It's nearly three in the afternoon when I text Tommy. Miraculously, he and James are still at brunch and invite me to join the party already in progress. They're nearby at one of my favorite spots that offers bottomless mimosas, and I am ready in record time. For me. It helps that Jack had me shower when he brought me home last night.
Last night.
The memory of him is still wrapped in a soft, gauzy afterglow that should be scored by Trent Reznor. I replay every moment, frame by frame, while I dress. The appraising way he looked at me when I first got in his car. His thoughtfulness. How he took care of me when we got to my place and made me something to eat while I showered. The strength of his hand on the back of my neck while I masturbated for him. His voice telling me to cum. That voice of his should be illegal, and the recollection causes my brain to reboot every time I think about it.
It's not just that I've never met anyone like him, never encountered that kind of confidence. Honestly, I didn't know men like him existed. Don't get me wrong, I've known plenty of confident men in my short life beginning with my father. But in my experience, such confidence is usually accompanied by a restless, bristling tension. The presumption that their self-assurance entitles them to more of everything: time, attention, praise, opportunity, oxygen (see also my father). I hadn't gotten any of that from Jack. His confidence isn't suffocating, isn't selfish. There's a calm about him, and he strikes me as a man who had nothing to prove to anyone. And not in a self-involved, I-don't-care-what-people-think way either. He simply knows himself and is comfortable in his own skin.
What must that be like?
I step out into the sunshine of a flawless May afternoon. DC is so beautiful in the spring before the humidity sets in, and the entire city seems to be out enjoying the weather. I slip in my earbuds and bob and weave my way up the sidewalk, dancing on my toes. I'm riding an incredible high, but as is my nature, by the time I get to the restaurant, the voice in my head, the one that ruins everything, has got me second guessing myself. Why hadn't Jack fucked me? Yes, he'd brought me home and taken care of me, made me eggs, cleaned my kitchen. Yes, he'd helped me to cum and finally to sleep. Yes, yes, yes, it was all magical. But why didn't he want
me
? What had felt gallant when I woke begins to feel more and more like pity. After six months of texting, he'd met me and realized he wanted nothing to do with me.
Who can blame him
, the voice whispered.
I check my phone. Still no word. What more proof do I need? I'm never going to hear from him again. It's strange how much that hurts.
Tommy and James are at an outdoor table with another couple. Tommy spots me and waves me over, but I don't want to go over there like this. They're having a champagne-fueled good time, and I'm little miss storm cloud. I do something that runs counter to my bedrock principles - I text Jack first.
- hi
Okay, not exactly the Declaration of Independence, but I've broken the ice. I even feel a little proud of myself. Still don't think I'll get an answer, but at least he can't use the excuse that we both just let it go. I hate that move.
Before I can get too much on my high horse, my phone vibrates. It's him.
- Good morning. Or I guess, good afternoon now.
I stare at the message like a zoologist who's just discovered a previously unknown species.
- How did you sleep?
I feel immediately guilty at his question.
- so so good. im really sorry I passed out on you
- Don't be. You needed it. Did you just wake up?
- yeah, meeting friends for brunch wbu
- wbu?
That makes me smile. I forgot he's an actual grown up.
- sorry, it means what about you
- Ah, well, what about me is I'm at the airport.
My smile fades.
- where are you going
- Europe. Business trip.
I don't have any idea what he does for a living, but he strikes me as the kind of man who might have business on another continent. Either that or it's a lie, my girl-brain suggests. A way to get out of seeing me.
- how long are you gone
- Not sure. Depends how negotiations go. A week? Hopefully not longer than that.
- good luck
- Thank you. I'll text when I'm back.
When he's back. Now I know it's all bullshit. Is there no cell service in Europe? I know a gentle letdown when I see one. A week will turn into two, then into a month. Time will pass, and should I ever be foolish enough to reach out, he'll say he's just been busy. I'm so stupid.
- okay
- Be good.
Be good, he says. That's funny, I think, and start walking home. I'm not hungry anymore and don't want to inflict myself on my friends in this mood. By the time I get home, I've talked to six guys who would love to get together today. I know just what to wear.
#
The next nine days are a blur of men. I've gotten myself twisted out of shape before, but this is the worst it's ever been. My rational brain shuts down, and my decision making becomes increasingly erratic. A grasping tunnel vision takes over. Everything ceases to matter other than my craving. Tommy stops texting me around day five, which is how I know he's really mad. There's no excuse for why I haven't texted him back and at least let him know I'm alive. I just don't. I feel feral, distractingly horny, and other than going to work, I spend every waking moment either fucking or looking for my next. I can't stop. They're not my hands on the wheel anymore. In the past, when I've gotten on this kind of self-destructive jag, I eventually exhaust myself like a hurricane blowing itself out once it makes landfall. The scary thing is that I feel my need gathering strength, not ebbing. It feels all consuming.
The funny slash pathetic part? I don't even make the connection that this has anything to do with Jack. Not even when my pace picks up on day seven. Jack said he might be back from Europe in a week. Of course, I don't hear from him and entirely coincidentally fuck three different men that day including a lawyer in his office on my lunchbreak. He's an unhealthy fifty-one and introduces me to his coworkers as the daughter of a college friend there for an informational interview. In his office, I look around at the framed pictures of his family. He has two daughters about my age. Both are petite brunettes like yours truly. I feel myself becoming wet at the perversity of it.
"How old are your girls?" I ask conversationally.
"Twenty-one and twenty-four."
"I'm twenty-three."
"Small world," he says, forcing me to my knees, unzipping, and shoving his dick in my mouth.
He uses my face for a while, and I put my hands on my knees dutifully and take it. I don't think he likes that, how easy it is for me. This isn't about him feeling good so much as it is punishing me. Seeing me struggle to take his manhood. When I don't, struggle that is, he pushes me onto my back and fucks me on the carpet with his suit pants around his ankles. The whole situation has a tawdry, underhanded vibe that works for me. I'm such a fucking romantic that for a moment, I even think I might cum. But, then the voice in my head clears its throat and nips that idea in its slutty, slutty bud.
After
he
cums, he carefully wraps the condom in tissue and slips it into his pocket like an assassin picking up shell casings. Can't have his indiscretion discovered by the custodial staff. Without a word, he goes around to his desk and picks up the phone as if he's got a call to make, dismissing me with a flick of his hand. Straightening my skirt, I wince my way out of his office with rug burn on my back. I make a mental note not to block his number. Him I would let fuck me again.
Not so much the rest of this parade of unmemorable, anonymous encounters. The sheer number is the only thing I remember afterwards. It's not until much later that I realize that was the point of this entire sordid exercise. Jack helped me to cum, and I am determined to prove that it wasn't because of his magic voice. See, he might not want me, but I don't need him. The only problem is, I can't prove my thesis. I can't cum. And the longer it goes on, the more frustrated I become, and the hornier I get. It's a vicious, degrading, unhealthy circle that makes me ever more angry and reckless. Call me Hurricane Mackenzie.
On the morning of the tenth day, I'm all but broken. My pussy feels bruised, and my body aches like it got thrown off a building. Yet I'm unable to stop myself. It's a Wednesday, and I call in sick as soon as I wake up. That's always been an uncrossable line - no matter what else happens, my proclivities never interfere with my job. I worked too hard in school and hustled to get a foot in the door after graduation. I swore I wouldn't let anything jeopardize it. Yet here I am, skipping work to fuck anonymous men. I am such a worthless whore.
Nevertheless, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I'm meeting a man at his hotel. He's got an important lunch meeting at noon, and I promised to help him destress beforehand. I like the idea of that. It makes me feel useful. I blow dry my hair and do my make up in the mirror. It amazes me how pretty I look. And I don't mean that as a brag, it genuinely surprises me every time and especially after the past week. I just have one of those angelic faces. Nothing ever sticks to it. In the mirror, I look like freshly fallen snow, pure and untouched despite everything. A sweet, beautiful girl with a bright future who you would be proud to take home to meet the folks. What a sick joke. I don't know where my Dorian Grey picture is hidden, but it's doing some heavy, heavy lifting.
I get to the Hay-Adams a little before ten. My little black cocktail dress is woefully out of place at this hour of the morning, but that's how he wanted me. I like how shy it makes me feel. Dressing for a man I've never met turns me on for reasons I don't wish to overthink. At the elevators, the well-heeled K Street types and tourist families give me a wide berth. He asked if I wanted to meet in the lobby first, but that's just wasting everyone's time at this point. I tell him I'll just come up to his room. No one gets murdered in hotels this fancy, right?
He answers the door in a plush hotel bathrobe and gives me an appraising once over before ushering me inside. I estimate he's about forty with a kind face framed by a blonde beard. He introduces himself as Pierre in a soft-spoken French accent that to my American ears sounds almost like parody. I tell him my name is Rachel.
"You are more beautiful than your pictures, Rachel," he says with a gracious smile. "Thank you for visiting me this morning. I am a fortunate man."
He's working the whole gentlemanly seduction angle, which isn't my usual vibe at all, but that accent is selling it. My phone vibrates in my hand. I glance at the lock screen. It's Jack, and I feel my face fall. Pierre asks if everything is okay. I ask if I could use his bathroom, and he is too much of a gentleman to say no. I shut the door and lean against the counter before reading the message.
- Hello Mackenzie. How are you?
It's so calculatingly bland and casual as if we talked just last night. Two can play though.
- fine
- Good. Just wanted to say hello now I'm back.
- hello
- Anyway, a car just dropped me off. Really good to be home. It was a long trip.
I react two different ways to this. First, I feel really touched to be the first person he texted. Alternatively, this is some bullshit. He was never in Europe, and this is all elaborate gaslighting for reasons unknown. When I don't respond, he adds:
- Well, I know you're probably at work. Don't want to interrupt your morning, but I'd like to see you when you're not busy.
My heart leaps against my better judgment.
