Mr. President

Especially nowadays.

In fact, once you're done reading about this place, fucking come on over. There'll be a complimentary guest pass waiting for you at the door. I guarantee you'll have the fucking time of your life.

There's always a good mix of broads here—some young, some old, some tall and some short. There’s some hotties. And then there are some plainer ones—according to society. I mean, I like all women. I think they’re all fucking sexy. Why do you think I made this club, anyways?

Anyways, fuck that. What I’m trying to say though, is that no matter what skin color or how much money these broads got, there’s one thing that makes them all the fucking same.

They're all looking for a good time.

I'm hanging in the back, leaning one shoulder against a wall, and surveying the crowds of women at each table and booth. I'm taking a mental head count. It's a full house, which means we're doing great business tonight.

Then one woman in particular catches my eye. As soon as I see her, that headcount I was just keeping gets erased as if my brain's a fucking Etch-a-Sketch and someone just gave it a quick and vigorous shake.

She's new. I haven’t seen her in here before.

And she's hot, that's for fucking sure.

Fuck. Quick and vigorous shake is what you need when you look at that fucking broad.

I’m serious. I’m not just being crass to be crass.

I mean, look at those fucking gorgeous tits. I just want to push them together and stick my cock in between them. Fuck.

That ass. Tight fucking ass. Makes any man want to slap it. Squeeze it. Spank it.

My cock is fucking twitching with its own fucking heartbeat just looking at her.

She’s got a slender body and a fucking tight waist. Golden fucking tresses coiffed beautifully.

If I don’t go over and talk to her now, my brain is going to explode.

But something else catches my eye—I can tell she's fucking confident. Like she’s casing the joint. Like she fucking owns this place already.

I’m going to fuck her.

I’ll try tonight. But I actually want to enjoy this.

Look at her. Fucking money. I fucking love that attitude she’s giving.

I mean, I’ll beat it down when I beat up that pussy, but I fucking love it.

She's talking to the bartender, Ben, a young college kid I recently hired. She's leaning over and they're deep in conversation. It's a fucking shame I can't hear what they're saying, but her mouth is open in a wide smile and her plump lips are the color of red wine.

She's wearing long, gold, hoop earrings that catch the lighting of the club and it bounces off her neck in quick sparkles. There's an intense look in her eye that says she's driven, and smart. I fucking love a woman with ambition.

I need to know who this woman is.

Right fucking now.

I need to put a name to a fucking face.

I leave my spot in the back of the club and walk toward the bar, and to the mystery woman. I pull up a barstool and sit up right next to her.

"Let me guess, Sex on the Beach?"

"Excuse me?" she asks, turning in my direction.

"Your drink," I say, pointing to the rose-tinted cocktail in her glass. "It's fucking surprising, that's all."