Slightly mollified that I’ve figured out the reasons for my uncontrollable infatuation with the young woman upstairs, I focus on preparing lunch.
I make us turkey burgers with herbs (sage and rosemary), and Greek yogurt. I finish off the recipe with goat cheese, cranberry sauce, spinach, and some grainy mustard on a brioche bun.
Add some chips, slaw, and set the table on the deck that looks out over the skyline of the city.
When Haisley finally comes down, the table is set and I’m bringing out the Gerard Bertrand wine, a nice rosé from my collection.
She looks stunning in a light-yellow sundress and sandals, her creamy legs visible all the way to the thigh. The dress hugs her, shows every voluptuous curve, and, for a moment, I freeze as she emerges onto the deck and into the direct sunlight.
She’s even more beautiful with the full force of the sun on her face and shoulders.
Most of the women I’ve dated seem to crumble a little in direct light, as if it reveals not just the little blemishes and imperfections on their skin, but also some inner lack—some shortcoming that they try to hide with makeup and products and perfumes.
But none of them, I realize, have ever held a candle to this simple, gorgeous creature standing before me at this moment.
And the strangest part of all?
She has no idea.
Haisley stares at the plates on the table and her eyes widen. “This looks amazing. I wish the chef was still here, so I could thank him or her.”
“The chef is still here,” I say, feeling ridiculously proud of myself.
She blinks at me. Her eyes widen. “You cook?”
“I’m not a philistine.”
“I know, but still. I didn’t picture you as the type.”
“I’m a man of many talents, Haisley.”
“And hidden depths,” she adds, one eyebrow raised appraisingly.
That comment takes me slightly aback. I don’t like to think of myself as deep. In fact, I hope I’m shallow. I want to be a simple man, because then I could concentrate on fucking random women and making as much money as possible, without the added stress of my own thoughts and existential crises to distract me.
“Let’s eat,” I say, shaking off her effect on me.
We sit down and Haisley surprises me by eating with unreserved gusto. I’m used to the typical skinny model type who gets embarrassed and self-conscious chewing a stick of gum.
But Haisley isn’t like that at all. She’s wonderfully alive, taking pleasure in the food, in each bite, in the world around her. She stares out at the buildings and skyline. “This is amazing,” she says, her eyes shining. “It’s like a fairytale.”
I sip my wine and grin at her childlike enthusiasm. “It’s very nice.”
She turns to me and her eyes narrow slightly. “You’re desensitized to it all, aren’t you?”
“Of course. This is my everyday life.”
“That’s kind of sad, though. You can’t really appreciate everything you have. All of this wealth, this view, the food, it’s just another thing you take for granted. Like your women.”
I frown. “Are you insulting me?”
“No. Of course not.” Her cheeks flame red. “At least, I didn’t intend to.”
“You eat my food, partake of my hospitality, and then psychoanalyze me?”
“You’re right. I’m so sorry,” she says, and I can tell she means it, but I don’t care. My stomach is in knots.
Part of me wonders why I even care. Who is she? A hooker. An escort. I bought her.
She is nobody to judge me, that’s for sure.
Her words were cutting, they sliced deep into me, and I hate to admit it. Nobody ever is able to touch me with their remarks. I’m numb. I like being numb.
I drink more wine, refill my glass without saying a word.
Haisley eats in silence, sullen, looking like a punished schoolgirl.
And yet, sitting here now, I suddenly am able to see the world through her eyes. I see myself as this cocky guy in his tailored suits, perfect hair and tanned skin, with his multi-million dollar Manhattan castle, his opulence like a narcotic that puts him into a sweet daze.
Surrounded by beauty, wealth and good fortune but somehow blind to it all.
And now, when I look outward at the city, I see it as if for the first time. The bustling, majestic aliveness of the streets, the people, cars, the horns and sirens.
My senses are flooded with colors, sights, and smells. Things that have always been here but I have gotten so dull to it, that it ceased to even be noticed.
I am no longer numb to it all. Rather, painfully aware of how lucky I am at this very moment. Most of all, I am aware of the beautiful young woman sitting across from me, a person I have the opportunity to seduce, in slow, purposeful steps, drinking her in like water.
I glance back to Haisley. She looks at me with uncertainty, desire, fear.
“You said you’re a virgin.”
She blinks, embarrassed. “Yes.”
“But have you ever had a man lick that sweet pussy of yours until you scream for mercy?”
Now her cheeks are truly aflame. She looks down at her plate. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“You say the truth.”
She takes a deep breath and grasps her wine glass, takes a sip. I can see her hand shake ever so slightly.
“I’ve never had a man do anything like that to me.”
“And you’ve never done that to a man? You’ve never had a cock in your mouth, never felt that hot liquid shoot down your throat?”
Haisley closes her eyes. “No. No. I’ve never…done anything, really. Some kissing, a little touching, mostly over the clothes.”
“So, what we did today, in the bedroom?” I ask.
She opens those brilliant, big eyes and focuses on me like a laser. “That’s the most I’ve ever done with anyone.”
Haisley
Dermot is watching me closely.
I feel like prey. But it’s not exactly an unpleasant feeling. I’m trapped by his gaze, by that wolfish hold he has over me, the feeling that he can take me and do whatever he wants to me, whenever he wants to do it.
The craziest part about the feeling is that I like it.
I want him to take me.
I want him to own me, tell me what he wants, take what he wants from me.
Maybe it’s because I don’t want to have to worry about how to give him these things that he needs. What if I don’t know how to touch him, what if I can’t please him?
Somehow, if he takes control of everything, then I no longer have to worry. I don’t have the pressure of needing to be good or experienced with this sex stuff.
And now that he knows I’m a total novice, I feel a sense of relief amidst the embarrassment. No longer hiding and pretending who I am, Dermot has accepted my limitations.
At least, for now.
“Don’t drink too much wine,” he says, as I gulp more of the sweet tasting liquid.
“Why not?” I smile, feeling emboldened, maybe the tiniest bit buzzed.
“Because,” Dermot replies, “I want you aware of everything and I need you to be in possession of all your faculties.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re actually quite chivalrous?” I ask.