Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Unfortunately, when I got to the bar, I could see immediately that he was wearing a toupee. It wasn’t even a good one. It looked like he had a rat’s nest on his head, with bits of his real sandy blonde hair poking out around his ears. The man was wearing a blue blazer, but that’s the weird thing: even though he had a toupee on, his shoulders were covered in a snowfall of dandruff.
How does that happen? How can a wig give you dandruff? I wanted to turn around and leave immediately, but Brian looked so eager to meet me in person, that I didn’t have the heart. Instead, I stayed at the bar and listened to him prattle for forty-five minutes about his job. Evidently, the fifth graders he teaches don’t make fun of him about his fake hair. Or if they do, at least they do it behind his back.
But finally, I found a way to excuse myself and slunk off into the NYC night. Tonight is actually my birthday, but I didn’t want to mention it to Brian because then he might find some way to extend our date. Instead, I hightailed it home, only to come back to a dark, empty apartment.
The microwave beeps and my soup is ready. Taking the hot bowl between my hands, I sink onto my green plaid couch. It’s saggy and uncomfortable, but it will do. Breathing deep, I inhale the tangy scent of tomato soup. Mmmm.
Gingerly balancing the soup on my knee, I grab my spoon with one hand and take a sip. Yum! The broth is thick, spicy, and hits the spot. With my other hand, I hold my phone and idly glance at the screen. On it, an envelope icon shows that I have an email. My thumb taps the image, and a message pops up. It’s from my old college friend, Carly, but there are no words inside. Instead, there’s merely a picture of her lying suggestively on a bed in a negligee with a smirk on her face. Next to her is a hunk of a guy, wearing nothing but skivvies and a t-shirt that says Hot Nights NYC.
Oh my god, did she really do it? Did Carly finally get around to hiring a male escort? It seems unlikely, but clearly, I have proof to the contrary right here in front of me. Then another push notification comes up, and my thumb taps on the envelope icon again.
Oh my gosh, it’s another message from Carly, and this one too is just a photo. Now, she’s got the man wrapped in her arms, his broad muscled back facing towards the camera. Both her legs are splayed on either side of his torso, and she’s making a moaning face of ecstasy, like she’s getting it good. Holy cow, does he even know she’s recording this? He must, because the angle looks kind of awkward like she’s taking a selfie.
One more message comes through, and this third email is all text and no photos, thank god. It merely says.
Happy Dirty Thirty Birthday! Xoxo, Carly
I let the phone slip from my fingers. Holy shit, my friend really did it. She hired a male escort, and is now reminding me of our bucket list from so long ago. To tell the truth, there wasn’t much of a “list” per se. Carly had her one thing, which was to use a male gigolo, and I had my one thing, which was to be with two guys at once. That was the sum and substance of our lists, period.
But evidently, Carly’s delivered. She remembered that today was my birthday, and she’s texting me these photos as motivation. Holy shit. The problem is that I’m nowhere near close to hooking up with two men. In fact, I don’t even have one guy to call my own. If I had a boyfriend, maybe I could propose a threesome of some sort with one of his friends, but without even one, how can I move to two?
Suddenly, Carly’s voice comes back to me. Hey girlfriend, she says. You have to go on-line! Everyone finds guys on-line these days.
God knows Carly has, and it’s worked great from the looks of it. With slow fingers, I tap over to the Hot Nights NYC site. It’s actually quite professional looking. There’s a flower on the front, with a “Certify you’re 18” button. I press it, and a drape appears to fall over the screen, before pulling back and revealing a list of checkboxes.
Hmm, what should I check? Slowly, my fingers tap the appropriate boxes. I am a woman, looking for a man, within 50 miles of New York City. Perfect. I click “Go,” and then my phone hums before a new page loads.
This time, it looks like a yearbook of sorts. There are smiling pictures of men with their names in bold print below them. There’s Tyler, Henry, Jude, Jock and Rocky, to name a few. A lot of them are really handsome, and my heart begins to beat quickly. Just as an experiment, I tap on the one named Rocky. He’s a smiling man with bronzed skin, black hair, and humorous blue eyes.