I'll be taking a mini hiatus for a week or two. I have the Red Dirt BoCo Signing on August 30th I need to prepare for, then the release of Calling Card, which also happens to be my 30th birthday. Not to mention, my biggest baby turns twelve this weekend. It's a crazy time and I'm blessed to be able to take the time off to enjoy it.
I read all of your messages and emails ... keep them coming!!! Don't forget to check out all my social media profiles, as I'm pretty active everywhere. I'll link them below. But, for now, here's Dexter!!! I hope you love him like I do <3
This isn’t the first time I’ve woken up in a strange place, lying next to a woman I don’t remember, in a city I’m not sure of. Ibiza? Paris? London? The only thing I am positive of is, I’m in Europe somewhere.
Quietly exiting the bed, I search around on the floor for my pants and shirt. Looking over my shoulder, the same scene that’s played before me so many times is no different—gorgeous woman, half covered by a sheet, hair perfectly mussed and her arm draped where I was just warming her sheets. I probably could wake her and judge by her accent where I am, but then I’d actually have to engage in conversation with her and I’d rather slip out into the early morning light.
Being only a mediocre partner, I’ll never know who she is, or her me. It kind of works out this way though. No need for awkward goodbyes, uncomfortable calls and broken promises of meeting up again sometime.
I crack the bedroom door, fully clothed, ready to make my escape into the night when the woman starts moving. Slowly taking my hand off the handle and holding my breath, I wait for her to roll away, facing the opposite wall and giving me a glimpse of her tight, pert ass and reminding me what made me want to fuck her to begin with.
When I’m safely on the other side of the door, I pause at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Pulling out my cell, I text my driver with the GPS coordinates and request him to pick me up as soon as possible. His reply is almost immediate. Spotting my jacket and shoes next to the sofa, I throw them on and pull a business card from the breast pocket.
Just because I don’t want to have the awkward conversation about where our “relationship” is heading, that doesn’t mean someone won’t speak with her. My system—the one I’ve developed over the years—works flawlessly. I’m a callous prick, but they know that going in, they just think they’ll be the one to save me from my foolish ways.
Writing a number four on the back of the card, I leave it on the counter and slip out the front door without a second thought.
See, this is how it will go. The unknown brunette will wake up in a few hours from her orgasm induced coma and notice me missing. The first thing she’ll do is check the bathroom. When she realizes I’m not in there, she’ll make her way to the kitchen, undoubtedly thinking she’s cured whatever she assumes is wrong with me and I’m cooking her breakfast. Her shoulders will slump and smile will fade as she comes to the conclusion that I’m already gone. But then, she’ll see the business card and all hope will be restored.
She’ll call the number while practicing her sexy, husky, bedroom voice. As my answering service comes across the line, she’ll ask to speak with me. She’ll be told that I’m on location for a job and am unavailable to speak with at the current time, and then be asked to give the number on the back of the card. She’ll flip over the card, see the four and tell the person on the other end of the line, who in turn recites a very specific script.
“Ma’am, I’d first like to thank you for calling. Dex will be quite busy for the next few months to come, traveling for business.” That part isn’t a lie. Being one of the most sought after photographers in the world, I’m in high demand and spend a great deal of my time shooting across the globe. “We’d like to thank you on his behalf for the enjoyable evening and if Dex is ever in this part of (enter country, state or province here) he’ll attempt to contact you.” However, for any woman ranking under a seven, the service doesn’t actually collect any of their information for me to contact them again. It’s more to keep me safe from the crazies; the women that think because they spread their legs, they’re entitled to a next meeting. For these women, the six and under, it’s a way of pacifying them so I don’t get stalked down and harassed.
These women usually get pretty irritated when they can’t speak directly to me. I’ve instructed the calling service to have no problems terminating the call and blocking the number from every being able to call again.
Of course, the array of women I entertain, nearly all of them feel used by this emotionless encounter and end up going through the typical stages of grief. There will be loads of anger, frustration, denial and then finally acceptance that she was a one night stand and will certainly move on with her life. Sure, I’ve burned a bridge with this woman, but if all I wanted to begin with was a night of casual sex and she wasn’t even that great at it, why would I need to contact her in the future?
And just like that I’m onto the next country, girl and potential blow off. Now, this isn’t saying that if the woman is absolutely phenomenal I won’t see her again. There’s a whole other script if I give the woman a seven or higher. Those girls, the seven to ten range, get a more special treatment. The answering service will take all of their information, catalogue them for me by area and store them in my version of a little black book. If and when I’m around again, I’ll call them up for another round or three in the bedroom.
I guess there could be better ways to enjoy a one night stand, but this works. With my career and status, it pays to be discrete about these kinds of encounters. The less they know about me, the better, which is why I usually keep them to one night, unless I need a good lay if I’m ever in this area again. It’s callous, yes, but it could be worse—I could demean them by making these women sign some sort of non-disclosure agreement in lieu of a night with me. I choose to let them live out whatever fantasy they’re having before I burst the bubble. See, I am a gentleman.
As I push my way through the lobby doors—and by the concierge’s accent, I’ve determined I’m somewhere in Italy—my car pulls up at the curb. I slink into the backseat as he heads off to whatever hotel I’m staying at.
“Have a good night, Sir?” Nicholas asks as he weaves through traffic.
“Four,” I simply reply, rubbing my temples, wishing away the headache and sore muscles that always come after a night of excessive drinking and bedroom acrobatics.
“Another one bite your dick?” he chuckles, eyeing me through the rearview mirror.
“No,” I laugh. “This one insisted on calling me daddy in her annoying baby voice. If she would have just kept my cock in her mouth, she would have been a seven, no doubt. I don’t understand what it is with women these days—nobody wants to hear a woman speak like a five year old, especially when I’m trying to put my dick in her ass.”
Nicholas wipes away the tears of his laughter and raises the partition. Shaking my head, I grab the bottle of aspirin Nicholas keeps supplied for me and swallow a couple dry.
“How long are we here?” I lower the glass just a crack, not even enough for our eyes to connect in the mirror.
“Based on your schedule, we’re in Milan until the end of the week, a few days in Paris and then home.”
“Alright, wake me when we arrive at the hotel.” Resting my head on the plush leather cushioned headrest behind me, I drift off in a peaceful slumber. God knows I didn’t get any last night.
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