I walk into Club M with one mission - find a hot piece of ass, and fuck her until Delilah is entirely out of my head. I like coming here because of the complete anonymity. Of course, it helps that I am tight with the owner so I get special privileges, like free drinks, free VIP status, and first pick of the VIP rooms. And you want a VIP room. They all have different themes, and are already set up to accommodate specific tastes, including all the tools of the trade. They all come with a basket of condoms to choose from, but I always bring my own because the ones here never fit me right. I should talk to Calvin about supplying me with some magnums. Your nametag is also designated ‘VIP,’ so all of the women know you’re a big fish. And we all know how much easier it is to get a woman to spread her legs when she knows how fat your wallet is. All of the other rooms are pretty average – they just look like an upscale hotel room - and we all know I am not an ‘average’ kinda guy.

  I give Monica a head nod when I walk in. She has been working the front for Calvin for years and greets everybody by name. Well, at least the name she is given as I register, not my ‘real’ name. It can’t be that difficult of a job since everyone has to register to get in, and is prescreened. I already have my mask on and Monica has my VIP nametag all ready for me. Calvin must have given her the heads up that I am coming in tonight. I trade with her my cell phone for an in-house messaging system, and she adds my contact number to my nametag. From this moment on, I am no longer Nick Santino - I am “Nico, #812.”

  I walk up the two flights of stairs to get to the actual club, which is on the third floor. From this point forward, there is no speaking permitted, and masks are required at all times, even while you screw. There are a lot of security measures taken to make sure that there are no unwanted guests, and I have to show my VIP pass to numerous people before entering. I walk through the ten-foot tall wooden double doors into the main room. It is dimly lit, yet bright enough to be able to see the people and read their tags to get their numbers to message. The walls are painted a deep merlot red and there are chandeliers hanging almost every twenty feet. When Calvin first told me the color scheme he chose, I immediately thought it was going to look like a bordello, with skanky hookers floating around. But it is nothing of the sort. It is actually ridiculously classy and looks like he spent millions to get it this fancy schmancy. There is a dance floor in the middle of the room with a small stage for the live band to play. Well, not really a live band so much as a three-piece string orchestra, with a harpist, violinist, and cellist – very classy. There are small tables surrounding the dance floor, and the perimeter of the room is lined with plush eggplant colored booths. They are set in low lighting for a more private atmosphere.

  Directly across from the double doors I entered through is a bar. It spans the entire length of that wall, and for lack of a better word, it is beautiful. Can you use that word to describe a bar? Guess so, because I just did. It is made from a solid piece of a high-end Burmese Teak wood, like they use on million dollar yachts, as it is naturally water resistant. It is so big, Calvin actually had to have it imported from Malaysia, or India, or Indonesia… oh, who the fuck cares, really? Then he had a specialist come in to lacquer it to death. Fifteen coats later, it looks as though it is topped with glass. Like I said, beautiful.

  In the corner is an unassuming staircase that leads to the fourth floor, where all of the regular rooms are. One more flight up, you are in the VIP wing. There are only four VIP rooms, and Calvin is very particular with who gets them each night. The rooms need to be reserved at the same time as registration, and Calvin charges a nominal fee. Okay, maybe not nominal. Let’s just say it’s enough that those rooms are rarely full. I’ve tried numerous times to pay my way, but Calvin will have nothing of it. I told him I owe him one, and I am sure he will collect one day.

  I decide to do a once around to check out the women who are hanging about. Most of them are congregated around the dance floor mingling with each other. I don’t mind approaching a chick if she is with one of her friends, but when they are in groups I am turned off. It’s almost like they are just here to party, or be able to go home and talk around the water coolers at work on Monday, not here for bumpin’ uglies.

  I pull up a barstool, feeling completely downtrodden. I order my go-to drink at this place – a Bombay Sapphire and tonic on the rocks – and try not to be disappointed as shit. I sit at the bar for close to an hour trying to pick out a woman to take up to my VIP room, but I can’t. There is not one goddamned woman in here piquing my interest, or my cock’s for that matter. Oh, don’t get me wrong, no less than five broads have messaged me, but there is absolutely nothing stirring in my pants. This is not good! I finish my third gin and tonic, resigned that it is just not going to happen tonight, when I feel a warm body sidle up against me. Just as I am about to tell her something, I look up and it is Calvin. Of course, it is.

  C-dog #413: Hey, Nico, my man.

  Nico #812: Hey, C-dog. How’s it hangin’?

  C-dog #413: A little to the left!

  Nico #812: Very mature, dude! I was just about to take off.

  C-dog #413: No hunnies striking your fancy?

  Nico #812: Nah, man. I gotta get this shit in my head straightened out. It’s affecting my batting average.

  C-dog #413: I hear ya, brah! Save a room for u tomorrow?

  Nico #812: I don’t know, man. I am pretty fucked up.

  C-dog #413: Give tomorrow a shot. Monica said a few new foxes registered.

  Nico #812: Alright. I’ll give it a shot, but if I don’t get some, my dick may fall off!

  C-dog #413: Trust me, man. I got you.

  I hop off the barstool, bump fists with Calvin, and head for the door. Another night in pure agony. My balls ache like a motherfucker, and I just don’t think rosy palm and her five sisters are going to do the trick any longer. I’ll give tomorrow one more shot. I hope that Monica was right, and my dick can pick out some fresh pussy he’d like to party with.

  ♫♩♫♩♫♩♫

  Delilah

  What the hell is his problem? He has done nothing but bitch and moan at me all day - he doesn’t like the way I answer the intercom when he buzzes me, my handwriting is too “girly,” and apparently I just can’t do anything right today. If I wasn’t the consummate professional, I would walk out on his ass right now. But alas, I am, and so I will stay here and suck it up. Thank God, it’s Friday.

  I make it to lunch without throwing my stapler at his head, and decide to text Charlie. She always knows how to make me laugh.

  Delilah: Hey, Charlie! U around?

  Charlie: Hey, LaLa! Yep, just out to lunch with my boss. Wanna join us?

  Delilah: Thanks, but u know I don’t leave my office for lunch anymore. Remember what happened last time I met you?

  Charlie: Yeah, sorry. Just figure u have nothing to lose anymore

  Delilah: True & he is being such a dick today. Maybe next time, ok?

  Charlie: Of course! You are welcome anytime. Hey… u ready to hit a club tonight? Sounds like u need to let off some steam

  Delilah: Not tonight. I am exhausted from holding in my tongue all morning & I still have another 5 hrs to go!

  Charlie: No problem, I get it. u r not ready

  Delilah: I think I am! How about tomorrow?

  Charlie: Seriously? Hell yeah!

  Delilah : Ok! One of Nick’s friends owns a club downtown & gave me a pass to get in & told me to bring a friend. He just said I have to call in advance cause apparently it is exclusive & they limit the # of people

  Charlie: Sounds awesome. Sign us up! Btw, what’s the name of the club?

  Delilah: Hang on let me look at the card…Club Masquerade

  Charlie: As in Club M?

  Delilah: I guess? Have you heard of it?

  Charlie: Oooooooh yeah!

  Chapter Six

  Delilah

  Charlie is coming over two hours earlier than we originally planned. Apparently, I need a total make over. After the debacle of picking out my clothes for the interview, Charlie is convinced nothing in my closet is Club M worthy. Every time she says the club’s name, she giggles. I keep asking her what she is not telling me, but she just responds that she will tell me on the way to the club. I have a sneaking suspicion that I am not going to like what she has to tell me.

  I decide to take a long soak in my tub to try to relax. Nick was such a jerk to me yesterday and it is still bothering me. Between our pizza dinner and his birthday surprises, I thought we got past all of the BS. I guess not. He still sees me simply as his secretary, and nothing more. My mind wanders to the last time I was soaking in this tub, and once again, I have to remind myself that there will never be anything personal between us.

  I really have no interest in going to the club with Charlie tonight, but now, more than ever, I need a distraction - a hot, sweaty, Italian, piece of man meat. No, not Italian, definitely not Italian - but absolutely hot, ready, and willing to please me. At least just for tonight.

  I get out of the tub and dry off. I take a few minutes to pop in my contacts. I haven’t worn them in a few weeks, and I want to give my eyes time to adjust to them. Next, I moisturize with lotion from head to toe, Japanese Cherry Blossoms, of course – Nick’s favorite. I like to put my lotion on right as I get out of the bath or shower because my skin is still warm and my pores are open. I think it helps retain the scent longer. Who knows? I slip into a pair of white cotton granny panties and a full cup white cotton bra. Not the sexiest of lingerie, but they are practical, comfortable, and actually hold up my huge bazungas. Then I put on my robe. There is no point in getting dressed since Charlie should be here shortly, and I’m sure that she is going to make me try on everything in my closet again. Lord, give me strength! I throw my hair up into a loose bun and wait impatiently for her to come over. I distract myself by straightening up my bedroom, cleaning the kitchen, and watching a few of my guilty pleasure reality shows on the television.

  I love my apartment. What do I love most about it? That it’s all mine! I went from living with my parents, to the college dorms, to living off campus with Charlie, to moving in with Ryan. I didn’t initially like this apartment; Ryan actually chose it because it was close to his work. I had to take the subway forty-five minutes each way, but I sucked it up because I loved him and that’s what you do in a relationship. Well, at least, that’s what most people do. Ryan didn’t get that memo. I can’t believe I didn’t see what an ass he was sooner. Funny thing is, now my apartment is a hop, skip, and a jump away from my job with Nick. On a nice day, I can even walk there.

  Anyway, the apartment itself is nothing to write home about. It is a one bedroom, five hundred square foot box, with a full kitchen, bathroom, and cute little living room. It doesn’t sound like much, but by Manhattan standards, it is a palace. And it is all mine - decorated how I want, I can leave my clothes on the floor, and dishes in the sink – and there is nobody here to bitch and moan about it! I don’t have much outdoor space, but that doesn’t bother me much. I am not really an outdoorsy kind of gal.

  I am not sure how Ryan negotiated such a fair price, but for that, I am grateful. I saved a lot of money when I was working in the corporate world, but so far, my salary from Nick has paid the bills and kept me afloat.

  Finally, at 7:00 pm, I hear Charlie’s distinct knock at my front door. It is the same knock she used to use in high school on my bedroom door so I always knew it was her. She comes barreling past me, arms full of shopping bags, and an overnight bag.

  “What did you do, rob Macy’s? I ask sarcastically, pointing at all of the crap she is lugging.

  “Ha ha, very funny! A little help here,” she responds dryly, holding up her aching arms.

  “What is all of this?” I ask as I grab some bags and set them on the living room floor.

  “In the overnight I have my clothes for tonight. You didn’t think I would wear it over here and risk getting all gross and sweaty?”

  “Okay, gotcha. But what is all this? You don’t need three shopping bags and this box. What the heck is this box?”

  “Um…well… I may have stopped at Macy’s on my way over here. There is no way in hell I am going to let you wear any of those crap clothes in your closet. Don’t think I forgot for one minute what we went through to get you dressed for your interview,” she looks at me pointedly, raising her eyebrow.

  “Point taken. But three bags full?”

  “Clothes, shoes, lingerie, make-up. All of the essentials that you are lacking. We are going to glam you up and get you laid tonight!

  “Charlie!” is all I can say. She is right, and I know it. I really have let myself go as far as a beauty regiment goes.

  “LaLa! What? Come on, I am just looking out for my girl. Tell me, did you do your homework assignment?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

  I let out a loud sigh, making sure she knows I am becoming exasperated with her. “Yes, mom. I went this afternoon. I am waxed, plucked, scrubbed, buffed, highlighted, mani’ed, and pedi’ed. Did I miss anything because I am pretty sure every inch of my body has been abused?”

  “Sounds like you did a good job. Did you go for the Brazilian?” she asks, clearly amused at my discomfort.

  I send Charlie a death glare and she starts laughing hysterically. I, however, am not smiling.

  “Not intentionally,” I answer, getting really annoyed at her flippancy toward my discomfort.

  She stops laughing and looks at me, cocking her head to the side. “What do you mean, ‘not intentionally’? How do you unintentionally get a Brazilian?”

  I take a deep breath, embarrassed by what happened. I blow out and say it as succinctly as possible, knowing she is going to roll over in hysterics. “The esthetician asked me what I was there for and I clearly said, ‘a bikini wax.’ There is no need for anything else because even though I don’t do my hair or make-up daily, I properly groom the rest of myself…down there. I lay on the table and she told me to remove my underwear. I thought that was a little strange, but I figured that’s just how they did it at that spa, so I didn’t question her. She asked me a question, but I really didn’t understand her through her thick accent. I was so embarrassed with my coochie all hangin’ out, I didn’t want to ask her what she said, so I just smiled and nodded. How the hell was I supposed to know she was asking me if I wanted her to rip all of the hair out of my vagina? Oh, but it didn’t stop there…I then spent the next twenty minutes on all fours!” The Brazilian had to be invented by a man because there is no way a woman would come up with the most barbaric form of torture to inflict on another woman. Maybe on a man, but definitely not on one of her own!

  Charlie spends the next ten minutes rolling on the floor, arms wrapped around her stomach, tears running from her eyes, laughing like a freaking hyena. Although slightly humiliated from the events I just poured out to her, hoping for some empathy, I couldn’t help but find the hilarity of what happened to me - only me!

  Once she gathers herself from the floor, still hiccupping from gasping for air while laughing, we head to my bathroom. Time for hair and make-up. I guess I should be thankful that conversation was over.

  “Hmm, Charlie? You never did tell me… what’s in the box?”

  ♫♩♫♩♫♩♫

  Nick

  This weekend feels like it will never end. I decide to go into work for a few hours this morning to try to distract myself from my unsuccessful evening last night. I won’t call Delilah in for help because she is precisely the reason I need the distraction. It doesn’t seem to work, though. Every time I look out my glass wall toward Delilah’s desk, I imagine her luscious lips wrapping around my cock, her big hazel eyes looking up at me, filled with lust. After a few hours of getting absolutely nothing accomplished, I change strategies and head to the gym. A few rounds with a punching bag should relieve some of this pent up frustration.

  I don’t go to my usual gym today. Generally, I like the one close to my home because that one is geared toward men and serious lifters; but today, I go to the one close to my office, knowing that is where women go to socialize – a total meat market. I mean come on, who goes to work out with a face full of make-up and barely any clothes? If I can pick up some tail here, I won’t have to go to Club M tonight. After last night, I’m not hopeful that I will find anyone, and I’m seriously tired of greasing my own pole. Then again, Calvin did say there would be some fresh meat there tonight, and he seemed pretty confident my dick will wake the fuck up and tap one.

  I can’t believe two hours at the gym and not only am I more sexually frustrated than before I went there, but I could not pick out one chick. Several approached me, but no go. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. In the past, I could do anything with a pulse. All she had to do was look at me and I would take her in the closest room – bathroom, closet, office. I didn’t give a fuck. Now, since blowing off Julianna, who didn’t take it too well I might add, and since that crazy fantasy of Delilah in my office, my dick doesn’t really even stir much. Well it does, in fact, I get hard instantly, when I see or even think about her. But there is no way in hell I am going there. She is my employee - off limits, a definite no no, inaccessible, unavailable, and out of bounds – and she most certainly is not my type, which is precisely why I hired her in the first place. Keep telling yourself that.

  I am giving the club one more chance tonight. If my dick can’t pick out a pussy to party with, I just don’t know what I am going to do. After my shower, I slip on my tight, black Calvin Klein boxer briefs, but stay in my bathroom to brush my hair and teeth. I decide not to shave, the ladies seem to like the five o’clock shadow; I’m sure they like how it feels rubbing up against their thighs. I head to my closet to get dressed. I went with all black last night and it was a bust, so I change it up – my worn Dolce & Gabbana jeans, a black Salvatore Ferragamo cotton zip polo, and on my feet, my Prada drivers. I skip the Rolex, and opt for a more casual look, my Ulysse Nardin Freak – how apropos. To the average eye, it looks like an ordinary timepiece, but a watch aficionado would know right away that it cost me over a hundred grand. I opt for a different mask tonight, also black, but covering three-quarters of my face, only exposing my lips and chin. I slide it into place and head to Club Masquerade. Wish me luck.