Dirty Daddies

I email Tom, telling him to book a flight out in my stead and take notes on everything I’m going to be missing. It’s the best I can do.

I book a seat on the first flight back in the morning and then I curse Mike’s midlife crisis for taking me away from business.

I’m about to send him another text to warn him of my changed plans, but I don’t. My fingers hover over the keypad, my mind scoping out the prospect of a load of vague-arsed return messages playing down whatever crap he’s got going on over there. No. If there is anything going down, then I’d rather walk straight into the heart of the craziness and see it in all its ugly glory. At least then I’ll know what I’m dealing with.

Carrie Wells. I shake my head. Pretty girl, but is she ever worth all this?

In my educated opinion – considering I’ve bedded almost every attractive woman our local vicinity has to offer – I’d say a categoric no. So what if she’s pretty? So what if she has a look in her eyes that tells you she’d be a fucking wonder in bed? She’s got problems coming out of her ass and a bad attitude to boot. Scrap that, a terrible fucking attitude to boot. I saw it clear as day while she was trailing around Drury’s after Eddie fucking Stevens.

I sigh to myself as I book a cab for the airport in the morning. Bright and early, just as I like it.

Carrie Wells. Would I go there? Would I want a piece of sweet, feral, teenage pussy? Would I want to see those pretty eyes staring up at me as I shoved my cock down her throat to quiet that smart little fucking mouth?

I allow myself a laugh before I head into my next seminar.

In my educated opinion, no. I fucking would not.

She’d never be worth the aggravation. No member of the female populous I’ve ever encountered would be.

My business associates haven’t assembled yet for the next event, so I take a coffee from the side cabinet and stare at the projected intro screen. I’m always early, it’s a trait of mine. My father always said that opportunity waits for no man. It’s the man at the front of the line who gets awarded the best choices, and it must have stuck with me far better than some of the other bullshit advice he gave me early on, because I’m always at the front of the line in life.

I love my dad. He’d say a lot of his advice was bullshit too. The thought makes me smile as I sip my coffee.

They’ve used a decent blend. I like that.

Michael thinks I’m where I am in life because I work harder than the others. He thinks it’s because I’m smarter than the others too, but I’m neither of those things. I had to work my ass off to get grades high enough to get into Warwick University, but from that point I worked smart, not hard. I came out with a mediocre business degree but a shit-hot attitude for business itself. I made sure my networking was on point, made it my business to be in the right place at the right time, ahead of all the others hungry for a piece of the same pie. And it worked.

It continues to work over a decade later.

Michael gives everything to his profession because he loves it. He pursued his career because of the meaning he takes from helping other people find their feet.

I give only what my business absolutely needs and maybe a little beyond, everything on top of that is the reason I have staff. But insurance was never my calling, clearly. Nobody loves risk analysis. I set up on my own because I knew I didn’t want to work for anyone else; it’s that simple. I couldn’t stomach a future divided into work weeks and days off on loop, on and on until retirement, when you finally get to do the shit you want with your own time, just as long as you’ve banked enough to afford your club memberships and your winter heating bill.

I guess you could say I like to lead rather than follow. You could also say I like to be in control of my personal situation at all times, hence why this infatuation of Michael’s perplexes me somewhat.

Why do people go so fucking insane over random members of the opposite sex?

Are we really still slaves to base level hormonal instincts? Really? Are we?

I like to think not, which is probably the reason I’ve dated over a hundred women and only popped the question to one of them. Diana didn’t even live with me, it was long distance. It would probably never have made it to the proposal stage if she’d lived anywhere near my doorstep.