Underlust.
I flick through. Whole passages have been annotated and tabbed with pink sticky notes.
I clear my throat and read aloud. “‘Bend over and let me show you, baby,’ he growls and throws me a wink. I catch it with a smile, bend over his desk and await my punishment. My Adonis raises a hand and I pool myself …”
“Enough!” Karl spits out his drink. “Pool myself? Is she incontinent?”
I shrug. “It’s up for discussion, Karl. Raj, I thought that we’d successfully steered you out of this phase. No more trashy romance novels, you hear me?”
Raj shrugs. “I just want to know what women want.”
I laugh and put my hand on his shoulder. “That’s easy. Read my lips—multiple orgasms.”
Karl shakes his head. “Ignore him, Raj. There’s more to it than that.”
I interject. “It’s all sales—you just need training. Then Bangalore you shall, Raj. Bangalore you shall.”
I’m feeling impatient. “Let’s start with first lesson: the successful procurement of alcohol.”
Raj smiles nervously as we drag him to the bar. “What does an alpha drink, Boss?”
I hook an arm over his shoulder. “An alpha drinks what the hell he likes and doesn’t give a shit what other people think.”
Raj stares in wonder at the rows of brightly colored bottles on the shelves before finally announcing. “I’ll take a virgin mojito.”
I facepalm. “Two whiskey sours please, Delphine. Easy on the lemon.”
He’ll learn.
A short while later …
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so.”
Karl jabs a green cocktail stirrer into Raj’s ear. “How long has he been drinking?”
I check my Rolex. “Half an hour. Let him sleep it off.”
We count the empty glasses on the bar. Six shots of rum and three whiskey sours. Not bad for a beginner, but there’s still hard work to be done. Speaking of hard work, Jockass joins us at the bar. He’s fucking wasted. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder.
“Did you see that? That twink winked at me!” He turns around and grabs his crotch. “You want some of this!”
I let out a controlled sigh. If ignorance ever hits five dollars a barrel, I want drilling rights to Tyler Strickland’s head. “Live and let live. Take it as a compliment. Watch your back or you’ll wind up on the front cover of the National Enquirer .”
And if Tyler Strickland winds up on the front cover of any rag for anything other than match-winning touchdowns, it would be a fucking disaster for our ad campaign. Call me a hypocrite, but I think I’m finally beginning to understand how my father feels.
I wave at the bartender. “Cancel those whiskey sours, Delphine. We’ll take a dozen Pink Sladies. Give one to the gentleman over there—it’s on the house.”
Tyler takes a step back. “What the hell? Pink Sladies? You have a drink named after you?”
From the look of incredulity on Tyler’s face, I’d say he conjectured that scoring the winning touchdown in a Super Bowl final would be the ultimate achievement for an alpha male.
I don’t think so.
I got a goddamn cocktail named after me.
Beat that, Jockass.
Undeterred by my superiority in the field of alcoholic beverages, Tyler makes his next move. He shows us a home video of him receiving a blowie from two cheerleaders. Make no mistake about it; this isn’t about male camaraderie.
This is about his dick.
For guys, penis equals power. The bigger the cock, the more power you’ve got. Nowhere is safe from our phallic hijinks. The boardroom. The bedroom. The playing field. There isn’t a man alive who hasn’t sized up his penis against another guy’s crown jewels in the locker room.
I know you’re wondering how I size up against a brute like Strickland. Let’s just say, I’m not left with feelings of inadequacy.
A smug smile spreads over his face. “Meet Brittany and Kylie. They’re twins.”
Karl peers over his shoulder. “Great point of view footage. If your glittering career goes belly-up, be sure to
I flick through. Whole passages have been annotated and tabbed with pink sticky notes.
I clear my throat and read aloud. “‘Bend over and let me show you, baby,’ he growls and throws me a wink. I catch it with a smile, bend over his desk and await my punishment. My Adonis raises a hand and I pool myself …”
“Enough!” Karl spits out his drink. “Pool myself? Is she incontinent?”
I shrug. “It’s up for discussion, Karl. Raj, I thought that we’d successfully steered you out of this phase. No more trashy romance novels, you hear me?”
Raj shrugs. “I just want to know what women want.”
I laugh and put my hand on his shoulder. “That’s easy. Read my lips—multiple orgasms.”
Karl shakes his head. “Ignore him, Raj. There’s more to it than that.”
I interject. “It’s all sales—you just need training. Then Bangalore you shall, Raj. Bangalore you shall.”
I’m feeling impatient. “Let’s start with first lesson: the successful procurement of alcohol.”
Raj smiles nervously as we drag him to the bar. “What does an alpha drink, Boss?”
I hook an arm over his shoulder. “An alpha drinks what the hell he likes and doesn’t give a shit what other people think.”
Raj stares in wonder at the rows of brightly colored bottles on the shelves before finally announcing. “I’ll take a virgin mojito.”
I facepalm. “Two whiskey sours please, Delphine. Easy on the lemon.”
He’ll learn.
A short while later …
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so.”
Karl jabs a green cocktail stirrer into Raj’s ear. “How long has he been drinking?”
I check my Rolex. “Half an hour. Let him sleep it off.”
We count the empty glasses on the bar. Six shots of rum and three whiskey sours. Not bad for a beginner, but there’s still hard work to be done. Speaking of hard work, Jockass joins us at the bar. He’s fucking wasted. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder.
“Did you see that? That twink winked at me!” He turns around and grabs his crotch. “You want some of this!”
I let out a controlled sigh. If ignorance ever hits five dollars a barrel, I want drilling rights to Tyler Strickland’s head. “Live and let live. Take it as a compliment. Watch your back or you’ll wind up on the front cover of the National Enquirer .”
And if Tyler Strickland winds up on the front cover of any rag for anything other than match-winning touchdowns, it would be a fucking disaster for our ad campaign. Call me a hypocrite, but I think I’m finally beginning to understand how my father feels.
I wave at the bartender. “Cancel those whiskey sours, Delphine. We’ll take a dozen Pink Sladies. Give one to the gentleman over there—it’s on the house.”
Tyler takes a step back. “What the hell? Pink Sladies? You have a drink named after you?”
From the look of incredulity on Tyler’s face, I’d say he conjectured that scoring the winning touchdown in a Super Bowl final would be the ultimate achievement for an alpha male.
I don’t think so.
I got a goddamn cocktail named after me.
Beat that, Jockass.
Undeterred by my superiority in the field of alcoholic beverages, Tyler makes his next move. He shows us a home video of him receiving a blowie from two cheerleaders. Make no mistake about it; this isn’t about male camaraderie.
This is about his dick.
For guys, penis equals power. The bigger the cock, the more power you’ve got. Nowhere is safe from our phallic hijinks. The boardroom. The bedroom. The playing field. There isn’t a man alive who hasn’t sized up his penis against another guy’s crown jewels in the locker room.
I know you’re wondering how I size up against a brute like Strickland. Let’s just say, I’m not left with feelings of inadequacy.
A smug smile spreads over his face. “Meet Brittany and Kylie. They’re twins.”
Karl peers over his shoulder. “Great point of view footage. If your glittering career goes belly-up, be sure to
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