Prologue
Andrew
New York City is nothing more than a shit-filled wasteland, a dump where failures are forced to drop all their broken dreams and leave them far behind. The flashing lights that shined brightly years ago have lost their luster, and that fresh feeling that once permeated the air—that hopefulness, is long gone.
Every person I once considered a friend is now an enemy, and the word “trust” has been ripped from my vocabulary. My name and reputation are tarnished thanks to the press, and after reading the headline that The New York Times ran this morning, I’ve decided that tonight will be the last night I ever spend here.
I can’t deal with the cold sweats and nightmares that jerk me out of my sleep anymore, and as hard as I try to pretend like my heart hasn’t been obliterated, I doubt that the agonizing ache in my chest will ever go away.
To properly say goodbye, I’ve ordered the best entrées from all my favorite restaurants, watched Death of a Salesman on Broadway, and smoked a Cuban cigar on the Brooklyn Bridge. I’ve also booked the penthouse suite at the Waldorf Astoria, where I’m now leaning back on the bed and threading my fingers through a woman’s hair—groaning as she slides her mouth over my cock.
Teasingly darting her tongue around my tip, she whispers, “Do you like this?” as she looks up at me.
I don’t answer. I push her head down and exhale as she presses her lips against my balls, as she covers my c**k with her hands and moves them up and down.
Over the past two hours, I’ve f**ked her against the wall, forced her to bend over a chair, and pinned her legs to the mattress while I devoured her pu**y.
It’s been quite fulfilling—fun, but I know this feeling will only last for so long; it never stays. In less than a week, I’ll have to find someone else.
As she takes me deeper and deeper into her mouth, I tightly tug her hair—tensing as she bobs her head up and down. Pleasure begins to course its way through me, and the muscles in my legs stiffen—forcing me to let go and warn her to pull away.
She ignores me.
She grips my knees and sucks faster, letting my c**k touch the back of her throat. I give her one last chance to move away, but since her lips remain wrapped around me, she leaves me no choice but to cum in her mouth.
And then she swallows.
Every. Last. Drop.
Impressive...
Finally pulling away, she licks her lips and leans back against the floor.
“That was my first time swallowing,” she says. “I did that just for you.”
“You shouldn’t have.” I stand and zip my pants. “You should’ve saved it for someone else.”
“Right. Well, um...Do you want to order some dinner? Maybe we could eat it over HBO and go at it again afterwards?”
I raise my eyebrow, confused.
This is always the most annoying part, the part when the woman who previously agreed to “One dinner. One night. No repeats.” wants to establish some type of imaginary connection. For whatever reason, she feels like there needs to be some type of closure conversation, some bland reassurance that’ll confirm that what just happened was ‘more than sex,’ and we’ll become friends.
But it was just sex, and I’m not in need of any friends. Not now, not ever.
“No, thank you.” I walk over to the mirror on the other side of the room. “I have someplace to be.”
“At three in the morning? I mean, if you just want to skip the HBO and go for another round instead, I can...”
I tune out her irritating voice and begin to button my shirt. I’ve never spent the night with a woman I met online, and she isn’t going to be the first.
As I adjust my tie, I look down and spot a tattered pink wallet on the dresser. Picking it up, I flip it open and run my fingers across the name that’s printed onto her license: Sarah Tate.
Even though I’ve only known this woman for a week, she’s always answered to “Samantha.” She’s also told me—repeatedly, that she works as a nurse at Grace Hospital. Judging by the Wal-Mart employee card that’s hiding behind her license, I’m assuming that part isn’t true either.
I look over my shoulder, where she’s now sprawled across the bed’s silk sheets. Her creamy colored skin is unmarred and smooth; her bow shaped lips are slightly swollen and puffy.
Her green eyes meet mine and she slowly sits up, spreading her legs further apart, whispering, “You know you want to stay. Stay...”
My c**k starts to harden—it’s definitely up for another round, but seeing her real name has ruined any chance of that for me. I can’t stand to be around anyone who’s lied to me, even if she does have double D tits and a mouth from heaven.
I toss the wallet into her lap. “You told me your name was Samantha.”
“Okay. And?”
“Your name is Sarah.”
“So what?” She shrugs, beckoning me with her hand. “I never give my real name to men I meet on the internet.”
“You just f**k them in five star hotel suites?”
“Why do you suddenly care about my real name?”
“I don’t.” I glance at my watch. “Are you spending the night in this room or do I need to give you cab money to get home?”
“What?”
“Was my question unclear?”
“Wow...Just, wow...” She shakes her head. “How much longer do you think you’ll be able to keep doing this?”
“Keep doing what?”
“Chatting someone up for a week, f**king her, and moving on to the next. How much longer?”
“Until my dick stops working.” I put on my jacket. “Do you need cab fare or are you staying? Check out is at noon.”
“Do you know that men like you—relationship avoiders, are the type that typically fall the hardest?”
“Did they teach you that at Wal-Mart?”
“Just because someone from your past hurt you doesn’t mean that every woman after her will.” She purses her lips. “That’s probably why you are the way you are. Maybe if you tried to actually date someone you’d be a lot happier. You should take her out for dinner and actually listen, see her to her door without expecting an invitation inside, and maybe bypass the whole ‘let’s go f**k’ in the hotel suite thing at the end.”
Where are my keys? I need to go. Now.
“I can see it now...” She can’t seem to shut up. “You’re going to want more than sex one day, and the person you want it from is going to be someone you least expect. Someone who will force you to give in.”
I pull my keys from underneath her crumpled dress and sigh. “Do you need cab money?”
“I have my own car, dick-face.” She rolls her eyes. “Are you really this incapable of having a regular conversation? Would it kill you to talk to me for a few minutes after sex?”
“We have nothing more to discuss.” I put my room key on the nightstand and walk toward the door. “It was very nice meeting you, Samantha, Sarah. Whatever the hell your name is. Have a great night.”
“Screw you!”
“Three times was more than enough. No, thank you.”
“Things are going to catch up to you one day, ass**le!” She yells as I step into the hallway. “Karma is one hell of a bitch!”
“I know.” I toss back. “I f**ked her two weeks ago...”
Contract (n.):
An agreement between two people that creates an obligation to do or not do a particular action.
Andrew
Six years later...
Durham, North Carolina
The woman who was currently sitting across from me was a f**king liar.
Dressed in an ugly ass grey sweater and a red plaid skirt, her hair looked as if it’d been dyed with a box of crayons. She looked nothing like the woman in the picture online, nothing like the smiling blonde with C-cup br**sts, butterfly tattoos, and plump, pink lips.
Before I’d agreed to this date, I’d specifically asked for three separate proof of truth pictures: one of her holding a newspaper with the most recent date on it, one of her biting her lip, and one of her holding up a sign with her name on it. When I requested these things, she’d laughed and said that I was “the most paranoid person ever,” but she’d done them. Or so I thought. With the exception of telling her my real name—I stopped giving out my real name years ago, I’d been completely honest and I expected that in return.
“Well, now that we’re alone...” She suddenly smiled, revealing a mouth full of metal and rubber bands. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Thoreau. How are you today?”
I didn’t have time for this. “Who’s the girl in your profile picture?” I asked.
“What?”
“Who is the girl in your profile picture?”
“Oh...Well, that isn’t me.”
“No shit it isn’t you.” I rolled my eyes. “Did you hire a model? Buy a bunch of stock images and use Photoshop?”
“Not exactly.” She lowered her voice. “I just thought you’d be more likely to talk to me if I used that photo instead of my own.”
I looked her over again, now noticing the strange unicorn tattoo across her knuckles and the “Love is blind” quote that was inked onto her wrist.
“What were you expecting to happen when we actually met?” This shit was boggling my mind. “Did you think about what would happen when that day came? When I realized that you weren’t who you said you were?”
“I was kind of expecting for you to have lied about your picture too,” she said. “I didn’t know that you would really look like you, you know? This is the first time a guy on Date-Match has told the truth. I think it’s a sign.”
“It’s not.” I shook my head. “And the model? How did you get someone to take all those pictures?”
“It wasn’t a model. It was my roommate.” Her eyes widened as I stood up. “Wait a second! All the things I said to you on the phone were absolutely true. I am interested in politics, and I do love studying the law and keeping up with high profile cases.”
“What law school did you go to?”
“Law school?” She raised her eyebrow. “No, not law school type of law. Law like, I’ve watched every episode of SVU and I’ve read all of John Grisham’s books.”
I sighed and pulled a few bills out of my wallet, putting them on the table. I’d wasted enough time with her.
“Goodbye, Charlotte.” I walked away, ignoring the rest of her apology.
The moment the valet pulled my car around, I slipped inside and sped off.
This shit is getting ridiculous...
This was the sixth time this had happened to me this month, and I didn’t understand why someone would willingly lie with a potential face to face meeting on the line. It didn’t make any f**king sense.
Annoyed, I picked up a bottle of scotch from the store across the street, and made a mental note to block this latest liar from my page. I was starting to feel like I’d run out of available women to sleep with in Durham. I was also starting to feel like I needed to switch cities and start all over again; the cold sweats from years ago had returned, and I knew the nightmares were coming next.
As soon as I stepped into my condo, I poured myself three shots and tossed them back. Then I poured three more.
I scrolled through my phone and checked my emails for the day—client referrals, more requests to chat from Date-Match, and a message from the sexy blonde I was supposed to meet this Saturday.
The subject-line read, “Honesty is Key, right?”
I tossed back another shot before opening it, hoping it was an invitation to meet tonight instead.
It wasn’t. It was a goddamn essay.
“Hey, Thoreau. I know we’re supposed to meet each other this Saturday and trust me, I was sooo looking forward to it, but I need to know that you’re interested in me for me and not my looks. I’ve met a lot of creepy guys on here because they just like my picture, and when we meet, they just want to have sex. I can assure you that I am who I say I am, but I’m looking for something a little more fulfilling than casual sex. We don’t have to have a full blown relationship, or engage in an intense affair, but we could at least build a friendship first, you know? I’m looking forward to seeing you, so let me know if you’re still interested in meeting me—Liz.”
