“What are you going to do to me?” she asks, her eyes darting around the room nervously, as I move behind her.
“Relax, Mrs. Rose. As you all have read in the documents you’ve signed, I will never physically harm nor violate you. In some instances, though, I will have to touch you. Guide you. If at any time you feel uncomfortable, simply say stop. That’s all. Now…may I touch you, Mrs. Rose?”
Her shoulders rise and fall with her labored breaths, anticipating the feel of my hands on her. This is the tricky part. I know what I do to these women. I know what they see, what they feel from me. They’re used to powerful men– they’re attracted to them– and that fact alone draws them to me. Add in the denim-blue eyes and 6 foot 2 inch dominating physique, and I’m reduced to high-priced man candy for the next six weeks. That’s why I keep things very professional. My tone is always clipped and straight to the point. While I try to be cordial, I’m never overly friendly. So, while they may be attracted to the physical, I’m too much of an asshole to warrant unwelcomed advances from lonely housewives.
“Yes,” she breathes. I can almost visualize her eyelids fluttering closed.
Towering over her from behind, the calloused pads of my fingertips lightly graze the sides of her arms, raking over her skin in a harsh whisper. She shivers under my touch, her breath coming out in quick pants while the rest of the women stop breathing altogether, their mouths agape in enviable lust.
I move in closer, letting my front mold into her back. She shudders for just a second before melting into the hard contours of my chest with a sigh. “You have amazing arms, Lacey,” I say just above a whisper, my lips only a breath away from her ear. “Toned, tan, smooth. Your shoulders are sexy. Has anyone ever told you that? Imagine hands massaging them– gently at first– kneading away the day’s tension. Then a little more pressure. Harder. Then harder still. Feels good, doesn’t it? Imagine lips trailing kisses across them before moving up to your neck. A tongue snakes out to taste you…so sweet…so soft…”
Just as an anxious noise escapes her throat, I take a step back, causing Lacey to fall backwards into my arms, channeling her inner Scarlett O’Hara. Before she gets too comfortable, I set her on her feet, making it known that I’m nobody’s Rhett Butler.
Her face flushed with embarrassment and arousal, Lacey quickly staggers to her seat, as ten women pelt her with questioning stares.
“Now,” I bellow with a loud clap of my hands, capturing their attention. “That was the art of attraction—working with what you’ve got. Playing up your strengths, and being confident in your sexuality. Any more volunteers?”
Eleven hands shoot to the sky. No, wait…make that 14. A few ladies are double fisting.
AFTER A DAY of stroking fragile egos and another awkward dinner, painfully watching most of the diners push food around their plates pretending to eat, I nearly sprint to the main kitchen for a cold beer and to check in with my staff.
“What’s up, J.D.? How’re the Erotic Eleven treating ya?” greets the Oasis sous chef, Riku. The kid is an anomaly. Half Japanese and half Brazilian, he’s used to getting mauled by horny housewives enamored with his jet black hair, broad build, copper-colored skin, and fine, Asian features. When I asked him how his parents managed to merge their cultures, he replied, “Everyone’s fluent in the language of love.”
Yeah right.
Still, he’s a good guy, if not slightly green when it comes to matters of the heart. If someone like me had friends, Riku would be it. But, alas, I amsomeone like me.
I grab two cold ones out of the fridge and pop them open before handing Riku his, which he gladly accepts.
Everyone here knows that, while I may sign their paychecks, I am as far from a boss as possible. There is no Mr. Drake here. No formal reprimands or hoops to jump through. The rules are simple: If you want to work with me, great. Do your job. If not, fine by me—everyone is replaceable. With the pay, benefits and mutual respect amongst all employees, whether you’re a dishwasher or head chef, I am rarely dealt the task of hiring or firing.
“Erotic Eleven? Hmmm…not much different than the last group. What’d you call them? The Sizzling Seven?”
Riku laughs before tipping back his beer, then looks down at the label. “ Krombacher, eh? Where’d you get this one?”
“Germany.”
“That where you spend your summer? Corrupting a bevy of beauties in Berlin?”
“One of the places,” I shrug. “Kinda just wandered through Europe. Stopped in Amsterdam, Brussels, Prague—even made it out to Spain.”
Riku shakes his head, his mouth curled into a smirk. “You make it sound like you were backpacking and sleeping in hostels or some shit. Be real, man. You did it up playboy style like you always do. Probably found your very own Heidi Klum out there.”
“Nah. Never that.”
Riku is half right. I did roam Europe in style, driving up the coast of Monaco, staying at luxurious resorts and indulging in the most amazing cuisine. I also indulged in my fair share of hot, European pussy. But, hey, I was on vacation.
“Sure, sure,” he remarks, not the least bit phased by my aloofness. He already knows that privacy is a big deal to me and that I rarely disclose any personal information. “Just toss one my way if you ever find your hands too full to juggle all those Vicky Secret Angels you like to keep stashed away.”
One swimsuit model. One. And suddenly I’m Hugh Hefner with a fresh Viagra refill.
I finish my beer in silence, listening to him ramble on about the insanely frustrating demands of our guests.
“No butter. No gluten. No dairy. No fat, no calories, no flavor. What the hell do these chicks want to eat? Air?”
“If you could put it on a plate and garnish it with parsley, it’d be a hit.”
“Fuck that,” Riku remarks with a shake of his head. “I want a woman that eats. Someone I can cook for and feed while she’s curled up next to me in bed. Ain’t shit I can do with a bag of bones. I mean, have you seen most of them? Shit, if they turn to the side, they fucking disappear. I’ll take tits and ass over Skeletor any-damn-day.”
I nod, feeling the double-edged sword of his words. Of course, these women want to eat. They crave rich foods and sugary desserts just like anyone else. They detest having to spend every waking moment obsessing over every pound and calorie. But when you live in a society that praises skinny and shames anything that doesn’t fit that extra-extra-small mold, you make sacrifices. And that’s exactly what they’ve done. They’ve sacrificed their happiness, their peace of mind, and in many cases, their health. And in the end, it’s not even about food or body image. It’s just another notch in the good ol’ fucked up, modern America belt.
I drain my beer before crossing the courtyard to my home. It’s warmer than usual, and under the dark cloak of night, I decide to take a swim to clear my head. After stripping off my suit and tie and changing into something more liberating, I dive into the turquoise water, letting the coolness drown the heat building deep in my gut.
This time feels different. I’ve been in this business for years, yet I feel oddly unprepared. It’s only the end of Day Two, and I’m already on edge, temptation closing in on the edges of my rationale. At this rate, I won’t last.
Ok, I lied before. Not lie-lie. Just didn’t tell the whole truth. When I said I endure six, sexless weeks during instruction, what I meantto say was that I tryto endure six, sexless weeks. Sure, I’m nearly always successful, but I must admit, there are slip-ups. That’s why I always keep a girl on standby. Very few outsiders know where the property is located, and the few who do are given that information under special circumstances. No strings, no expectations, just someone to scratch that proverbial itch so I can concentrate on the task at hand.