Page 87 of Intoxicated
He’s not the first guy, you know. I’ve had a few exes tell me in their breakup spiels what they really think of me, and more than one insinuated I was a “fucking whore” who only cared about money. This is different, I guess? Drew wasn’t lashing out at me with the most misogynistic shit he could pull out of his codebook. He thought he was making a genuine observation! Hope he chokes on his next beer. Nicest thing that could happen to a lovely chap like him.
I don’t get off on feeling like aslut.Not outside of the bedroom.
Let’s be real, that’s what he meant.
You can’t tell me I’m the first lover he’s had like that. He’s too natural at taking complete control, even when I’m growling and daring him to bebadder.Drew’s that guy who is a total cuddly teddy bear when you need him to be, and a ruthless porn star when the hormones are high. So, he gets the difference, doesn’t he? He knows the separation of bedroom personas and real life monikers. Just because I like it hard and rough doesn’t mean I prance through society going,“Look at what a slutty slut slut I am! Tee hee! Bet you’ve never seen a cunt gape and be filled with so much cum before!”Ugh. I want to barf thinking about it.
I want to do a lot of things. Like wring his neck.
One day, I shall write my memoir. (Maybe I’ll call itA Slut’s Life, huh, Drew?) In it I’ll pontificate about why I never married.“A hundred men fell in love with me, but none of them were good enough. There was always one or two major flaws that completely outshone the good things. Maybe he had a tender heart, but he was terrible in bed. Or maybe he treated his daughters like human beings but thought I should be held to a higher standard. This guy donated millions of dollars to charities every year, but his job was running low-income people out of their homes. This guy was perfect in every way, except he expected me to a baby-making factory. Even one baby would make me feel like a factory. Piss off, Frank.”
There’s no such thing as the perfect lover, but does that mean I have tosettle?Does it make me a slut if I’d rather be serially monogamous than be in an OK relationship? It’s not always about getting my payday. Sometimes it’s as simple as realizing it’s time to move on.
It’s time to move on from Drew. I’m done with him. For good.
Of course, an idle Cher is the worst possible scenario. If I’m coming out of a breakup as gross as that one, I need something lined up. A new guy. A new life. Something.
I need to get back into the game. I need to get back to what I was doing before Drew attempted to ruin my life. Because nothing would get back at himandJason Rothchild more than being up to my old tricks again.
It’s too soon to make an appearance at the lounges and country clubs. Usually, I alternate lounges with the golf clubs in Lake Oswego and Hillsboro. Lots of big tech and athletic wear guys in those places, but I’m afraid Drew might go looking for me there. I’m still vulnerable enough (God, I hate admitting that) that I should check out my Seeking Arrangement profile.
Although fruitless, I update my bio and some of my pictures. It’s the perfect time of year to snap some selfies and set up shots of me drinking tea or enjoying the sun. Flirty dresses, audacious kimonos, and slinky tank tops always attract attention. Better if I throw on some sunglasses and keep my hair freshly washed.
It’s while taking gratuitous shots of myself on a café balcony when my thumb accidentally opens my address book. There, toward the top of the list, is a man named Brian.
Brian…Brian… hmm.
Ah, right. The guy I had been working before Drew showed up in the lounge that night. Mediocre Brian. New money Brian. Brian, the guy with enough money to get an after-hours drink in a lounge like that. Mr. I Have A One-Bedroom In the Pearl Brian. The guy looking for the flirty girl-next-door of his adolescent dreams.
My lips curve into a salacious smile. Sure, it’s been a couple of months since I met the guy, but how much do you wanna bet he wouldn’t mind hearing from little ol’ me right now? Never mind he didn’t try to contact me. Nor did he cross my path again, but… you never know.
“Hi, Brian! I don’t know if you remember me. It’s Cher, from the lounge a couple of months ago? I’m SO sorry that I never contacted you until now. I ended up breaking my phone two days after we met, and I’m only now getting things back in technological order. Hey, don’t you work in software? I bet you know all about this!”
Oh, you want to gag reading that? You want to tell me that no man is dumb enough to fall for a woman messaging him two months later, acting like he’d still remember her?
Bold of you to assume he doesn’t remember me. I’m a hard woman to forget, especially after the impression I left.
Hmph. It’s always possible he doesn’t remember or care anymore. Maybe he’s met someone better since then. Maybe he’s come to his senses. Maybe he’s moved away and no longer has time for little ol’…
“Hi, Cher. Of course I remember you. Sorry to hear about your phone problems. I actually work with computer software so don’t know much about apps and such. That’s a different department in my company, haha : )”
See? Cher Lieberman is back in business. Bet you a hundred bucks I’m attending a public function with him by this time next month.
Seriously. I’ll bet you a hundred. Prepare to pay up, and never mention Drew again.
