Part 1 – The Lake House
Garrett
There are only three things I take seriously—running, a well-tailored suit, and sex.
I have to be serious about that last one; it’s my job. Not having sex, of course, but knowing everything about it in order to curate an enjoyable and arousing experience for those both doing it and those who want to watch others doing it. I have to know the minute details that turn people on, that make them feel safe, and that keep them coming back for more. The fine line between hot and creepy. Catering an encounter for men and women alike.
Being an expert of the ins and outs, if you will.
And right now, I have my eyes on a delicious little couple in room seven, who are doing everything perfectly. The woman is cuffed to the bed, her golden skin catching the dim red light as the man behind her pounds at a perfect rhythm to make her go wild. The angle is sublime, but I make a mental note to pull the bed to the right about ten more degrees, so the spectators can see her face better. Believe it or not, that’s what the people really want to see anyway…her face. The look of need and hunger in her slightly pained and wanton expression.
I made a good choice in inviting these two back. I watched them together a few weeks ago, and it was my idea to incentivize the couples who draw a crowd into renting the voyeur rooms again. A little discount on their membership, a few added VIP perks, and in return, I offer them time together in the red-light room where, for one hour, she can feel like a first-class prostitute, selling her pleasure, and he can be the highest bidder.
They put on a hot show. He came strolling in, in an expensive-looking suit, gave her a devilish smile, while she tried to appear unaffected. It was impressive, and the crowd was into it. Completely.
Well, crowd is a bit of an overstatement. It’s only a handful of people. The curtain is drawn around the viewing area, creating an intimacy among the small group currently gathered. We can’t exactly let a mob back into the voyeur hall; it sort of ruins the experience if you’re trying to observe something private in the company of a hundred others, who are also trying to experience something private. This is a classy place, after all. Can’t have a horde of horny men stroking it in a crowd like it’s some sleazy backroom peep show in a dirty porn store.
And that’s where I come in. Knowing exactly what to regulate and how to let it all happen, so nothing gets out of control. It needs to appear natural, even though I’m covertly controlling everything behind the scenes.
So far, so good tonight. There’s one woman watching alone near the window, biting her lip as she witnesses the woman on the bed climax, again. There’s a couple standing so close to each other that I can’t tell if her hand is down his pants or his hand is up her short dress, or both. Which means it’s just dark enough in here; although, I might have them turn down the red light just a hair…it seems to be giving off a glare on all the metal in the room, and it’s distracting.
All in all, the energy in the room is spot on.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t pull it out right away; it’s against the rules to have phones in here or any private areas of the club, even if I am one of the owners.
The red-light couple are wrapping up anyway, so I quietly slink out of the voyeur hall, through the private service door, and head toward the office. Once I’m safely in the brightly lit staff hallway, I fish out my phone.
The notification reads: You have a new message from Mom.
Oh, lovely. A message from my mother after watching people fuck like heathens. I’m willing to bet my left testicle, this is yet another invitation to join her and my stepdad at the lake house this week.
You should come up. The weather is beautiful this week.
Ha. I was right.
Every year, she and my stepdad stay at their lake house, three hours away, and every year, they invite me to come with them. I’d be more inclined to say yes if his twenty-three-year-old brat of a daughter wasn’t going too. So every year, I disappoint my mother with a thanks, but no thanks response, and this year is no different.
Mia is the bane of my existence. The apple of not only her father’s eye, but my mother’s too; she’s spent the last fifteen years soaking up every ounce of their attention and being a serious pain in my ass, and while I’m far too old to complain about sibling rivalries now, I’m perfectly content just pretending she doesn’t exist.
“Who are you talking to?” Hunter asks over my shoulder as I linger by the door, staring down at my phone.
“My mom.”
He winces as he walks by. “Gross, dude. I can still hear people fucking behind this wall.”
“What? Is that weird?” I reply with a laugh.
“Not for you. Tell her I said hi,” he says as he disappears down the long hallway, turning toward the office.
“I can’t tell if you’re being nice or dirty,” I shout, my voice carrying down the corridor, and in the distance, I hear Hunter laugh.
The banter between me and the three people I run this company with is half the reason I love this job so damn much. We get along great. It’s always fun, sometimes a little stressful, but never too heavy or too serious.
Just how I like it.
I almost forget I’m in the middle of a conversation-via-text with my mother, but the buzzing of my phone in my hand reminds me.
You haven’t been up to the lake in years.
The sting of guilt actually gets me for a second, as I think about disappointing her once again. But I really am busy with work, and it’s not that easy for me to just leave the club for several days at a time. I risk losing my momentum, the energy I need to keep everything running smoothly. The fresh ideas, the creative projects, the new events, the incoming clients, and the all-important VIP incentives. There’s a lot on my shoulders, and I can’t risk letting anything fall. Not for a second
I’ll think about it, I reply to my mom
You should come. Mia is bored up here without you.
Looking down at my phone, I laugh. The last thing my stepsister is, is bored without me. At peace, maybe. Soaking up the undivided attention from our parents without me around, definitely. But the last thing she is, is bored.
Tempting, I respond. But if I wanted to be hissed at every ten seconds, I’d get a cat.
Be nice.
Ha. Nice? Mia and I haven’t been nice to each other since the day we met a decade and a half ago, when she was only eight. I was in my early twenties. We really shouldn’t have had a problem with each other, considering the thirteen years between us, but as Mia grew up, she found ways of getting on every last nerve I had. She’s been nothing but an entitled brat, who isn’t content unless her presence is a constant source of torture for me.
Luckily, I can dish it out just as much as she can. And she’s not eight years old anymore.
Besides, I know Paul really wants to see you.
Dammit. She’s going to play the Paul card. My stepdad has been in and out of treatment for bladder cancer for the past couple of years. One minute he’s doing great, and the next…she says stuff like this. And it makes me worry. I should go over there more and stay in the loop, so they know I care, but life just gets in the way.
“Meet you at the bar?” Hunter asks when he comes back around, pulling my attention away from my phone. “It’s Maggie’s turn to watch the club this week.”
“Ahhh…and be the only single guy in the group again? Sounds fun. I assume Drake is bringing his flavor of the week.”
“Not sure he has one this week,” Hunter throws back. “So you’ll have him.”
I tilt my head back and raise my brows, forcing a tight-lipped smile. Hunter’s best friend, and the head of construction for the club, Drake, is a known ladies’ man and won’t be at our table more than five minutes before he declares open season on the single girls at the bar.
Thursday night drinks have been a decade-long tradition for us, but I really don’t have the energy for another couples’ night with the team. I hate to cancel on them again. It’s just…the dynamics have changed so much. It was fine when Hunter and Isabel got married because I still had Emerson. But now, he’s blissfully entangled with his secretary, Charlie, which is great. I’m happy for him.
I am.
But when I pull open the door of the bar we frequent every Thursday night, and the first thing I see is the man I have looked up to and idolized for nearly a decade sucking face with a twenty-one-year-old, like they’re in the last row of a movie theater, the bitterness starts to creep in.
“That’s enough.” I groan as I approach the table to find my best friend and his new, very young girlfriend consuming more of each other’s mouths than they are the drinks in front of them.
Charlotte blushes as she turns away from Emerson.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, picking up his drink, “I thought you liked to watch.”
I roll my eyes. “I like to watch sex,” I clarify. “Not whatever romantic canoodling that was.”
Charlotte’s eyes widen as she leans forward. “Wait, is that your…thing?”
“My thing?” I ask.
“Yeah…your kink.”
A lighthearted chuckle erupts from my chest. A bit simplistic, if you ask me, but I’ll humor her. “I guess you could say that. I’m a voyeur, but I thought you already knew that.”
She shrugs. “I just wanted to hear you say it.” She lifts up her hazy IPA and takes a sip, and I watch her for a second. Charlotte is one of those girls who doesn’t hold back. If she has a filter, I’m not sure she knows how to use it, which isn’t something I thought my best friend would be into, but he’s currently looking at her with the most smitten expression I’ve ever seen on that smug face of his.
It’s hard to take this shit seriously. In fact, I don’t. Call me cynical, but falling in love has to be the most delusional thing a person can do. Emerson looks happy, I’ll give him that, but honestly, how long does he think this will last? Enjoy the sex and companionship now, friend, because a few years from now, she’ll probably resent him for the way he chews and he’ll be wishing he could still prowl the club with me.
I just don’t believe that once you see the deeper, darker side of a person, you can still spout this romantic bullshit. People are flawed as fuck, and relationships are better kept short—or in my case, not at all.
And no, for the record, I am not jealous. I’m perfectly fine keeping my head on straight, without having to throw it all away for some young pair of tits and a bright smile. Just because my best friend has been hoodwinked, doesn’t mean I ever will be.
When Charlotte puts her drink down, she squints her eyes at me. “So does that mean you want to watch us?”
Emerson laughs, but I do my best not to react. “You’re the first one of my friends’ girls to ask me that. I’m still waiting for Isabel and Hunter to offer,” I joke.
“Answer the question.” Her arms rest on the table, giving me a challenging expression.
I consider it for a moment. It’s not about seeing my friend naked or fucking his girl. I do it for the interaction. Seeing the way people express themselves during sex, the way they move, the way they sound, the way they come. Sex is never the same, no matter who’s doing it. And porn doesn’t count. It’s too scripted and controlled. So, yeah, I like to watch because it’s about the most interesting thing you can watch two (or more) humans do.
“I wouldn’t turn down the invitation. Is this an invitation?”
“No,” Emerson interjects, and I laugh.
“It’s okay. I only have to catch you on the right night in the club,” I reply, and he can’t seem to hide the hint of a smile that creeps onto his face.
“True,” Charlotte replies.
Late as usual, Hunter, Drake, and Isabel enter the bar. As the five of them greet each other and fall into a steady rhythm of conversation, I feel myself pulling away. Again.
I’ve been doing this a lot lately, and I’m sure they’ve noticed.
Truth is, I’d rather be at home, where I can bask in my loneliness, instead of a crowded bar under the scrutinizing gazes of my closest friends. I find myself pulling my phone out, looking for emails and text messages that don’t come. Almost wishing something would come up at the club so I’d have something else to focus on.
The good sport I am, I stay for another round and try my best to laugh at all the jokes, even telling a few myself. But I’m home by eleven, trading my Tom Ford suit for cheap flannel pajamas and lying in bed, where I actually consider subscribing to one of those online Chat with Hot Young Girls services. I mean…I’m not above it. I’ve done it before…for research, of course.
But it’s not real. Nothing feels real anymore.
