All the Frogs in Manhattan Read online

  “He was a racist. And when I say racist, I mean ‘Heil, Hitler,’ NRA, Nazi motherfucker racist.”

  Gemma rubbed her neck and her breast shifted. I wanted to get under there, rub my face in that soft skin.

  "That's rough. You really do know how to pick ’em, don't you."

  "Oh shove it, Mr. Closet Millionaire. At least I put myself out there."

  I laugh and get up to grab us some beers from my fridge. Handing one to her, I tilt my head in mock annoyance.

  "How would you know I don't date? You don't know me that well."

  She smiles as if to say bless your heart. "Oh, Oliver. We may not know each other that long, but it doesn't mean I can't read exactly who you are. Call it a woman's intuition. I know that you don't date, because no man with that cynical of an attitude goes out with women to find love. I know that you only fuck women, no strings attached, because you did it way too easily with me. You're charming and friendly, but are really an introvert who only networks and converses when necessary. You say you're in the tech sector, but you've got to be some kind of company owner because no one lives in this kind of penthouse without some serious cash. You're originally a West Coast boy, but secretly love the East because you hustle just as hard as New Yorkers who have lived here for generations. Oh, and you have shit taste in beer."

  Her answer knocks me clear on my ass. I may have been blunt with her in our two encounters, and eventual hookup, about the nature of women on the dating scene today … but she just pinned my ass as if it had a bullseye on it.

  And all I can manage is, "This beer is an imported pale ale from Ireland."

  Gemma laughs, and the sound isn't girlish or tinkling but more like a hyena and a pig meshing together. It's loud and obnoxious, but it's a real goddamn laugh and I appreciate it.

  "Anyways, yes. I had a shitty date and now I want you to screw me until my head clears."

  I set my beer down on the coffee table and scoot towards her. "I'm here to please."

  Before I can even touch her, Gemma reaches past her knees and drags the material of her dress clear up and over her head. Her curvy, long body sits perched on the edge of my couch, and in an instant I'm rock hard and throbbing. Her tits, a perky mouthful, are bare under the dress, and nothing but a silky thong rests on her hips.

  Following her lead, and wasting no time with foreplay or making out, I lift my ass and push my sweatpants down, leaving me in nothing but a T-shirt with my steely-eyed friend standing straight up in hello.

  We are on opposite sides of the couch, and I sink down so that my body makes a seat for her.

  "You came here looking for one thing, take whatever it is you need." Laying a hand on myself, I tug on my shaft and feel the tingle of pleasure work its way up my spine.

  "Just need this." Gemma produces a condom from her purse and drops her drawers as she crawls across the sectional towards me.

  I can't help but roll her nipples between my fingers as she rolls the condom down me. We both sigh, the mutual arousal floating in the air is obvious.

  Gemma mounts me; her slick wetness combining with the lubricant of the condom has her sliding easily down onto my cock. Her pussy walls squeeze me like a vise, but the way she’s sitting on my balls makes them squish between my thighs.

  She rises and slams down with a moan before I can fix myself. My sack sticks to my thigh and I have to move up the couch before I get ball-burn from the friction.

  “Ah, hold on, sexy.” I reach behind her, pulling out my balls and then slapping her ass to let her know that it’s okay to move.

  It’s clear that Gemma doesn’t need any dirty words tonight to spur her orgasm. I simply watched her ride me like her favorite horse’s saddle, using my cock as her joystick and playing for the win.

  Her eyes were closed, screwed up tight like she was envisioning her orgasm and could get there by meditating on it. That long brown hair was pulsing through my fingertips as I held her back and ass tightly to me. My cock trembled each time she sank down onto it, the condom numbing a bit of my feeling but the tight sucking of her pussy making me race with her towards the edge.

  “Rub my clit.” Gemma half-demanded, half-moaned.

  I did as she said, using my two fingers to rub at her furiously on every upstroke. Before long, she was clawing at my shoulders, the whole city of New York twinkling at me from the open floor-to-ceiling windows of my apartment. I could see her reflection in the glass, that beautiful naked body twisting and writhing on top of me.

  “Fuck, yessss …”

  She slammed down onto me, wiggling her pelvis back and forth as her pussy gripped me like a fist that was stroking my cock into oblivion. This orgasm felt different, stronger than the first time we’d fucked and I’d done her from behind. And just as my climax ripped through me, rendering me speechless and sightless, I realized …

  She’d faked an orgasm.

  Not this time, not when she could control the movements on top. But the last time, where I’d been bucking at her doggy-style.

  Gemma sagged against me, her breathing coming in puffs and her back covered in a sheen of sweat. I held her neck, the hair damp at the nape.

  “You faked it when I was inside you last time.” I said it matter-of-factly, with no malice in my voice.

  She instantly shot up, maneuvering off my dick until she was back by her dress and facing away from me to put it on. “What?”

  I knew she’d heard me. “We aren’t in that kind of relationship. Or one at all. I don’t care if you faked it, it doesn’t offend me. I just want to know if you did.”

  I was genuinely curious, and maybe she answered me because she realized that. “Okay, so what if I did?”

  Her posture was purely defensive, and I realized that someone, or someone’s, had really done a number on this girl over the years. She was so deep into cool-girl persona that she didn’t even realize when she was doing it.

  I pulled on my sweatpants, the nice person in me coming out. I didn’t want to comfort her in a boyfriend sense, but if I was doing the dirty with a hot girl, I wanted us both to enjoy it.

  “You didn’t have to do that. If you tell me what you like, I’m more than willing to work at it for you and make you feel good. You don’t have to lie to me, Gemma. I’m not a scumbag guy you’re trying to look easy or simple for. I know, generally, that it takes women longer. I’m not going to be pissed at you or not care if you don’t come. Just let me know what you need.”

  I cringed inwardly, expecting to see that little twinkle of hope women sometimes get when you’re compassionate with them. But as Gemma turns to face me, all I see is genuine acceptance.

  “Wow, a guy who’s willing to work for mutually beneficial sex for once. You’re like a unicorn, Anders. Your request is noted. Be prepared for an hour of getting me off next time.”

  I laugh, her quirky personality surprising me at every turn. Just when I think I’m going to go and make the girl cry or confess her true feelings on how men make her feel … she completely floors me.

  “Well, then, until next time.” I grab my beer and take a long swig.

  And what does the woman do? Curtsies before she heads out my door laughing.

  Chapter Ten

  Gemma

  So, I lied. I can’t be totally detached from the men I see. Even if we are just fuck buddies.

  Like any female living in the two thousands … I Googled my cock-sure friend. I had only lasted a week before Sam had convinced me I needed to know if he was a serial killer or had fucked an old woman for his fortune or something. And then I’d broken down and gone full reconnaissance on Google, Instagram and Facebook.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?!” Sam squeals beside me as she looks over my shoulder at the computer. “The guy you’re doing the horizontal mambo with is a freaking Silicon Valley genius? How did you not know this!?”

  Her screeching makes me shy away, our bodies crammed into the love seat in our living room. And I say living room loosely. Oliver has
a living room. A freaking ballroom. Sam and I could only fit an old blue leather two-seater in the cramped room.

  “How was I supposed to know this? I am literally just taking a joy ride on his meat pole. We don’t talk about, I don’t know … stuff.”

  Sam scowls at me as she flips the channel to watch Chopped. “Well, maybe you should be talking about this ‘stuff.’ I mean, you said he’s a pretty good lay. And apparently he’s a freaking ga-jillionare. He made those headphones I wear in the shower, the ones that are detachable and waterproof. He fucking invented those! You need to land this bird like he’s motherfucking prey and you’re the lion.”

  I had to admit, Oliver’s apartment was the thing of a twenty-something Manhattanites dreams. Located in TriBeCa, penthouse views, more square feet than I could walk … it was gorgeous. And looking at his Wikipedia page, yes he had a fucking Wikipedia page, I now knew why. He was a tech millionaire, an inventor and boy genius who had made his first seven-figure check by the time he graduated college. Oliver hung out with people like the creators of Twitter, Mark Cuban, and had even been rumored to have dated a Victoria’s Secret model. He was of another stratosphere, and yet …

  I don’t think of him like my knight in shining armor. Honestly, I don’t even think of him as potential boyfriend material. He’s funny, nice, sometimes sexy, Oliver. I don’t know him well, but I thought I knew him well enough. There wasn’t a need to get more intimate, and although I thought he could help me pay some of my student loans, I didn’t want to try to date him for his money. Or otherwise.

  “He’s just … strictly a friend with benefits. I don’t know what it is Sam, but you know when you get that feeling that you could never possibly date a person? Like, I already know it would go wrong or would just be weird.”

  Sam doesn’t tear her eyes from the partridge and peanut butter combo being cooked on TV. “Yeah, I get that. But I think if the guy had a bank account that rivaled Richie Rich’s, I could reconsider.”

  She was incorrigible, but I loved her. And she was ridiculously meticulous about Swiffering the hardwood floors, so I let her stay.

  “So tell me again what we are doing today?” I was nervous about the afternoon she’d set up.

  She clapped her hands, giddy as all fuck for a Saturday morning. Neither of us had gone out to drink last night, a feat for a Friday for the two of us.

  “Double date. Music execs. Golf Bar. It’s going to be fucking awesome.”

  Golf? I doubted it. If someone had a radar gun that picked out the most un-athletic people in the world, I’d be on the list.

  “And how did you meet these guys anyway? If I go on one more of your double dates and end up sitting in a corner while you suck face with some asshole, I’m going to drown myself in tequila.”

  Sam leaps off the couch. “Hey, that’s not a bad option, so remember to thank me. Now get up, get dressed, and stop stalking your fuck buddy. We are going out to land you an actual flesh and blood prince.”

  I didn’t really want to go, but you know what they say about practice. It makes perfect, duh. And if my track record meant anything, any day now I’d be landing a billionaire with a ten-inch dick who could make a mean Oreo milkshake and owned an island.

  It was official. Samantha’s death was being slowly plotted in my head as this bozo droned on beside me.

  “So then I told Jay-Z, ‘Listen, HOV, you can’t just up and cut Kanye out of this album. Watch the Throne made you buckets of moolah. You have to put up with him and the Kartrashians to sell this next multi-platinum record.’ And Bey agreed with me. I just know how these people work. Plus, I bought Blue Ivy a custom dollhouse complete with marble countertops, so they love me.”

  Shoot me in the fucking face now. This asshole has not stopped namedropping since we got to the popular bar/driving range combo. On a summer Saturday in the Big Apple, this place is packed. The place is crawling with Millennials, girls in their crop tops and high-waisted shorts flirting with boys in muscle tanks sipping out of steins filled with IPAs and microbrews.

  We’re on our second round of golf, and only the vodka cranberry in my hand is numbing this impossibly dull date. Joshua, Sam’s date, and Kyle, my date, are music executives at a top firm in the city.

  And they will never, ever let you forget it. They’ve been going back and forth, telling industry stories and laughing as if anything they’re saying is funny or relevant.

  Kyle hasn’t asked me one question about myself, and keeps doing this disgusting, annoying habit of scratching and massaging his balls through his striped blue shorts. Like, are you digging for clams in there? Trying to find the lost treasure of Olympus? I want to tell him that he might want to think about buying bigger boxers, or using some baby powder, but that would require me to acknowledge or talk to him and I’m trying to remain in my out of body state until I can go home.

  “Oh my God, I almost got a hole in one!” Sam throws her putter up in the air and throws her arms around Joshua.

  I keep trying to tell her that you can’t get a hole in one at a driving range, but it’s useless. She’s wasted and only wants sex now, and her and Joshua are more than on their way to getting it.

  Why does this keep happening to me? I wonder this as I’m sitting on the toilet of the Golf Bar bathroom. The floor kind of spins, and I realize I’m drunker than I thought I was. Why do you never notice that until you’re in the bathroom by yourself?

  But seriously, is there just a tattoo on my head that says ‘Fuckboys Apply Here’? Do I just attract the scum of the male gender? My last relationship was in college, and every guy I date seems to want to talk to the lips between my thighs rather than the ones on my face. I’m so fucking tired.

  Before I can talk my pathetic, drunk ass out of it, I whip out my phone.

  Gemma: Do I have a tattoo on my head that just screams I want assholes to approach me?

  It takes a minute or two, but Oliver’s name dings on the screen of my smart phone. Still sitting on the toilet, or hiding from my date, I open the text.

  Oliver: Unless it’s in invisible ink, I don’t think I’ve seen it. And I’ve watched your face bob up and down on a very specific part of my body, so I think I’d know.

  Gemma: Point taken. I’m currently hiding in a bathroom because my date can’t stop dropping names of famous celebs he works with. Save me.

  I didn’t really mean to say save me, but my fingers are drunk and I’m more than a little needy. Drunk texting is bad, especially to a guy who is supposed to be a fuck buddy and that’s all.

  Oliver: Hate tools like that. You could always fake a period. Or tell him your vagina has teeth like that one movie.

  I can’t help but bust out laughing at his suggestion. Someone is probably washing their hands and hears this drunk girl cackling to herself in a bathroom stall. I’m sinking to some other kind of level right now.

  Gemma: You know damn well my taco doesn’t bite. What’re you up to? Feel like having some Sunday pie?

  Oliver: Did you just refer to sex as pie? In that case, bring the whipped cream next time. Sadly, I’m in Nashville for a conference. But I’ll take a rain check.

  Damn. Was it bad that my heart dropped a little when he typed that he wasn’t in the city? It was probably because I was drunk and horny, and couldn’t scratch that itch with a penis that I knew was reliable and attached to a decent guy.

  Gemma: Do you like country music?

  The question comes from … where? I don’t know. I just don’t feel like going back out there, and a text conversation with Oliver is much more interesting right now.

  Oliver: I’m a nerdy guy from California. What do you think? No, Nashville isn’t really my scene. But it’s a beautiful city. Have you been here?

  Gemma: I’m a twenty-five year old girl from New Jersey up to my ears in college debt. I haven’t been anywhere but the Jersey Shore for some time. Plus, I’m not a millionaire.

  Oliver: Hmm, has someone been Googling me?

  Damn. Bu
sted. But I know Oliver won’t care.

  Gemma: And if I have, and admit it, will you reward my honesty with a trip to Bali?

  I don’t mean to sound like a needy girlfriend, but again, I blame the alcohol. And the fact that my ass is now cold and I really should flush and get out of here.

  Oliver: Lol, as if I get that much time off. Go home, Gemma. You need to sleep this off before work tomorrow. I’ll talk to you next week.

  I take that as his good-bye, and frown, because he’s right. I really should get out of here. I text Sam, who is probably in a coat closet somewhere in this place making out with what’s-his-name, that I’m going home.

  I don’t bother saying good-bye to Kyle. He’s probably still talking, and hasn’t even realized I’ve been sitting in the bathroom for twenty minutes.

  Chapter Eleven

  Oliver

  New York City and its occupants are fast-paced, harsh and determined. We work our asses off, dedicate way too much time to the office, party like the sun is never going to come up, and have razor-sharp tongues to boot.

  But in the summer, for three measly months, we put aside our hectic way of life and travel to a little place where, if you’re famous, everybody knows your name. And everybody also owns a multi-million dollar beach home.

  That’s right, the Hamptons.

  Being a California boy at heart, I personally love the hiatus. The mass amounts of workaholics flocking to the quaint beach towns, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. The collective sigh that runs through the community as everyone settles down for the long weekend, donning their floppy sun hats and lobster printed shorts.