by Sarina Bowen
It’s just that Tom’s face lights up like a neon sign when he sees the end result. Tom is impressed with Chandra. He smiles at her like she’s a member of the club. And she totally is, damn it. I’ll bet she’s at Tom’s meeting right now, spouting off color names and looking skinny. She has a great job and can write off her salon visits as a tax deduction.
I have no job, and my only claim to fame is an accidental porn clip.
I almost turn off the TV and fall into a deep depression. But just as I’m lifting the remote, Tom fills the screen again. I can’t shut that off. Not when he’s wearing a tool belt and a tight T-shirt. And the camera does a close-up, as if knowing I’m here on the edge of my seat. The cotton clings to his pecs as he slams his palm against a misbehaving piece of lumber. Bad lumber, bad. He’s so yummy. When the board has taken its spanking, he reaches down to pick up a power drill. Bracing himself against the wood, he tenses his impeccable biceps, pulls the trigger and—
Drills things. Over and over. He presses the big, fat drill bit against the wood and… Drills it.
“Holy mother of God,” I pant as his poor T-shirt stretches to accommodate this labor. His big Man Hands are busy on the screen. I can see the masculine hairs on the backs of his hands in high-def. And I want those hands on my body. Right now, preferably.
I sink into the weird sofa and moan.
29 Exclamation Points!!!
Tom
I’m both horny and grumpy, and that’s a rough combination.
It doesn’t help that traffic sucks. And I’m not even in a car. I’m hoofing it in Midtown, trying not to bounce tourists out of my way as I head for my agent’s office on Fifty-third Street.
“Tom!” my agent shrieks when I finally reach her office. Like I’m her long-lost puppy. “Hi, honey!” She grabs me and kisses me on both cheeks.
“Hey, Patricia.” Her cuddliness is the first sign that something is wrong. She’s a New Yorker through and through—she’d rather kill you for your parking spot then kiss you. Also, I’d been bracing myself to schmooze the producer of my show, but he isn’t here yet. “Where’s Samuel?”
Patricia sits heavily in her giant leather chair and makes a tent of her fingers.
Uh-oh.
“Samuel isn’t coming. We don’t need him today.”
“We don’t? I thought we were signing off on the details for season ten today. If that’s not the case, then why am I even here?”
Patricia’s hand strays to her favorite desk ornament, which is a tiny but accurate reproduction of the guillotine used to decapitate Marie Antoinette. I bought it for her as a tool to shave the ends off the Cuban cigars she smokes.
Lost in thought, she moves the lever up and down a couple of times with her fingertip, and I brace myself. “This is very unusual. But the network is considering releasing you, based on the morality clause in your contract,” she says slowly. “It’s foolish of them, and I’m trying to talk them out of it.”
“Those bastards!” My gut clenches, and I actually see red. A serious red. Like Benjamin Moore’s Vermillion. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Having sex in your own home is not amoral.”
She nods, her finger executing a few more invisible Frenchmen before she folds her hands. “But the contract says they can release you for negative publicity related to your personal life. It doesn’t say they can release you only if you’re truly a pervert.”
“Then fix it!” I bluster. “I signed this thing in the first place because you approved the language.”
She flinches. “We’re doing all we can. Publicist Becky is on her fourth espresso this morning, and my legal team has been shooting down stray copies of that video for seventy-two hours straight. And we’re doing all we can to push the story that you’re engaged and that you’re not a pervert.”
Slowly, I unclench the fists I’ve made. “They can’t push me off season ten for this. That’s bullshit.” Even as I say these words, I hear my own hypocrisy. Half an hour ago I was dragging my feet on shooting season ten. I didn’t want the network to rush me. But the fact that they might fire me instead is unacceptable.
Diva, much?
“Let them work through their issues,” Patricia says. “They’re going to run some teasers for season ten—shots of an old house. A picture of you looking wholesome with your hammer.” She snorts. “Okay, maybe not a hammer. A belt sander. Anyway, they’ll float your face out there and see what happens. When there’s no backlash from the bible belt, they’ll man up and schedule the season.”
“Or they’ll look at the rest of their lineup and realize they still need my ratings numbers to peddle to their advertisers.”
“Exactly,” she agrees.
For a hot second this bit of bluster gives me a second wind. But then I realize something. “If this works, I’ll have to actually shoot season ten fairly quickly.”
“Of course. But you live for this shit.” Patricia grins.
I used to, anyway. “We’ll have some hiring to do first. We need a new designer.”
The smile slides off Patricia’s face. “Not necessarily.”
“What?” She can’t be serious. “I can’t have Chandra on the set. She won’t want the job anyway.”
“Well…” She clears her throat. “The job has to be offered to her. The network has to prove that she wasn’t let go for turning down your offer of marriage. Plus, she really won’t want the job now that you’ve ‘moved on.’” I swear she puts that last bit in quotes. Patricia knows this business. She knows we’re in crisis mode and that not every relationship is as it seems. Something I know too well.
My temples throb suddenly. When Chandra broke up with me after, episode ten, she’d told me I was just a “stopping point” on her path to stardom. She didn’t want to settle down and “play house.” She had bigger, better things to do.
Not bigger! my dick protests. Have you seen me?
“It will probably turn out okay,” Patricia says. “All of it. The network will realize the error of its ways, and Chandra will turn down the job. Stay calm, hot buns.” She rises. “Let’s go see your cheerleader. I mean, Becky.” I think that was Patricia’s attempt at humor.
A root canal sounds more fun. But I follow her anyway.
Publicist Becky is twenty-two going on twelve. Even while we’re talking in her office, she’s on social media. I think her pink phone might be surgically attached to her hand.
“You and Brynn make the cutest couple!” she gushes after hanging up with her latest caller. “People and US Weekly both want exclusives! Two covers! It’s gonna be rad!”
“But…” I do the math. “If you give them both the interview, it won’t be exclusive.” Then I remember I don’t really care. “What do I have to do?”
“Just be yourself! You’re Tom Spanner! Women love you! You’re a good guy, Tom! Look, I can prove it.” She tap dances past me and out of the room, and after a beat I get up and follow. In the hallway, she yanks open a closet, and inside there are stacks of file boxes. Publicist Becky rips the top off one and sort of throws it backward.
I catch it.
“Look!” She turns around, clutching two handfuls of letters. She shoves a couple of them into my hands. They’re addressed to me, care of the network. They’ve been slit at the top, since interns read all my fan mail. I pull out a letter on pink stationery.
* * *
Tom—
Pick me! I’m 5-4, 138 pounds. Thirty-four years old. My boobs aren’t as perky as Chandra’s but they are real. That woman is crazypants, okay? I’m single and I’d never kick you out of bed. If you’d have gotten down on one knee in front of me I would have peed myself from excitement. You’re the best, and I would love to be your wife.
Love, Candi
P.S. When I said I would have peed myself, that was just an exaggeration. I don’t really have any issues with incontinence. Not often, anyway. Call me!
* * *
I look up at Publicist Becky, whose hands are still brimming with letters. “See?
These started showing up last March, and never stopped. And now the women are all hot and bothered by your pumping backside. That engagement ring picture only confirms you’re honorable…and…well… All those boxes are filled with marriage proposals! For realz! We’re sending everyone who offers to marry you a Mr. Fixit Quick keychain, and a coupon for twenty percent off at Home Depot.”
Looking over Becky’s shoulder, I count the file boxes. There are at least a dozen. And I don’t even know how I feel about that. It’s really flattering. Then again, it just proves that our nation is full of women willing to propose to a man they’ve never met.
Becky grabs the letters out of my hand, hurls it back into the open box, kicks the closet door shut, and frog-marches me back to her office. My head aches as she outlines all the photos she wants of me and Brynn, and her sunny outlook for my rehabilitated reputation.
“I did have one big new idea!” she chatters. “Nobody can resist a hard-luck story! I think it’s time we did an interview about your childhood! Heck! We could take a camera crew to the trailer park where your ailing grandmother raised you!”
“Manufactured housing site,” I mutter. Then I catch myself. “Just stop right there. We aren’t doing that. If you try to play the Crappy Childhood card, I will fire you.”
Becky sits back in her chair and puts the phone down for the first time. “No need to go nuclear, Tom. If you don’t like my plans, you can just say so.”
As if. “I’m engaged because of you. Fake-engaged.”
Her smile returns. “But you’re doing it beautifully!”
Eventually I’m allowed to leave and return to the hotel. I’m in dire need of a cocktail and a sandwich.
And Brynn. A smile from my new favorite girl will go a long way. Let the healing begin.
As I approach the door to our room, I hear the TV on inside the room. At least I hope it’s the TV, because otherwise someone is operating a table saw inside our hotel suite. I’d know that high-pitched whine anywhere.
I wave the key card in front of the scanner, and when the light turns green, I push the door open. “Hi, honey, I’m home!” I call out. Because I’ve always wanted to say that.
Brynn is on that weird couch. She jumps like I’ve startled her, and then grabs the TV remote and kills the screen immediately. In the silence, I notice a few details. Her cheeks are rosy, she has crumbs in her hair, and her bosom is heaving. She looks up at me, and the sex haze she’s fallen under is like a beacon. My body responds immediately to her flushed face and her “do me” eyes.
“Whatcha watchin?” I ask slowly. I kick the door shut and toss the key card onto a table. When I take a step toward the sofa, her breath hitches audibly.
“P-porn,” she whispers, her eyes guilty.
“I knew I liked you.”
30 A Bonding Experience
Brynn
When Tom enters the room, I’m ready for him. I’ve just spent the last two hours fantasizing about his various body parts holding various tools and banging around construction sites.
He’s a hot guy and I’m a big girl and this is just a sexcation we’re having together. Torvald and Svenka. Let the banging commence.
Tom kicks the door shut and crosses quickly to the sofa. “Did you make a choice?” he asks, and his voice is pure gravel.
For a second I have no idea what he’s talking about. But then my inner Svenka kicks into action. “Bed,” I whisper.
No sooner is the word out of my mouth when Tom leans over and scoops me off the sofa, his hands under my ass. I wrap my arms around him to make the job easier. I’m not just some tiny waif you can toss around.
Although now I get it. Having just watched Tom carry everything from a water heater to a hearty stack of two-by-fours, it’s less shocking that he can pick me up and fling me around.
And fling me he does. My ass hits the puce bedspread seconds later. Then I’m sitting there staring up at his powerful Paul Bunyan body. Confession: the fact that he can make me feel small is a big turn-on.
He leans down, plants those big hands on the bed and kisses me with generous lips. I’m already turned on, and he’s ready to roll. So we attack each other’s mouths like starving people. Tom gives a deep groan as he tastes me for the first time. “Can’t wait to fuck you,” he says against my mouth.
His deep, manly voice gives me a full-body shiver. No one has ever talked to me as if I was desirable. No one. Steven treated me with indifference. And the few lovers I had before him were all very gentle.
It seems wrong to gripe about gentleness. But Tom’s big hands aren’t so careful as he tilts my head to perfect our connection. The way he touches me is a revelation. He makes me feel like it’s okay to crave this.
Svenka likes it a little rough sometimes. Who knew?
“Missed you, baby,” he says, straightening up.
Now I’m eye level with his belt buckle. So I reach up and undo it with eager fingers. I unzip him too. And his erection is right there, hard and stretching against the cotton of his underwear. He looks uncomfortable in there. So I do what’s necessary—free him by pushing the offending fabric out of the way. His very hard dick stands up straight, and it’s almost like a salute.
I salute him back, because that’s just polite.
Tom chuckles. “See anything you want?”
Do I ever. I want… “Your cock,” I breathe. Because Svenka would say it aloud.
“Where do you want it?” Tom asks. Then he puts one of those wide hands on top of my head and gathers my hair into his hand. “Suck me, honey,” he says.
Top 10 Truths Learned While Giving Tom a BJ
1. I would have thought that Tom ordering me to blow him would feel demeaning. But it’s really just hot.
2. And anyway, if I didn’t want to use my tongue to lick him from base to tip, he’d be fine with that. I trust Tom. Fuck, I really do. That’s why I’m treating his penis like my favorite ice cream flavor right now. And his moans are better than a double scoop of coconut almond fudge.
3. When I named my blog Brynn’s Dips and Balls, I was really onto something.
4. I haven’t done this in a long time. But Svenka somehow knows what to do. It’s just like riding a bike, right?
5. Tom’s dick tastes much better than a bike. When my tongue meets the tip of him, I get a hint of salt and musk. And when I close my lips around the head, he’s heavy on my tongue…
6. There is nothing sexier than the man who’s begun to fuck my mouth in slow strokes because he just can’t help himself.
7. Gag reflexes are real. When I’m a little too eager to please, my eyes start to water. Tom’s hand eases up on my hair immediately, and his hips go still. I ease back and regain my equilibrium. And that hand slides kindly over my hair, waiting patiently for me.
8. When I begin to suck him again, he makes noises like the world is ending. I look up to watch, and the look of pleasure on his face just slays me. My eyes are still watering, but my goddamn emotions might have something to do with it.
9. Svenka wouldn’t let emotions get in the way of hotel sex.
10. I’m not Svenka.
“Lie back, honeybunch.” Tom’s voice is rough as he nudges me onto the bed. But his words are gentle.
I add number eleven to my mental list of truths. It’s possible for sex to be rough and gentle at the same time.
That is so confusing. I feel almost dizzy as I make myself more comfortable on the mattress. Meanwhile, he kicks off his trousers and hastily casts aside the rest of his clothing.
He is beautiful.
I’m not worthy.
This famous naked man climbs onto the bed with me. He gives me a boyish smile as he tugs the tie of my wrap dress open. “Holy. Fuck,” he says. There is awe in his voice as my dress pools around me. It’s his first glimpse of my new lingerie, which is made entirely of lengths of ribbon. “How did you—”
“—get this on? I tied one end to a doorknob and spun.”
His eyes crinkle in th
e corners when he smiles. And then his eyes merge together like a cyclops.
Okay, not really. It’s just that he’s leaned down to kiss me again, and I can’t focus on both of them at once. And my brain is melting, because the kisses are so good. I wrap my arms around this naked hunk of a man and hold him close. These kisses are different. Or maybe I’m different. I know him better now. And I know him better than the women who watch him on TV. I’m wearing his ring, for fuck’s sake.
Fun hotel sex, I remind myself. And it is. But when he groans into the next kiss, the sound of his desire resonates inside me. I can feel the scruff of his not-quite-a-beard on my neck, my chin. I want to feel that scruff between my legs.
“Mmm,” he says. “Sounds like a plan.”
Apparently I said that out loud.
“But, fuck, honey. How do I get this thing off you?”
“Um…” I didn’t think it would be complicated.
Tom’s handy fingers get to work, loosening the parts at my hips and wriggling the straps off my shoulders. He unwraps me, throwing ribbon everywhere. It’s looped over his body and under mine. We probably look like a bit of performance art gone wrong, but I don’t much care. Because then his mouth is on me. His tongue is… Wow. A place tongues have never gone before. I move my hips, pushing up towards him because I want more of this. He makes me feel so filthy.
So alive.
And it’s not Svenka who’s fucking Tom’s face, it’s me. I’m not afraid to moan and writhe and let him know how hot and naughty he makes me feel.
“Now!” I order him. “You!” I’m about as articulate as Tarzan, but somehow he knows I need that cock, and I need it right fucking now.
He finds the condom beneath the ribbon debris and pushes that big body up on one arm. He rips the condom open with his teeth, and I help him roll it on. I so don’t want to use a condom right now. I’d rather have his velvety skin inside me. But reason wins out.