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I look around me and see the women watching me. We’ve attracted a fair crowd of interest. These women are dressed as skanky as they can get.
Now, don’t fucking worry. I haven’t gotten all prudish and all. I mean come on, I’m in love with a fucking stripper or phone sex operator—however you want to call it.
But these girls, and there are five of them approaching me directly, are trying to dress themselves up so they can look like hookers or porn stars or something.
Because they think that’s what the guys out in the world fucking want.
Well, I’ve fucked porn stars and strippers. And I’ll tell you all I can think about right now is sitting on a couch fucking cuddling with a romance movie on.
Fucking Christ.
The gaggle of girls approach me.
Sure, I won’t lie. They’re cute. I won’t deny that. But they’re cute in a skanky way. Not in an Ashley way.
Fuck, I can tell I’m not in a good mood.
I need a fucking drink.
I open the bottle of scotch at the table and pour some into a glass. I sigh as the girls sit down at the table. I lean back, seeing what they're going to say. It may be too much to hope for, but maybe someone will say something the same way Ashley did. When she used to talk, it used to make me fucking think.
"Evening, ladies," I say, putting my arms back on the sofa. "I’m Arsen. What’s your name?"
"I'm Joanna," the blonde next to me on my right says with a smile.
"I'm Lauren," next to her.
"I'm Sarah," her friend says.
"I'm Deb," the one on my left chimes.
"I'm Carrie," the one next to her says. She doesn't hold back though. "I give good head."
Jesus fucking Christ. So much for fucking small talk I guess.
I look around me. Jonathan is talking to some girl that’s sitting next to Sarah.
The other three friends have somehow gone off in their own direction.
I’m here by myself. Usually, not a problem.
But it gives me a chance to look around me. I mean, really look around me.
To girls who wear as little as possible and go out at night, hoping they find someone to go home with.
To guys looking for something cute to stick their fucking dick into.
To people looking to drink and forget.
To others looking to just forget.
Too many people talking too loud, trying to drown out the fucking silence.
I sound like I’m fucking high right now or something, don’t I? Well, I’m not. Because it’s starting to make sense.
These aren’t bad people. Strippers aren’t bad people. Hell, hookers, phone sex workers, models, web cam girls, these aren’t bad people. The people who provide and the people who consume, these aren’t horrible evil people.
I mean, I remember my Dad started out by writing smut and selling it online. That grew. He didn’t stop. Sure, he was sexual. I mean, I still remember the day outside Starbucks. I was just about to talk to some random gorgeous girl—what little of her that I remember reminds me of Ashley—when I saw him with his two new girlfriends.
