“Holy God,” Simone says, fanning herself. “That’s so unfair.”
“Quid pro quo,” I say.
“I’m on atrain, William.”
“Just the girls then?”
Simone hunches forward and furtively lifts her blouse so I can see her breasts, attractively packaged in a black bra. I am not much of a tit man, I must confess. I prefer asses. Something I can smack with my hand. And if I were left to gravitate to my own tastes, which unfortunately I can’t always do, I would choose very slender women. Who knows why—some crush on a little gymnast on the back of a cereal box when I was a child, perhaps, some girl buried in the sands of time. Whatever the reason, I like them taut and tight, muscle and bone, no cleavage to speak of so their nipples protrude like pebbles on a flat expanse, growing when I tug on them.
Simone has more flesh on her than I’d prefer. Admittedly, she is most men’s ideal, small but rounded, with the 36-24-36 curvesPlayboytrained us to love. I have to admit she is prettily made. I can work with it. I have many times before. And our chemistry, I was relieved and astonished to discover, is startlingly electric, perhaps the best I’ve ever known. Imagine my surprise: There I was, steeling myself to go through the movements, and instead in her mouth, in her hands, in her hottest tightest wettest space, I found nirvana. It’s as though I’d gone through my whole life having a mild distaste for chocolate and suddenly could eat nothing else.
“There you are,” I say, smiling at Simone’s breasts before she lets her shirt drop. “Hello, ladies.” I keep my camera pointed down so she can see me stroke myself.
“William, stop,” she says. “This is cataclysmically unfair.”
“I will on one condition,” I say, not stopping. “Tonight, when you’re in your hotel room, after you’ve eaten your room service cheeseburger and removed your red dress and Spanx, when you’re getting ready for bed, I want you to stand for a few minutes naked. Touch yourself. Wherever you please—your choice. Imagine it’s me. Then take a photo and send it to me.”
“Deal,” she says. The color has risen in her cheeks. “Even better, do you want me to FaceTime you?”
“There’s nothing I’d like more, but I’ll likely be tied up,” I say. This is true. “You know how these things are. The real work isn’t done at the podium but at the parties.”
“True. How’s the conference so far?”
“Fine,” I say. “Typical. I’m being hit on every thirty seconds.” I laugh. This is also true. Our profession is not known for being full of hetero men, or at least not virile ones with hair, teeth, and a sturdy erection. The odds are in my favor.
Simone does not laugh, although she offers a pained smile. “I hope you tell all those hos you’re spoken for,” she says, and I can hear her straining to say it lightly.
“I tell them my lover is a literary powerhouse with the body of an odalisque,” I say, and now she does laugh, and then I see her recalculating as she realizes I didn’t answer her question.Wait a secondis practically emblazoned on her forehead.
“I’ve got to jump soon, sugarpants,” I say. “I’m on a panel about defining genre in fiction.”
“Of course you are, Virtuoso,” she says. “Though don’t you meandefyinggenre in fiction?”
“I like what the wordVirtuosomakes your mouth do,” I say. Simone has wickedly pillowy lips, especially the lower one. I feel myself hardenagain. “And I suppose I’m on the panel to provide the exception to the rule.”
“Because you are exceptional.”
“As are you, honeybun.” I am growing impatient with all this cooing. “How’s our favorite rumrunner? Are you getting work done on the train? My favorite place to write—no interruptions.” Unless you’re procrastinating by calling a hardworking man at a conference, I do not add.
“He’s fine,” says Simone, and I’m disturbed to see a secretive expression flit over her face. My current beloved is a pretty one, with her strawberry-blond hair and green eyes and spray of freckles, rather like a pornographic Nancy Drew. She also wears her thoughts on her face, which is handy for me. I do not care for the looks of this one.
“The rumrunner’s still drunk,” she adds, trying to play it off. I do not smile.
“How’s the outline going ? Last we spoke, you were breaking the historical section into chapters?”
“It’s a little balky,” she admits. “Lots of question marks where the scenes should be. Especially in the murky middle.”
“I’m looking forward to getting back and helping,” I say. “Ever your obedient Muse.”
“Same,” she says, as I carry the phone into the bathroom and prop it up on a stack of towels. “I miss—” She dissolves and reassembles.
“What’s that?” I say. “You’re breaking up.”
Simone garbles something, freezing with her mouth open. What I wouldn’t do to be able to stick my erection through the screen. “Don’t forget your promise,” I say on the off chance she can hear me, “the naked photo, and also I’ll expect that outline by the time we’re both back. Wait’ll you see what I’ve planned for your reward.” I bend tenderly toward the screen. “Adorations,” I say, blowing her a kiss.
“Can’t hear—” she says, and then she is gone.
I shower and shave, trying not to dwell on that shadow I saw pass over Simone’s face—an expression that looked, for all her womanly face paint, like a little girl caught doing something wrong. Or trying to hideit. But perhaps I am being too suspicious. It has happened before. Simone may be beavering obediently away on our idea even now, as I dry off and pat my bespoke cologne on my face, my chest, my balls. The throes of a new idea is always an uncertain place. Our historical blockbuster is gelling in that bright mind of hers; she just needs a helping hand. Which I will happily provide when we next meet. I’m a giver that way.
