Page 4 of Mafia King: Matteo
Unfortunately, I’m bored with the men in my sex life. Each man is just like the last. We play verbal poker, peppering each other with questions to see if there will be another hookup and if there is a potential future together.
It’s getting older faster than I anticipated. Besides, all my college friends have moved on to jobs, so I don’t get to see them as much. As a young woman in the city, I have too many openings in my social calendar.
In New York City, women outnumber men five to one. I size up my competition when I’m on dates. Many women lack a sense of fashion and often wear outfits that fail to flatter their figure. There’s an art to it. Most designer brands have better quality control and tend to fit better. My secret weapon is a skilled tailor. Due to my large bust, I purchase oversized tops and have them tailored to fit me perfectly.
A woman should show off her assets, and I do this tastefully. I assume my creative side leads me to judge others’ fashion choices harshly. I can’t help but laugh when I encounter women who wear heels to play putt-putt. The first rule of getting a date is to dress well. Second, one needs to dress appropriately for the activity.
The lack of fashion etiquette is ironic, considering we live in a city where the American fashion world thrives. I have more room at the apartment now that Izzy has moved out and has a swanky place on the Upper East Side. It’s not far from me, and I try to meet up with her as much as possible now that she’s working on costumes for major Broadway productions.
“You’ve been quiet. What’s on your mind?” Mom asks during a commercial break.
“Maybe I could find a job with my fashion degree. I love interior design.”
“I can have your father look for opportunities,” Mom volunteers.
“I don’t want to bother him. I’ll apply online and see if I can land interviews. How difficult can it be?” I shrug. The doors will fly open when they see my last name.
I’m flippant. I’m in the know as far as the beat of the city. However, I always concede that getting a great job without using my last name will be difficult. Names can either open or close doors. I’ve been raised on the premise that knowing the right person leads to securing a job. It’s not talked about openly, but I know it’s the mafia network that speaks volumes.
The commercials end, and the show picks up where it left off. I kick off my red-bottomed heels, curl my legs under me, and lean forward to pull the white and blue cashmere blanket from the ottoman. I wrap it around me before pulling it up to my chin. I love its softness on my skin.
Dad keeps the house as cold as the cold-blooded Russian he is. It’s almost February, and it’s snowing outside. The central heat is not on. Even though he moved here before I was born, it’s another wheel of time that has never changed.
Dad’s voice bellows down the hallway of the million-dollar house. I throw Mom a questioning look.
“He’s fine. Nothing a heart attack can’t cure,” she teases, dismissing my concerns. The anger in his voice is unusual, even for him. However, it’s been months since I temporarily shacked up with them for my safety during the wild adventures of Izzy discovering her past. Then, there was the explosion at her wedding. I must be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. I’m in the letdown phase after all the excitement this year. Maybe this is why I’m bored.
If Dad’s yelling is any indication, I’d say things are not going his way this week. I wonder if I should use my real name on a job application. I need Kirill to look over my resume. Hell, I thought I’d be planning my wedding. It’s all my parents talked about when I was in college. They made it sound like going to school was getting in the way of their plans for me.
I’m not oblivious to the fact I’ve been raised like a fatted calf, and the slaughter is imminent. It’s unnerving not to be in control of my own life.
Izzy was terrified of my father when she lived with me. I’m not surprised. I’m sure he is to be feared. To me, he’s Dad. I’ve never known him to be sentimental or affectionate. Maybe this is why I pursue men and play their games.
I’m seeking an all-consuming love from a man who will make me feel it in my bones because I’m numb inside. To my peers, I am enviable. I have everything a woman would want and more. But it’s all material items. Sure, men flirt with me, and I turn heads when I enter a room. Izzy assumes it’s my looks. I’ll always be seen as my father’s daughter. I associate the attention I get has more to do with my father’s position than my big boobs and long legs.
Izzy tells me I’m beautiful. She doesn’t know that I compare myself to women in fashion magazines. I wish I had higher cheekbones and a thinner waistline. I already fill my lips. It’s exhausting how I constantly learn new makeup tricks to achieve different looks from online tutorials. I should have Dad sponsor a makeup line so I can cash in on my time using the products I research.
Who am I?
More importantly, who am I trying to be? Am I on an insatiable hunt for something unobtainable?
There is a hole inside of me I can’t explain. Spending money is only a vehicle that fills it temporarily. Not having a relationship with the men I fuck appears to widen the chasm inside me. I’ve learned this because I find more peace in being alone than bouncing from one man to the next. I’m not satisfied even if I orgasm.
I also know that the dark beast inside me will emerge one day. I have no idea what that means. I assume I should make peace and accept myself for who I am, or I will fall into the black abyss. I don’t want to lose myself to the darkness.
“I miss Izzy,” I state.
“She’s an important friend to have,” Mom states as if I won the lottery. “Who could have guessed she was a mafia princess twice over, and that she was penniless!”
The condo isn’t the same without her. Now that she’s met the love of her life, I’m a bit jealous. I never thought I wanted a serious boyfriend, but the men I’ve been with don’t excite me. I get more satisfaction from the collection of dildos that I keep stashed in my nightstand. Perhaps it’s the reason I like the sex clubs. There is a lot to be said for a handsome stranger manhandling me.
Being single in the city should be a dream come true. But my secret desire is to belong. I want someone I can trust. I desire a man who has my back and isn’t afraid to stand up to me. I would love a companion who willingly goes home with me for the holidays and is not intimidated by my father.
I’m an only child. I’m used to doing things alone, but I’ve grown tired of it. A job would help fill my days. Maybe I’ll make new friends and meet men who aren’t in the mafia. I don’t need to tell them about my family. It helps that my last name is not uncommon among Russians.
I’ve never had a serious relationship. Most of my friends assume that men are lining up to date me or marry me. I refuse to have sex with my best male friend, Kirill. We’re close because we’re both single and shared the past year hanging out together. He works for my father, handling the inner workings that only he and my father would know about, and, of course, the Don.
Banging each other would be like incest. And I’m afraid it might jeopardize our friendship. My generation is more into sex. It seems men want to do it rough and get on with their day. Some expect me to put out on a first date, and if not, then definitely before the third date.
