It could happen. But I’m not enough of a dumb-ass to believe that a traumatic visit to a BDSM chamber in Manhattan is in any way comparable to patrolling around IEDs in the Middle East so I laugh at my ridiculousness.
“Miss, may I help you?” a saleswoman asks.
The iPhone vibrates in my purse.
“Jesus Christ!” I snap. The saleswoman flinches, and I shoot her a quick smile. “Sorry, not you. Someone’s texting me to death.”
She slinks away, and I pull out my phone. Lisette again.
U there?
Maybe I should nip this in the bud and tell her I’m not interested. Another card came this week from Getting In , which had surprised me. I figured after I derailed Jennifer’s relaxing evening of sadistic fun, that was it … I was out. In fact, I’d been holding my breath all week for a letter from Lexington College apologetically telling me that due to unforeseen circumstances, they wouldn’t have room in this year’s freshman class for me and good luck with my future plans. But the card from Getting In had the same succinct message: car at seven-thirty this Friday, twenty-four-hour cancellation notice, blah-blah-blah. Only this time, in different handwriting, someone had written, “All’s forgiven.”
Whatever. I tossed the card out and made sure that when seven-thirty rolled around on Friday, I strutted out the front door of our apartment building, gave the idling Town Car the bird, and headed off for a walk around the block. I could even hear George laughing at my gesture as I trotted on my merry way with nary a glance over my shoulder.
And when I came back, the car was gone.
I decide to text Lisette back.
Busy. Appts.
A couple seconds later:
Pls come. Now if u can.
Lisette had given me the address to her Upper West Side apartment building when we exchanged phone numbers at the park, along with her last name: McCormack.
I type back:
Told u. Busy. Can’t.
Instantaneously:
Pls? I have BIG srprise 4 u. U love!!!! Xoxoxoxo
Shit. I chew my lip for a minute or so. The iPhone vibrates against my palm anxiously, but I don’t read the text. I have a couple hours before my color appointment, and frankly, I am kind of bored looking at dresses. I’ve been thinking about Lisette before I fall asleep every night, hearing her moans in my head, picturing her plump, sweet little pussy when she was standing nude before me. It’s kind of bothering me, wondering if I’m turning into a dyke. But I’ve also been thinking of Tyrell, too, the both of them together, and imagining how hard he would have fucked her if I hadn’t stopped the proceedings. It was wrong in real life, but it’s oh-so-right in my fantasies.
I type back:
Ok, but cant stay long.
She replies:
Yay! B quik!
I grab a cab in front of the department store, and luckily the ride up to the pre-war apartment building across from the park is swift. I get out, give the doorman her name, and soon I’m tapping on the mahogany door of 6C.
Lisette, wearing a silky pink bathrobe, opens it, grabs my hand, and yanks me inside. So much for subtlety.
She shoves me down the long hallway into the heart of the apartment.
“You’ve got to hurry,” she says, directing me around furniture in a surprisingly large living area and through another hallway to the left.
“Okay, okay,” I say, annoyed by her eagerness. I’m beginning to think this is yet another big mistake in the long line of big mistakes I’ve been making recently. She pushes me into a bedroom, which I assume is hers since I know she doesn’t have any siblings. This chick really needs a consult with Ty Pennington. There’s a white four-poster bed on one side of the room, the head of which is covered with stuffed animals, and a large dollhouse in the opposite corner. I half expect to see posters of Justin Bieber taped to her candy-pink walls.
She opens a closet door. “You have to get in, like now.”
I look at her like she’s nuts. “Why the fuck do I want to get in
“Miss, may I help you?” a saleswoman asks.
The iPhone vibrates in my purse.
“Jesus Christ!” I snap. The saleswoman flinches, and I shoot her a quick smile. “Sorry, not you. Someone’s texting me to death.”
She slinks away, and I pull out my phone. Lisette again.
U there?
Maybe I should nip this in the bud and tell her I’m not interested. Another card came this week from Getting In , which had surprised me. I figured after I derailed Jennifer’s relaxing evening of sadistic fun, that was it … I was out. In fact, I’d been holding my breath all week for a letter from Lexington College apologetically telling me that due to unforeseen circumstances, they wouldn’t have room in this year’s freshman class for me and good luck with my future plans. But the card from Getting In had the same succinct message: car at seven-thirty this Friday, twenty-four-hour cancellation notice, blah-blah-blah. Only this time, in different handwriting, someone had written, “All’s forgiven.”
Whatever. I tossed the card out and made sure that when seven-thirty rolled around on Friday, I strutted out the front door of our apartment building, gave the idling Town Car the bird, and headed off for a walk around the block. I could even hear George laughing at my gesture as I trotted on my merry way with nary a glance over my shoulder.
And when I came back, the car was gone.
I decide to text Lisette back.
Busy. Appts.
A couple seconds later:
Pls come. Now if u can.
Lisette had given me the address to her Upper West Side apartment building when we exchanged phone numbers at the park, along with her last name: McCormack.
I type back:
Told u. Busy. Can’t.
Instantaneously:
Pls? I have BIG srprise 4 u. U love!!!! Xoxoxoxo
Shit. I chew my lip for a minute or so. The iPhone vibrates against my palm anxiously, but I don’t read the text. I have a couple hours before my color appointment, and frankly, I am kind of bored looking at dresses. I’ve been thinking about Lisette before I fall asleep every night, hearing her moans in my head, picturing her plump, sweet little pussy when she was standing nude before me. It’s kind of bothering me, wondering if I’m turning into a dyke. But I’ve also been thinking of Tyrell, too, the both of them together, and imagining how hard he would have fucked her if I hadn’t stopped the proceedings. It was wrong in real life, but it’s oh-so-right in my fantasies.
I type back:
Ok, but cant stay long.
She replies:
Yay! B quik!
I grab a cab in front of the department store, and luckily the ride up to the pre-war apartment building across from the park is swift. I get out, give the doorman her name, and soon I’m tapping on the mahogany door of 6C.
Lisette, wearing a silky pink bathrobe, opens it, grabs my hand, and yanks me inside. So much for subtlety.
She shoves me down the long hallway into the heart of the apartment.
“You’ve got to hurry,” she says, directing me around furniture in a surprisingly large living area and through another hallway to the left.
“Okay, okay,” I say, annoyed by her eagerness. I’m beginning to think this is yet another big mistake in the long line of big mistakes I’ve been making recently. She pushes me into a bedroom, which I assume is hers since I know she doesn’t have any siblings. This chick really needs a consult with Ty Pennington. There’s a white four-poster bed on one side of the room, the head of which is covered with stuffed animals, and a large dollhouse in the opposite corner. I half expect to see posters of Justin Bieber taped to her candy-pink walls.
She opens a closet door. “You have to get in, like now.”
I look at her like she’s nuts. “Why the fuck do I want to get in
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