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I haven’t been back to my apartment in a few days, but I’m off tomorrow night, so I’ll need to somehow work my way off his couch this morning after he sucks out my life force and swallows.
Fuck, I love it when he swallows.
And just like that—another boner.
He gives me the darkest look when he comes in with Elodie Tuesday night—their “big” night, and I get the weirdest sensation. Beyond the nearly immediate hard-on it gives me just to see those pouty pink lips, I also notice a feeling that feels an awful lot like resentment roiling through my veins.
Upon further examination of the feeling and various pokes and prods at it, I rule out pity—I do not feel sorry for him for having to fuck a hot, freaky woman in his Upper East Side penthouse. It’s not resentment, either, because I don’t want to fuck her either. It’s not jealousy because I don’t have any feelings for him besides gratitude that he’s so good at getting me off, and I’ve needed that more than I can say.
It’s irritation.
I’m annoyed.
The idea of him fucking her is an itch I can’t scratch. It’s sand in my shorts. I don’t want to smell her En Passat perfume on that couch while I’m trying to get off. I might need to slap him more than once in the morning—wait—that’s it.
I’m not going to get to see him in the morning.
Fuck.
I grind my teeth and press the heel of my hand down on my boner to make it quit. Now I’m extra annoyed.
As feared, dawn comes, and Elodie Lafayette fails to leave the building. When Killian arrives, there’s no sign of either one of them. No deliveries for 1204 either.
Fine. Whatever. I can’t hide out on the Upper East Side indefinitely. It’s been fun pretending I don’t have anything going on in my life that needs addressing, but let’s face it—I’m just delaying the inevitable. I hand off to Killian, grab my coat, and head for the train.
Truth is I’ve been sleeping great the last few days. It’s not easy to sleep during the day—doesn’t really matter how long I’ve been on the night shift. I live in a constant state of exhaustion. My roommates are respectful—quiet. Even when they have guests over, they keep it down, but Jericho doesn’t work nights. Therefore, if I spend time with her, she prefers me to be awake.
Speaking of Jericho. We’ve talked a few times on the phone during my shifts, but I’ll get busy enough to where I can’t be on the phone, or she’s asleep when I’ve got a stretch of downtime. I’m not sure how I’m going to deal with her yet.
In my head, she and I have never been a forever thing, and I feel like we’re petering out, if everyone will please excuse the pun. Since my libido started suffering along with my pocketbook and my pride, let’s just say my need to see her has felt less urgent. But she’s so kind and patient, she’ll never bring it up—what a loser boyfriend I am, and now look at me.
Redefining asshole one blow job at a time. I wish I could say what I’ve been doing with The Heir makes me hate myself, but I’ve hated myself for a while now, so the self-loathing isn’t new. If anything, Olivier is a side effect of it.
That’s exactly what he is, now that I’m thinking about it.
The longest conversation he and I have had was the one in his kitchen when I was waiting for my broccoli beef. Since then, it’s been mostly snarky jabs and utter depravity. I usually pass out right after I come and sleep, wake up, rinse, repeat, and go to work. His neck looked so bad yesterday morning, though, that I stuck with hair pulling and slapping.
His exact words after he came were: “Well, that was disappointing.”
Little shit.
My phone buzzes while the subway stops at Grand Central. It’s a text from Peggy.
What are you going to do about the leak?
There’s no point responding to her right now, the message won’t send once the train starts moving again, so I have time to come up with an answer. It’s not like I can ignore her, though. She knows where I live, and she works in the city. The last time I ignored one of her calls, I woke up to her demanding Christian show her to my room. It was noon.
She’s a bitch. What her exact beef with me is, I’ve never been sure, but she’s got one, and no matter what I do, it doesn’t change a thing.
Which leaves me pondering the age-old question: what am I going to do about a leak in a bathroom in New Hampshire from my apartment in Manhattan? It’s not like I can go on Next Door and ask for a reference. And it’s not like I can afford to pay a plumber if it’s something serious.
I’d almost rather kill myself than tell that to Peggy though.
Going into the Male Escort Service business is looking more and more attractive, except, I’m assuming—that’s a night job, too.
And then I’m back to wondering what kind of job I’d get if I moved home. The one plus is Peggy might lay off me some, but I wouldn’t be making as much money as I make here. I’d also have to finally admit my modeling days are over. That I’ve failed. Fallen on my face. And I only have a handful of catalog photos to show for my effort.
I fucking hate my life.
