“You just need to fuck it out of your system, man,” Jonathan says to me in the limo, bringing me back.
“You’re right,” I agree. “I’m going to fuck it out of my system multiple times with as many bitches as I can find.”
I really fucking hope he’s buying it because right now I’m just faking this whole goddamn thing.
We exit the limo and the five of us start drawing looks from the people who are standing in line to get into the club. They may vaguely recognize me; I’ve been photographed a few times, but they can’t place from where. Still, I look good tonight so its no fucking surprise that they take out their phones and snap pictures in case I happen to be famous.
That’s right. They’re taking pictures of me as I walk to the entrance of the club.
Because I look fucking good tonight, baby.
My 6 foot plus frame.
The way my jeans and shirt are untucked, with my shirt unbuttoned, showing off a part of my chest.
Everyone knows I have a fucking cut body. But tonight, these sluts are just going to love running their hands along my chiseled 8-pack abs and ripped pecs on the dance floor.
I’m going to make them lick me on the dance floor.
I turn and smile and don’t stop the cameras at all.
If I was an asshole before Ashley and I’m miserable without her, well then, maybe it’s time to go back to what worked.
The people outside of the club are staring at me right now. They’re entranced. The way my shirt is tight around my ripped body, highlighting what needs to be highlighted. I know they can see the bulge in my pants, the 12 inches of thick cock that I have swinging between my legs. Ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice to fuck the stray female of the herd that crosses my sights.
I know they’re staring at my face. At my strong fucking jawline. My deep, soulful eyes.
So Ashley wants to leave me, she’s free to go. Doesn’t mean I have to mope.
I swagger to the entrance, completely aware that I own the fucking club. But no one outside waiting in line knows that yet. Or if they do, they haven’t said anything.
Time to show them just how big a deal I am.
I glance at the bouncer and he gives me a nod.
“Welcome back, sir,” he says and I nod back, indicating to my four friends to come inside.
Inside the music is bumping and vibrating and I lead our way to the VIP area where a table is already waiting for us.
But in the time it takes to get there, Jonathan and our friends pick up a girl or two each, talking and spitting game out at the various ladies that we pass. They start with eyes for me, but once I pass, the friends swoop in and take over.
I shrug. This is just how the game is fucking played. The jesters in the court get the King’s castoffs.
I look around me and see the women watching me. We’ve attracted a fair crowd of interest. These women are dressed as skanky as they can get.
Now, don’t fucking worry. I haven’t gotten all prudish and all. I mean come on, I’m in love with a fucking stripper or phone sex operator—however you want to call it.
But these girls, and there are five of them approaching me directly, are trying to dress themselves up so they can look like hookers or porn stars or something.
Because they think that’s what the guys out in the world fucking want.
Well, I’ve fucked porn stars and strippers. And I’ll tell you all I can think about right now is sitting on a couch fucking cuddling with a romance movie on.
Fucking Christ.
The gaggle of girls approach me.
Sure, I won’t lie. They’re cute. I won’t deny that. But they’re cute in a skanky way. Not in an Ashley way.