Photo-Illustration: James Gallagher This week, a woman fends off a customer at the strip club by flashing him a fake wedding ring: 30, Single, Straight, Harlem.11:00 a.m. Champagne hangovers are the worst. After an inconsistent autumn at the strip club I dance at, work is picking up and I’m finally getting consistent Champagne rooms again. I put away several bottles of Cristal last night, and I only vaguely remember the Uber ride home. I roll out of bed.
8:45 p.m. I’m trying desperately to finish coding homework for an ass-kicking computer-science program I recently enrolled in. I keep thinking about A and it’s driving me a little nuts. I decide to wait a day or two to text back.9:00 a.m. I wake up to a good morning text from B; we met on Facebook. He produces podcasts, does a lot of drugs, is sexually fluid, and California-cool with his surfer hair and dreamy blue eyes. I like his vibe and we get along effortlessly.
11:00 p.m. We’re back at his place and he’s so happy to see me that he lets me know by eating me out for 20 glorious minutes. He does the finger-slipping-in-and-out thing I love while he slurps and licks and my eyes roll back. The sex is quick but intense and he comes loudly, which I find really hot. I love when men make noise. I like you so much, he keeps saying. I like you too, I tell him, unsure of how true this is.10:00 a.m.
11:30 p.m. We go back to his place and fuck passionately for hours, in every position. I love making you come, he whispers, kissing the back of my neck. When he’s about to finish he asks, can I come in you, but I hear, can I come on you, and tell him of course. I am shocked when I feel myself getting filled with something. It’s been a long time since I let someone do that, for me it’s as intimate as it is risky.
3:45 p.m. B sends me a link to a playlist he’s made. I listen to it before work and realize it’s a love letter. I am flooded with conflicting emotions. He knows I dance and thinks its “fucking badass,” which is a rarity; he’s a feminist, a real one. We are compatible on so many levels but there is something missing for me. Before heading in to work I switch my moonstone ring from my right hand to my left.
So, this is basically a Penthouse letter without the puréed banana in a blender kink?
Endless gross fictional clickbait. Only a trash publication would run this garbage.
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