why?”
“So I can hear better. Don’t you watch spy movies?” he hisses.
“Not really.”
“Which celebrity do you think he looks like?” Romeo muses gleefully, his ear still glued to the door.
“I have no idea.” Nor do I care. My kind of man has a career path. Soft porn modeling is not a career path. Nothing gets me going like a suit and tie. Not that I’ve had anything going on in the boyfriend or the bedroom department since forever. I’m focused on being a journalist, not meaningless flings.
“Whatever he looks like,” Romeo swoons, “I bet he’s gorgeous. I’m picturing chiseled cheek bones, a brooding brow, smoldering eyes, and a rugged stubbled jaw.”
I smirk, “That sounds like a caveman or a neanderthal. Does he wear a leopard skin for a loincloth and carry a club too?”
“I hope so,” Romeo grins, his eyes dreamy. “Then he can pound me with his club, take me back to his cave, and pound me with his human club from behi—”
“Stop!” I bark.
“Never mind me,” he giggles. “A serious woman like you is only interested in serious information, right?”
“What makes you think I’m serious?” I ask defensively.
His eyes sweep up and down my outfit. One of his eyebrows arches dramatically and his face says, Have you looked in a mirror lately? But his mouth says, “Please, girlfriend.
Your outfit was on the cover of the latest issue of Business Matron’s Monthly.”
I hide my scowl as I look down my nose at him through my stylish eyeglasses. “That’s not even a real magazine.” My long auburn hair may be pinned up in a conservative bun, but I look good in my pumps, pencil skirt, and blouse. I always dress my best so people take me seriously.
“We’ll work on tomorrow’s look later,” he smiles. “But we can do something about that uptight hair of yours.” He reaches for my bun like he’s going to fiddle with it, or worse, let it down completely. “Your hair bun is so tight it’s giving you a facelift.”
“Hands off!” I growl, pulling back defensively. He thinks he can give me fashion advice? He looks like a cartoon character. I resist the urge to kick his shins with my pointed pumps.
He drops his arm to his side, “Loosen up, girl. I’m just trying to help.”
“What do you know about women’s fashion? Look at your outfit! I didn’t realize sci-fi emo was still a thing,” I spit. “And what’s with that stupid monocle?”
With practiced flair, he flips the monocle up with a flick of his wrist and squinches it in his cheek. He stares at me through it, the monocled eye comically magnified. “Perhaps you need a personality makeover, darling,” he mutters before letting the monocle tumble free.
I’m about to give him a tongue lashing when I stop myself. I admit it. I’m very sensitive about my looks, my personality, everything. Let’s face it. I’m just plain sensitive. I blame four years of high school torment from Connor Hughes. That asshole left me scarred.
That’s when the hotel room door suddenly whips open and my chest locks down tight, stopping my breath.
It’s him.
Connor Hughes.
No. Fucking. Way.
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