What You Wish For Pt. 01

That's how it started: With a series of what ifs. Wild permutations of my own crazy situation, my own fucked up what if. What if the only woman you ever loved decides she no longer loves you? Or loves someone else more?

Or maybe even never really loved you in the first place?

* * * * *

Two months into the outline, Mom called unexpectedly on a Tuesday night.

"She's getting married," Mom said, her voice sad.

"Kristin?" I said, stunned she'd replaced me so fast.

"Kristin," Mom confirmed. "To Randy Walters."

"The cop?"

"The very same."

"That didn't take her long," I said.

"I guess it started even before she left you," Mom said. "That's the talk anyways. They were hooking up when she started coming back here to visit her folks."

Fucking bitch.

"And," Mom said, pausing before rushing the rest out in a flurry, "she's pregnant."

I was thunderstruck. That fucking cold, conniving, heartless, slutty, manipulative, vindictive, narcissistic, evil . . . .

"Say something, honey," Mom interrupted my mental tirade with.

"What's to say?" Dad cut in. "Fuck her."

"Edwin," Mom gasped. Dad almost never swore around Mom. Not unless he was seriously pissed.

"No, Mom," I said, gritting my teeth. "Dad's right. Fuck her."

The phone was silent for a moment after Mom's second, and more audible, gasp at my profanity.

"So what do Dorothy and LaVerne say about their little princess now?" I said.

"They're upset," Mom said.

"LaVerne's still acting like his shit don't stink," Dad cut in.

"But he's forcing it, Edwin. You saw it. And Dorothy couldn't even look anyone in the eye when she was talking about it."

"Good," I pronounced. "Nice to see Kristin's now disappointed or hurt someone other than me, huh?"

"No, Tyler, that's not good," Dad said, his voice going softer. "That's not good at all. It's bad enough she hurt you. But heaping this embarrassment on her family only makes it worse."

"What's to be embarrassed about?" I said. "She's back home. They've got their precious little princess back in town, and now they can see her all the time. And their new baby with that prick Randy Walters. And they can continue–they and Priscilla, for that matter–they can continue to tell her about how special she is. And her fucking brat, too."

"You're hurting, Tyler," Mom said. "We know that. But don't let the anger turn to hatred. Don't let it eat you up, honey. Please. Don't do that."

"That which doesn't kill us only makes us stronger," I said.

"Or rots us to the core," Dad added.

But I didn't feel rotten to the core. Not even the littlest bit. No, Kristin was rotten to the core.

I was just the dumbass who kept his head in the sand when all the signals were there. I was just the fucking sap who was willing to look the other way so I could preserve something that was already spoiled.

The good news was my alimony was going to be ending before the year was out. Apparently, her marriage terminated my maintenance payments effective the date she married the cocksucker.

So there you go, Kristin. Suck on that.

* * * * *

After that phone conversation, the outline took a darker turn than the initially-planned happy ending. Way darker.

Two months later, writing like a demon possessed every night from six to midnight and from ten to four or five on weekends, I had a complete outline of my first novel. The character biographies had been written while I was plodding through the outline, and they were continuously fleshed out as the outline progressed.

Then, suddenly, there I sat. Ten thirty at night all these months later–nine months after she left me; six months after starting–with the outline complete.

That's when I realized I hadn't been laid in more than nine months. Hell, I hadn't even thought about getting laid. Now, though, with the first step in my new life done, I realized my balls were set to explode if relief wasn't coming soon. Pardon the pun.

Either way, the actual writing would definitely have to wait another day or two.

* * * * *

Ten thirty seemed a bit late to be going out, but West Palm is a ritzy area with nightclubs galore and tons of young people. For whatever reason, none of which I could remember from when I was younger, the twenty-five and unders never bothered showing up until after nine. Thus, there seemed to be half a shot of getting laid on a Thursday night at ten-thirty.

A half hour later found me in Matt's, a sports bar meets dance club with a packed parking lot. Working my way through the doors and to the bar, I was smiled at, given the glance, or lightly brushed by at least ten good looking chicks dressed to the nines and apparently bored with whomever else they were with. At least three of them had wedding rings, too, which almost made me bolt before my first beer.

Finally, though, beer in hand, I made my way to a table near the dance floor. If nothing else, I could entertain myself watching men who thought they could dance jiggling out of beat with the slinky beach babes who seemed to be dancing with themselves in their own little worlds. Unfortunately, watching the gaggle of scantily clad women writhing on the floor with their faux hipster male companions drove home a simple point I'd previously overlooked.

How the fuck do I pick someone up?

Remember, I'd only asked one person out on a date in my life. Kristin. Almost twelve years before. While we were in high school, for Chrissake.

Since that fateful day, I'd never needed to hit on another chick. Sure, there were the innocent flirtations with women in the office, but both sides knew that was going nowhere. Hell, I wouldn't even know the signals if they were in neon lights flashing in my goddamned face.

"Hello," a cool voice with soft Southern accent said to my right, interrupting my thoughts.

I turned, a deer-in-the-headlights look no doubt overtaking my features.

She stifled a laugh at my reaction, then raised her eyebrows and nodded to the empty chair across from me.

I looked from the chair to her then back again. "Oh," I said, standing so fast the table almost went over. "Sure. Please. Sorry."

She didn't bother hiding her amusement now.

"First time here?" she said, sliding into the chair across from me.

I nodded.

"I'm Susan," she said, stretching her arm across the table.

"Tyler," I said, shaking her cool, surprisingly strong hand.

She was tall, dark, and beautiful. Long, shining black hair framed a model's face with high cheekbones and full lips, bright green eyes sparkling in the dance lights. She appeared to be my age–twenty-eight or so, give or take a few years–but her body was toned like a high school cheerleader with clear muscle definition and full breasts sitting high on her chest. Her slinky, bright green dress showed off her flawless complexion, brilliant eyes, and killer body to perfection.

Those eyes were appraising me now.

"So, Tyler," she said, sipping her drink through a straw while fixing me with her stare. "What brings you out tonight?"

Her forthright demeanor was startling. It was clear what she wanted, and she was brazenly trying to find out if I was looking for the same thing.

I think.

I didn't–

"How long you been divorced?" she said.

"That obvious?"

"'Fraid so."

"Six months," I sighed, answering her initial question. "Nine since she left, six since the divorce was done."

"And this is your first time out since?"

I nodded, trying to decide whether to get out before I made a bigger fool of myself.

"She must've been something," Susan continued. "Most are out here within a week of the divorce. You waited six whole months. Hell, nine, actually."

"Yeah . . . well . . . I'm not really . . . you know– "

"Been a long time since you've done this, right?" she said.

I nodded.

"And you have no idea anymore, right?"

"Right."

"Okay," she said, finishing her drink before pushing it aside. "Here's how it goes. You're pretty good looking, okay?"

I only stared at her in return, not sure whether to say anything.

"And I don't have a lot of time," she continued. "So I'm gonna put it to you simply. You wanna get out of here?"

My eyes went wide. It was simple as that? Just show up, be alone, and some goddess is going to pick me up and offer to screw me blind?

She laughed, a deep, throaty laugh. "I guess we can go through the formalities. You know, you buy me a few drinks and I play hard to get for an hour or so. Then we dance a few times. We start with the faster numbers and, finally, when the slow song hits I make it known I'm available and interested. You prefer that?"

"Well . . . I . . . . um . . . . What do you prefer?"

She laughed, pushing back her chair and standing.

"This is gonna be fun," she said, holding her hand out to mine. "Like with a virgin."

She had no idea how close to the truth that was.

"Let's not waste any time with the formalities," she said. "I've got to be to work early, so come on."

We drove in separate cars to my place.

Upon entering, she looked around.

"Nice. Better than most bachelor pads. Particularly the divorced ones."

As she spoke, I watched her slide her dress over her shoulders and to the floor.

"Well?" she said, looking at me expectantly.

I could only stare at her incredible body now clad only in a skimpy, matching white lace bra and panty set and high-heeled sandals.

Her grin turned devilish. "Like what you see?"

She walked to me, but I was too frozen to do anything but stare.

"You can say something," she said, leaning in and blowing a hint of a breeze into my ear. "I won't bite. Yet."

My hands went to her ribs and stroked her smooth skin, feeling her ribs around to her backbone.

"That's better," she encouraged, her fingers going to my shirt and releasing the buttons one by one. Her lips followed. First to the side of my neck, then the hollow near my clavicle, then down my chest until she was kneeling at my feet.

"Might as well get the first one out of the way quickly, right?" she said, her fingers unbuckling my belt before unsnapping and unzipping my trousers and pulling them down to my feet.

"Very nice, Tyler," she whispered, her breath hot on my painfully throbbing erection.

I could only moan in response, my hands stroking her shoulders as I tried to keep from losing it then and there.

Well, despite her best efforts–and they were pretty goddamned good; awesome to be more accurate–I managed to last for at least a minute before shooting months of pent up sex all over her now naked breasts and belly.

I will say, though, that the second time I lasted a lot longer. She seemed to think it was pretty good, too. If you're judging by her multiple orgasms as she put me through the full workout of positions. Missionary, her bent over the back of the couch, then her on top facing away before pivoting and smothering me with her marvelous tits as we finished together.

"Well," she said, gathering up her clothes as I laid naked on the couch, watching her.

"Well," I agreed.

She turned and smiled at me. "I don't really . . . . I've got court in the morning."

"Court?" I said. Who had I just been banging? Charlie Manson's love child?

"I'm a lawyer," she said.

My eyebrows shot up. A lawyer?

"Don't give me that look," she said. "You of all people should know what it's like."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning," she said, looking at the stack of folders and print outs on my dining room table and covering most of my kitchen counter, "that we both work high pressure, long hour jobs. I don't have the time for a relationship, okay? Doesn't mean I don't have needs. Like this."

I smiled. "I'm not judging you, Susan. Really. I mean, c'mon, me of all people."

"Then why the look?" she said, her dander going back to normal.

"Just surprised is all," I said. "You know. You're beautiful. And now I find out–afterwards, no less–that you're also intelligent and successful and everything. I mean, I've just never really done this before. I guess I just didn't expect it, y'know?"

She nodded, then smiled. She stood, straightening her dress before walking to me and leaning over.

"Well, Tyler Whatever-Your-Last-Name-Is, you wanna play this game, you might as well get used to surprises like this."

She leaned in and kissed me on the lips.

"So that means– "

"This is it," she said. "Maybe we'll run into each other again, maybe not. You know, play it by ear. Okay?"

I nodded, both upset and relieved at the same time. Upset because the whole thing felt somehow cheap and hollow. Relieved that she didn't expect anything more from me.

* * * * *

It was another month before I could go out and again try to get laid. In the meantime, all of my spare hours away from work were spent in my den, writing and writing and writing some more.

Though only a month had passed since the outline was finished, the writing came very quickly. I'd fleshed out the outline in great detail, so it was just a matter of filling in descriptive prose and dialogue, which seemed to fly from my fingertips, through the keyboard, and onto the screen. After a month, I was nearly a third of the way through the outline and my first completed novel.

That's when my suppressed physical urges again reared their ugly head. It was a Saturday afternoon, a little past four, and I'd been at the computer for almost eight hours. Having just finished with a romantic flashback scene, I was feeling randy and couldn't get the images of sex from my mind. Feeling my enthusiasm for writing fade in direct proportion to my need to get boned, I saved my work and backed it up before hopping into the shower.

The shower didn't help things at all. The images of sex, both with Kristin and–more vividly–with Susan, only served to increase my arousal. Deciding I didn't want to embarrass myself again should I manage to pick someone up, I took care of things in the shower and hoped it would tide me over.

An hour out of the shower, though, I was still aroused. Deciding not to fight it, I dressed in a pair of khakis and a pale blue oxford shirt with sandals and made my way back to Matt's.

Cutting to the chase, I was there about three hours, going through the buying drinks and dancing thing, when I was leaving again, this time with a sizzling little Cuban named Sophia Martinez on my arm. Again, it was an evening of mind blowing sex. Again, it ended when she pecked me on the lips, thanked me, and took off at half past midnight.

* * * * *

The next morning over coffee, I stared out the sliding glass door of my apartment at the gray waters and skies over the Atlantic, contemplating my love life. A few things cropped up immediately.

First, sex when you're single is way different than sex when you're married. Bachelor sex is way more selfish. From both sides. All I wanted to do was whatever I it took to maximize my own pleasure. All Susan and Sophia had wanted to do was, likewise, maximize their own pleasure.

Second, there was a lot more direction going on. "Yeah," they'd both said more times than I could count, "just like that." Or, "There. Right there." And, of course, "Faster." After the first dozen or so times with Kristin, direction had been unnecessary. She had always sensed what I wanted, and I sure as hell knew how to push her buttons.

Third, despite the selfishness on both sides, there was also a tentativeness, a hesitation to really go all out. "If I do this," I'd thought several times, "will she get pissed and leave? Will it kill the mood?" Sophia had practically had to beg be to slip it into her ass. Sure I'd wanted to, but that can be a real mood killer if the girl isn't into it. God knows it had killed the mood more than once with Kristin unless she was really, really drunk.

Fourth, I hate condoms. Kristin and I had only used them the first year we were together, at which time she'd gone on the pill. There was never any fear of disease or pregnancy after that, so I hadn't sheathed up in more than a decade. Now, though, condoms were a must. Let's face it, both sides were sleeping around, and the thought of AIDS kept me conscious of the need for protection. Unfortunately, that thin covering desensitized my poor pecker to the point where it took a hell of a lot more effort to get off. Not that either of the girls had cared, mind you. Jesus, I could jackhammer them for twenty minutes or more and increase their pleasure, and I'm pretty sure neither really cared that much about mine.

Finally, the whole thing just seemed so . . . so . . . impersonal. Almost like each side of the equation was just a flesh and bones fuck doll to be used for pleasure then cast aside like last year's Christmas present. The sex was certainly fun while it lasted, but the emotional toll afterwards almost canceled it out.

Was I ever going to get used to this?

On the other hand, there was no way I was going to be chasing after a real girlfriend or a real relationship anytime soon.

Finishing my second cup of coffee, I reached my decision. My life was good right now. A little lonely to be sure, but still good. The book was progressing, work was going gangbusters, and I was getting laid when the pressures reached a crescendo. If mindless sex with strangers was the price to pay for everything else that was going well, then so be it.

I vowed to set aside every Saturday night for myself and my efforts to get laid. Maybe I'd just get used to it, maybe I wouldn't. If it became too much, I'd just stop.

I know. Some dilemma, huh? A year ago I was faced with marital sex with one woman for the rest of my life. I'll grant you she was–and still is–one hot woman, so that thought wasn't exactly beating me down. Still, wild unbridled sex with hordes of hot chicks is supposed to be every man's dream, right?

So here I was. Something else I wished for and, when I got it, it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. But it was still better than my right hand.

CHAPTER FOUR

Five months and about a dozen forgotten nights of sexual bliss later, I was done with my first ever novel. Three hundred fifty thousand plus words of a man's tortuous journey to find out where she went and why. Half mystery, half betrayal, half suspenseful thriller. If that sounds like too many halves, it's because there was a lot packed into this first novel.

And it wasn't a first draft, either. I'd edited it twice, getting rid of the typos, tightening up some scenes and expanding on others, changing some nuances of speech here and there and everywhere.

It was another Saturday evening, a little past seven, and I just stared at the screen.

"What now?" I said aloud.

Because I didn't know what to do now. Another night cruising for mindless sex with a hot beach bimbo seemed out of the question. The thought didn't even stir my loins, truth be told. And I realized that was now done. No more. Hell, I couldn't even remember half their names. After Susan and Sophia, there'd been that redhead with big tits, then the brunette with bigger tits, then another Cuban chick with dancer's legs and gymnastic flexibility, then . . . then some more chicks. Never the same one twice.

Cruising for sex out of the question, I faced my more immediate problem. I've written a book, so what the hell do I do with it? Clueless, I started surfing the net.

By the end of the weekend, I'd made a list of things to do to see if I could get this behemoth that had taken thirteen months of my life.

Thing-to-do number one: Find an agent. Publishers rarely even look at manuscripts submitted cold, so I'd need an agent to read the book and, if it was good enough, market the thing to a publisher.

I spent the next week drafting cover letters to two dozen agents in New York, Miami, and Los Angeles. A copy of the manuscript went into each. (Don't ask me how much it cost to make forty copies of the manuscript. Just go buy stock in Kinkos, because they took a friggin' mint from me.)