Executive Engagement

I jerk back. I'm not too good at the pre-sex? Okay, so maybe we’re not moving as fast as he’d like, but that's because Jake never wants to try anything new. I mean, how many different ways of putting his cock in my mouth can I do? And only when I only have three to five minutes to work with. I mean, out of the twice I’ve gone down on him, the longest he’s lasted has been like three minutes, and that was like with a condom on. And he always refuses to go down on me. So, what am I supposed to do?

But I can't let go of his words on how he's cheated on me because I’m not having sex and I'm even bad at pre-sex. Tears come to my eyes but I don't want him to see me. I refuse to cry.

"But, how is that even fair? I ask him instead. “I mean, do you get in bed with me afterwards?!"

Jake shrugs. "It's just what works, babe. You get what you want, and I get what I need, and then I come back to bed."

I wonder when I was supposed to even know any of this.

Jake's phone rings and he looks at it. He turns to me.

"Babe, it's my dad," he says. "Can you give me a minute?"

I nod my head and get up from the bed that I was sitting on. Jake doesn't like it when he talks to his parents in front of me and usually asks for some privacy. But there's nowhere to go in the room. I sigh and walk outside as he closes the door. I look at my phone. I figure I can go to the gym for a while before work.

Wait a second. That guy just kicked me out of my own room after cheating on me! I knock on the door. No answer. I knock harder. I kick.

Jake opens the door, his eyes squinted in annoyance.

I push past him and he looks at me like I've gone crazy.

"Alicia, what is..." he starts but I don't let him finish.

"Get the fuck out of this room, you stupid asshole!" I shout, not knowing I had it in me.

Jake looks at me in shock. He covers the mouthpiece to his phone and says to me, "Excuse me?"

"Out!! Or I call the cops!" I yell again.

"You're crazy!" he yells and walks fast to the door. I glare at him as looks around and decides it’s probably best to leave the apartment. "Have a good life, bitch!" he yells and slams the door on his way out.

I flop down on my bed and bury my head in the pillows but again refuse to cry.

The pillow smells like Jake. I can't have that. Sighing, in the midst of my sadness, I go over to the couch in the living room and lie down. How sad, I think to myself, that even when he’s not here, I can’t lie down on my own bed.

The thought makes me want to cry even more. But no. No tears for him!

I finally get up and get dressed for work. I walk to the train and catch the uptown D train like normal to Times Square. It’s the same routine every day. If I had a better job and access to funds like the people I sometimes cover, I’d totally call in sick today. I’d be a rebel and break the rules and take the day to just be sad.

But I don’t have that kind of luxury. Instead, I do my best to keep a straight face as I walk into work.

The place is somber and grim. I know I’m early. It’s probably only 7:30 am, but it was better to come to work than sit at home and feel miserable. I didn’t even feel like morning yoga – something that I almost always never miss.

The giant clock is ticking towards 8:00 am, when the head of the Gossip Page – Page Eight - Mike, has his normal all-hands meeting on what we’re covering for the day. Since I’m a junior writer in Gossip, I usually don’t have to attend, but I like showing up because it shows I have ambition.

But all the department heads are already here today. They’re all glued in front of the television.

Sighing, and wondering what it could be, I turn towards the TV also.

The result is something out of Bizarro world. It’s him. The Prince. Prince of St. Livy.

Remember when I told you I didn’t have a great school experience? Remember how I said I was mocked and teased? That people were mean to me.

Well, the person who fomented all of that, the person without whom I probably would have been well accepted and maybe even liked, is right in front of me on television. The legendary playboy himself. The one, who despite how mean he’d be to me or ignore me, who’s body I would check out when he would run shirtless, doing laps for football practice after school. The one who has graced the front pages of my newspaper time and time again for a wide variety of reasons – everything from hooking up with famous married women to dumping Hollywood starlets at the altar.

He’s on television now and he’s naked. He’s holding up his hands and he’s…oh my God! He’s swinging his dick around. The networks have blurred it, but I can still sort of see it through the blurring. He’s waving it at the camera.

“You want a piece of this, America?” he says, holding it and stroking it. “I’m right here, waiting for you.”