Page 3 of Intoxicated
Chapter 2
CHER
Another Friday night spent looking pretty in someone’s bar. The people in this place are lucky I’m not bloating, because I amnotcute in this dress when I’m hormonal or have accidentally inhaled some take-out.
Don’t look at me like that. I don’t care what you think about it. If you’re along for this ride – God knows why you’ve picked me out of every bitch in this sty of a city, but I digress – then we’re going to lay down some ground rules. 1) Don’t judge me. 2) Don’t flirt with me. 3) Don’t give me advice. Number three is the most important rule in this agreement. Suppose you can judge me all you want, if you do it silently and keep your poker face. Flirting? You can try, but it’s never going to happen. All you’ll do is greatly annoy me. I’m irked enough that you’re following me around while I have mediocre sex. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I don’t know you’re there. I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?
Got it? Good.
The last thing I need is advice. I’ve been doing this shit longer than you’ve been aware of my existence, and I don’t care if you’ve been around since my Preston Bradley days. (Yeah, I know that you know about that. Thanks, Preston. Thanks to you and your buddy Julian, everyone knows about what a bitch I am. How lovely.) When you have a delicate existence like mine, you getgoodat it. This is what I excel at. This is who I am.
Actually, I’m this fucker’s worst nightmare.
I’ve seen him around before. Oh, I don’t know his name, but I know what company he works for and how much he might be worth. Enough to pique my interest, but I’ve been going through a consequential dry spell since winter ended. Sometimes I take purposeful breaks between relationships, but my funds are running low. I haven’t had a proper job in so long that my entire income originates from men’s pocketbooks and the few odd-jobs I do online. Pretty soon, I’ll have to go back to camming. Do you know how demoralizing camming is? You put up with assholes wanting to see your pussy for free, all while they tell you what to do and how to do it. You ban more guys than you get tips from, and then where are you? Buying a coffee at Starbucks with your so-called tips?
I need some money. This guy has enough to keep me fed for a few months, if I play my cards right. Hopefully he won’t ask me to marry him before I’ve completely milked him for all he’s worth. Nothing ends a relationship early like some poor sod asking you to marry him.
It’s a tenuous game I play. These men must be in love with me to the point they throw their money at me. I’m quite good with money, honestly. I know how to spend it while squirreling away the rest for these dry spells, but they can’t besoin love with me that they want to elope in Vegas next weekend. That’s when shit gets really messy. I would only say “I do” for a man made out of a billion dollars and a foolish prenup. Beyond that? It’s not worth it. I’m not wife material. I’m your fantasy girlfriend who has carved a niche out for herself in this region. Portland, Seattle… they’re both the same. Tech bros and old-money snowflakes who want me to suck their dicks while paying me in food, lodging, and trips around the world. My closet is full of dresses I didn’t have to pay for, and my feet are always covered in shoes that make other women seethe in jealousy. My expensive beauty regimen comes at the price of half my sanity, but when you reach the ripe old age of twenty-six and don’t have many other skills, well… you do what you must to stay alive. Women like me have been doing it since the dawn of time.
How did I get into doing this? Hm… let me see where things go with this guy before I potentially tell you about that.
He’s not too bad looking, I suppose. A bit pudgy in the middle and two years away from losing his hair, but I’ll be out of his life before that happens. The most important thing is that he doesn’t have a ring on his finger. Seducing married men is adisasterI should not like to do again. It’s never worth it. Enough guys in this town are single, though. Commitment is a foreign word in Portlandese. Any guy with a collared shirt and enough money to rent a two-bedroom in the Pearl isn’t looking for a serious girlfriend. He wants a toy. A hot girlfriend he can brag about to his buddies while chasing other tail on Tinder. I know my place.
I also know my worth. That’s a big reason I don’t let them marry me. I may be sad, but I’m notpatheticenough to go into a marriage I know will be rife with unfaithfulness. Give mesomecredit.
“Good evening,” I say, turning on the silky-smooth tones that have seduced half the collared shirts in this city. “Couldn’t help but notice you’re alone. Are you waiting for anyone?” Say, a girlfriend? I’m not going to waste my time unless it’s a first date or he’s not serious about a girl he’s casually seeing.
This guy almost drops his phone when he sees me in my full glory. That’s right. For my perusal of the lounge tonight, I brought out my slinkiest black dress. I call it the Morticia Addams, although it’s definitely more cocktail party than sexy funeral. Fantastic way to make guys think I’m a classy lady, though. They go nuts for the plunging neckline, the slits on the sides, and cinched waist. If I pair it with some stilettos or sheer pantyhose… well, I only bust out those guns if I’ve been scoping out a man with a known fetish for either.
“I’m Cher.” I offer him my hand. He’s taking it before saying a single word. “Like the singer.” Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad.
“Brian,” he croaks, as if I’ve found the opposite of a prince turned into a frog. “No, I’m not waiting for anyone.” He welcomes the drink the bartender deposits before him. “Hanging out a bit before going home. Had a late night at the office.”
“On a Friday?” I put on my bestoh, no!face. Instantly play up my sympathy and hope he feels properly vindicated. “That’s not fair. You should be out having a date or something.”
Lord help this man, for he is daft. Here I am, playing one of the oldest tricks in the book – a trick I’ve played a hundred times over for other daft men – and he’s falling for it. He thinks he’s special. He thinks I’m attracted to him because I’m a lonely soul seeing another lonely sod. Or because he’s handsome. Or has some innate charm that exudes from his whimsical soul. I’m not wrong about any of this, by the way. This is what he’s thinking about himself right now. That’s why I’m constantly adjusting my seduction style to cater to his reactions. The more he opens up – and he is, whether he knows it or not – the more I become his ideal girlfriend. His dream come true. His Manic Pixie Dream Bitch.
I will change his life. I will suck him dry.
“I don’t have a lot of time to meet women,” he says with a small, bashful smile. Aw. He’s almost adorable. Two seconds ago he was a mildly confident manager of one of Portland’s many software companies. Now he’s succumbing to the sweetness I sweat from my covered pores. “Especially this month. I’m a software developer, and we’ve got a launch happening with one of our clients next week and, ah… oh, you don’t want to hear this.” He sips his drink. It must be to his tastes, for he gratefully nods to the bartender.
“I actually love hearing about that stuff.” Cheekbones, get higher. Chin, tip up. Bust? Lean the hell forward and make sure he sees your gorgeous clavicle. You’ve got this. If this guy isn’t asking you back to his place tonight, he’s getting your number and texting you a picture of his dick as soon as he gets home. (Trust me, he’s the type of dumbass to do that. Ask me how many unsolicited dick pics from guys are lurking on my phone, ready to be used to destroy a bastard’s marriage. Assuming he pisses me off enough, anyway.) “I don’t know a whole lot about computers and software, but I’ve always been curious to know more.” Yes, Mr. Stranger! Tell little ol’ uneducated me the same shit I’ve heard from the rest of your ilk over the years!Totallynever met a software guy in Portland before!
I pluck the lemon from my Old Fashioned and run it down my tongue, acting as if this is a totally innocent move. Brian’s eyes widen in confounded admiration. Oh, this lemon is absolutely sour as shit, but I pregamed this move a few minutes ago when I doused my tongue with lemon juice. I want him to think about my mouth on his cock. I’m not handing out the head candy tonight, but I want himfantasizing.Especially when I wipe a little smidge from the corner of my mouth and act like I hadn’t done anything sexual at all.
“Besides,” I say, my demeanor perkier than my breasts, “you’re meeting someone right now, aren’t you? You only had to step out of your comfort zone for a few minutes.” I maintain my girl-next-door smile as I run my finger around the rim of my glass.
