Page 3 of Fair Trade
I really do. I just don’t love the men I have to deal with in order to get an orgasm that isn’t delivered by a sex toy.
My ex-boyfriends never understood that I liked it rough in the bedroom. Ignored me when I asked for dirty talk, instead whispering sweet nothings as if I were a delicate flower. But there’s nothing fragile about me.
Because when it comes to sex, I want to be railed. Give it as good as I get and ride them like it’s my firstandlast rodeo. Instead, I’d end up on my back like a starfish, watching them get overexerted by missionary.
I quickly learned that I’d have to get myself off once they were about to come… before even attempting to make sure I got there first.
And somehow, even after my less than stellar experiences, I still loved dick. But I haven’t found the right one. The one attached to a man who will speak the filthiest words in my ear while pushing me to my breaking point.
If only it were that easy.
I’ve only had sex with men I dated, too chickenshit to entertain the idea of a one-night stand.
But now, as I look toward the exit that opens up to the fancy hotel lobby, I can’t help but picture going upstairs with a stranger and getting exactly what I want without all the pretenses. Being well and truly fucked without having to endurethe mutual half-assed attempts to meet up for drinks or dinner later in the week when we’d both rather to skip to the part where we’re naked and sated.
The more I think about it, the more I believe this might be exactly what I need. So I decide to give the generically attractive man before me a long perusal, reevaluating him under a different lens.
A clearing of a throat reminds me that I have yet to respond to bachelor number three.
“As you can see, I already have a drink.” I smile softly as I point to my full martini.
“Ah, yeah, but it seems like a crime for a woman like you to be sitting alone at a bar.” His eyes drop to my conservative cleavage, eyes straining as if he can somehow conjure x-ray vision.
I suppress an eye roll at his lack of discretion.
You’re trying to get laid,not swept off your feet,I quickly remind myself.
Before I can respond, he continues. “You know what?” He knocks on the bar once and waves down the bartender, who is currently drying a wine glass. “Bring us something fruity, like a sangria,” He winks at me. “And a tequila, neat.”
The bartender and I share a look, as if sayingcan you believe this guy?
I immediately decide that I like her and will be leaving her a hefty tip.
It takes superhuman strength to control my facial expressions now. Because not only do I loathe when a man orders on my behalf without consulting me first, but I absolutely hate the fact that this man thought ordering me a sugary drink was the way to go.
One, because he didn’t clock that I was already drinking hard liquor, so he clearly hasn’t taken a moment to think of whatIwould actually like to drink. If he pays no attention to detail, how can I trust him to read my body while we’re having sex?
Second, I prefer toeatsugary snacks, not drink them in my alcohol, since I have polycystic ovary syndrome. Unlike my cousins, my PCOS is mild for the most part, but put me in a room with a carb, and it’ll try and find a way to sweet talk itself onto my hips.
But you would have to pry Dominican birthday cake out of my cold, dead hands if you think I would ever give that up.
And third, it’s abundantly clear that he believes I would enjoy a “girly” drink because, well, I’m a woman.
That might not strike some as a big deal, but as a woman who is currently entering an extremely male-dominated field, yeah, I’m going to have feelings about that.
Orgasms, Luisa. There’s still a good chance he might know how to find a clit.
Maybe. Possibly. I think to myself as the bartender places the sangria in front of us and pulls out a short glass for the tequila.
I muster up the fake smile I reserve for the older white men who love to call melittle ladyand don’t miss the opportunity to point out how I’m usually the only woman in the room, and ask, “So, do I get a name, or are you only here to offer drink suggestions?”
He leans in as the glass of tequila is gently placed next to the sangria. “The name’s Tucker.” He leans even closer, whispering the next part. “And you are Luisa Álvarez, a real ball buster.” He grins. “I mean, to enter the big boys’ club over at the Monarchs…” He whistles low. “I can only imagine the things you can do.” His tongue swipes the top row of his expensive veneers as the poorly veiled insinuation settles into my bones.
Won’t be the first or last time someone accuses you of sleeping your way to the top, girl, so buckle the fuck up.
I lean back, reaching for our drinks. He follows my lead, only to stop short as he sees me grab the tequila. Confusion mars his face as I take a long, sensual sip of the smooth drink, never breaking eye contact. “Well, Tucker, you got one thing right.” I pierce him with the same icy glare only a woman constantly questioned and harassed while working in the sports industry could master. “You canonlyimagine the things I can do. And if you don’t walk away in the next five seconds, you’ll get to see first-hand how much of aball busterI can be.”
He falters for a moment, looking for a way to backpedal, I’m sure, but I don’t give him the chance.
