Long Shot (4 page)

And what else could we possibly have in common, besides a similar interest in effective hangover foods? He likes to be naked, I (though I don’t mind picturing him) am practically a never-nude. I could blame it on being at my sister’s, but even at home, I just—well, I just usually hang in shorts and a tank is all.

And he gets near-naked with full-on strangers. That grope him. He’s clearly super comfortable with things I am not.

Before I can consider blowing the whole thing off, Rob pops up in the front door. “Got us a table over here!”

And that smile melts me all over again. Shit. “Hey! Where’s your porn friend?” A passing waitress goes wide-eyed. If only you knew, girl.

“Callback! Got the call as we were leaving. He’s disappointed he can’t take his new shots with him, but he’s excited nonetheless.” Rob holds the door open for me and rests his hand against my lower back as we walk through the crowded bar tops. I walk a little faster to keep his hand away, but immediately miss the warmth.

Rob, however, doesn’t seem to mind. He immediately goes for the menu. “Do you like gin?”

“Devilled eggs it is.” We order them, rosemary fries, and octopus salad. More importantly, we also order fancy cocktails, because mama can afford them now. Or, can once the check clears. Also I’m pretty sure the one who suggests the drinks buys, so this one’s on Rob The Stripper Who May or May Not Have a Real Last Name.

“I love a girl who loves food.” Rob clinks my glass in a small toast as our cocktails arrive, reminding me of our pseudo-date yesterday morning. “They are fun to go out with.”

“I love food.” I dig into the fries the second they hit the table. “Anyone who doesn’t is no friend of mine.”

“I like food. A lot.” Rob gets egg yolk on his stubble and I laugh as he tries to lick it off. I fleetingly consider licking it off myself, but there has been nowhere near the proper amount of alcohol to do that. “Now we’re friends. We should do shots.”

Ummmmm. I still remember what happened last time I did those. “What
what
?”

“To celebrate! You had a big gig today! From the sounds of it, first in quite a while. This could be a new chapter for you!” Curse his accuracy. But… I do like shots. Decisions!

“Big gig. Oh, yes.” I roll my eyes. “Just what every girl wants to be when they grow up—a penis photographer.”

“Everybody starts somewhere. Look at Peter: he started as a lowly doorman, worked his way up to dancer, and now he’s got a callback for some porno. Baby steps.” He leans across the table, conspiratorially. I lean forward towards him, and we are inches apart in this weirdly romantic bar (how did I not notice that Gatsby vibe was going to get to me?), and my heart is pounding like a bass drum because it is a traitor.

“Besides, you’re really fun when you take shots.” There we go. I mean, he isn’t wrong, I just regret my decisions, is all.

I pretend to be offended. “Are you saying I’m no fun while sober? Dang!”

“Maybe. Maybe not. And maybe those are shots waiting for us that I already ordered.” His eyes twinkle as a waitress comes up and sets down what I believe is technically a flight. Three for each. I smell one. Gin. My poison.

“Come on! You deserve it after several hours of staring down a schlong.”

“Shh!” I hiss, terrified the waitress is going to hear and ask questions, but she laughs and leaves and I’m left staring at these six shots next to a man who may as well be a Greek god. Plus, he’s right.

“Hey, what’s your last name?” I cannot shoot shots without knowing. If his last name is another first name, I will treat that as a sign. My stepdad always said never to trust a man with two first names.

“Callas.” He answers without missing a beat, without moving away from me, still locked in this private staring contest we have going. Of course he’s Greek. Of course he is. And it’s a legit last name.
Dang
! “Yours is Watson.”

“Stalker.”

“Prude.”

“So are you going to take the shots with me, or force me to take them all myself and live a sad, pathetic life on my own?”

I bite my lip, but know I’m going to succumb. I grab a shot and remind him, “It’s a flight.”

Rob laughs. “I was going to say toast to your burgeoning success, but I’ll flight it.”

We clink glasses and devour the shots. Flights. Whatever. He says, “Here’s to those who’ve seen us at our best, and seen us at our worst, and can’t tell the difference.”

Yerp. May it ever be true. My turn, though, and I one up him. “Here’s to you and here’s to me. The best of friends we’ll ever be. And if we ever disagree…” Rob chimes in for the end. “Well, fuck you and here’s to me.”

Ah, man, I love that one. Reminds me of old friends. Before I have a chance to get too sentimental, he holds up the final shots and proclaims, “May the best of our past be the worst of our future.”

Bless.

Dinner conversation flows freely over another order of eggs, another round of drinks, another set of shots. I mean flights. The room starts to feel warm, and Rob starts to look hotter, and I’m certain I’m going to sleep with him.

Now is when I start ordering many, many waters. Plain, sparkling, with and without lemon. Coconut. All the available waters. Calgon, take me away before I make another horrifying decision.

“I gotta. I gotta go work on my scarf,” I offer. “Knit some shit.”

Oh, I am Ubering.

“Whaaaaaat. Are you old? Or hip? No one can tell, Merie.” Rob wipes his eyes and actually pinches my cheek. “Do you knit, what are those things called… tea cozies or some shit? Do you secretly have fifty-seven cats and make them all hats and scarves?”

“Never call me Merie. And I can be old
and
hip at once.” I toss the last of my water back like a boss. Cool kids do that, right? “Knitting is cool, man. People pay way too much money for sweaters and hats and scarves when I can make all that shit.”

“You could knit me a sweater?”

“I could knit you a
cool
sweater.”

“Right. Okay, let’s play Fuck Marry Kill. Those three guys up at the bar. Go!”

I survey my options. One guy is old and packing a serious beer gut with a bluetooth piece in his ear. The one next to him is extra muscly and screams douche with his outdated Ed Hardy shirt and upside-down sunglasses strapped to the back of his head. Finally, an old man in a jacket too big for him, who is sipping what looks like sherry. Easy-peasy.

“All right. Fuck the guy with the paunch, because he’s clearly sugar-daddy material. He’ll buy me whatever I want. Kill the Ed Hardy guy, because it’s not 2004 and he’s probably got those rubber balls hanging from the back of his truck. Definitely marry the old guy. He’s got taste and style and will probably leave me a plenty in his will.”

Rob lets out a low whistle. We’ve been scooting closer together as the night wears on, and now our legs are pressed together, and I’m trying not to think about how turned on I am by sitting so close to someone so beautiful. Someone who also happens to know how to move his hips. Rawr.

“Girls are so fucking weird. If I were you… I’d kill the guy with the paunch, because it’d be a pity kill. Marry Ed Hardy guy, because he’s going to have some cool shit laying around that I can steal and then divorce him over. Fuck old man, because there’s a good chance he’d keel over mid-bang, and I could rob him too.”

This has me laughing harder than it probably should. “You’re hideous, and deserve those old balls.”

He dips his head at me, forehead skimming my own, and my heart starts racing. The music is loud, the bar is packed, and we are teetering dangerously close to a line I’m not sure I should cross. Want to? Oh, hell yes. I can pretend for three seconds he’s not a stripper. Maybe. Okay, probably not, but he’s gorgeous. And probably been touched a lot before.

God, I bet he’s got every disease known to man. I bet he takes all the girls out. I bet he’s just doing this for his roommate.

I tend to overthink at a certain level of drunkenness. Fuck.

“We should get out of here,” Rob says in my ear, and tingles trip from my head to my toes. “Too busy.” Tingles that I could never tell my sis—oh
shit
.

“Shit, I have to meet Jane and Bobby for dinner! I gotta go.” I check my phone and realize I’m late. Goddammit. I got so distracted by shots and this Greek god, I completely forgot my evening plans to get the Fam drunk and gently break the news. I wave down the waitress for our check, but Rob shoves his credit card in her hands as she walks by.

“I was going to pay for that,” I protest, but halfheartedly, because really I have zero issues with free and also got to gooooo.

“Pretty girls never pay.” He signs for the check and ushers me outside.

But as soon as we get to my car, parked near the back of the lot, we practically jump for each other, our mouths finding one another before our bodies catch up. I’m slammed into the side of my car and can’t deny that it’s fucking hot, because
I am a monster
, remember?

Monster.

I’m fumbling for his jeans, he’s fumbling for mine, and he mutters, “Back seat” in my ear before I completely lose it. We somehow manage our way into the back of my car and he pulls my jeans down before I can even get settled.

This man and his tongue… how do I explain this? It’s like my own personal vibrator. I barely have time to connect the dots to what’s happening before my eyes roll into the back of my head and I’m seeing stars and fireworks and manna rain down upon me. He licks me in the most delicious, passionate way. Like I’m the exact taste he’s been searching for. He doesn’t present
his
own dick, he doesn’t even touch himself. He just tongue fucks me into oblivion, until I’m a panting mess on the cramped backseat.

Note to self: invest in an SUV.

I’ve never gotten off orally before. Never. And it’s probably my new favorite thing that I’m going to have him do again, and again, but wait…. No. No… no. Oh God, no.

“Shit, no. Stop. This, this… you’re a stripper.” I cover my eyes with my hands and all the insecurities well up again. He’s probably done this to countless girls and I’m just one more pathetic notch on his bedpost.

“You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.” Rob actually slides my jeans back up and helps me out of the backseat. He’s grinning ear to ear. “Besides, third base seems reasonable for our second date.”

Oh, no, no, no, nooooooooooooooo.

Nooooooooooo.

Noooooooooooo.

And yet.

“I fucking went on a fucking second fucking date with a fucking
stripper
.” I want to fucking die.

Without looking back, I scramble into my front seat and peel out of the parking lot. I glance in the rearview mirror, and he’s doing a fist pump. Again. Asshat.

“
H
ey
, ladieeeeeeeeeees, get yourselves super psyched for Sebastian Slammeeeer!” I call into the mic, pulling triple duty today as alliterative announcer, dancer and, later, bartender. Squeals erupt throughout the sequined crowd, so it’s looking like a decent group.

I need the tips, but I’m getting behind on my schoolwork. I’ve spread books and my laptop out behind the bar, but it’s truly difficult to work on Ethics in Journalism in this kind of environment. Emilio is not helping by chattering on to me, either. I wonder briefly if Ethics in Stripping means I can’t muzzle him.

“You’re so boring. You’ll hate having a day job, you know. You’ll miss the hours. And the company. And the money, man, you know you won’t make any money in a cubicle.”

He’s right about the money, but not the company.

“I don’t sparkle in the sunlight, Emilio.” I throw a balled up piece of paper at him. “Unlike you. Anyways, going down to one job has to be an improvement over work, school,
and
homework.”

“You’ll be back.” He looks extremely smug. “Just in time, cause I’m going to buy my own club. Latino shows every night. Muy caliente. I’m gonna call it Hot Sauce.”

“That’s the dumbest name I’ve ever heard for a club. And we work at the freaking Meow Club.” I roll my eyes and wave him off. “Now fuck off. I need to study.”

“You’re too pretty for a desk job. Never gonna work, man. Never gonna work.” He leans against the booth, watching Sebastian work it on stage. He’s one of our newer dancers, and he’s still a little shy. That’ll leave soon enough, and it’s kind of cute compared to all the cocky guys who’ve been here for years. Also, I bet he makes good money with the shy bit.

“When the paparazzi gig gets old, I’ll hire you as our token white guy for the Hot Sauce.”

“Duly noted.” I try to focus on the paper I should be writing, but now Emilio is trying to sneak a drink of tequila from my bar, and I have to stop typing to slap his hand away.

Why is nothing ever easy? This is the theme of my life lately.

“Dude, I’m trying to study, and you’re up in five minutes. Shouldn’t you be oiling up, or applying body glitter, or… hot sauce?”

Emilio waggles his brows at me and thrusts in the air. “Now that’s a spicy plan!”

I slam my book shut. He’s impossible. Even if I am laughing. Is he really dumb enough to put hot sauce on his manhood? I dearly hope to find out. It would really make my lost study time worth it.

“Make my entrance music extra loud!” Emilio calls as he walks towards the stage, and I salute in response.

“Everyone, enjoy the eminent eeeeendulations of Emilioooooo!” I yell into the mic as I cue up Pitbull. Extra loud, as ordered. And yes, I do know undulation starts with a ‘u’, but I think I made it work. There are only so many ways to keep things interesting around here.

I lean over my laptop and grab the soda gun. As I slurp down my umpteenth Pepsi of the evening, I try and calculate my caffeine-to-word-count ratio. If I can chug this now and then type at my optimum 80 words-per-minute for the duration of Emilio’s dance…

Well, I’ll have another three paragraphs done on my paper. Looks like I’ll be pulling an all-nighter. I can’t complain; I really can’t. My all-nighter will come with a massive cash bonus for pulling these extra hours, and the end is truly in sight.

After a handful of papers and a final project, I’ll be the proud owner of a degree and with any luck—a day job. Or at least a paid internship. Or an unpaid soul-sucking internship. Point being, I’ll be graduated.

I sigh longingly, and suck down the last of my soda as the sugar rush starts to hit.

The door cracks open, shooting a rogue burst of sunlight into our darkened lair. In walks my beautiful Meredith, holding a manila folder and boosting red cheeks. It’s so cute how she’s embarrassed to be here during the daytime hours. I get it, it’s not exactly the classiest establishment, but it’s not like we’ve got demons climbing out of the floor. Well, not now that Emilio’s on the stage anyways.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite photographer.” I hold up a bottle of Fireball in case she needs some liquid courage, but she waves it off even as she licks those luscious lips of hers. Immediately, I’m transported back to the other night in the back seat of her car, my tongue devouring her sweet pussy. Excellent second date material. I’d kill to do it again. “Are those Pete’s pictures?”

Meredith nods and eyes the bottle longingly. “I picked up the prints this morning.”

“Grab a seat while I go get him. If that guy on stage gets near you, tell him you’re my girlfriend and he’ll back off.” I hope.

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

Right, right. Not yet, that is. “Just trying to keep you from getting spiced up, is all. Nothing more. Nothing more.”

Totally something more. This is a rumor I would like to see started.

I step out from behind the bar and catch her checking me out in a mirror. I knew she was into this butt. Now the only thing left is for
her
to realize it. I don’t have a plan quite yet, but I’m getting there. And by getting
there
, I mean in her—well. You know.

Swiftly, I adjust my pants before tossing open the dressing room door.

“Am I up already?” Peter is lifting weights. Why is this an accepted thing to do between dances, but researching mass media law is not? Strip clubs, man. I’m telling you.

“Meredith is here with your pictures.” This gets the attention of everyone in the room.

“Hey yo, the professional dick pics?” Sebastian perks up and puts down his magazine.

“The very ones,” I say.

“This means Rob’s giiiiirlfriiiiend is here,” someone else sings. Eep!

“You can’t say that! She doesn’t know yet.” This means the rumors have already started. Sweet!

The general consensus in the room is that no one really understands professional dick pics, and that everyone needs to do some light gawking. Fair enough. If I hadn’t witnessed it, I’d have no idea about this business either.

A group of half-naked dudes follow me out to the bar, where Meredith is innocently sipping from a cup. That I didn’t give her. Ah well, the occasional (frequent) free drink is a small price to pay for her company. I motion her over to a table near the back so we don’t distract the audience from Emilio’s next little ditty - a pelvic thrusting routine set to Enrique Iglesias. It’s not half bad, and I make a note to ask him how he does that roll so slowly without moving the rest of his body.

Meredith shyly opens up her folder and pulls out a series of photos, layering the table with them. Some are black and white, some are full color, and all are frankly astonishing. Peter lets loose a low whistle and picks up one, surveying it. I find myself surprisingly nervous for her.

“My dick looks goddamn incredible.” Peter picks up another. “I may be the new Ron Jeremy.”

A dancer named John studies a few. “Can you make me look like this?” Not unless she’s a wizard with Photoshop, I think to myself.

I have to run back to the mic to announce the next act, but I keep an eye on them. The entire table is bragging on her skills, and I’m so proud of her. My shit-faced shit-talk never ends up this successful. I glance at a spot on my hip where a tiny tattoo of an earthworm hides beneath my pants. Luckily for my tips, it also hides beneath my signature heart-prints. See also: reasons I no longer drink tequila.

I set up the music and jog back over to Meredith’s table where she’s setting up appointments for other shoots with the rest of the guys.

That shy façade has cracked, maybe thanks to the drink she stole, and she’s jotting down phone numbers on the back of a cocktail napkin while checking her calendar on her phone. She’s like a brand new entrepreneur, and I’m thrilled. To think this all started because I overserved her. I’ll mention this in our wedding toast someday.

Sure, penis photography is unconventional, but isn’t stripping? She’s making money doing what she loves, which is a hell of a lot further ahead of me than I’d care to admit. I’m still taking my clothes off for horny bachelorette parties while she’s actually using her camera.

It was exciting at first, feeling like the biggest stud your customers had ever seen. After a while, I noticed it wasn’t me at all. It was anyone who gave them a drink and did some bump and grind while telling them they’re beautiful. Now it just feels sort of sad.

How are there this many women so desperate for a man to show them this kind of attention? To make them feel super sexy?

Why wouldn’t a dude do this for his girl in the first place? I’m losing my faith in humanity, to be honest. And then there’s the creepy feeling I get when some extra-handsy partier grabs my dick and doesn’t let go even if I ask her several times. Thinking that this is what women deal with on a daily basis with
all
their clothes on…

Working here is turning me into a real feminist.

So I’m even more excited about Meredith turning the tables and objectifying my coworkers. Although I don’t like the way Leo and Kevin are looking at her. It’s like they didn’t even hear the girlfriend rumor I only knew about myself thirty seconds ago.

Maybe I can chaperone all the shoots in Meredith’s borrowed bedroom. You know, just in case she feels uncomfortable. Nothing to do with a burgeoning jealousy going on right now. No sirree Bob.

I mean, Meredith has made it perfectly clear that she isn’t into strippers, but some of these guys really know how to work it with women. I’ve seen full on Trunchbulls throw their panties at Leo after a lap dance. I can’t take the risk. What to do, what to do.

“All right, all right,” Meredith laughs. It’s a beautiful laugh that hits me right below the belt. It makes me remember how throaty her moans were the other night. It makes me think of all the other noises I can pull out of her. Unf.

“There’s enough time for everyone,” she says, but no. There can be no other. Only me. I am the Highlander.

That’s the final straw. Meredith has to be mine, and a plan is falling into place. I have to trick her into a third date. Third date obviously means officially dating, and then she’ll be off-limits to these jackasses. For all their faults, they respect the bro code enough to know other dude’s girls are untouchable.

I know what I have to do. I check my wallet for a business card, the trump card that will make all my wildest Meredith dreams come true. It’s still there, thank Bacchus.

“I should go.” Meredith scoops up the photos and hands them over to Peter, who is grinning like a goddamn idiot. These photos were probably a terrible idea, and he’ll be insufferable at home. Then again, if everything goes the way I hope, so will I.

“Let me walk you out.” I link arms with her and escort her to the door. “These look so great, Merie. You have an incredible eye.” She blushes and has a hard time looking at me. I can’t help myself. I lean forward and whisper in her ear, “I still remember how you taste.”

“Oh, look at that, I’m late for a… thing.” Meredith is bright red. “I’ll see you… talk to you… whatever. Um, later. Don’t call me Merie.”

She flees and I can’t help but chuckle. Getting under her skin feels so good. I head back to the bar and pull out my phone. The number I punch in rings, and I plug my ear to hear when my target answers.

“Hey, Bobby? It’s Rob, from the club the other night. Right, the dude in the little pink hearts. Listen, I need a favor…”

* * *

I
pull
up to Lidia’s in a suit and tie, feeling as fresh and clean-clean as Andre3000. There’s a single red rose in my front passenger seat and a whisper of getting laid in my future. Along with the whisper about finishing this damn paper, but that whisper can go fluff itself.

Tonight is special. Tonight, Meredith is going to become mine. Those gorgeous tits, perfect ass, and amazing cunt are all going to have Property of Rob Callas stamped all over them. Figuratively. Or maybe literally, in my semen. Dayum. My cock is rock hard just thinking about it, and I take a few extra minutes to calm myself down. I can’t show up to a family dinner with a raging boner.

My dick, the source of my livelihood and manhood. My dick, my downfall.

“Good to see you again—clothed this time.” Bobby shakes my hand after I find them inside. See, the night Meredith showed up in my club, her brother-in-law had wisely ascertained that here was a group of guys throwing away large amounts of money nightly that
could
be turned into larger amounts of money with a little advice and a little discipline. He gave me his card to talk it over and baddabing, baddaboom, I’m here to romance his wife’s sister.

I’ll clearly have to invest with him now.

“I clean up all right.” I flash a grin at Bobby and Jane. “Thank you so much for setting this up. I definitely owe you two.”

“Look, I’m not saying I’m in favor of my sister hooking up with a stripper,” Jane points at me over her class of sangiovese. “But I’m also not saying I’m
not
in favor of it. For some reason, I like you. And Bobby likes you, too.”

“Bobby senses a business opportunity,” Bobby says. Rob respects that.