They weren’t just my companions, they were my support system. Each of them knew about the encounter with Jay at Klutch, and each had a different opinion. Zoe was tentatively supportive, though I knew she wanted me to say yes purely for information purposes, more than curious about Jay and his ‘arrangements’. Wren thought I should’ve taken him up on the offer for the experience in itself. Yasmin approved of my walking away, though she also thought I should bring about some kind of legal action for the manhandling portion of the evening.
I, for one, just wanted to forget about the entire thing. I just wanted to distract myself with work and buying things I couldn’t afford so I didn’t have time to think about Jay or his offer.
Didn’t have time to think about the way his face stayed cold and empty when he talked about wanting to fuck me, yet his pupils dilated. Couldn’t remember the way he smelled, the way his onyx hair curled at the nape of his neck. I certainly shouldn’t be thinking about the carnal way my body responded to this man. No. I couldn’t think about any of that.
I dreamed of him, though.
Dreams couldn’t be controlled.
But I could control who I thought of when I was using my vibrator. It was usually Joe Manganiello, Idris Elba or the guy who made my coffee at the café down the street with the dark brown eyes, the sculpted muscles and large hands.
Sometimes all three.
None of those men came to mind lately.
There was only one man. Shrouded in black. In mystery. Danger. This was yet another example of my overactive imagination. Turning him in to something he wasn’t. A character in my life. Some kind of hero in a warped fairytale. I knew I’d forget about him eventually, but he was front and center now.
The only thing I could do was keep busy. I was feeling antsy, anxious and too small for my skin since I wasn’t able to engage in dance therapy at Klutch. It pissed me off. The one thing I’d had that was mine, that had made me feel free, he’d taken away from me. Sure, I could’ve gone to one of the many other trendy clubs in L.A, but I didn’t want to. None of them were right. A lot were too crowded, most had the wrong music, too much sleaze and not classy enough.
So instead of dancing, I worked. Usually I turned down a couple of jobs each week so I had downtime to do things like shower, eat, sleep, work out and go out with my girlfriends. But now I took all the jobs that came my way.
Working out was nonexistent, and my sleep schedule suffered, as did the whole eating thing. I was living off coffee and protein bars. This couldn’t carry on for much longer. I knew that. Dad heard the exhaustion in my voice and was worried about me, but he knew better than to try and tell me to do anything like take care of myself. And I knew better than to tell him the reason for my exhaustion was trying to forget the maybe criminal who suggested a sex arrangement that was likely kinkier than anything I’d ever experienced.
As long as there was coffee in the world, I didn’t need much sleep. I loved my work, even if the clients could be assholes, plus I didn’t mind working a lot. Beyond that I needed the money. It was starting to dawn on me how irresponsible I’d been in my early twenties. And during mid-twenties. Okay, up until yesterday, pretty much.
I’d spent years making shit money. Having to forgo meals just to pay my bills. That was why I was skinny enough for the sample sizes of the designer items that ended up in bargain bins.
All of my spare money went to purchasing items that had seemed so magical to me back in Missouri. Went toward finding my style. Building myself up.
And then I made enough money to move out on my own and came here. Made enough money to buy designer shoes at full price. One pair every six months, at least. I earned enough to eat so that I looked healthy again. In the industry I was in, I saw far too many horrible side effects of diet culture to torture my body and soul just so I could be a size zero.
I didn’t think much about retirement. About the future. The only sensible thing I did was get health insurance after leaving my job at a fashion magazine and no longer had any.
I started a savings account but drained it whenever I saw a bag that I loved. Went on trips. Left the country for the first time. Then the second. And the third. Then I started getting a reputation, getting offers to work with Italian Vogue, to go on location for shoots in Prague, Morocco. I said yes to them all and made a point to suck the marrow out of every experience, and more often than not, drained my bank account even when the employer was footing the bill for airfare and accommodations.