Page 5 of Work: Strictly Professional

So that’s one thing. That’s the first thing. The main thing.

And the second thing? Well, it’s minor, but it might be even worse than the first. I know, I know, it seems hard to believe, but it’s true. The second thing is almost certainly worse than the first.

Want to know why?

Because if the current state of my dick is anything to go by…I’m attracted to a world-class asshole.

2

Wyn

I can’t believe it,but it does seem to be the case. I appear to be having a physical reaction to this horrible man. I honestly don’t know what to make of it, but whenever I’m around him, my entire body is flooded with heat. It starts in my face and washes down my neck, spilling into my chest and trickling to my pants, wreaking complete havoc.

I’m astounded. I wrack my brain for a way to explain it. I come up empty, so I dive back in, reaching into the darkest recess of my mind, and arrive at a very concerning suspicion.

You know the things you think about when you’re alone? You know, the really filthy shit that pops up when you let your guard down? The shit you’d never, ever tell a living soul you fantasize about and would sure as hell never act on?

And you know the man you imagine doing all that really nasty shit to you? He’s faceless, isn’t he? Just a killer body, a fuck-ton of presence, and a blurred-out face, right?

Well, he’s faceless for me. He always has been. For as long as I can remember, and for as long as it’s been decent—I’m using the termdecentloosely, you understand—for me to have thesekinds of fantasies, he’s been with me. My constant companion. My confidant in the night. Tall and dark. Big enough to toss me around without breaking a sweat. Rough enough to need taming but too wild to tolerate it. He’s the type that moves like a panther—feline and dangerous. He doesn’t walk. He stalks. And he doesn’t talk. He growls.

For years, he’s lived in my head. Safely caged by the confines of my imagination.

I’m not one hundred percent sure about it. I mean, I’d super love to be wrong about it, but I think, Ithink, Derek MacAvoy might bear a teeny, tiny resemblance to The Faceless Man.

It’s not good. I freely admit it. It’s the exact opposite of good, but not to worry, I wouldn’t dream of acting on it.

I would never.

Please. As if.

I’m not like that at all. The things I fantasize about and what I do in real life couldn’t be more different. I’m a sensible person. Always have been. Mature for my age and full to the brim of common sense. In fact, I’m known for it. Just ask any of my friends. Ask Bridget. She’ll tell you. Or ask my college roommate, Gould. He knows me better than almost anyone. I practically managed his whole life until he met his husband, Stuart. Even my most out-there friend, burlesque dancer Trouble, and both of his boyfriends will tell you. I’m the height of sensible. The very height of it. In fact, they laugh at me for it when they think I’m out of earshot.

On top of all that, Derek MacAvoy is straight. He’s been married to a woman for decades and is currently going through a highly publicized divorce. Believe me, he’s straight. And even if he wasn’t straight—or an asshole—I’m currently deeply embroiled in a self-imposed sex sabbatical.

I’ve taken myself off the market—the meat market, that is. I’ve been staying home or catching up with friends, avoidingGrindr and clubs for almost six months. It was hard at first, but honestly, I’m so much happier without all that in my life. Hookup culture is fun and games for a while, and I recommend it to everyone at some point in their lives, but it was starting to get me down. I’m almost thirty. I want a relationship, not just a nut. I want to be wooed, not thrown out of a skanky apartment at two in the morning.

I know it might sound old-fashioned, but I want the whole package. I want romance and love and butterflies and a future with a man who looks at me as if I’m the first bite of his favorite pizza. I want heart palpitations and grand gestures. I don’t want a white picket fence per se. I think I can do better aesthetically. But I want a house we make into a home, and I want tiny people who look like him or me running around it. I want chaos and Cheerios and chicken nuggets with ketchup. I want first steps and wiggly teeth and eye-rolling teens.

I want it all.

But most of all, I want quiet moments where we’re home together and the world goes away. Where nothing matters except that we belong to each other. I want to see it in his eyes before bed and hear it in his voice in the morning. I want to know in my bones that it’s forever. That who and what we are to each other is written into the fabric of our souls.

It’s what I want.

It isn’t new either. It’s not merely a strong reaction to turning thirty later this year or anything like that. I’ve wanted this forever. It’s who I am. Don’t tell anyone, as it’s a little cringy, but I started a secret wedding board on Pinterest as soon as I joined.

I was eleven.

I still work on it now and again.

I know it’s a lot. It’s a lot to want, and maybe it’s unreasonable to be so rigid about it, but I am. This is what I want for my life, and I’m not prepared to make any compromises because I knowtrue love exists. My mom and dad are proof of it. I know it’s out there for me. I just have to find it.

So no. I’d never do anything as stupid as tangling with a man like Derek MacAvoy.

Never.

Not in a million years.

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