The thrill ain't gone

"So, why do you think that is? What is it about having lots of sex with lots of different men, that piques your interest?"

I leaned back in my comfy shrink-patient chair for the second time this week, weirded out and shocked that someone so eloquent and proper looking had just asked me about my 'problem'.

Why why why, I thought. That's the reason why I'm here. Because I can't stop thinking about having sex with other guys, men, males. Anything remotely good-looking, of the opposite sex that releases pheromones within a 10km radius, that has a penis and makes me wonder how big it is, is it circumcised, how well will it pleasure me and how deep can it thrust into me.

I rubbed my face, closed my eyes and pondered her question while sitting across from my sex therapist, who was sitting straight up in her leather executive chair, poised with pen and paper, ready to jot down notes on my sex crazed mind could sputter out.

"I don't know," I finally sighed. "I just love sex. To me, it's just sex. It's a release, it's excitement, it's curiosity. I love men too much?" I looked at her helplessly, like a child who misbehaved all day long and knew they did something bad but wasn't exactly sure at which delinquent act they were being asked about.

"Ok. So what happened this past weekend? I mean, that's the reason you're here, right?"

I nodded, afraid to spill the beans but at $200 an hour, I had no other choice. Money drives you to do crazy things, right? Like sign up for a full month 5AM yoga classes six days a week, knowing that if you quit, you'll have wasted the $800 tuition.

"I had a ridiculous amount of sex with a ridiculous number of men all in less than a week's time".

SexDoc looked down and began scribbling furiously in her notepad.

"And I loved every minute of it," I added, wincing and looking away from her.

"And you don't feel remorse." SexDoc re-confirmed. It's true, I feel no remorse when I do this, despite being a newlywed to an amazing person. It's almost as if I'm two different people, I told SexDoc, like I can compartmentalize these two separate lives and wake up to live the wholesome one but when I go out with friends, or go to a different city and mix in the alcohol, I move onto living the other life.

SexDoc looked over her notes and leaned in, "so what would you ultimately like to accomplish by coming here? Your ultimate goal."

"I have two. One, I want to stop having these uncontrollable sexual thoughts and urges. I don't always act on them but when I'm drunk and other men are around, I definitely could. Two, i want to stop putting myself into weird situations with guys, being overly flirtatious and leading them on. BUt it's so hard, it's my nature to be flirty and I just always step over the line without realizing it until its too late."

I glance at the clock and realize the session is over. SexDoc and I agree to meet up next week to discuss clinical hypnosis. Apparently it's effective for people who are coachable. For those who truly want to be healed.

As I waited in the lobby for the elevator to arrive, my phone bleeped, indicating a text message. It was Brad Scott.
That kiss was delicious. I want to see you again, when can I fly you out to my place?
OMG. My heart fell into my gut and a wave of excitement came over me. After that airport incident, I tried to wash it all away with a hot shower and a verbal diarrhea session with Lauren and Adelle. I thought Brad would've just forgotten me, after all, he's a famous billionaire and I'm a nobody. And now he wants to fly me out to see him!?

I really shouldn't encourage this, I thought to myself. But it was really exciting and the thought of smooching a powerful, older guy was really turning me on. I text back:

Yes, it was fun. Not sure when, I can barely get time off! When are you back in town?
I quickly got into the elevator and back down into my car, hands a little shaky. Could I really pull it off? Too many things to think about, worry about.

Where's that little angel on my shoulder when you need her!??!?


Twittering Twat (Part 2)

{Continued from Part 1}

I gave a quick wave 'hello' and walked towards him as he headed over to my car.

"Hi! How's it going, let me help you with that", I said as I offered to take his bags for him. Maybe it was just me, but I felt like I was off to an awkward start. I felt like the help.

"Oh, no worries! I'll take care of it," came a smooth husky voice. I stood aside and watched as he placed his bags in my backseat. He closed the door and turned to me with a handshake.

"Hi, I'm Brad," he said, cutely in his mellowly husky tone.

"Hi, I"m Jade, nice to meet you!" I shook his hand, and we both got into the car.

Fuck, I can't get over how nervous I am, I thought. How can this possibly be happening!? I'm supposed to be calm, cool and collected. Professional! I quickly glanced down at my boobs and happily noticed my push-up bra doing wonders for me and my tight v-neck shirt.

I ended up driving around aimlessly for about 15 minutes, trying to figure out where to go for coffee while we shot the shit and he told me about his busy schedule, shooting his TV show, traveling here and there and all his upcoming media interviews.

"Ok, sorry to digress, but are you cool with Whitespot? I can't think of anything else and I'm not too sure where we are!"


That was easy, I thought. A billionaire and I go for coffee and the best I can do is Whitespot. Fucking fantabulous. And to top things off, I kept talking about how 'ravished' I was because I never have enough time to eat. And then we get seated and we both end up ordering oatmeal. With fruit. And coffee. Totally smooth and inconsistent, I sarcastically tell myself.

I brought my book of questions with me, but never opened them up. I was nervous but calm enough to actually hold some kind of a conversation but it was still kinda weird. I kept blanking out so we kept having these awkward little silences. I mean, come on, I was still really star struck. This guy's a billionaire, I told myself, he owns sports teams and entertainment groups, pricey cars and mansions, has a TV show, is widely recognized...and I'm chillin' at a Whitespot with him!

"So, um, what have you been up to?" Brad casually asks me, sensing a bit of a stall in convo.

Fuck, he senses the weirdness too.

"Oh just work. I'm in PR but I'm determined to become an entrepreneur. I have a bazillion ideas on the go all the time but I need to learn more. I guess that's why we're here." I smiled, imagining kicking myself in the head: what kind of professional uses the word 'bazillion'?

And then for about five seconds we just kind of stared at each other. And this is overtly awkward and I had to somehow un-awkward the situation, so I laughed and asked "What?".

"Oh nothing...you're alarmingly stunning, that's all."

Did he just hit on me? OMG BRAD SCOTT, THE BRAD SCOTT JUST THREW ME A LINE, I thought to myself. My heart started pounding...quick, say something...something...anything!

"Well...um...thanks," I mustered up, trying to hide my intense and forthcoming shade of red in my face. I laughed nervously and grabbed my cup of coffee for comfort. I had to look away. I was doing so well too, this entire time, making good eye contact, trying not to think about what sex would be like with a man twice my age, whose daughters and son were only two years younger than I.

"You don't have to hide it....you are gorgeous," he continued. I looked up at him, gave a nervous giggle and retorted with something like "you're not too bad yourself!". I felt like the biggest dork, ever and quickly changed the subject to something else. The rest of the "meeting" was a blur.

The check arrived and I plunked down my card. Of course, being a gracious gentleman, he wouldn't let me pay and said, "You get the next one...we'll go to Morton's next time", and flashed his sexy-older-man smile.

We both got up and headed to the car and I found myself walking in front of him, despite still talking. Did he slow down so he could watch me from behind, I wondered. I turned back to look, and he had his Ray Bans on again and I felt his eyes burning into me. A little creepy, I'll admit.

We got into the car and I started driving back to the airport, making small chitchat again. Somehow we started talking about Halloween and I told him about how I dressed up as a race car driver in a "tight black and red latex racing suit". Once again, the awkward silence came on and he leaned into, Ray Bans on again.

"I double dare you to wear that to dinner next time," he teased, and continued, "I'm sorry, I should probably take these off." He smiled, but never took off his sunglasses. I sensed a sexual tension, a wave of erotic suffocation that I had no control over and couldn't take any action against. I could smell him, his skin had the scent of salt water and too much sun and the great outdoors from a weekend spent on the island.

"No, that's ok."

After what seemed like forever, we arrived at the airport.

"Well thank you very much for meeting with me, I had a great time." Brad said. He took his sunglasses off and leaned across towards me, gesturing for a kiss. HOLYFUCK, does he want me to kiss him? I wondered. My heart was pounding and I started to feel awkward again so I quickly leaned in and gave him one of those polite-french-people kisses on the side of the cheek.

"Me too! Thanks again for meeting me on such short notice." I quickly jumped out of the car to grab his bags and he met me on the other side to help.

"So next time, we'll hit up Morton's!" I laughed and handed him his bags.

"Definitely," he smiled. He leaned in for a goodbye hug and the next thing I knew, his mouth was coming at me again... for a kiss? I wondered. And then, it happened. Too late. He started kissing me. Like, mouth on mouth, and in that moment, I was so shocked that we were lip-locked, I felt like a spectator in my own body. Only...wanting more but not wanting it, all at the same time. His masculine outdoorsy scent filled my head as our tongues met in a passionate entanglement and his five o'clock shadow rubbed against my face, making me wonder what it'd feel like on my neck, breasts, in between my legs.

And before I could do anything, it was over as quickly as it had begun.

"Wow...I, um...totally didn't expect that," I pulled away and laughed nervously.

"Me either. It was nice."
Brad gathered his bags, I straightened my shirt and we said our goodbyes. And I peeled off as fast as I could, pressing every speed dial button I could press to call Lauren and Adelle.

Holyshitballs....Bradley fucking Scott and I had just made out.


Twittering Twat (Part 1)

I consider myself to be a go-getter, the eager learner-type, the type that'll get out there armed with her business cards, network the hell out of a room and go for coffee with higher-upper types to pick their brains and learn how to get ahead in life.

Such was the case of Bradley Scott, billionaire oil, gas and a slew of other industries magnate . I'd watched his award-winning, business-oriented TV show for a year now, read about him in the big business magazines and major daily newspapers and even the celeb gossip blogs that touted him as being one of the "sexiest men on television", and being the tech-savvy broad that I am, began following him on Twitter. And normally, when you follow celebrities on Twitter and you tweet them, you don't actually expect them to tweet you back, but to my surprise, we ended up tweeting back and forth a few times.

ME: Love watching your show, am a huge fan! So glad to know you're on Twitter!
Brad: Thanks for the follow...and you...wow
ME: When are you in town? Would love to go for coffee and pick you brain on biz stuff

To an even bigger surpise, Bradley Scott actually said he'd be up for coffee but could only do so during a short stopover at my city's airport. He told me to email him and gave me his email on his Twitter feed. Anyway, I'll skip over the mundane details, but a few emails later, I agreed to pick him up from the airport (which I thought was weird 'cuz this guy could afford a limo with his pocket change) and go somewhere to connect. Yes, 'connect' is apparently the new biz lingo for 'meeting up'.

"Shit, I need to borrow my mom's BMW. Stat." I told Papi (my hubby) right after I broke the news about my meeting. There was no way in hell I was going to roll up in a piece of shit car to pickup a billionaire.

"Yeah, that's a good idea, you wouldn't want to make a bad impression!" Papi said. He knows all about making good first impressions, especially with someone like Bradley Scott, who drives crazy top of the line BMWs and owns an NHL hockey team. He also knows that our beat up ugly Toyota sedan is no place for anyone to sit in except for us and Rambo, our dog. And my makeshift shoe bin that doubles as a garbage can.

Saturday arrived, and I rolled up to the airport, nervous as heck, wondering why I even bothered to do this. Oh right, I remembered, I want to learn more about business stuff. I even armed myself with questions just in case I got a little star struck and blanked out. I tend to blank out a lot when I'm nervous. Or drunk.

I waited for a nerve wracking five minutes, texting my girlfriends about how nervous I was and going over the questions I had planned to ask. Both Lauren and Adelle have done this tons of times, meeting with business associates for breakfast, lunch, drinks, etc. They're so good at this networking thing, meeting strangers and asking the right questions.

"Don't worry, you'll do fine. This is a huge opportunity to learn as much as you can and make a good connection!" Lauren praised. She herself, managed to network her way to a top management position with the government. If she can do this, so can I, I reassured myself.

Finally, a figure emerged from the airport, a tall-ish 6'0" Bradley Scott, in the flesh, dressed in a crisp denim shirt, untucked with the first two buttons unbuttoned, revealing a smooth, leathery tanned chest, loose fitting jeans hanging slightly over his vintage cowboy boots. His curly, salt and peppered hair blowing in the wind as he walked with his leather carry-on in tow, Ray Bans firmly and mysteriously placed over his eyes and three days worth of scruff on his face. The theme song from Top Gun may as well have been playing in the background.

Holy fuckmenow, I thought. I bit my lip and scuttled out of the car as best I could, trying to keep myself composed, smoothing my down any crinkles in my gauchos and pulling my shirt straight. I was nervous as hell and all I could do was wished I hadn't gotten out of the car...

{Continued in Part 2}

Related Posts with Thumbnails