The characters depicted in this fictitious story as all adults over the age of 21. The author does not in any way condone the theme of the story, nor the actions of the characters in the story and believes all real life relationships must be built on love, affection and mutual consent. Narrative Style: First Person Female
*****
Part I – The Hook
Allison always taught me to look for the signs. "It sort of like being a good poker player, Emma," she used to tell me. "I have this innate ability to identify losers from a mile away. You can sense weakness in their faces and that's when you know it's time to act."
Ah, Allison. Of the four sweet (and hot of course) "girlyloves," as we named our posse, she was the least well-off and also, in my estimation, the most content.
Which isn't to say the rest of us weren't happy. We were among the lucky privileged set of modern women who have always gotten whatever the fuck we wanted out of life. You will note that I write this lovely story with a rather crass tone, but it is not my way to swear in public. It's just that this story cannot be shared properly without a liberal use of the English language.
So yes, Allison. Along with myself, she was part of our closely knit four-women gaggle that graduated from NYU seven years ago and began a life of luxury and leisure in the city.
The other three of us, myself, Gracie, and Vanessa all dabbled in careers before taking a simpler path. We found wealthy and successful men who worked their asses off and let them toil away while we all focused on having fun and being beautiful. I wouldn't say we feel any guilt about the paths we have chosen. But we aren't without a few regrets.
My husband Paul spends much of the week working like a dog in London. He's a fund manager who cleared $30 million last year. This doesn't make us billionaires, yet, but it's more than enough. I met him at a bar less than a year out of college. At the time I was working in marketing in a startup. When the startup went belly-up, rather than take a job somewhere else (there were decent offers), I decided to let Paul take care of me. He's tall and well-mannered and meets my needs, and so I meet his. For now, it's enough.
Gracie is second generation Chinese. I'm told her husband is one of the 20 or 30 wealthiest men in Asia. Three years ago, Grace- had a successful career in executive recruiting, making almost $400k at 26, before her soon-to-be billionaire tech hubby swept her off her feet. Gracie wasn't shy about saying how much she loved to buy whatever the hell she wanted. At the same time I think a part of her felt somewhat disenchanted and in need of some adventure.
Then there's Vanessa. At 27, she advanced to Director of a PR firm. And then she seduced the CEO just six months after the guy finished his divorce. I often wonder if he got divorced because of Vanessa. The fact that he's double her age doesn't seem to bother her. He is quite nice looking for a man approaching 60. Vanessa has told us that he absolutely fawns over her. Compared to the rest of us, she came from a working class background, and so I think it meant more to her to be set for life. That said, I have suspected for some time that her aging husband couldn't possibly provide for all of her physical needs. I recently shared these concerns with Allison who smiled and nodded her head in agreement.
In terms of looks, Gracie is a stereotypically petite Asian American, barely 5 feet and 100 pounds. Her personality more than compensates for her size, as she talks loudly and often, and she's whip fucking smart. In conversation, it's easy to see what made her such a successful recruiter. Vanessa is more reserved, personality-wise but there's nothing reserved about her outrageously curvy body, which is perfectly accentuated by the fact that she is 69 inches tall and that's before the high heels. I'm somewhere in between the two of them in terms of my size, and blonde. I will unabashedly admit that I enjoy spending time in front of a mirror, making myself as pretty as possible.
Anyway, Gracie, Vanessa and I basically spend our time working out, going to various shows and events around town, eating at the best restaurants, manis/pedis, you get the idea. In a way, it sometimes feels we are prisoners to the married life, since we share a belief in monogamy, at least at this stage in our lives. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining, but at times it's dreadfully boring. Soon we could all be popping out kids. This was the attitude that permeated among us, and ultimately made us all too happy and willing to participate in the joyous events of this story.
You see, at the end of the day, men and women use each other to get what we need. It's a fact of life. The battle of the sexes is very real, and to the victors go the spoils. Allison once told me she thought I was an even bigger bitch than she is, which was both intended to be, and received, as a wonderful complement. Beautiful bitches like me get what we want. And we always win.
Which brings us to the lovely, fascinating, not-so-sweet (well, she's sweet to us anyhow lol) Allison.
Allison has taken an untraditional life path, having become a professional dominatrix. The term "dominatrix" is really outdated in this day and age. She prefers to refer to herself as a humiliatrix, and boy as we would find out over the course of a wonderful series of events, Allison is very, very good at her job.
Of the four of us, she's the least well off, but she's not poor. She recently confided in me that she made over $250k last year, all at the expense of the "pathetic jerkoff losers" she enjoys exploiting for fun. Now that's a pauper's salary in NYC, but when combined with some trust fund money from her grandfather's old textile business and the sweet 1,400 square foot Tribeca loft she doesn't have to pay for, I'd say she's doing just fine.
The feminist in me holds great admiration for the way Allison makes her living. I long had a secret fascination with the ways in which attractive women use their sexual power to get what they want. All four of us wouldn't be in the positions we are in if not for understanding of the power of our looks. It's a form of emotional intelligence and it's Allison who has taken it to the next level. She is part of the new wave of women who openly exploit and take advantage of weak men ruled by their sexual impulses. I find it profoundly amusing to think about.
While an increasing number of women engage in this practice, Allison takes it to a higher plain. I always felt like she was the brightest of the four of us, the most creative, and in many ways the most determined. The two of us are unified by our stereotypical "hot blonde" body types – you know what I mean. Both on the slender, petite side with curves in all the right places. Allison is ever so slightly more robust than me, with broader hips, and an inch height advantage. Both of us suffer from unwanted male attention on the streets of the city. Where I'm more likely to simply ignore the lewd commentary I'm often subject to (It's easy for me to dismiss the source as pathetic), Allison is more likely to fire back. Her arsenal of verbal insults can hack a man to pieces. Not long ago, I witnessed her eviscerate some dumbass construction worker on 42nd Street. She is fearless and awesome, and I adore her.
Gracie, Vanessa, and I have come to rely on Allison to help keep things interesting for us when we are looking for some real adventure and sense of purpose in our lives. And oh boy did she ever deliver that recently in the most fantastic way imaginable. It was a series of moments that I think we will all treasure for a long, long time, especially me since I played such an integral part in the set-up.
It all started at the boutique shoe shop I like to frequent in Chelsea. It was late morning on a Tuesday just after yoga. Normally I'd never shop wearing yoga pants; it's tacky and beneath me, but on this day, as I paced by the store, it began to rain quite suddenly and unexpectedly and hard.
So I ducked in and the place was empty. Usually I see the owner, Rogeilo, who is gay and charming, but on this day a schlumpy-looking half bald dude emerged from the back of the store. He wore a suit, as one would expect at a place of this caliber but there's something in his face I didn't like. Immediately I thought back to a conversation I had with Allison. This guy had "weak perv" written all over him. I just knew it!
He introduced himself as Bruce and reached out for a handshake. It was inappropriate and I condescended to give his hand only the briefest, most feminine of shakes. I felt a creeping sensation as his eyes meandered down toward my midsection. As everyone knows, yoga pants provide coverage for the skin but not the body shape, and this weirdo did little to disguise his opportunity to analyze my assets.
It's a subtle violation all attractive women must occasionally suffer, but it doesn't mean we have to like it. A part of me wanted to just turn and leave. Instead, I tried on a pair of pumps and left, mostly because I found it uncomfortable being in this guy's presence. He exuded a sense of desperation and a lack of confidence. The sympathetic corner of my heart felt a tad sorry for him, but mostly I wanted to get away. After trying on one pair, I decided to brave the elements and walk the final two blocks to our penthouse apartment in the rain.
"Why don't you like them?" he said to my surprise.
"Just not quite right. Thank you," I said.
"Sure. It's nice to see you," he said and reached out his hand again for me to shake it. His smile combined with the telltale sweat on his forehead made me want to vomit. I took his hand again limply for a moment and turned and left, feeling his gross eyes studying my perfect ass as I swiftly departed.
When I got back and dried off, my mind kept drifting back to this Bruce guy. Why did Rogelio hire him? A part of me wanted to complain, but there wasn't really enough to complain about. Guys in this position can make reasonable money for a worker bee. They receive commissions and some can make close to six figures, which of course is below the poverty line in New York, but can get a person a shitty one-bedroom on the outskirts of Queens.
Bruce looked to be about ten years older than me, maybe late 30s, possibly 40. As I showered off, my mind kept drifting to something Allison had told me about the guys she abuses. Allison met most of her "pathetic losers" on line (apparently 'loser' is a huge word in this fun game). But she also occasionally has met random guys during the course of her day and outed them naturally before exploiting them in the same way she may exploit some on line loser. She referred to these situations as "organic conquests" and considered them her favorite kind.
When I got out of the shower, I dropped her a text and told her I wanted to touch base.
Emma: Hey Girlielove! [this was a pet phrase we used with our small gaggle of college gal pals]
Allison: yoyoyo. What's new, gorgeous?
Emma: Remember those "organic conquests" you talked about?
Allison: Hell yea. My fave kind. Pls tell me you found an eligible losr...
Emma: Possibly...
Allison: Yay! Remember, if your instinct says "loser" then always trust your instinct.
That afternoon we met for coffee. I told her about this Bruce guy and Allison immediately perked up. Although the money had been great lately, she confided in me that things felt like a bit of a grind. "These on line losers are so dumb, and boring," she told me as she sipped her latte. "It almost feels like a job. Almost." We laughed.
We agreed she would make a trip over to Rogelios and do some face-to-face recon on Bruce. "If your instinct is right, and I'm sure it is," she said, "We are going to be in for some fun. I have a few fresh ideas I want to put into motion and it involves you and the other Girlyloves. It's time for a girls night out."
