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tuckmaple
Meteorite
- Joined
- Aug 18, 2025
Well, hey there, Blue Moon! My name is Tucker. Let me tell you a bit about myself.
I studied creative writing in college—which is a bit like majoring in unemployment. Today, I work as a journalist but I still like to exercise my creative chops by crafting smutty stories with likeminded collaborators. Below are a frew prompts I've written. If nothing else, I hope they convey the elements I enjoy: slice-of-life scenarios that blend erotism, romance, and complexity.
I tend to write 3 - 5 meaty paragraphs per message. Sometimes more (especially in the beginning as the scene is being set) but never less. I'm flexible on writing in first or third person. I find the best exchanges are when a potential partner comes armed with their own ideas. If you have a twist or idea to enhance one of my prompts—I'd love to hear it. If my writing style speaks to you but my prompts don't—feel free to reach out as well.
Let's create something incredible.
I studied creative writing in college—which is a bit like majoring in unemployment. Today, I work as a journalist but I still like to exercise my creative chops by crafting smutty stories with likeminded collaborators. Below are a frew prompts I've written. If nothing else, I hope they convey the elements I enjoy: slice-of-life scenarios that blend erotism, romance, and complexity.
I tend to write 3 - 5 meaty paragraphs per message. Sometimes more (especially in the beginning as the scene is being set) but never less. I'm flexible on writing in first or third person. I find the best exchanges are when a potential partner comes armed with their own ideas. If you have a twist or idea to enhance one of my prompts—I'd love to hear it. If my writing style speaks to you but my prompts don't—feel free to reach out as well.
Let's create something incredible.
You didn't meet Dr. Foxwell until after Robbie put a ring on your finger. Your friends thought it was strange. How could you be dating Robbie for two years and never meet his Dad? But that's just how it was. Robbie's parents divorced when he was six. His father was a world famous brain surgeon, who was often too busy saving lives to make it to soccer games or birthday parties. Dr. Foxwell knew he was a pisspoor father, and he tried to make up for his absence with monetary support. He paid for the condo you and Robbie lived in. He paid for the BMW Robbie drove to work. In all likelihood, he would be paying for the wedding that you were now in the thick of planning.
Dr. Foxwell arranged for you and Robbie to visit at the end of March. His California estate was nestled into the hills of Malibu, overlooking a golden landscape of yucca and bermudagrass. It was a grand, Spanish-style craftsman with white stucco walls and sleek, modern amenities and an infinity pool. But the only thing more impressive than the abode was the man who owned it. Dr. Foxwell was charming and witty and handsome; the perfect set of attributes for putting anxious patients at ease. At dinner, he ordered a bottle of French wine with the ease of a practiced sommelier. As you ate, he regaled you with tales of his latest miracle; separating the skulls of conjoined twins in Thailand. It was a feat so extraordinary that he was now rumored to be on the shortlist for a Nobel Prize.
Robbie and his father shared some facial features — pronounced cheekbones, a sharp jawline, a shimmering set of ocean-blue eyes — but that was where the similarities stopped. At 6'4, Dr. Foxwell towered over his son. Robbie had his mother's auburn red hair, while his father's was dark and peppered with specks of grey. Robbie was an avid runner with a bony, scrawny frame. Dr. Foxwell's preferred form of exercise was rowing; a hobby he began decades ago when he was in pre-med at Yale. His physique was lean but muscled; impressive for a man in his early 50's.
After dinner, you and Robbie retired to the guest suite, where you watched half an episode of Love is Blind before both dozing off. You woke at 2AM with a dry throat. The California moon beyond the windows was heavy and ominously full. You slipped stealthily from the sheets as Robbie snored and made your way towards the kitchen in search of a glass of water. Surely no one would be awake at this ungodly hour.
But as you stepped into the expansive kitchen, you saw him, his silhouette lit up by the refrigerator's glow. Dr. Foxwell was shirtless, sporting nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. He arched up his brows as he turned to look at you, flashing his heart-melting smirk. "Hey there," he crooned, "couldn't sleep?"
Dr. Foxwell arranged for you and Robbie to visit at the end of March. His California estate was nestled into the hills of Malibu, overlooking a golden landscape of yucca and bermudagrass. It was a grand, Spanish-style craftsman with white stucco walls and sleek, modern amenities and an infinity pool. But the only thing more impressive than the abode was the man who owned it. Dr. Foxwell was charming and witty and handsome; the perfect set of attributes for putting anxious patients at ease. At dinner, he ordered a bottle of French wine with the ease of a practiced sommelier. As you ate, he regaled you with tales of his latest miracle; separating the skulls of conjoined twins in Thailand. It was a feat so extraordinary that he was now rumored to be on the shortlist for a Nobel Prize.
Robbie and his father shared some facial features — pronounced cheekbones, a sharp jawline, a shimmering set of ocean-blue eyes — but that was where the similarities stopped. At 6'4, Dr. Foxwell towered over his son. Robbie had his mother's auburn red hair, while his father's was dark and peppered with specks of grey. Robbie was an avid runner with a bony, scrawny frame. Dr. Foxwell's preferred form of exercise was rowing; a hobby he began decades ago when he was in pre-med at Yale. His physique was lean but muscled; impressive for a man in his early 50's.
After dinner, you and Robbie retired to the guest suite, where you watched half an episode of Love is Blind before both dozing off. You woke at 2AM with a dry throat. The California moon beyond the windows was heavy and ominously full. You slipped stealthily from the sheets as Robbie snored and made your way towards the kitchen in search of a glass of water. Surely no one would be awake at this ungodly hour.
But as you stepped into the expansive kitchen, you saw him, his silhouette lit up by the refrigerator's glow. Dr. Foxwell was shirtless, sporting nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. He arched up his brows as he turned to look at you, flashing his heart-melting smirk. "Hey there," he crooned, "couldn't sleep?"
The summer after graduation, Elise got a job scooping ice cream at Baxter Creamery (where every cone tastes like a vacation). Her boyfriend, Simon, would occasionally ride his bike to visit her and enjoy a scoop of blueberry with rainbow sprinkles. He was going to art school in New York City in the fall, while she'd be enrolling at Tufts in Boston. Their romance had an expiration date, but, for now, they were happy to merely enjoy a picturesque summer, without any thoughts of the future.
Jake worked for a local delivery company. He didn't have the money for college and thus was destined, like his father and his father before him, to become a townie. Every Thursday, he delivered crates of milk to Baxter Creamery. His muscled arms carried the 80-pound boxes like they weighed absolutely nothing. Elise and her co-workers would watch him work, giggling and whispering about how easily he could probably toss each of them around a mattress.
"Jake asked about you," Cassandra, Elise's manager, told her one scorching July afternoon. "He wanted to know if you have a boyfriend." Elise felt a lump in her throat. She loved Simon, but, lately, whenever she slipped her hand into her panties in the middle of the night, she thought only of Jake's large hands; his thick wrists and the veins that ran between his knuckles like smooth mountain ranges. "He's coming to the lake house party this weekend," Cassandra continued, "too bad Simon will be there too."
Cassandra's dad, a hedge fund manager, owned a 10-bedroom estate nestled into the pines of Lake Hobart. He was in Hong Kong on business and Cassnadra seized the opportunity to throw an end-of-school rager. Her older sister supplied the alcohol. The sky was purple and twilit when Elise and Simon pulled up in his little red Hyundai. Rock music was blaring and the party was already in full-swing. They told each of their parents they were spending the night at friends' houses. They were eighteen and graduated, but still living under oppressive midnight curfews.
They were less than 10 steps through the front door when Simon's friend, Peter, whisked him away with the promise of a bong and some "dank ass weed." Elise found her co-workers who immediately convinced her to down one, two, three shots of Smirnoff. They then found their way into the living room, which doubled as a dance floor.
Elise was swaying her hips, lifting her arms, laughing, and letting the rhythmic beats of the bass pump through her. She didn't notice the hands on her hips, until she looked back and saw Jake towering over her, a devilish smirk on his lips. Her heart rate quickened as her ass impulsively pressed back against him. "Want to go somewhere we can talk?" he whispered in her ear. She nodded her head.
In the upstairs master bedroom, with moonlight spilling through the windows, Elise and Jake sat on the edge of a neatly made mattress. Her mind oscillated between thoughts of Simon and the handsome contours of Jake's face. When there was a lull in conversation, Jake turned his Coors Light bottle upward and drained its remnants in loud, slurping gulps.
"Want to play spin the bottle?" he asked when he was finished. Just then, the door creaked open. Simon was standing there with dazed, bloodshot eyes. "Perfect," Jake growled, "now we have enough people to make the game interesting."
Jake worked for a local delivery company. He didn't have the money for college and thus was destined, like his father and his father before him, to become a townie. Every Thursday, he delivered crates of milk to Baxter Creamery. His muscled arms carried the 80-pound boxes like they weighed absolutely nothing. Elise and her co-workers would watch him work, giggling and whispering about how easily he could probably toss each of them around a mattress.
"Jake asked about you," Cassandra, Elise's manager, told her one scorching July afternoon. "He wanted to know if you have a boyfriend." Elise felt a lump in her throat. She loved Simon, but, lately, whenever she slipped her hand into her panties in the middle of the night, she thought only of Jake's large hands; his thick wrists and the veins that ran between his knuckles like smooth mountain ranges. "He's coming to the lake house party this weekend," Cassandra continued, "too bad Simon will be there too."
Cassandra's dad, a hedge fund manager, owned a 10-bedroom estate nestled into the pines of Lake Hobart. He was in Hong Kong on business and Cassnadra seized the opportunity to throw an end-of-school rager. Her older sister supplied the alcohol. The sky was purple and twilit when Elise and Simon pulled up in his little red Hyundai. Rock music was blaring and the party was already in full-swing. They told each of their parents they were spending the night at friends' houses. They were eighteen and graduated, but still living under oppressive midnight curfews.
They were less than 10 steps through the front door when Simon's friend, Peter, whisked him away with the promise of a bong and some "dank ass weed." Elise found her co-workers who immediately convinced her to down one, two, three shots of Smirnoff. They then found their way into the living room, which doubled as a dance floor.
Elise was swaying her hips, lifting her arms, laughing, and letting the rhythmic beats of the bass pump through her. She didn't notice the hands on her hips, until she looked back and saw Jake towering over her, a devilish smirk on his lips. Her heart rate quickened as her ass impulsively pressed back against him. "Want to go somewhere we can talk?" he whispered in her ear. She nodded her head.
In the upstairs master bedroom, with moonlight spilling through the windows, Elise and Jake sat on the edge of a neatly made mattress. Her mind oscillated between thoughts of Simon and the handsome contours of Jake's face. When there was a lull in conversation, Jake turned his Coors Light bottle upward and drained its remnants in loud, slurping gulps.
"Want to play spin the bottle?" he asked when he was finished. Just then, the door creaked open. Simon was standing there with dazed, bloodshot eyes. "Perfect," Jake growled, "now we have enough people to make the game interesting."
There are few moments in life more awkward than running into an ex; the look of recognition, the lopsided smiles, the pleasantries exchanged as though you're mere acquaintances who never shared a bed. When that bed was also the site of a specific kink or fetish, it adds a whole other dimension of discomfort. As you exchange banal small talk about your jobs, your apartments, your siblings… there's that crackling awareness that you know each other's sexual secrets; all the shameful little things that make that other person go weak.
Jesse was at the farmer's market with his new girlfriend, the canvas bag on his shoulder weighed down with peaches, turnips, arugula, and radishes. He and Olivia had only been dating for a few months, but if you saw them sauntering amongst the vendors — holding hands and laughing — you would've assumed they were a battle-tested couple. They didn't live together yet, but they rarely spent a night apart.
"Oh babe, look at these!" Olivia said, bending at the waist to inspect a bouquet of wildflowers wrapped in cellophane. Jesse, ever the dutiful boyfriend, was already reaching for his wallet, ready to shower his new sweetheart with yet another gift. But as he opened his billfold he was suddenly seized by a full-body chill; like a sudden cold front in October. He looked up and there she was. Lauren. Her red hair bounced gingerly about her shoulders. Her black heels clicked across the concrete floor. her glossed lips were curved upwards in that signature, dismissive smirk. She was hanging on the arm of a handsome gentleman; her own new lover no doubt.
"Hi Jesse," she growled flatly as she passed. That was all she said but it was enough to leave his heart pounding in his chest and his cock stiffening in his underwear… It had been months since the last time he knelt on Lauren's bedroom floor wearing nothing but a pair of Calvin Klein tighty-whities... Desperate to hear her call him a "good boy."
"Who's that?" Olivia asked befuddled.
"Oh… um… nobody… just an old... co-worker." Jesse kissed Olivia hard on the mouth, hoping it might settle the nerves that were suddenly rattling through his veins.
But that night, as Olivia was in her tiny kitchen mixing up their vegetables in a stir-fry, Jesse was on her couch, his trembling hands thumbing through his iPhone to pull up Lauren's contact info. It was Jesse's idea to end things. He couldn't stand the power she had over him. He was ashamed of the things she made him do… pegging… creating a Grindr account... inviting other guys into their bedroom. When he thought of Lauren, all he felt was shame… but here he was... hammering out a text message to her…
It was good to see you again. Send.
Jesse was at the farmer's market with his new girlfriend, the canvas bag on his shoulder weighed down with peaches, turnips, arugula, and radishes. He and Olivia had only been dating for a few months, but if you saw them sauntering amongst the vendors — holding hands and laughing — you would've assumed they were a battle-tested couple. They didn't live together yet, but they rarely spent a night apart.
"Oh babe, look at these!" Olivia said, bending at the waist to inspect a bouquet of wildflowers wrapped in cellophane. Jesse, ever the dutiful boyfriend, was already reaching for his wallet, ready to shower his new sweetheart with yet another gift. But as he opened his billfold he was suddenly seized by a full-body chill; like a sudden cold front in October. He looked up and there she was. Lauren. Her red hair bounced gingerly about her shoulders. Her black heels clicked across the concrete floor. her glossed lips were curved upwards in that signature, dismissive smirk. She was hanging on the arm of a handsome gentleman; her own new lover no doubt.
"Hi Jesse," she growled flatly as she passed. That was all she said but it was enough to leave his heart pounding in his chest and his cock stiffening in his underwear… It had been months since the last time he knelt on Lauren's bedroom floor wearing nothing but a pair of Calvin Klein tighty-whities... Desperate to hear her call him a "good boy."
"Who's that?" Olivia asked befuddled.
"Oh… um… nobody… just an old... co-worker." Jesse kissed Olivia hard on the mouth, hoping it might settle the nerves that were suddenly rattling through his veins.
But that night, as Olivia was in her tiny kitchen mixing up their vegetables in a stir-fry, Jesse was on her couch, his trembling hands thumbing through his iPhone to pull up Lauren's contact info. It was Jesse's idea to end things. He couldn't stand the power she had over him. He was ashamed of the things she made him do… pegging… creating a Grindr account... inviting other guys into their bedroom. When he thought of Lauren, all he felt was shame… but here he was... hammering out a text message to her…
It was good to see you again. Send.
The Magdalene Convent in North Ontario was a cloister for the most devout and holy of Catholic girls. Ranging in age from eighteen to twenty-two, they had foregone college educations in favor of Bible study and strict daily prayer. They hoped to become nuns of the highest order; holding hands of the invalid in Mother Teresa's Home for the Dying or fixing tea for the Pope.
The convent consisted of a few brick buildings nestled into a crook of snowy hills. Twice a year, shipments of food and other provisions arrived from the nearby town. Men (including priests) were strictly forbidden from entering the complex. Truckers would leave large wooden crates just beyond the rod iron gates and the girls, in their habits, would come out to collect them like worker ants. Mother Superior, herself a graduate of the cloister, thought it was best to minimize the girls' potential for sin—including thinking sinful thoughts.
On a frigid February night, as Abigail Fitzpatrick sat at her desk underlining passages of Leviticus, a sudden roar came screaming across the sky. It shook her floorboards and rattled the shirtless Jesus painting that hung above her twin bed. She rushed to the dusty window just in time to see a fireball descending in a sickening arc over the moonlit hills. She ran to the hallway where her panicked sisters were already gathering. They had seen it too.
The girls threw on their coats and mittens and rushed out into the night. A plume of white smoke drifted up toward the stars. Some of them speculated it was a meteorite—others, a fallen angel. What they found instead was the mangled body of a silver hobby plane. An unconscious man in a white t-shirt and blue jeans was hunched over in the passenger seat. A trickle of blood ran from a gash in his forehead down to his sharp jawline. He was lean but muscle bound. It took all eight of them to free his body from the wreckage.
They struggled to carry his body back to the convent and up the stairs to an empty bedroom. Eloise, who spent last summer volunteering at a hospital, directed the other girls on what to do. They stripped him of his blood-soaked clothing leaving him in his white briefs, the waistband of which was embroidered with the words Calvin Klein. They spent the whole night bandaging the cuts and scrapes that scored his body and placed a wet cloth across his forehead. It wasn't until morning that he finally opened his blue eyes and through his hazy vision saw the young nuns gathered around him.
The convent consisted of a few brick buildings nestled into a crook of snowy hills. Twice a year, shipments of food and other provisions arrived from the nearby town. Men (including priests) were strictly forbidden from entering the complex. Truckers would leave large wooden crates just beyond the rod iron gates and the girls, in their habits, would come out to collect them like worker ants. Mother Superior, herself a graduate of the cloister, thought it was best to minimize the girls' potential for sin—including thinking sinful thoughts.
On a frigid February night, as Abigail Fitzpatrick sat at her desk underlining passages of Leviticus, a sudden roar came screaming across the sky. It shook her floorboards and rattled the shirtless Jesus painting that hung above her twin bed. She rushed to the dusty window just in time to see a fireball descending in a sickening arc over the moonlit hills. She ran to the hallway where her panicked sisters were already gathering. They had seen it too.
The girls threw on their coats and mittens and rushed out into the night. A plume of white smoke drifted up toward the stars. Some of them speculated it was a meteorite—others, a fallen angel. What they found instead was the mangled body of a silver hobby plane. An unconscious man in a white t-shirt and blue jeans was hunched over in the passenger seat. A trickle of blood ran from a gash in his forehead down to his sharp jawline. He was lean but muscle bound. It took all eight of them to free his body from the wreckage.
They struggled to carry his body back to the convent and up the stairs to an empty bedroom. Eloise, who spent last summer volunteering at a hospital, directed the other girls on what to do. They stripped him of his blood-soaked clothing leaving him in his white briefs, the waistband of which was embroidered with the words Calvin Klein. They spent the whole night bandaging the cuts and scrapes that scored his body and placed a wet cloth across his forehead. It wasn't until morning that he finally opened his blue eyes and through his hazy vision saw the young nuns gathered around him.
Jackson and Naomi were skeptical of anyone who called themselves "polyamarous." They were a young, liberal-minded couple who preached a mantra of "whatever floats your boat." But when it came to swinging and group sex… they were leery. They cracked jokes about it being sweaty and weird. They hated how poly couples acted so "evolved" just because they fucked a lot. But now… here they were… frantically tidying their apartment in anticipation of the swinger couple that would soon be knocking on the door.
It had been four months since Jackson and Naomi uprooted their lives to move to Washington D.C. They met in undergrad at Yale and neither of them had ventured from their New England hometowns. But when Naomi landed a job at a buzzy nonprofit and Jackon's journalism career started to take off… it made sense to move to the nation's capital.
They fantasized about dinner parties, chic restaurants, and new friends. But the transition was slow. Their hectic work schedules often left them too exhausted to do anything at night more than watch some bad reality TV (Vanderpump Rules was their favorite) and crawl into bed.
Enter Trent and Claire.
Claire was in Naomi's yoga class. One day, in downward dog pose, they struck up conversation about local real estate and became fast friends. They started meeting up weekly at Starbucks or the local wine bar. Claire spent these get togethers regaling Naomi with tales of her wild sex life. Last summer, her and Trent visited a nude beach in Florida, where threesomes and foursomes were a near nightly occurrence. They shared a Tinder profile and spent their weekends prowling for strangers to invite into their bedroom. Naomi was shocked by how these little tidbits sparked her curiosity. When she shared them with Jackson… he was equally as titillated.
They went out as a couple to a local sushi spot and instantly hit it off. Trent and Jackson spent the whole night talking about basketball and politics as Naomi and Claire giggled and playfully mocked them. When they got home that night, Jackson confessed to having a crush on Claire. Naomi made the same confession about Trent. They sat up in bed all night talking about it; the risks, the rewards.
The following morning, Naomi sent Claire a text: they wanted to dip their toes into the swinger pool.
"They're here!" Naomi cried as she checked her look in the mirror one last time. She opted for a casual look; beige skater skirt and a pink polo—but she carefully and deliberately chose the white lace underwear she wore beneath. Jackson was sporting a heather grey t-shirt and slim cut khakis. They opened the door together, with smiles on their faces.
It had been four months since Jackson and Naomi uprooted their lives to move to Washington D.C. They met in undergrad at Yale and neither of them had ventured from their New England hometowns. But when Naomi landed a job at a buzzy nonprofit and Jackon's journalism career started to take off… it made sense to move to the nation's capital.
They fantasized about dinner parties, chic restaurants, and new friends. But the transition was slow. Their hectic work schedules often left them too exhausted to do anything at night more than watch some bad reality TV (Vanderpump Rules was their favorite) and crawl into bed.
Enter Trent and Claire.
Claire was in Naomi's yoga class. One day, in downward dog pose, they struck up conversation about local real estate and became fast friends. They started meeting up weekly at Starbucks or the local wine bar. Claire spent these get togethers regaling Naomi with tales of her wild sex life. Last summer, her and Trent visited a nude beach in Florida, where threesomes and foursomes were a near nightly occurrence. They shared a Tinder profile and spent their weekends prowling for strangers to invite into their bedroom. Naomi was shocked by how these little tidbits sparked her curiosity. When she shared them with Jackson… he was equally as titillated.
They went out as a couple to a local sushi spot and instantly hit it off. Trent and Jackson spent the whole night talking about basketball and politics as Naomi and Claire giggled and playfully mocked them. When they got home that night, Jackson confessed to having a crush on Claire. Naomi made the same confession about Trent. They sat up in bed all night talking about it; the risks, the rewards.
The following morning, Naomi sent Claire a text: they wanted to dip their toes into the swinger pool.
"They're here!" Naomi cried as she checked her look in the mirror one last time. She opted for a casual look; beige skater skirt and a pink polo—but she carefully and deliberately chose the white lace underwear she wore beneath. Jackson was sporting a heather grey t-shirt and slim cut khakis. They opened the door together, with smiles on their faces.
Your college classmates had two reactions to the life you built for yourself: envy and disgust. You met Pete shortly after graduation at a wine mixer for young professionals. In his late 20's, he was already a Wall Street hot shot, with a seven-figure salary and a fashionable TriBeca loft. Within six months you were engaged. A year after that, you were married. Your friends dutifully attended the wedding in Cape Cod and donned the ugly, pink bridesmaids dresses you had chosen for them, but the entire time they were whispering behind your back. They couldn't believe a girl as sharp and savvy and you had fallen into a life of utter materialism. Less than a year into your marriage, your hard earned degree had been put on the back burner. You spent your days tidying the condo, fixing Pete dinner, getting lattes with the other Manhattan wives, and having bouts with your personal trainer. You knew what all your old friends said about you but still refused to give them the satisfaction of admitting the truth: you were bored our of your skull and racked with regret.
Pete wasn't the problem. At least, not completely. You loved him and he loved you. Your sex life though left something to be desired. Most of the time, he was too exhausted from working twelve hour days to fuck. Sex only happened on the weekends, and when it did, it was a slow, uneven, missionary act that ended as soon as he shot his load. No oral. No variety. No kink. Pete wasn't oblivious to this. He could see the bored, unsatisfied look in your eyes every time he rolled off of you. It ate at him. He knew this wasn't the life you signed up for and he would do anything to make it better.
"Babe, can you come here in for a minute?" Those were the words he said, sitting at the dining room table, on the day everything changed. His shoulders were tense as he nervously drummed his fingers on a large white envelope. He said he knew you were unhappy. He knew you needed more. He booked you a flight to Montana to spend the weekend with me.
"I don't care what happens," he said, "I just don't want to know about it."
By the time you met Pete I had already split town but his friends still talked about me like I was some sort of legend. I graduated with them from Harvard business and was considered one of the most promising recruits at Goldman Sachs. I was a fixture at all of the elite cocktail lounges and tennis clubs. Then, without warning, I got up from my desk one day, left Wall Street, and never looked back. I deleted my social media accounts. I sold my penthouse apartment and bought a ranch in rural Montana. Some folks admired my disappearing act, others said that I had gone completely insane.
I met you only once, on your wedding day. While Pete was busy dancing with his frat brothers to the Cha Cha Slide, you and I struck up conversation. I told you about my cowboy lifestyle. You told me about your artistic ambitions. There was a spark between us that was undeniable. A few weeks later, you confessed to Pete that you had a little crush on me. He never forgot it. Across the country on my big lonesome ranch, I thought about you on a nearly nightly basis.
When Pete called one evening near midnight and explained his predicament… your boredom, your unhappiness, your need to get properly fucked… it's safe to say I was taken aback. Normally, I would never entertain the offer of another man's wife. I long ago dipped my toes into the swinger lifestyle and decided it wasn't for me. But this was you and for some reason I couldn't say no.
---
A car was waiting for you at the Bozeman airport on the day you landed. The gray skies overhead were laden with the threat of snow. It was a two hour drive from there to my sprawling white estate, which slept on acres of land, miles from any supermarket or post office. As the car pulled up the expanse of my driveway, I stepped onto the porch. From behind the tinted glass, you saw me before I saw you. I was wearing a maroon colored pocket T, a pair of Levi's, a white cowboy hat. My arms were muscled and sun tanned from working in the fields, tattoos dotted along the length of them. I descended the steps and opened the back door to help you out of the car.
"Hey stranger," I crooned.
Pete wasn't the problem. At least, not completely. You loved him and he loved you. Your sex life though left something to be desired. Most of the time, he was too exhausted from working twelve hour days to fuck. Sex only happened on the weekends, and when it did, it was a slow, uneven, missionary act that ended as soon as he shot his load. No oral. No variety. No kink. Pete wasn't oblivious to this. He could see the bored, unsatisfied look in your eyes every time he rolled off of you. It ate at him. He knew this wasn't the life you signed up for and he would do anything to make it better.
"Babe, can you come here in for a minute?" Those were the words he said, sitting at the dining room table, on the day everything changed. His shoulders were tense as he nervously drummed his fingers on a large white envelope. He said he knew you were unhappy. He knew you needed more. He booked you a flight to Montana to spend the weekend with me.
"I don't care what happens," he said, "I just don't want to know about it."
By the time you met Pete I had already split town but his friends still talked about me like I was some sort of legend. I graduated with them from Harvard business and was considered one of the most promising recruits at Goldman Sachs. I was a fixture at all of the elite cocktail lounges and tennis clubs. Then, without warning, I got up from my desk one day, left Wall Street, and never looked back. I deleted my social media accounts. I sold my penthouse apartment and bought a ranch in rural Montana. Some folks admired my disappearing act, others said that I had gone completely insane.
I met you only once, on your wedding day. While Pete was busy dancing with his frat brothers to the Cha Cha Slide, you and I struck up conversation. I told you about my cowboy lifestyle. You told me about your artistic ambitions. There was a spark between us that was undeniable. A few weeks later, you confessed to Pete that you had a little crush on me. He never forgot it. Across the country on my big lonesome ranch, I thought about you on a nearly nightly basis.
When Pete called one evening near midnight and explained his predicament… your boredom, your unhappiness, your need to get properly fucked… it's safe to say I was taken aback. Normally, I would never entertain the offer of another man's wife. I long ago dipped my toes into the swinger lifestyle and decided it wasn't for me. But this was you and for some reason I couldn't say no.
---
A car was waiting for you at the Bozeman airport on the day you landed. The gray skies overhead were laden with the threat of snow. It was a two hour drive from there to my sprawling white estate, which slept on acres of land, miles from any supermarket or post office. As the car pulled up the expanse of my driveway, I stepped onto the porch. From behind the tinted glass, you saw me before I saw you. I was wearing a maroon colored pocket T, a pair of Levi's, a white cowboy hat. My arms were muscled and sun tanned from working in the fields, tattoos dotted along the length of them. I descended the steps and opened the back door to help you out of the car.
"Hey stranger," I crooned.
When you see a celebrity's face on a dating app you immediately assume one thing: catfish. That's why when I saw your smiling visage looking up at me from my iPhone I rolled my eyes and muttered "bullshit..." even as I swiped right. That was eight months ago and my life has felt like a sappy romantic comedy (filled with raunchy sex scenes) ever since.
My favorite Leonard Cohen song features the line we met when we were almost young. At our respective ages of 29 (you) and 34 (me), it's safe to say that lyric could've been written about us.
We'd both made some money and lived with lovers. I even had a brief and disastrous engagement behind me. You were working full-time on the iCarly reboot and picking up the occasional voiceover gig in Pixar films and car commercials. I was a prominent furniture designer, blueprinting sofas and chaise lounges for LA's uppercust. We laughed loudly in the darkened corners of restaurants and fucked like bunny rabbits in the privacy of hotel suites. Our courtship was new and we made an effort to shield it from the prying eyes of the paparazzi and TMZ — not wanting to poison something so pure. But we both knew if we went public, we could easily earn the moniker of "power couple."
Two weeks ago, you boarded a plane for Atlanta for another round of shooting, while I stayed behind in your modest but fashionable Topanga home. I had my own condo downtown, but was rarely there ever since we made things "exclusive." We stayed in touch with near-constant texts and naked Skype calls — but my need to feel my hands on your body again was so acute that it made me ache.
Dusk was falling and I was tidying up your Spanish-style kitchen when I heard the tires of your Uber coming up the driveway. I had an uncorked bottle of champagne waiting in a bucket of ice on the counter for us. Like a kid rushing down the stairs to unwrap his spoils on his Christmas morning, I moved to you front porch with haste. I was dressed casually; dark jeans and a white t-shirt. I leaned in your doorway and crossed my arms across my chest, unable to suppress a smile as I made eye contact with you through the tinted glass of the car's back window. I mouthed the words "welcome home."
My favorite Leonard Cohen song features the line we met when we were almost young. At our respective ages of 29 (you) and 34 (me), it's safe to say that lyric could've been written about us.
We'd both made some money and lived with lovers. I even had a brief and disastrous engagement behind me. You were working full-time on the iCarly reboot and picking up the occasional voiceover gig in Pixar films and car commercials. I was a prominent furniture designer, blueprinting sofas and chaise lounges for LA's uppercust. We laughed loudly in the darkened corners of restaurants and fucked like bunny rabbits in the privacy of hotel suites. Our courtship was new and we made an effort to shield it from the prying eyes of the paparazzi and TMZ — not wanting to poison something so pure. But we both knew if we went public, we could easily earn the moniker of "power couple."
Two weeks ago, you boarded a plane for Atlanta for another round of shooting, while I stayed behind in your modest but fashionable Topanga home. I had my own condo downtown, but was rarely there ever since we made things "exclusive." We stayed in touch with near-constant texts and naked Skype calls — but my need to feel my hands on your body again was so acute that it made me ache.
Dusk was falling and I was tidying up your Spanish-style kitchen when I heard the tires of your Uber coming up the driveway. I had an uncorked bottle of champagne waiting in a bucket of ice on the counter for us. Like a kid rushing down the stairs to unwrap his spoils on his Christmas morning, I moved to you front porch with haste. I was dressed casually; dark jeans and a white t-shirt. I leaned in your doorway and crossed my arms across my chest, unable to suppress a smile as I made eye contact with you through the tinted glass of the car's back window. I mouthed the words "welcome home."
November can be an unforgiving month. By the time the clocks change and the summer heat as dissipated my seasonal depression sets in. The shift to frigid temperatures and interminable gray skies has always had a way of wreaking havoc on my psyche… and my productivity.
My latest novel — the third in a series about a gruff and drunken private investigator — was an international bestseller. But my editor was growing increasingly impatient for my followup. At least twice a week, he was pestering me with emails about my progress. I assured him it was coming along swimmingly. But it was a lie. Most mornings, I spent hours staring into the abyss of my laptop. I'd jot down a few sentences — if I was lucky a whole paragraph — before giving up. Instead of writing, I'd smoke pot, watch old movies, listen to Velvet Underground records. When I got hungry, I'd venture out to the little Chinese restaurant below my loft for a warm bowl of Dim Sum.
The restaurant was owned by your uncle, a silver-haired Chinese immigrant who chain smoked cigarettes and wasn't particularly friendly. I still remember the first time I saw you, looking frenzied and overwhelmed as he barked orders at you in Mandarin. You didn't speak a lick of English and thus were tasked with running steaming plates from the greasy kitchen to the patrons. Every time you brought a plate to the wrong table, your uncle would call you a "dumb dog." You were no more than 19 or 20 and had just arrived in the United States. I wondered if this life was actually better than whatever persecution you were fleeing overseas.
On one idle Wednesday, when I was stoned and munching on some Zhaliang, you came shyly up to my table, clutching a book to your chest. It was my book, which I only recognized because of the black and white author photo on the back. My words had been translated into delicate and beautiful Chinese characters. You set the book down and handed me a pen; your way of asking for an autograph. I smiled and signed it. You grinned with glee. But as you scurried back to the kitchen, your uncle grabbed your arm and yanked you roughly aside. He started yelling at you. Despite the language barrier, it was clear he was scolding you for bothering the customers.
That night, as I laid awake in bed, I found myself thinking about you; your high and tight black ponytail, your shy smile, your white apron, your casual clothes dotted with grease stains. I thought about what it might be like to take those clothes off of you. Soon, I was jerking off thinking of how my hands would feel against your naked skin. When I woke up in the morning, I hammered out ten pages.
Clearly the universe had delivered me a new muse.
Soon I was stopping into the restaurant three days a week. I loved the Dim Sum — but in truth I was there to see you. We couldn't communicate beyond nods and smiles… but it was hard to remember the last time I had a crush that felt so intimate and real. I had paired my disgruntled private investigator with a Chinese girl who didn't speak English. After months of struggling, my novel was nearing completion.
All of this brings me to tonight. It was just before midnight when I left the book release party of a friend, my brain buzzing from one too many glasses of complimentary champagne. The city streets were dark and dangerously empty. As I rounded the corner onto my block, I saw you standing at the bus stop. Your skinny arms were wrapped around yourself, shivering in the November cold. The transit authority was on strike and buses weren't running; a fact you were clearly unaware of.
I approached you and you immediately smiled. "The buses aren't running," I said, pointing to the bus stop sign and shaking my head. But you just blinked at me confused, clearly unable to decipher my message. "Um…" I stammered.
I wrapped my arms around myself to mime shivering. I then pointed at you and up at my loft before speaking a single word. "Warm." This you seemed to understand. You nodded shyly and followed me up the stairs to my loft.
My latest novel — the third in a series about a gruff and drunken private investigator — was an international bestseller. But my editor was growing increasingly impatient for my followup. At least twice a week, he was pestering me with emails about my progress. I assured him it was coming along swimmingly. But it was a lie. Most mornings, I spent hours staring into the abyss of my laptop. I'd jot down a few sentences — if I was lucky a whole paragraph — before giving up. Instead of writing, I'd smoke pot, watch old movies, listen to Velvet Underground records. When I got hungry, I'd venture out to the little Chinese restaurant below my loft for a warm bowl of Dim Sum.
The restaurant was owned by your uncle, a silver-haired Chinese immigrant who chain smoked cigarettes and wasn't particularly friendly. I still remember the first time I saw you, looking frenzied and overwhelmed as he barked orders at you in Mandarin. You didn't speak a lick of English and thus were tasked with running steaming plates from the greasy kitchen to the patrons. Every time you brought a plate to the wrong table, your uncle would call you a "dumb dog." You were no more than 19 or 20 and had just arrived in the United States. I wondered if this life was actually better than whatever persecution you were fleeing overseas.
On one idle Wednesday, when I was stoned and munching on some Zhaliang, you came shyly up to my table, clutching a book to your chest. It was my book, which I only recognized because of the black and white author photo on the back. My words had been translated into delicate and beautiful Chinese characters. You set the book down and handed me a pen; your way of asking for an autograph. I smiled and signed it. You grinned with glee. But as you scurried back to the kitchen, your uncle grabbed your arm and yanked you roughly aside. He started yelling at you. Despite the language barrier, it was clear he was scolding you for bothering the customers.
That night, as I laid awake in bed, I found myself thinking about you; your high and tight black ponytail, your shy smile, your white apron, your casual clothes dotted with grease stains. I thought about what it might be like to take those clothes off of you. Soon, I was jerking off thinking of how my hands would feel against your naked skin. When I woke up in the morning, I hammered out ten pages.
Clearly the universe had delivered me a new muse.
Soon I was stopping into the restaurant three days a week. I loved the Dim Sum — but in truth I was there to see you. We couldn't communicate beyond nods and smiles… but it was hard to remember the last time I had a crush that felt so intimate and real. I had paired my disgruntled private investigator with a Chinese girl who didn't speak English. After months of struggling, my novel was nearing completion.
All of this brings me to tonight. It was just before midnight when I left the book release party of a friend, my brain buzzing from one too many glasses of complimentary champagne. The city streets were dark and dangerously empty. As I rounded the corner onto my block, I saw you standing at the bus stop. Your skinny arms were wrapped around yourself, shivering in the November cold. The transit authority was on strike and buses weren't running; a fact you were clearly unaware of.
I approached you and you immediately smiled. "The buses aren't running," I said, pointing to the bus stop sign and shaking my head. But you just blinked at me confused, clearly unable to decipher my message. "Um…" I stammered.
I wrapped my arms around myself to mime shivering. I then pointed at you and up at my loft before speaking a single word. "Warm." This you seemed to understand. You nodded shyly and followed me up the stairs to my loft.
Jesse Farante was the bad boy of American politics. The 36-year old congressman from Rhode Island was only in his second term, but had already earned a reputation for giving pugilistic floor speeches in which he unflinchingly torched his fellow lawmakers. He was a populist in the mold of Bernie Sanders; a working class hero. But he also had Kennedy-esque good looks and sharp features, prompting legions of TikTok fangirls to cheekily nickname him "Congressman Daddy."
When Jesse announced his presidential campaign last spring, the legacy media responded with scoffs and derision. He was too young, too pugnacious, too left to be taken seriously. Voters felt otherwise. In the primary debates, he delivered impassioned, blistering screeds on everything from gun control to marginal tax rates. Each clip went viral and his standing in the polls steadily rose. By the time the candidates were descending on Iowa for the first-in-the-nation caucus, he was neck and neck with former Secretary of Defense Chet Austin, a man who was once considered a shoe-in for the Democratic nomination.
He wasn't a shoe-in anymore.
-
You were sitting in your cubicle at The New York Times when your editor summoned you to his office. The windows behind his desk looked out on a grey, Manhattan skyline. The January sky was thick and laden with the promise of heavy snow."We're sending you to Iowa to cover the Farante campaign," he said flatly. His bespectacled eyes were fixed on his computer screen. You were fresh out of college and the youngest reporter on staff, a fact that inspired both envy and admiration from your more seasoned colleagues. But they couldn't deny that you had earned it. You had been the editor of your university newspaper and even won an award for a piece you penned on an e coli outbreak in the school cafeteria.
Getting to cover the hottest presidential campaign in recent memory was a golden opportunity — but it was also hugely inconvenient. Two weeks away from your Brooklyn loft (which you were paying an arm and a leg for) felt like a lot. There was also your boyfriend, Saxon, a day trader on Wall Street who was abound to be less-than enthused by the news.
Then, there was Jesse Farante, who you considered to be a colossal jerk.
You were about to turn your editor down when he dropped an airline ticket for Des Moines onto his desk with a gentle thud. The matter was already decided.
-
For three days, you followed Jesse around Iowa in a rented Chevy Malibu. In VFW halls and diners and church parking lots, you watched him shake hands and give stump speeches on raising the minimum wage and the moral imperative of guaranteeing health care as a right. He always wore a blue oxford with the sleeves rolled up. It was a curated look, a way of signifying that he was ready to "get to work."
After every event, you tried to get close for an interview — or even a quote — but his statuesque, redheaded press secretary was always boxing you out. "He's talking to voters, sweetie," she'd tell you icily. "Be patient and I'll get you an interview." She was always giving you leering scans from head to toe.
On the eve before the caucus, your patience paid off. You were sipping a martini in the bar of a Holiday Inn near Ames. The TV screens mounted overhead were showing a football game. Out of nowhere, the redhead sidled up beside you. "He's in room 456," she said. "He'll give you 30 minutes. No questions about the farm bill because he's still negotiating it." When you didn't immediately get up, she lifted her eyebrows sharply, her silent way of saying "the clock is ticking."
When Jesse announced his presidential campaign last spring, the legacy media responded with scoffs and derision. He was too young, too pugnacious, too left to be taken seriously. Voters felt otherwise. In the primary debates, he delivered impassioned, blistering screeds on everything from gun control to marginal tax rates. Each clip went viral and his standing in the polls steadily rose. By the time the candidates were descending on Iowa for the first-in-the-nation caucus, he was neck and neck with former Secretary of Defense Chet Austin, a man who was once considered a shoe-in for the Democratic nomination.
He wasn't a shoe-in anymore.
-
You were sitting in your cubicle at The New York Times when your editor summoned you to his office. The windows behind his desk looked out on a grey, Manhattan skyline. The January sky was thick and laden with the promise of heavy snow."We're sending you to Iowa to cover the Farante campaign," he said flatly. His bespectacled eyes were fixed on his computer screen. You were fresh out of college and the youngest reporter on staff, a fact that inspired both envy and admiration from your more seasoned colleagues. But they couldn't deny that you had earned it. You had been the editor of your university newspaper and even won an award for a piece you penned on an e coli outbreak in the school cafeteria.
Getting to cover the hottest presidential campaign in recent memory was a golden opportunity — but it was also hugely inconvenient. Two weeks away from your Brooklyn loft (which you were paying an arm and a leg for) felt like a lot. There was also your boyfriend, Saxon, a day trader on Wall Street who was abound to be less-than enthused by the news.
Then, there was Jesse Farante, who you considered to be a colossal jerk.
You were about to turn your editor down when he dropped an airline ticket for Des Moines onto his desk with a gentle thud. The matter was already decided.
-
For three days, you followed Jesse around Iowa in a rented Chevy Malibu. In VFW halls and diners and church parking lots, you watched him shake hands and give stump speeches on raising the minimum wage and the moral imperative of guaranteeing health care as a right. He always wore a blue oxford with the sleeves rolled up. It was a curated look, a way of signifying that he was ready to "get to work."
After every event, you tried to get close for an interview — or even a quote — but his statuesque, redheaded press secretary was always boxing you out. "He's talking to voters, sweetie," she'd tell you icily. "Be patient and I'll get you an interview." She was always giving you leering scans from head to toe.
On the eve before the caucus, your patience paid off. You were sipping a martini in the bar of a Holiday Inn near Ames. The TV screens mounted overhead were showing a football game. Out of nowhere, the redhead sidled up beside you. "He's in room 456," she said. "He'll give you 30 minutes. No questions about the farm bill because he's still negotiating it." When you didn't immediately get up, she lifted her eyebrows sharply, her silent way of saying "the clock is ticking."
Foxwood College was a small liberal arts school tucked into the pines of northern Vermont. It wasn't what you'd call academically rigorous, but an exorbitant price tag helped it secure an elite reputation and a rotating body of blue blood prep school grads. Guidance counselors across the country joked that Foxwood was the perfect institution for kids who could afford the Ivy League but didn't have the grades to get in.
Thatcher Maxwell fielded rejections from Harvard (his mother's alma mater), Stanford (his father's), and Brown (where his older brother was currently enrolled) before settling on Foxwood. At Jefferson Prep, he had been the editor of the school newspaper and nursed high hopes that Foxwood would provide the perfect stepping stone to journalistic stardom. Like any freshman, he experimented with beer and pot, but while most of his classmates were busy partying, he was in the cramped offices of the Foxwood Bugle, penning mundane stories about campus construction projects and the e coli outbreak in the cafeteria. At night, he'd lie awake, fantasizing about digging his teeth into a meatier story.
Then, the scandal happened.
His girlfriend, Katie — a bespectacled feminist studies major from Maine — was the first to show him the video. Uploaded to TikTok, it was all of 15 seconds but already had upwards of 300,000 views. It showed three girls from the Beta Kappa sorority; side by side, on all fours, sporting nothing but skimpy, neon-colored bikinis. Their butts were turned towards the camera and gyrating to the beat of a popular hip hop song. An audience of captive frat bros were hooting and hollering and tossing crumpled up dollar bills in their direction. The antics were nothing new; a routine part of the annual 'Sorority Girl Auction,' the proceeds of which went to a local charity. But in the #MeToo era — with campus sexual politics under new scrutiny — it caused a bit of an uproar.
Katie organized a petition demanding that the sorority be shut down. The Greek Life contingent joined forces and organized a counter-protest demanding the cancellation of "cancel culture."
Thatcher suddenly had his perfect story.
He interviewed Katie and her friends first, nodding along obediently as they explained how the event glorified misogyny and needed to be left in the past. But what he wasn't about to tell any of them — especially his girlfriend — was how many times he jerked off to the video. It had become his go-to masturbation fodder. Despite this bit of hypocrisy, he still planned to trash Beta Kappa in his article; to land on the righteous and progressive side of the issue. But, ever the principled journalist, he knew he couldn't reasonably do so without interviewing a girl from the sorority.
Reyna was the daughter of a Mexican shipping magnate whose net worth was rumored to exceed $12 billion. He was also a big donor to the presidential campaigns of Donald Trump. Not only was Reyna the treasurer of Beta Kappa — she was featured in the video, sporting a lime green bikini and twerking in rhythm with her sisters. A friend of a friend passed her number along to Thatcher. He reached out via text message expecting a ditzy airhead who would refuse to answer his questions. Instead, he got the opposite.
In their exchanges over the phone, Reyna was curt, poised, well-spoken. Any time Thatcher tried to characterize the event as patriarchal, she pushed back with an eloquent defense of how it actually empowered female sexuality. Given his fandom of the video (and his fixation on Reyna's ass in particular) he found her assertions hard to argue with. Then, she dropped the ultimate hammer. Have you ever even been to a sorority party? He hadn't. How can you be a good journalist and write about us if you don't even know what we do? He had to concede she was right.
She made him a deal — she would answer all of his questions and give him a proper interview if he showed up to their next event. She sent him a Facebook invite that featured images of girls clad in exaggerated Catholic Schoolgirl uniforms. The theme was printed in big pink letters: Catholic School Hos and Prep School Bros.
Thatcher Maxwell fielded rejections from Harvard (his mother's alma mater), Stanford (his father's), and Brown (where his older brother was currently enrolled) before settling on Foxwood. At Jefferson Prep, he had been the editor of the school newspaper and nursed high hopes that Foxwood would provide the perfect stepping stone to journalistic stardom. Like any freshman, he experimented with beer and pot, but while most of his classmates were busy partying, he was in the cramped offices of the Foxwood Bugle, penning mundane stories about campus construction projects and the e coli outbreak in the cafeteria. At night, he'd lie awake, fantasizing about digging his teeth into a meatier story.
Then, the scandal happened.
His girlfriend, Katie — a bespectacled feminist studies major from Maine — was the first to show him the video. Uploaded to TikTok, it was all of 15 seconds but already had upwards of 300,000 views. It showed three girls from the Beta Kappa sorority; side by side, on all fours, sporting nothing but skimpy, neon-colored bikinis. Their butts were turned towards the camera and gyrating to the beat of a popular hip hop song. An audience of captive frat bros were hooting and hollering and tossing crumpled up dollar bills in their direction. The antics were nothing new; a routine part of the annual 'Sorority Girl Auction,' the proceeds of which went to a local charity. But in the #MeToo era — with campus sexual politics under new scrutiny — it caused a bit of an uproar.
Katie organized a petition demanding that the sorority be shut down. The Greek Life contingent joined forces and organized a counter-protest demanding the cancellation of "cancel culture."
Thatcher suddenly had his perfect story.
He interviewed Katie and her friends first, nodding along obediently as they explained how the event glorified misogyny and needed to be left in the past. But what he wasn't about to tell any of them — especially his girlfriend — was how many times he jerked off to the video. It had become his go-to masturbation fodder. Despite this bit of hypocrisy, he still planned to trash Beta Kappa in his article; to land on the righteous and progressive side of the issue. But, ever the principled journalist, he knew he couldn't reasonably do so without interviewing a girl from the sorority.
Reyna was the daughter of a Mexican shipping magnate whose net worth was rumored to exceed $12 billion. He was also a big donor to the presidential campaigns of Donald Trump. Not only was Reyna the treasurer of Beta Kappa — she was featured in the video, sporting a lime green bikini and twerking in rhythm with her sisters. A friend of a friend passed her number along to Thatcher. He reached out via text message expecting a ditzy airhead who would refuse to answer his questions. Instead, he got the opposite.
In their exchanges over the phone, Reyna was curt, poised, well-spoken. Any time Thatcher tried to characterize the event as patriarchal, she pushed back with an eloquent defense of how it actually empowered female sexuality. Given his fandom of the video (and his fixation on Reyna's ass in particular) he found her assertions hard to argue with. Then, she dropped the ultimate hammer. Have you ever even been to a sorority party? He hadn't. How can you be a good journalist and write about us if you don't even know what we do? He had to concede she was right.
She made him a deal — she would answer all of his questions and give him a proper interview if he showed up to their next event. She sent him a Facebook invite that featured images of girls clad in exaggerated Catholic Schoolgirl uniforms. The theme was printed in big pink letters: Catholic School Hos and Prep School Bros.
If you're a young professional who lives and works in Washington D.C., there's a decent chance you're in one of two industries: politics or media. That was the case for us. I spent my days in the fluorescent-lit offices of the Washington Post, penning tight, arcane articles about the daily machinations of Congress. You worked in Congress, managing social media accounts for a gruff but prominent Democratic senator. We had degrees from Harvard and a condo on the water. All of which begs the question… what the fuck are you doing here?
The dressing room of the Tigerlily Lounge is more of a hallway than a room. It's long and narrow, lined with dirty mirrors and makeshift make-up tables. Every time someone opens the rear door to the parking lot, a blast of cold air off the Potomac comes roaring through, forcing the throng of half-naked girls inside to wince and shiver. Some are curling their eyelashes and gossiping loudly. Others are sucking on vape pens and tapping away on their iPhones. The stench of hairspray and cigarettes hangs in the air. Every time someone complains about the cold, someone invariably yells "Hoes don't get cold!" followed by a chorus of shrieking laughter.
But you're not laughing. The white micro-bikini hugging your crotch and nipples is far skimpier than anything you've worn before. Above the din of the voices, you can hear the familiar guitar licks of Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" thumping through the paper-thin walls. Your hand is shaking with nerves making it near-impossible to apply your lip gloss.
"You should probably take that ring off," an unfamiliar voice says from behind. You look over your shoulder and see a bleach blonde girl in neon orange lingerie. She has scars on her forearms and a tattoo of a barcode on her ribcage. Other than these small imperfections, she is pretty. "No one likes a married girl."
"Oh, I'm not married," you tell her hastily as you start to frantically tug at the diamond band. You'd forgotten you were wearing it. "Just engaged."
The blonde scoffs.
At that exact moment, the stage door bursts open. A mustachioed security guard with dyed jet black hair and a Mexican accent calls out to you. "Ariel!" he barks, "you're up, sweetie!"
Ariel is not your name. At least it wasn't before Wednesday, when the pot-bellied owner of the club bestowed it on you. He had you strip down to your underwear in his dingy office. It was part of the interview process, he said. In your discomfort, you spoke rapidly and fast. You made the mistake of telling him you'd gotten engaged in Disneyland. You even showed him a photo of me proposing in front of Cinderella's castle. "A Disney princess needs a Disney name," he said as he took a mighty bite out of a powdered donut. You'd left the STAGE NAME line blank on your application. He scribbled down Ariel in his sloppy scrawl. He reminded you, unsettlingly, of a sleazy movie producer.
You stood up and your legs wobbled. You hadn't yet mastered the art of walking on your clear, six inch heels. To the other girls, you looked like a baby deer, sauntering cluelessly into a wolf's den. You were a long way from Cambridge and even further from the idyllic Connecuticuit town where you grew up with a trust fund and a Catholic school education.
The DJ speaks into his microphone: "Alright fellas, we've got something super special for you tonight! Making her Tigerlily Lounge debut, it's Ariellllll!" A techno remix of a poplar pop song starts to pump. Goosebumps spike across your skin. You take a deep breath to steady your nerves and try to remember your lies... You told me you were going out with friends... You told your friends you were staying in and watching a movie... No one knows you're here... Except for you.
As you start to walk towards the silver pole, you can see jackyl-faced men already lining up at the foot of the dais, wads of dollar bills protruding from their clenched fists…
The dressing room of the Tigerlily Lounge is more of a hallway than a room. It's long and narrow, lined with dirty mirrors and makeshift make-up tables. Every time someone opens the rear door to the parking lot, a blast of cold air off the Potomac comes roaring through, forcing the throng of half-naked girls inside to wince and shiver. Some are curling their eyelashes and gossiping loudly. Others are sucking on vape pens and tapping away on their iPhones. The stench of hairspray and cigarettes hangs in the air. Every time someone complains about the cold, someone invariably yells "Hoes don't get cold!" followed by a chorus of shrieking laughter.
But you're not laughing. The white micro-bikini hugging your crotch and nipples is far skimpier than anything you've worn before. Above the din of the voices, you can hear the familiar guitar licks of Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" thumping through the paper-thin walls. Your hand is shaking with nerves making it near-impossible to apply your lip gloss.
"You should probably take that ring off," an unfamiliar voice says from behind. You look over your shoulder and see a bleach blonde girl in neon orange lingerie. She has scars on her forearms and a tattoo of a barcode on her ribcage. Other than these small imperfections, she is pretty. "No one likes a married girl."
"Oh, I'm not married," you tell her hastily as you start to frantically tug at the diamond band. You'd forgotten you were wearing it. "Just engaged."
The blonde scoffs.
At that exact moment, the stage door bursts open. A mustachioed security guard with dyed jet black hair and a Mexican accent calls out to you. "Ariel!" he barks, "you're up, sweetie!"
Ariel is not your name. At least it wasn't before Wednesday, when the pot-bellied owner of the club bestowed it on you. He had you strip down to your underwear in his dingy office. It was part of the interview process, he said. In your discomfort, you spoke rapidly and fast. You made the mistake of telling him you'd gotten engaged in Disneyland. You even showed him a photo of me proposing in front of Cinderella's castle. "A Disney princess needs a Disney name," he said as he took a mighty bite out of a powdered donut. You'd left the STAGE NAME line blank on your application. He scribbled down Ariel in his sloppy scrawl. He reminded you, unsettlingly, of a sleazy movie producer.
You stood up and your legs wobbled. You hadn't yet mastered the art of walking on your clear, six inch heels. To the other girls, you looked like a baby deer, sauntering cluelessly into a wolf's den. You were a long way from Cambridge and even further from the idyllic Connecuticuit town where you grew up with a trust fund and a Catholic school education.
The DJ speaks into his microphone: "Alright fellas, we've got something super special for you tonight! Making her Tigerlily Lounge debut, it's Ariellllll!" A techno remix of a poplar pop song starts to pump. Goosebumps spike across your skin. You take a deep breath to steady your nerves and try to remember your lies... You told me you were going out with friends... You told your friends you were staying in and watching a movie... No one knows you're here... Except for you.
As you start to walk towards the silver pole, you can see jackyl-faced men already lining up at the foot of the dais, wads of dollar bills protruding from their clenched fists…
I've never been the type of guy to have a one night stand. I'm reasonably handsome, gainfully employed and have no problem meeting women. My romantic résumé is storied and long. But I was always too shy and too reserved to master the art of sweet talking a stranger into bed. That's at least part of why I was in a state of shock when I found myself kissing you madly in an elevator that was shooting up through the floors of a Holiday Inn.
Eight hours earlier, I laid my eyes on you for the first time. The newspaper I write for was holding a company retreat in Washington D.C. and you were hired to give a presentation. You work for a firm that conducts focus groups; leading small parties through marketing experiments, extracting key insights, and presenting your findings to writers like me so that we can better tailor our stories to our target demographics. As soon as I saw you — with your shoulder length red hair, your grey blazer, pure Shiv Roy vibes — I felt a lustful tugging at my heart strings…
But, of course, I didn't have the courage to introduce myself and like so many other beautiful women who crossed my path, you exited the board room and my life forever… or so I thought.
The elevator doors slid open on our floor and like two giggling truants up to mischief we took off running down the hall. A torrential downpour had grounded nearly every plane on the eastern seaboard and we ended up drowning our cancelled-flight sorrows at the same airport bar. When I saw you glumly sipping your overpriced martini beneath the pale neon, it felt a little like fate. "Didn't I see you give a PowerPoint presentation today?" First there was small talk, then we got personal. Next thing I knew, we were booking a room at the nearest hotel.
I pushed open the door to our room. I barely got a look at the king sized bed, the grey carpets, the flat screen TV, our view of the half-empty parking lot... before your hands were on my face and we were kissing again.
Eight hours earlier, I laid my eyes on you for the first time. The newspaper I write for was holding a company retreat in Washington D.C. and you were hired to give a presentation. You work for a firm that conducts focus groups; leading small parties through marketing experiments, extracting key insights, and presenting your findings to writers like me so that we can better tailor our stories to our target demographics. As soon as I saw you — with your shoulder length red hair, your grey blazer, pure Shiv Roy vibes — I felt a lustful tugging at my heart strings…
But, of course, I didn't have the courage to introduce myself and like so many other beautiful women who crossed my path, you exited the board room and my life forever… or so I thought.
The elevator doors slid open on our floor and like two giggling truants up to mischief we took off running down the hall. A torrential downpour had grounded nearly every plane on the eastern seaboard and we ended up drowning our cancelled-flight sorrows at the same airport bar. When I saw you glumly sipping your overpriced martini beneath the pale neon, it felt a little like fate. "Didn't I see you give a PowerPoint presentation today?" First there was small talk, then we got personal. Next thing I knew, we were booking a room at the nearest hotel.
I pushed open the door to our room. I barely got a look at the king sized bed, the grey carpets, the flat screen TV, our view of the half-empty parking lot... before your hands were on my face and we were kissing again.
For as long as I can remember, I've had to endure my buddies constantly gushing about how hot my little sister is. Ever the protective older brother, I always responded to these claims in the same way — with a swift punch to the shoulder and a terse instruction to shut the fuck up. At 6'2, with a rower's physique and tattoos speckled across my body, it wasn't hard to intimidate them into good behavior. Anytime you were bold enough to bring a potential suitor to a birthday party or a family barbecue, I made a point of taking him aside and making it crystal clear that if he so much as looked at you the wrong way I'd skin him alive. I had a reputation in our town for fucking girls and breaking hearts. I knew how men were and it was my personal mission to protect you from guys like me.
My hawkishness didn't abate any when you went to college. At least twice a week, I was sending you text messages, checking in to ensure that you were prioritizing your studies over boys and alcohol. Any time my Instagram feed lit up with a photo you in denim cutoffs or a little bikini — I felt a pang of dread. The mental image of you pinned to a bed beneath the hands of a beefy frat boy filled me with rage. I tried to explain this to a (now ex) girlfriend. She accused me of having a crush on you. I dumped her on the spot.
The road trip was our mother's idea. With plane tickets at all time high and COVID cases spiking again — it simply didn't seem wise to fly home for Thanksgiving. Therefore, I would drive up from New York, pick you up at your college, and continue on to our New Hampshire hometown. I owned a skateboard shop in the city and in recent years had been pulling in a six-figure salary. But I still drove the same beater car — a dusty white Lincoln with a rusty undercarriage and only 3 working doors.
I picked you up outside your dorm on a gray November morning. The air was cold. As soon as I saw you, I scooped you up in my arms. "Hey kid," I crooned, planting a wet kiss on your forehead. We stopped at the local Starbucks and then hit the highway. I gave you the job of DJ even though I hated your music.
We were about 4 hours into the trip when the engine started to rattle. You gave me a concerned look but I ensured you it was normal. About 30 minutes later, white smoke started billowing from under the hood. I pulled off at the next exit and found a mechanic. He took one look and diagnosed it as a blown gasket. He could fix it but would need to keep the car overnight. With no other options, we checked into a nearby motel. A seedy little establishment called the Pinewood Inn.
When we opened the door of the room and saw that it only had one queen sized bed, I felt a lump in my throat. "Um… I can sleep on the floor," I said.
My hawkishness didn't abate any when you went to college. At least twice a week, I was sending you text messages, checking in to ensure that you were prioritizing your studies over boys and alcohol. Any time my Instagram feed lit up with a photo you in denim cutoffs or a little bikini — I felt a pang of dread. The mental image of you pinned to a bed beneath the hands of a beefy frat boy filled me with rage. I tried to explain this to a (now ex) girlfriend. She accused me of having a crush on you. I dumped her on the spot.
The road trip was our mother's idea. With plane tickets at all time high and COVID cases spiking again — it simply didn't seem wise to fly home for Thanksgiving. Therefore, I would drive up from New York, pick you up at your college, and continue on to our New Hampshire hometown. I owned a skateboard shop in the city and in recent years had been pulling in a six-figure salary. But I still drove the same beater car — a dusty white Lincoln with a rusty undercarriage and only 3 working doors.
I picked you up outside your dorm on a gray November morning. The air was cold. As soon as I saw you, I scooped you up in my arms. "Hey kid," I crooned, planting a wet kiss on your forehead. We stopped at the local Starbucks and then hit the highway. I gave you the job of DJ even though I hated your music.
We were about 4 hours into the trip when the engine started to rattle. You gave me a concerned look but I ensured you it was normal. About 30 minutes later, white smoke started billowing from under the hood. I pulled off at the next exit and found a mechanic. He took one look and diagnosed it as a blown gasket. He could fix it but would need to keep the car overnight. With no other options, we checked into a nearby motel. A seedy little establishment called the Pinewood Inn.
When we opened the door of the room and saw that it only had one queen sized bed, I felt a lump in my throat. "Um… I can sleep on the floor," I said.