1
CHEESE > MEN
Dove.Now.
If this man were a cheese, he’d be brie.
Buttery. Decadent. I’d spread him across the heel of a baguette. I’d suck his white, creamy residue off my thumb. I’d leave no crumbs behind.
Am I being thirsty? Well, maybe, but I’ve been on a sex-hiatus for nearly a year, and the man cozying up to me at the bar is exactly my type. Handsome in a rough way, with tattoos that run up his arms and curl like smoke up the side of his neck. Probably early-twenties, he’s got that fresh-out-of-NYU-scent, which is a little young for me, but beggars can’t be choosers.
It’s his hands that draw me to him. Corded arms. Long fingers with a wide wingspan. Hands that could grab a fistful of my hair or wrap nicely around my throat.
I don’t do that anymore, butI can still dream.
I’m closing out when Mr. Brie closes the gap between us and fills the space on the stool next to me. I’m in a blackdress that’s not meant for him, but he’s admiring it all the same. His eyes meet mine, and I don’t look away, so he smiles and says, “Hey. Can I buy you a drink?”
I check the time on my phone. I have to be across the street in five minutes, where my submissive is waiting for me. Every minute I’m late will just extend his agony, but he isliterally a masochist, sooo…
“I have somewhere to be,” I tell him. “But I can be late.”
He’s not phased. “Then we’ll have to make every minute count, Ms.…” My wallet is sitting on the bar. He pulls it towards him so he can read my ID through the plastic window. “Sadie Royal.”
“Wow,” I say. “Nosy.”
I slip my hand over my wallet, trying to pull it back. My wallet is thick, but only because it’s packed with junk—tattoo shop business cards and cafe punch-tickets. He holds tight, keeping his grip on my wallet. He checks it out again, and then his eyes scan my face, like he’s looking for some clue hidden there. He asks: “You’re thirty-five?”
“I am. What about it?”
A smile quirks the edge of his mouth. He nods sagely, like we’ve both entered into some secret, private contract. Then he says the worst thing imaginable. “Good for you.”
Good for you?
Good for you?
What the ever-loving fuck doesgood for youmean?
It’s a real clit-killer and all the single-woman-at-a-bar confidence drains from my body, transfused with a slowly rising rage. I grab my wallet and pocket it, rising from the bar.
“Hey,” he says, “what about that drink?”
“Raincheck.” I pull on my jacket and don’t turn back. That was my resolution this year.Don’t give shitty men the time of day.
I check my phone. Five past. I’m officially late, and Dorian is officially squirming.
The second I exit the bar, I’m met with a blast of cold air that nearly bites my face off. Winter in New York City is brutal. Dorian’s apartment is just down the block, but I have to survive a tunnel of icy wind to get there. I brace myself, buttoning my coat tightly around my middle and donning a traffic-cone orange beanie.
My boots crunch over salt crystals. It snowed yesterday, and what was once white and pretty is now grey and dirty slush lining the streets. I skip over it as I cross the street. I pass by a horror-themed bookstore (“The Paper Cut,” with a window display in full, gothic Christmas mode, black tinsel and a decrepit tree) and stop in front of the red door that leads to Dorian’s apartment.
I hit the doorbell with his name. It buzzes and the door clicks, unlocking. I slip inside to a small, cramped hallway with a staircase and an elevator. I wait by the elevator, which hums as it lowers and the form of a man comes into view.
Shoes first: dark loafers. Followed by loose, dark slacks and an olive-colored wool sweater. Finally, his face appears—that mane of dark, wavy hair, those sharp blue eyes peering out from underneath intense, furrowed eyebrows. That ever-present, annoyed frown.
The old elevator comes to a rickety halt. Dorian pulls open the gate.
“Boss,” he says.
I slide my eyes over him. “Pet.”
