Let the stubble grow out between filming days, add a little guy-liner, and only pick up women who don’trecognise me. Pass the taxi driver my address on a card, try to ensure the woman never hears it. Take her through the back entrance, in the alley and kiss her as we approach the apartment to distract her from the number.
Try to pick the good-time girls who are less likely to care when I don’t call.
I’m an ass, but what choice do I have?
It’s not like I can just quit. People are relying on me.
‘Come on.’ I take her by the hand, picking up her discarded belongings in between heady kisses and getting her to either put them on or in her bag.
She’d been an enthusiastic distraction—the first I’d allowed myself for months. Yet, already the depth of pleasure I’d indulged in began to wane. Loneliness seeps in its place.
Still.
Hang strong. It can’t be more.
Our kisses linger as I usher her down the fire escape stairs until she’s seated in the Uber, prepaid to her home from my phone. No need for her to trace back to me. It’s risky enough bringing dates here.
A shiver steals up my spine, that sensation of being watched creeping over me. There’s no one in the alley, the damp cobblestones gleaming empty beneath the orange streetlights. Narrowing my eyes, I look around, trying to alleviate the weird feeling.
A movement on the third story snags my eye. Ah. The strange neighbour yanks her curtains closed as Icatch her staring. Smiling, I let myself back in, taking the rear concrete steps at a leisurely pace.
The weird neighbour is pretty in the way that one of those little death kitties is. Like you could pick her up and snuggle her, but it might cost you an appendage. On the outside, she is all thick, dark hair and glasses, but beneath, somethingotherlingers. Something that saysnot this one.
Plus, everyone knows you don’t shit where you eat.
My apartment is in disarray. Spilt wine pooling around the base of a glass, a magazine upended on the floor, its pages bent and wrinkly. The rug has a series of bumps… we don’t make it to the bed.
I turn off the smooth jazz, still trying to coerce me into the bump-and-grind, and turn off the blue strip lights in the kitchen area. It only takes twenty minutes to de-bachelor pad the place and tidy up the mess, and I slump down on my expansive white leather corner couch, wishing I could have the after-sex cuddle.
Pathetic.
Most guys would kill for my lifestyle.
The problem is that my lifestyle feels like it’s slowly killing me.
Searching for solace on the television proves fruitless, and I give in to picking up my tablet, delving into the one place that never fails to top up my ego points.
My page is awash with red, the notification bubbles dancing in excitement at the deluge of comments and likes that await.
Reading them temporarily eases my loneliness—tiny digital ego tokens.
I always say they are the reason I do what I do, but the money helps too. For eight years, my livelihood has relied on my social media earnings, influencer deals and subscription payments. Even if I was willing to walk away, I can’t.
Grandma would have me moving in with her in a heartbeat, and going back to my childhood bedroom at thirty-two would be a huge step backwards, especially if I’m giving up everything to pursue a relationship. The ex-influencer living at Granny’s would hardly be a stellar catch.
I need to keep being a monumental hypocrite.
As though she senses my mind turning to her, my phone lights up. It’s nearly one in the morning. What the hell is Granny doing up?
‘How’s my top lady?’ I answer the call, and my words will delight her. ‘What are you doing up at this hour?’
‘Top, huh? Does that mean there are other ladies in your life? Hmm?’ Her voice dances the line halfway between hope and humour.
‘I’m not interested in settling down, you know that. My social media is?—’
‘A bunch of old codswallop is what it is.’ Granny’s kettle bubbles away in the background.
I sigh. The same beratement comes at least once a week.
