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Intending to chow down on my sushi platter while cozied up in bed, I pass right by without a glance, until I notice something from the corner of my eye.
I quirk a brow at the piece of paper taped to the fridge. It doesn't take me more than three paces to recognize what it is—and who's to blame for its inception. Juliana really went to all the trouble, typed out our entire contract, printed it, then slapped it right in the center of my home???
A handwritten note reads in red ink at the bottom. Thought you could use a little reminder—smiley face. I stare at the two eyes and wide lips, taking them for what they really are.
A taunt. She's taunting me.
Why would I need a reminder? Of the rules my self-assigned nanny forced upon me? As if I could forget them, even if I tried. Which I'm not, seeing as my gaze trails down the rules, one by one, each more ludicrous and offensive than the last.
"No throwing parties..." I mumble to myself quietly, annoyance rising inside of me. "No social media posts... Sleep in separate beds... Remain romantically exclusive." My snicker rings across the empty kitchen. "Romance? What kinda guy does she take me for...?" I wonder, before all the humor dies out with the last rule, one I can't read aloud.
Practice sexual abstinence.
And right below is my own signature, now digitized for all eternity, captured by a copying machine that I don't even own.
She just loves going the extra mile, doesn't she...
I do the mental math, counting the weeks from today to DreamScape, and grimace, as if faced with the judge's hammer. My sentencing? Two months.
Two.
Whole.
Months.
Without sex.
That's sixty days. Sixty nights, without doing the dirty deed. Me, the very definition of getting more ass than a toilet seat. I don't remember the last time I've been dry for so long. It goes against my lifestyle, my very nature. I'm not even sure if my brain will still be intact by the time the days are up, if I'll be the same Hayden Kingston.
What the hell did I sign up for?
Porn sucks.
Take it from someone who lost track of his own body count years ago, porn really, really sucks. Although, maybe that's my problem—having too much experience rocking the bed with too many women, as to acutely know when one is faking her own pleasure.
Like the blonde porn star on my phone, with the voluptuous fake tits and a schoolgirl skirt. Her moans are forced. Her tone about three notches past natural. The line between her eyebrows cinched way too tight. It's not her fault, either, seeing as Mr. Nine Inch Schlong And Anabolic Steroids is barreling into her at blazing speeds, hitting her cervix with the gentle care of a jackhammer, all after giving her zero attention.
No foreplay. No oral. No fingering. No butt-play, kisses on the neck, dirty talk, words of affirmation, licking, roleplay, flicking the bean, sensual massages... Nothing. He's the man who's afraid to eat pussy, yet dares ask for a blowjob, a sexual criminal without lube who places his own needs above hers. Which leaves the woman with only one choice, if she is to enjoy such a lousy experience—turning herself on.
Hence the fake moaning.
And yes, I acknowledge that this porn star is just doing her job; she's quite literally following a script, and porn isn't an accurate representation of real-life sex, but it sure does bleed into it. Bright lights in a staged living room with a straight-faced cameraman or not, she's still having to take every teensy-weensy ounce of her pleasure into her own hands.
As someone who's unashamedly starred in more than a few home videos, there's no bigger insult, and it's, in my professional opinion, the tell-tale difference between a playboy and a fuckboy.
Rule #7: A playboy never finishes before his sexual partners.
Just ask yourself. How could a fuckboy cater to such a rule, if the oh-so mysterious and elusive clitoris isn't even on his radar?
I'll give you a hint: he's not.
To conclude my monologue that no one asked for—yes, as surprising as it may be, I hate ninety-nine percent of porn, evident not only in my surprising values on women's sexuality but also its in-effectiveness on me. And by me, I mean the absence of my boner.
Rant over.
As Miss Blondie twists into a pretzel, I watch with about as much enthusiasm as I would if she were instead teaching trigonometry—fully clothed. I sigh, propping an arm behind my head. With empty takeout containers as my sole companions, my Alaskan king feels achingly barren. More nights than not, I have company or I'm slipping between someone else's sheets entirely. But never alone.
My lips flatline at the next ridiculous position, before I make to close the video. At this rate, I'm better off using my imagination, even if my fantasies defy my better judgment and inevitably circle back to Ju—
