Not In My Wildest Dreams (Dream Series) (7 page)

I showed up at Becca’s apartment so fucking hard with a plan to head straight for the shower and toss one off. Hell, I’d been choking the chicken so much lately, I was going to have hairy palms, even if I couldn’t grow a decent beard or mustache. However, when I walked in to the apartment, Becca was doing some body bending shit in front of the big Zenith TV from a tape playing through her VHS player. Her ass—her tight, round ass—was high in the air. The woman on the video was saying something about
‘downward dog.’
Yeah, that sounded right. I’d mount that bitch.
Shut it, Stevens,
I scolded myself.
She said no sex.
She was very clear the day I moved in that sex was out of the question. Sure, I’d been imagining what sex would be like with her since then, but probably just because she said it was a no-go.

“Um, hey,” I said, kicking the door shut with my foot and shoving my hands deep in the pockets of my Levi’s, balling up my fists to hide the beast ready to burst in my pants.

“Hey,” she called back, looking at me through her legs. “How’d the shoot go? Isn’t Andrew a hoot?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. I’m gonna take a shower. Have fun with your, whatever you’re doing,” I muttered and headed straight for the shower.

I started the shower, letting it heat up, although a cold shower should have been my choice, but the cold water wouldn’t get the suntan oil off of me. I stripped, and my hand, still a little oily, got to work on my throbbing dick.

Suddenly the bathroom door flung open.

“Oh, shit!” Becca exclaimed. “Sorry, I thought you were—uh. Well, I washed all the towels and I just remembered you didn’t have any in here. So…” Her eyes travelled down my body and rested on my once busy hand, now frozen mid-pull.

I shrugged sheepishly. I mean, I was busted. What was I gonna do?

She swallowed hard and her eyes flew up to mine. “Rough day at the office?”
Was she flirting with me?

“Not as rough as I’d like,” I said, tossing the ball back into her court as my hand started sliding back and forth again.

“Oh, you like it rough, do you?” she said with a smirk. “And here I thought you were a wholesome, midwestern, God-fearing, country boy.”

“Who me? God-fearing?” I smirked back staring her right in the eyes. I must be dreaming. This was not happening.

“So, you don’t get on your knees?” she asked raising an eyebrow and dropping to her knees in front of me.

“Becca…” I started, my heart pounding in my ears. I wanted this. Oh man, I wanted this. She batted my hand away and looked at my cock like it was a steak, and she’d not been eating for a week before a photo shoot. “You said…” I tried. I couldn’t believe I was going to try and talk her out of giving me a blow job, but she said… and I didn’t want her pissed at me, kicking me out of her place.
Oh fuck!
Her breath hitting my cock was like pouring gasoline on a bonfire.

“To hell with what I said. Clearly you have a need, and I am fully aware that a palm session isn’t going to do the trick,” she growled, and took my whole dick in her mouth, her hands gripping my thighs. I dropped my head back as she worked it. Slowly. Taking it all in, then pulling back to just the head and swirling her skilled tongue around the crown. She would flick her tongue on the underside—just so, then plunge forward until I was again at the back of her throat. No hands required.
Holy muther fucker!

It wasn’t but a minute later, and I was shooting off like a rocket. Spurt after powerful spurt into her mouth. And she took it all. I looked down and marveled at the blonde haired, blue-eyed super model kneeling at my johnson. She didn’t seem disappointed that I didn’t last. I felt like I should explain… that I had more stamina than that, but it had been a rough day… and it had been a while since I’d been with a chick…but I couldn’t have formed a sentence at that moment if my life depended on it. She finished licking and cleaning me up, then stood and said “You owe me one,” and left.

What the fuck does that mean? What the fuck just happened?

That night I took her out to dinner. It was the least I could do, and honestly, I didn’t want to be alone with her in our apartment. While she picked at her salad, and sucked down the wine, I had a hard time eating my burger.

“So, what gives?” I asked, unable to keep the question inside.

“What gives what?” she asked back, seemingly confused.

“Uh, earlier. In my bathroom?”

“Oh, that. Look,” she said, setting down her fork and taking a long sip of her wine. “I don’t want a relationship. I was just horny. Yoga does that to me. I don’t know why. Besides, I haven’t had sex in over a week. Then I saw you walk in while I was in Downward Dog and … then I remembered your towels… and then there you were in the bathroom. I should have knocked, but—it was unfair. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I choked out. “No problem.”

“I find sex a huge release. Danny used to call me a nympho. I dunno,” she shrugged. “Maybe I am. If you move out, I’ll understand. But I promise, I won’t do it again. Unless you want me to. Just as a friend, of course. Helping you release some stress?” A sly little smile crept onto her lips.

I sat there stunned. Was she proposing what I thought she was proposing? “Are you saying sex without being in a relationship? Just friends? Like ‘fuck friends’ or something?” I asked.

She thought for a second, and bobbed her head. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

We sat and hashed out the “rules” for this
fuck friend
arrangement. No dates. No jealousy. If one of us becomes involved with another person, the fucking stops—unless the new boyfriend or girlfriend doesn’t care.

She practically attacked me when we got home. She pushed me into my bedroom and tore my clothes off, then mounted me.
She
rode
me
like
her
life depended on it. Her body on display, and it was just sex. Six minutes later, we both came. She simply slid off me, tossed me a few tissues from the box on my bedside table and shot me a, “Thanks, I needed that.” Seconds later, I heard her shower turn on. No cuddling. No awkward good-bye or see ya.

And the next morning, like a switch had been flipped, we were friends sipping coffee and talking about our schedule for the day. Fucking one night, and back to just friends in the morning. But it totally worked. And we’d fuck a few times a week. Neither of us getting silly about it. Most of the time it was good and rough. And fast. None of this long, take your time shit. I couldn’t believe my past few weeks. I’d done my first professional runway show that lead to more work. I’d landed a sweet apartment. And now I had a fuck friend. I was the fucking man!

May 1982

O
ver the next three years, Becca and I cultivated this odd relationship. On the one hand, we were fuck friends. On the other, we were each other’s closest friend, almost like family. Becca’s parents were big time philanthropists. Ever since Becca’s career had been firmly established, and Frannie DiMarco took over managing her career, they were forever jumping onto the next public campaign. From bringing clean water and aid to remote areas of Africa, to the most recent headlines of this disease called HIV/AIDS. They had little time for Becca.

My parents had stopped taking my calls and the checks I sent home after they saw an ad I had done. It was the ad for suntan oil. My oldest sister, Sharon, found it in her Glamour magazine, and showed my dad. My dad, David Sr., was
not
impressed. Old fuck. He said that I had ‘sold my soul to the devil’ by putting my half naked body on display like that. My brothers and sisters gave me their congrats, but they seemed hesitant to go against Pop. My mother stayed quiet on the whole issue. I continued to send checks back home to help out my parents, but from that point on, they always sent the checks back. After two years, I stopped. It hurt too much.

Once, my sister Laura, her husband Vin, and my brother, Mike came out and visited me secretly. It was the best day of my modeling career. Not for the job, but because my brother and sister were there. I brought them to the set and they got to watch what I did. We took some fun pictures on set, too. I took them out and treated them to dinner. They said that Mom wanted to come, but she wouldn’t think of crossing Dad.

I could have moved out of Becca’s place after about four months of working, but it would have been a shit hole, since I didn’t earn even one-tenth of what Becca did. So, I stayed. Besides, we got along really well and hung out when we were both in town. Becca continued to work, despite her previous concerns that her career was ending. She traveled a lot, and if she wasn’t traveling, I was. So it was a perfect arrangement. I kept depositing money into the bank, looking forward to when I could start college. And Becca taught me all the ins and outs of this crazy business, along with correcting my grammar along the way. Apparently, I had ways of saying things that drove her nuts. Like when I say, “I want a beer bad.” She’d always correct me and say, “Badly. You want it
badly.
” Sometimes I would say it wrong just to annoy her. She’d gotten an English degree from Columbia and she loved to throw that in my face.

There were many perks of working as a model, the paycheck only a piece of it. It wasn’t just the prestige and the parties. Or seeing your face on the cover of a magazine or on a billboard in Times Square. We got a lot of pre-release stuff. Like the Walkman that never left Becca’s side; she’d gotten hers a whole two months before the thing was even to be released on the market. Why? Because she was the model selected to promo it, until they went with a younger girl anyway. The parties we went to were amazing, even if incredibly intimidating. The celebrities we met and the high-end everythings were incredible, but the never-ending supply of illicit drugs was astounding.

Becca knew several models who’d lost everything from drug use, and she was careful to keep me from it. In fact, she admitted that several years back, she had started down that road and ended up nearly losing everything herself. She said that when Danny left and she got drunk the weekend of our first runway show together, that her manager Frannie asked me to become Becca’s roommate because Frannie was afraid that Becca might start using again. At any rate, I was always there to rescue her when she was in a situation, and she was there to rescue me.

I kept away from drugs, but I had certainly found my addiction. One of the biggest perks of being a ‘big time model’ was the never ending line of girls, many with lemon juice bleached hair and Bain de Soleil tans willing to give me a blow job or jump in the sack at a moments notice. I finally got my dream of more than one chick at a time. On more than one occasion I could be found in bed with two or three babes. Shit that was hot! Sometimes I didn’t have to be there. The girls would be totally into each other, and I could sit up close, watch them kiss or eat each other out and I could play with their tits, or be fucking one. And they didn’t think it made me a Jackass. Basically, I fell into this pattern of hollow meaningless one night stands.

On the one hand, it was great—no commitment. I was living every dude’s dream. But on the other hand, I was getting tired of not having a steady. Half the girls I slept with were only with me because they saw my face in some ad, or heard I was a model, but had no idea who I was. The other half thought I could somehow get them
their
big break into the field. I grew more and more demanding in bed, thinking it would give me a bad rep. Instead, the girls fell even harder. And I found the high of being domineering
very
addictive.

I thought it odd that Becca never dated anyone. Clearly she was capable, having been with Danny for six years. Guess he had really done a number on her.

But mostly, Becca and I remained unattached to “that someone special.” We’d still fuck like stupid kids, and the next morning we’d be back to just roommates.
So. Fucking. Awesome.
And Becca was amazing in bed. Danny was a fucking fool.

All in all, the modeling was awesome. I loved the camera work, and continued with runway jobs when they came up. Even though my big break was due to a runway show, I could have done without them. I watched these girls take tumbles, sometimes from their shoes being too tall, or the runway being too slippery. Sometimes they fell because they hadn’t eaten anything in the past couple of days, or used so many laxatives that they were practically passing out. I was always a nervous wreck.

Today, Becca and I were paired up for another show, and, with her on my arm, I was guaranteed applause. Together we were a force to be reckoned with. After the shows, I always laughed at the girls as they stripped out of their costumes and wolfed down a sandwich and a milkshake. I was walking around looking for Becca so we could go grab dinner with the rest of the gang.

I rounded the corner and spied Becca arguing with Danika, the executive producer of the event. She was the one everybody feared. She controlled all the models’ steps down the runway, every note blaring on the hi-fi system, every piece of boob tape, and each lock of hair. As for us guys, she mostly ignored us, for which I was grateful.