Trick rolling is an art. It isn’t as simple as picking the easiest client. It’s about digging deep. Getting your hands a little dirty while you wade through the dime a dozen losers that frequent these types of bars. When I’m bored, and not looking for a certain blue-blood that’s on my list, it all boils down to something simple.
I make up my mind before I ever walk in. Tonight’s challenge is to find the guy that’s leering at everything with a vagina in a ten-mile radius.
It happens before I can even enjoy my first drink.
This guy is a douchebag of the highest order and he definitely has the leering thing down. He wears his entitlement like a crown and looks out over the sea of women like he is a King amongst peasants. In the ten minutes I watch him, he’s already grabbed two asses and dropped three gag-worthy pick up lines.
You’re so hot, baby. You’re too hot to be in this bar alone, baby. I’ve got a suite upstairs. Want to enjoy a taste of luxury?
Two of his potential victims blow him off before he can really get fresh, and the third- a girl from Ohio- is too polite to tell him no, so she endures his hapless attempt at getting her into bed for a full ten minutes before she bounces too.
If this were a theater, it would be called The Encore, because I see this same show every night. It’s a tale as old as time. The upper class fucking over anyone beneath them. Sometimes, it serves a purpose, but mostly I think it’s just because they can.
These men… these stock brokers and financiers, lawyers and marketing executives. They all think the same.
They are the bread and the butter and the whole fucking cake. With sprinkles on top.
The thing about cake is it gets old after a while. The party has lost its thrill. And that sugar rush? The high I used to get from devouring their souls? It’s not really present anymore. It checked out a while ago.
But like any addiction, I can’t be freed from these binds. Even though the thrill grows dimmer with each trick, it’s still the only thing that thrills me.
As I sit here and watch the man across the bar- sans excitement- I have an odd realization. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen his face. In fact, I’ve met with him before. His name is Rix. Yes, seriously. And he thinks it’s cool, and he thinks he’s cool and his parents were friends with the Carringtons, so I was certain he must know Alexander too. But torture him as I tried, he never gave it up.
Lesson never learned, I guess.
I really did a number on him too. I recall there being a very elaborate scene with a wig and makeup and everything. But the problem with him was he was legitimately off social media. No Facebook, no Twitter, no Insta-lookatmeandmylavishlife- accounts whatsoever. So, I had to forgo the most important step. Shaming him where he lived and breathed.
I won’t make that same mistake again this time.
I do a quick check in the compact mirror I always carry and then it’s off to the races. My rules of engagement are very simple, and my affairs with clothing, as basic as it gets. Men live for two colors. They don’t want skirts with pineapples or that houndstooth jacket from the fall catalog. They want the LBD.
Little black dress.
The only exception to that rule is the little red dress, which men associate with one thing.
Red equals sex. Red equals hell in the sack. Wild. Untamed. Red screams bad girl.
And I’m as bad as it gets.
I don’t wear disguises, and I very rarely change anything about my hair or makeup. Hair is wild, like I’ve been rolling in bed already. They eat that shit up. Eyes are smoky and black and lips are red.
This look is classic. This look never fails.
Of course, there’s always a chance one of these dopes will sprout a brain cell and that this one in particular might even remember me. If I’ve done my job right, he should well fucking remember me. But it also depends on what type of drugs I used to knock him out.
With any good scheme, there’s always a bit of a learning curve in the beginning. It took me a while to sort out what worked best. And if memory serves me right, this guy was one of my experimental guinea pigs.
Normally, if I bump into a former client, I will just walk the other way. It doesn’t happen often since I rarely visit the same locations twice.
It’s risky and reckless.
But the longer I play the game, the more the reckless side appeals to me. The adrenaline rush in need of a chaser. A need to shake things up. Which is why I’ve temporarily placed my revenge on the back burner to attend to a more urgent matter.
Like the man who left Kylie in a vegetative state. Machines breathing for her and a brain that will most likely never recover.
Kylie and I weren’t particularly close. Given that I don’t like people in general and the list of people I trust remains at zero, I don’t have many friends. Mack is the only person I’d ever consider using the term with, and that’s just because I’ve known her so long and she hasn’t screwed me over yet.
But Kylie and I saw each other every day on the street. She was a working girl too. Of course, her job wasn’t nearly as much fun as mine. She actually had to fuck her filthy clients. I just like to fuck them up.
