by Jessie Dame
I never saw him after that night. Rumor had it I wasn’t the only student he had “pose” for him. He was asked to leave Montclair the next day after allegations started to build up against him. The betrayal that coursed through my veins from that point on drove me into the bed of every well-endowed co-ed on campus. I spent the next year and a half being passed around at parties, sneaking into dorm rooms, fucking quietly with roommates sleeping in the next bed. I went for young guys, mostly. They were always less offended to find out I was using them.
I always felt deadened afterwards, like I had been staring into a bright bulb for too long and the world was still too hazy to see. It was on my graduation day that I made a promise to myself never to sleep with another man just because I could. I wanted to feel something again. I wanted to feel that wholeness, the safety that comes when sharing a bed with someone who feels as passionately about you as you do him.
So here I am, 26, single, sexually frustrated, and working at a deserted library on an early spring night in New Jersey. Lucky for me, there’s only an hour left of my shift. I turn to the book drop bucket poised at the slot connecting to the brisk air outside. There were only three books inside: a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, some doorstop on Russian literature, and volume of Early 18th Century British poetry. With a big sigh, I check the books back into our system and throw them onto the shelving pile. I return to my book.
“She felt herself flush at the thought of reconnecting with the strapping man that took her virtue in the barn so many years ago. She had never divulged the event to anyone in her life for fear she would be blasphemed as a common street walker, but she never forgot how her heart and loins throbbed when she thought of him, spoke his name softly to herself as she faded off to sleep in hopes he would visit her in her dreams. Perhaps this was a dream and his face looked familiar because she was willing it to. How she longed to feel his arms around her again, his rough cheek pressed against her own, feeling his member grow silently, pressed hard against her inner thigh.”
The bells chime to signal someone has entered the library. I throw my book down and look to the door. It is sluggishly closing, but there is no one in sight. I tousle my hair from my face in an attempt to look busy as I bury my romance novel under the desk. Just as employing a bell to announce someone’s entrance, I feel it strange and oddly rude to shout “hello” into the silent rows of books. The clock reads 7:32pm. Who would be coming into the library at this time? Someone without much of a life, I assume.
The only solution I have to finding the mysterious consumer is to pick up the stack of books needing to be shelved and heading out into the wasteland of forgotten memoirs. My first stop is International Literature to drop off the giant Russian. It slides easily into place. I dart my eyes around the corner to look down the alley. Not a soul. I straighten up a bit and walk confidently to the next row: School Curriculum. While I don’t agree that To Kill a Mockingbird should belong in such a general area, it is on most curriculums and it was only ever high school students that checked it out.
In a sea of Charlotte’s Webs and Fahrenheit 451s, our umpteenth copy of Harper Lee’s meal ticket was now resting soundly with its brothers. I hear a whispered dialogue, not far away and my skin tightens. I absently shelve the British poetry book among the stacks in an attempt to listen in.
“I’m telling you, they don’t have it.”
“I’m sure they do. Why wouldn’t they?”
“It’s truly sad that I have to explain to you why they wouldn’t have a copy of Playboy at a public library.”
“But it’s a public library! They should have titles that appeal to the public, not just the prudes.” A shuffle. The voices belong to two men, possibly in their thirties, and devastatingly handsome, that is if a voice can tell you anything about a person. “I’m going to look for someone.”
My heart stops as I look down at a copy of “Men’s Health Magazine” waiting to be returned to the rack. I flip my hair once more, straighten out my shirt and make sure my breasts look nice. They are, statistically, the first thing men notice, anyway. I almost jog to the magazine rack and bend down low to find the right spot for the lifestyle periodical. Above “Cosmopolitan”, but below “Time”. My eyes glance at the “Time” cover. Two very handsome, strapping young men.
“Billionaire Bromance” the cover says.
I linger for a moment and sigh. I knew the duo, but not by name.
They were this year’s Napster inventors, only instead of pirating music, they had invented a new form of social media where users can send voice messages using clips from movies. So, like, if you wanted to say, “Hey, sexy, you look great”, their database would produce a message of five different characters from five different films that have been spliced together saying your specific line. It sounds dumb when I explain it, but it’s actually pretty hilarious. It seems they sold to Facebook earlier this year and are now reaping the benefits.
“Excuse me, Miss?” I look up and see a towering demigod above me. He’s wearing a nice, fitted suit with a green shirt that compliments his marble jade eyes. He smiles at me, almost curious, and fingers his longish brown hair behind one of his ears.
“Uh, yes?” I respond, trying to sound too cool for my job.
“Do you have a copy of the Marilyn Monroe edition of Playboy?” he speaks with a self-awarded sense of importance. Every 80s, Wall Street yuppie lives within him at this very moment.
“No, I’m sorry,” I turn back to the magazines and freeze. I didn’t see it at first, but the man on the left of the “Time” cover looks mysteriously like the man lurching over me.
“Now, why do you think that is?” He asks, coyly, looking at his friend. His friend looks at me as if to apologize, but I miss it entirely as I can’t stop staring at his boyishly handsome face and his sandy blond hair. It almost looks fake it’s so perfect, frayed out beneath a New Jersey Devil’s hat. I take inventory of the rest of his outfit: faded linen button down, tattered cargo shorts, and dirty Vans without socks. A far cry from his suited and manicured misfit friend. There is no mistaking it, though. These two are the “Billionaire Bromance”.
I have two options here. To either respond to the question as I would have initially by giggling and shaking my head only to return to the oak desk to rot or I can answer how any normal girl in need of some satisfaction would.
“Probably because no one wants to admit they look at porn.” I reply with a cheeky smile on my face.
“Good answer.” Yuppie responds while chuckling. “My name is James. And you are?”
“Emma.” I look over to Boho chic.
“That’s Ethan. So, Emma, do you look at porn?” James looks devilish, his interest piqued.
“I’m not sure that’s an appropriate subject for a billionaire to be asking about.” My face begins to flush as I wonder if that was boring or enticing.
“So you do know who we are.” James’ eyes become slits on his long, slender face. His cheekbones are the most prominent I’ve seen on a man and his eyebrows, while perfectly sculpted, seem sinister. “You’re cute. I like you.”
“Thanks,” I say, haphazardly. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Come on, James, let’s go,” Ethan’s mouth opens for the first time in my presence. His voice is caramel.
“What? Things are just getting good!” James laughs and leans against the magazine rack, but it teeters on its IKEA legs and tumbles over, magazines splaying themselves across the worn carpet. Without thinking, I let out a low groan. “Whoops! Sorry. You’ll clean that up, right?” James pops a piece of gum into his mouth and chuckles. Ethan slaps him in the arm and bends down to help collect the magazines.
“Sorry, Emma,” he almost whispers and it hits every nerve in my body. I shake, visibly, and clear my throat.
“That’s alright. I knock this thing over all the time.”
“See? She knocks it over all the time.” James reaches down and wraps his spindly fingers around my arm. “Don’t
bother with that, hon. We can hire someone to do that.”
“Knock it off, alright?” Ethan keeps busying himself with the magazines as I stand up. James pulls me closer to him, our chests almost touching.
“So, Emma,” his voice isn’t as pleasing, but his lips are plump and soft, “what is a girl as hot as you doing in a library at this time of night?”
“Working, thank you very much,” I smirk.
“Oh, oh, I see. You don’t think I know what it’s like to work?” He’s being very playful, though I can’t be sure if it’s a ploy for something deeper. “I know how to work. I’m working right now.”
“What are you working for?”
“I’m working on finding a girl for a little get together we’re having this weekend. A small affair. You wouldn’t be interested would you?” My eyes go to Ethan, who is staring up at me, almost hopeful.
“What kind of affair?”
“Business.” James releases his fingers from my arm, but lets his fingertips trace a line from my elbow to my wrist. They linger and I feel tingles all over my body. “We need a girl to serve drinks to clients. Topless, of course.” My nipples get hard at the thought. This could be a great gig. Hell, they could be paying. I mean, I’ve already posed nude. What’s wrong with walking around topless?
“You can think about it.” Ethan sheepishly contributes as he stands. “I think you’d be perfect for it.”
“And what makes you think that?” I ask, smiling at him, begging him to keep talking.
“Well, you seem playful, which is a plus. And strong. Independent, even.” Ethan inches closer with every word and suddenly, I feel like I’m drowning in a pool of sex and mystery. I feel as though I’m a character in one of the romance novels I pour myself over every night.
“And you’re hot. Let’s not forget that.” James pipes in.
“Does it pay?”
“Oh, very well.” James soothes. “It pays very, very well.”
“Do you two do this often?” I ask, trying to diffuse the obvious tension.
“First time.” Ethan admits. “Emma, you smell delicious.”
“Oh?” I lift my wrist to my nose and take a deep breath. “It’s French Lilac. I buy it from the farmer’s market that comes in every weekend.”
“I don’t know about farmer’s markets,” Ethan begins.
“But I don’t think it’s lilacs we smell.” James finishes, the yellowish lights overhead glinting off of his perfect, white teeth. I imagine what my panties might look like torn off between them. I can feel myself gushing at the thought. James’ fingers are dancing wildly across my wrist and down into my palms, as Ethan delicately brushes my long, brunette locks behind my ear. I’m hit with an urge to rip my clothes off and show them what I’ve got to offer, but my body is trembling to the point where moving at all isn’t an option.
“Don’t be nervous,” Ethan takes one step closer. I can feel his breath on my neck. James pops his gum and watches on in amusement. I can feel pressure on my right breast and warmth washes over it. Ethan’s lips hit my neck and they’re soft, nipping at the skin below my earlobe. My eyes lock with James’ and it’s sexy as hell. I’ve never been into voyeurism, but this is something I could get very used to.
“Let’s see what we’re working with, Ethan,” James instructs and winks at me. Ethan, on cue, unbuttons the top button of my blouse. James exhales sharply, almost as if he wasn’t expecting my breasts to be as big as they are. I fancy myself to be average, but I’ve been told by multiple men that I have the perkiest and fullest Cs they’ve ever seen. “One more.” Ethan unbuttons the next button and I feel my breathing begin to shallow. My shelf tank clad breasts pop out from behind the button down. James seems delighted.
“Nice,” Ethan smiles at me, rubbing my breasts with his hand as if inspecting melons at a supermarket. He lifts my right and drops it, allowing it to ripple and roll around with gravity. My nipples are definitely hard and can be seen through the thin fabric of the tank top, but I don’t care. I’m not embarrassed.
“Well,” James motions for Ethan to join him by his side and the two stare at me for a moment. “Show them to us.”
“Excuse me?” I ask breathless, wanting for Ethan to continue touching me as James watches on.
“Show us your tits, Emma.” James is now chewing his gum ferociously, his jaws working harder than an engine.
I take a deep breath and look towards the windows next to us. The streets are empty and the three of us are alone. My shaking fingers unbutton the last three buttons on my blouse and grab for the bottom of the bright magenta tank. I look into James’ eyes, then to Ethan’s. Both are smirking, both are staring intently at me. I’m not sure why the two billionaires stumbled into the library or why they were particularly interested in me, but I feel overwhelmingly lucky. Perhaps it’s because of their money. Perhaps it’s harder than one thinks to get someone to show you their tits when you’re a billionaire.
I lift my tank from the bottom up revealing my hip bones first, then my belly button, and lastly, my breasts. The cool air from the a/c unit over us and the shock of showing them to two extremely gorgeous men makes my breasts tighten and contract. They are at their perkiest now and I feel free. Ethan smiles and moves closer to me. He touches my skin tenderly, cupping my breasts from underneath.
“These are magnificent.” He says, rolling my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. I moan lightly and exhale, biting my bottom lip to keep from making noise. I stare into James’ eyes again and see a fire dancing within them. I don’t know if he’s satisfied because he didn’t think I would or if he actually likes what he sees, but I don’t care. I like the feeling of his eyes on my body while Ethan begins kissing my breasts.
“That’s good,” James interferes, shaking Ethan out of his sex haze. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a stark white business card. “You can put your shirt down now.” I do as I’m told, which is sexy all on its own. Ethan stands up straight, adjusts his erection, I assume, and smiles at me. I smile back as James hands me the card.
“We’ll be in touch.” He says stiffly. I smile and wave as the two turn to leave. I watch the doors shut behind them and flip the card over. It’s a phone number with a Manhattan area code.
Manhattan.
Now things are getting interesting.
The town car the two men sent for me looks as if no one has ever used it before. The leather seats squeak as they ebb to support my weight. The chauffeur, an older man with a forgettable face, closes the door behind me after I get my platform stiletto clad feet into the back seat with me. I feel like a celebrity, but not one that is up for an award. Maybe one on her way to a meeting with her agent or an audition at Paramount. I’m anxious, but not genuinely nervous.
The ride is smooth and without stops. It’s almost as if they’ve reserved the entirety of Route 3 to ensure my arrival is prompt. I can see the toll bridge for the tunnel up ahead and my heart starts to race. Manhattan is just on the other side. The lights, the people, the buildings, the atmosphere. It’s all almost too much to take in. My cell phone rings, signifying a text message.
“See you in twenty. E.”
I smile, but also wonder if maybe Ethan or James equipped the car with GPS before sending it out. The lights in the tunnel are disorienting, filling the cab with light and whisking it away in a matter of seconds. I always find it cleansing. I’ve already begun to shed my uptight skin and am slipping into something a little more risqué. I’ve even worn my shortest, tightest black skirt in hopes it will open me up to new experiences.
When we come out of the tunnel, my body lights up. My eyes are glued open, capturing everything they can. The streets aren’t as busy as I was expecting them to be, but on a Sunday night, I guess not even New York City is very crowded. Unless the duo arranged that, too. Impossible. Right? I roll the window down enough for the warm, thick air to hit me in the face. It smells like sweet cigar smoke and truck exhaust. There is that lingering sourne
ss of garbage and general food vendor refuse, but that comes with the package.
We make a few turns as my eyes gently close, listening to the cars honking and the street performers, seeing the neon lights through my lids. Before I know it, the car stops at the back of a building. It looks like any other building in Manhattan from the back. The car door flies open and the chauffeur offers me his hand. I take it and get out of the car. The night is still and my heart pounds with anticipation. I haven’t seen or heard from the men save for a text message they sent me the night after we met in the library.
“What’s your address?”
“Who is this?”
“Ethan. We’re sending a car.”
I gave him my address and now here I am, standing outside a faceless building with an equally faceless man, not quite sure what’s waiting for me.
The chauffeur goes to a panel of buttons at the backdoor and types in a code. A loud, mechanical thump and the heavy fire door opens to a dark, short hallway. I walk inside and the chauffeur remains at the door. He motions to the elevator button on the wall.
“Aren’t you coming?” I ask. He smiles and shakes his head. My heart sinks to my stomach. I hate showing up alone, whether it’s to a movie, party, or a topless dinner meeting. The elevator door screeches open, revealing a tiny closet of a car. I step inside, feeling the eyes of the smiling chauffeur on me. There are only four buttons inside. Ground floor, the door open, the door close, and a button that reads “AP”. I wonder what that could mean. Apartment platform? No, that’s not right. Something penthouse. As the elevator doors close, I look above the buttons and see another faint “P” engraved into the steel. It’s very faded. Now what could that stand for?
Before I have a chance to play the guessing game, the elevator doors spring open. It’s a shock, to say the least. The entire ride was so quiet, there was no music, no rattling of the chains. I step out onto the parquet flooring, older than I am. The elevator doors close behind me with a cheerful “ding”. As rude as it is, I take a few steps into the penthouse and look around, gawking really. What is on display before me is almost more than I can take.