Still, I don’t think I’d have the guts to try it. Not by myself. Maybe if I had a close friend who would go with me, but that would be a little weird.
And moot since most of my friendships have dried up. The joint friends I had with Caleb aren’t an option because that’s way too awkward. And the couple of girlfriends I used to routinely hang out with have probably forgotten who I am over the past year since I’ve had to decline invitation after invitation to do fun things with them. They’ve given up on me.
I take another sip of my beer, thinking about relationships, sex, and hookups.
And the only conclusion I can come up with is I should just stick with my vibrator. I have a good, guaranteed outcome there, and it will remain faithful to me as long as I keep it stocked with batteries.
The executive offices of The Blackwood Vegas don’t take up much space. There’s a large corner office overlooking the championship golf course attached to the property, which I currently occupy, and it will be filled by a new general manager once I move on to the next property under construction. To the left and right of the office are smaller ones belonging to the VPs of marketing, operations, and human resources, as well as an office for our head chef who oversees three fine dining restaurants on the property. Directly catty-corner to my office is an open area with several large cubicles where the administrative staff works, including the first cubicle that will be the workstation for my new assistant if she ever bothers to show up.
Not that she’s technically late. I told her I like to get started by eight each morning—as well as reminded her there is no official quitting time. That just happens to be when I’m done for the day, and I expect the same from her. While it’s only 7:45, I honestly expected her earlier. She’s proven to be a diligent worker with a laudable ethic, and I thought she might start early by trying to impress me. I know I shouldn’t hold it against her. Frankly, I’m not sure if I’m disappointed that she’s not trying to impress me, or perhaps I’m just eager to see her again.
I know I sure as hell have thought about her way too much since I released her from my services yesterday. She did an admirable job of salvaging the entire fundraiser for the Canterbury Art Center, and I mercifully let her leave at five last night.
Leaning back in my chair, I swivel it to look out the window at the golf course. Despite the early hour, it already has early morning hackers out there. The typical Blackwood patron has, at a minimum, several million in their investment portfolio and comes to stay with us in Vegas for the multitudes of opportunity to indulge. Many will bring along their wives, who will be happy staying at the Blackwood with our world-class spa while they head into the city to do wicked things bad husbands do behind their spouse’s backs.
I know about those things, but seeing as how I’m not married, there’s no moral dilemma. No telling how many countless cheating pricks were at The Wicked Horse last night, but not my place to judge them. Live and let live, I always say, and not to say there aren’t cheating wives. I’m sure I’ve inadvertently hooked up with a few during my visits there.
No clue about the woman I was with last night, her name already forgotten. That’s the beauty of having a membership at a sex club, the encounters can be as anonymous as you like them to be without any hurt feelings. It’s because every person there is seeking one thing, and one thing only… a satisfying release.
Perhaps I didn’t bother remembering much about the woman last night because while I was with her, I was doing a bit of fantasizing about my newest assistant. Every fucking dirty thing I did to that woman, I imagined it was Bailey Robbins. I wondered how she would respond to kink and if she got off on dirty talk, because I’m exceptional at both.
It was a better than average night at my favorite sex club. Most of the time, I was in my head in my own little private fantasies.
Which, of course, led me to thinking about those things when I woke up and in the shower when I jacked off.
Even now, as I sit here viewing the lush greenery of hole number fourteen and the tee for hole number fifteen, I wonder if she’s a screamer when she comes.
Not that I can do anything about it.
Unfortunately, Bailey Robbins will have to remain firmly in my fantasies because one thing I don’t do is dally with my employees. It’s bad business all the way around.