So no, the interior wasn’t anything to write home about. Sure, the lights were dim, but the set-up inside was bizarre, like it’d been designed by some funky nouveau interior designer. First, instead of having private booths, this place had a maze using plants, a series of bushes and hedges that came up to my chin, forming a labyrinth of sorts. I have to admit it was a cool idea because it gave the place a lush feel, like we were in a tropical garden instead of some no-name industrial complex. Plus, the vegetation definitely muzzled sounds, so the moans and cries of various women in heat, the grunts of alpha males spurting, were merely muffed cries, arousing as shit.
But yeah, other than the musical symphony, this place was just okay. I stared at the amber liquid in my hand, a shot of the good stuff, Maker’s Mark straight. But that’s the problem. It was just Maker’s, there was no Woodford Reserve, hell, the waitress had never even heard of Woodford Reserve, the words were completely foreign. So I shook my head, disgusted. What kind of bar only has one type of bourbon? A shitty ass bar, that’s what, I thought, throwing back the drink.
But the alcohol wasn’t my prime concern tonight. I was here to see whether or not the right type of girl was coming through, whether there was any potential to source females from this part of the country. Even though NYC is generally ripe pickings, still, if you’re on the wrong block you can be cold, whereas a place one mile up is hot. And what I’d seen so far hadn’t been promising. The first girl was ridiculous, too much plastic everywhere. I don’t know what’s with the ladies these days, but that female couldn’t have been more than nineteen and yet she’d had significant work done. Her chin and cheekbones protruded bumpily, you could practically see the stitches in her skin. Plus the perfectly circular, rubbery breasts were fuckin’ scary, like cones poking out. It was too fake and I wasn’t exactly shy telling her.
“Naw,” I grunted, leaning back in my chair.
But the blonde Barbie couldn’t be dissuaded. It’s something about my aura, maybe the expensive suit I have on, the polished shoes or the forty-thousand dollar watch on my wrist. Because despite the fact that I’d already dismissed her, Barbie wasn’t turned off at all. She flipped a perfectly straight sheaf of long, platinum hair over her shoulder and glanced at me coyly.
“You sure big guy?” she murmured, batting her lashes. “How about if I give you a little of this?” she cooed, pulling down one side of her top so that a huge gazonga popped out, giant and ghostly white under the lights.
But like I said before, this woman has had way too much work done, and unfortunately, it wasn’t done well. Even in the dim interior, I could make out the slight ridge of her implant, a line in her flesh marking where the breast tissue stopped and the saline began. So I shook my head again, disgusted.
“Naw, baby girl,” I grunted disinterestedly. “But you might want to get that looked at,” I added. “Shit like that’ll go bad on you in a few years, not the ten they say.”
The girl was obviously confused, she had no idea what I was talking about. Plus, I’m sure most dudes salivated at her titties, happy to get a mouthful of Double D. So the girl stuttered, her expression creasing into a bimbo-like look of confusion.
“I’m sorry, wha?” she asked, eyes almost crossing with bewilderment. “I’m sorry sir, what did you say?”
I sighed, feeling more exasperated than anything. The poor thing was like a bag of rocks, not two brain cells to rub together.
“Your tits,” I ground out, staring at that one big boobie pointedly. “Your implants are shitty and they’re gonna explode way before the expiration date. Go see a doctor,” I commanded.
The girl flushed then. But instead of being embarrassed or ashamed, instead she pulled the fabric lower so that both her breasts sprung out like enormous buoys.
“But how do you know?” she simpered. “Don’t you want to touch to make sure? You can be my doctor,” she breathed invitingly.
Again, some guys would have been all over this. Some guys would have welcomed the opportunity to motorboat his face between two huge bags of saline, enjoying the artificial bounceback. But not me, I like ‘em creamy and real, and this Barbie was all plastic. So disgusted, I reached into my wallet, pulling out a card.
“Here,” I said shortly. “Here’s the name of my secretary, call her for the name of a decent MD.”
The girl was on it immediately, scooping up the paper like she’d won a grand prize.
“Oh sure, and I can call you at this number too, right? This is where I can reach you,” she simpered, tantalizingly slipping the card between those gazongas, the breastflesh eating up the scrap. But I’d had enough of this shit. She could call my secretary as much as she wanted, but the blonde would never reach me, Mrs. Cohen knew exactly how to screen wannabes and hangers-on. So I merely shook my head and took another swig of my drink, clicking a button next to the chair.