It’s that time again for a little pleasure for your Friday. Today’s story is titled, The Pleasure Principle and written by my community amazon best selling author, DNC. Enjoy!
THE PLEASURE PRINCIPLE: Part I
by DNC (@author_DNC)
It’s hard to explain my life. I get what I want, because I give what is wanted. From a young age, I found it easy to get attention from men – especially unintentional attention.
I fought many fights standing up for my essences especially in school. Girls were jealous because of who I am and how easily — and quickly — boys were attracted to me. But, never once did I intentionally lure any member of the male species into my world by dressing or acting a certain way — they were just very interested in me.
Maybe it’s the sparkle in my eye, or the wave in my hair. Or, perhaps in the words of the great Maya Angelou, “It’s the curl of my hips…and the roundness of my lips.” Or, maybe the roundness of my ass, or the plumpness of my chest. Hell, it could be the whisper of my voice; I have no real clue other than I just seem to have great genes. No matter how undesirable I try to make myself, I still catch their attention. Even on my worst day, they can feel the charge of my presence entering the room.
This alluring essence, I carry inside, feels like a double-edged sword — for all the attention it got me that I wanted, it doubly gave me the attention I didn’t want.
Some call me “poison ivy” but my only poison is pleasure. I can’t help it, but I absolutely enjoy giving pleasure; whether it’s in a conversation with a complete stranger or an astounding eruption in the bedroom. I live for pleasure; my own and others.
But, I didn’t realize that I would one day taste my own poison.
It was back when I first moved into my own apartment right after college. I was so excited to finally have my own place; my own furniture, my own food and my own rules. I decided to throw a housewarming party the Saturday after I finished unpacking, so I started a list and headed to the grocery store first.
I walked into the neighborhood McMike’s Grocery to pick up drinks and snacks. Dressed in my relaxed, hood-chic outfit with loose grey sweatpants, a white wife-beater and my Yankee’s hat, I entered the produce section. I was gliding toward the tomatoes in search of the ripest specimen, when a tantalizing, chocolate-skinned champion caught my eye. I knew as soon as we locked eyes that the “poison” was starting to make its way to him.
If he stepped one foot closer, it would be over for him. And so, he took that step.
I immediately felt bad for him. I glanced down to the floor, trying my best to guide him from my clutches, but it was too late.
Almost as if magnetized to each other, we met in front of the tomatoes. I could feel his eyes blazing through my clothes, dying to see what was hiding underneath. I did my best to ignore his presence, but his scent was exotic and soothing.
My urges were beginning to grow.
I quickly reached for a ripe tomato at the top of the stack. As I touched the tomato I felt his arm graze my chest, reaching under me for a lower tomato. As innocent as his movement was, I knew that it was a direct message to my body.
“Excuse me,” we both chimed.
I turned to look at his face; his white, shining smile and deep brown eyes flicked with amber: a complement to God’s work. Even his lips were juicy enough to bite. I turned from him again and proceeded to put the veggie in my arm basket.
“It’s ok.” I reassured him.
I turned and walked away as quickly as I could, trying again to release him from my trap. I even slowed my walk, hoping he wouldn’t notice my wide hips and finely-tuned ass. My attempts to save him from my web were strong, but his efforts were stronger.
I continued my walk through the store stopping in the pasta aisle, then the juice aisle, then the liquor aisle. I don’t know if it was by chance or strategic planning on his end, but we just so happened to end up meeting down the same aisles.
I passed another short, fair-skinned man on the way to the check-out counter.
“Hey, Beautiful!” he threw at me as I swiftly passed him.
I smiled because I didn’t want to be rude, but became frustrated that I couldn’t do something as simple as shopping without unwanted attention. I rushed to the shortest line. As I waited for the three people ahead of me, I heard the same “Excuse me” that had so gently grazed me in produce.
I turned to see my chocolate champion standing behind me.
“I really want to apologize about that incident earlier. I hope I didn’t offend you,” he said.
“No. It’s ok. I know it was an accident,” I answered knowing perfectly well it wasn’t.
“My name is Mason…Mason Alexander.” He held out his hand.
Dare I touch it? I guess if he is asking for it, I must please.
“My name is Taylor.”
I took a step closer to the register. Two more people to go. Can he be saved?
“I know this is a little awkward,” he persisted, “but I think you are gorgeous and would love to take you out. Will you allow me to do so? It would be a pleasure to learn more about you.”
Pleasure. . .how could I not?
I obliged his request and gave him my number. Even though I knew the outcome was going to leave him breathless and addicted, at least he would enjoy it. I finally made it to the register and he assisted me by placing my groceries on the belt. He was kind and did what he needed to get my attention. He pleased me, and this intrigued me to see more. I waved good-bye to him as I walked out the door.
As I crossed the street, a blacked-out Range Rover parked next to my car caught my attention. Women from across the street took their time slowly walking into the store, biding their time, waiting for the driver to exit. A six-four, fair-skinned stallion stepped out of the driver’s side and his much shorter, less-attractive friend jumped out the passenger side.
Again, I did my best not to look directly at him. I rushed past him only to have him stop and stare me down as I moved to my trunk.
I popped the trunk and immediately heard his door close and some steps get closer and louder.
“Thank you,” A raspy voice spoke to me, much deeper than I expected.
I stopped to think about what he’d said exactly. Thank you for what?
I looked over my trunk to see this light, clear-complexioned man with a perfectly lined reddish-brown goatee looking down at me.
“I’m sorry. Did you say ‘thank you’?” I asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
I rolled my eyes and sent a small chuckle into the air.
“Thank you for what?”
I couldn’t wait to hear what type of line this was. I was sure I’d heard it a million times. The intro may be a little different, but the hook was always the same.
“Thank you for passing me. I was having a rough day, but then I noticed you and you changed that — so thank you.”
He took a step closer and I turned toward him taking in all of his greatness.
“Thank you, Beautiful. It was a pleasure.” He grabbed my hand and gave it a soft kiss. Then he turned to meet up with his friend who was waiting for him outside the store.
Normally, a man would go for the digits, but he didn’t even ask. And I was actually ready to give them.
How dare he!?
Or, was he just really smart and could see the danger standing in front of him? I shook my head and closed my trunk as I watched him preparing to cross the street.
As much as I wanted to categorize him as just another typical guy, I couldn’t. I had to accept that there was something different about him, but what that difference was I couldn’t put into words. I quietly took in my defeat, jumped in my car and started pulling out of the parking spot.
To my surprise, he and his friend were still waiting to cross the street as I pulled around. He turned toward my car and this time I made sure that I caught his eyes with mine. I gave him my “It was VERY nice to meet you” squinting-smile and that pulled him right in. He took a couple of steps to my car and I happily dropped the window.
“Hey, what’s your name?” He asked.
“Taylor,” I responded.
Suddenly, I noticed my previous prey, the chocolate champion, step out of the store. I laughed on the inside at the ironic situation, but this type of attention comes with the Taylor Delmor package. I refocused back on the handsome stallion dying to ask me another question.
“Taylor, would you like to go grab some dinner with me tomorrow evening?”
He had already used the p-word on me once, so I had to accept. I exchanged my number for a second time that day to a new prospect and learned his name, Jacob.
Jacob seemed promising, in that he initially had been able to disregard my magnetic toxin, so maybe he was truly different. Maybe he was a lot stronger than the others.
We ended our conversation and I turned up my radio, waved and pulled off. The champion versus the stallion — what a challenge.
The second thing on my housewarming list was to do some interior décor online shopping. I decided to do that the next day. I awoke still ecstatic to be in my own place. No roommate banging pans in the kitchen in the wee morning hours. No unknown new voices, reminding me to think about what kind of clothes I needed to have on to come out of my bedroom.
Just the calmness of my new place. I spent the previous night entertaining my home girls and getting lost in a couple bottles of Moscato.
With a little hangover, I grabbed my phone to start my mini-shopping spree but then I noticed my phone was flashing green with several missed texts, all from unknown numbers.
11:25am: Area code 220: You’ve been on my mind since we met yesterday. I think I even dreamt about you. Are you still up for today? – Jacob
Maybe he didn’t have control like I thought…
11:32am: Area code 404: Good morning Miss Taylor. How are you doing?
11:33am: Area code 404: And just in case you forget who I am from all the attention you got yesterday this is Mason.
I was so glad Mason put his name in that last text. There were so many numbers without names in my phone already. I clicked out of my messages and focused back on my online shopping. These men in my web can wait because they have no other choice. It wasn’t until 4:30pm that I remembered that I hadn’t texted Jacob back.
4:32pm: It sounds like you slept well last night. 🙂 LOL Yes I am still available for dinner tonight. Let’s do 8:00 PM at the restaurant of your choice.
My phone buzzed a minute later:
4:33pm: Jacob: I’ll pick you up at 7:50 PM and we can go to Remington’s.
Uh no…I don’t allow men to pick me up from my house on the first date. Since I knew the addiction to my presence was infectious, I wouldn’t dare allow for any localized stalking.
4:34pm: I’ll meet you at Remington’s at 8:00 PM.
4:35pm: Jacob: Paranoid are we?
4:36pm: Jacob: I’ll see you at 8:00 PM beautiful 🙂
I placed my phone back on the charger and headed to my closet to pick out my “presentation” for tonight. I needed a dress that said I was sexy, but in a natural, unintentional way. I pulled out my black bow-front, low-back dress. It was a great look to accentuate the soft purple rose on my back that I usually intentionally hid from my prey. I knew the beautiful artwork that lay on my left shoulder blade would make the most faithful priest question his vow of celibacy.
Now, shoes…Christian Louboutin, Giuseppe Zanotti, or maybe a little more low-key like the Steve Maddens? I choose my strappy Jimmy Choos that a former male friend bought for me. He had great taste, but my taste for him wasn’t as good.
7:45pm rolled around quickly and I prepared to walk out the door. I passed in front of my door mirror and couldn’t help but rave at the finished product. I looked just right for a pleasurable night.
I pulled up in front of Remington’s at 7:55pm. Remington’s was an expensive, upscale restaurant. Jacob must have been into something big to get reservations here. The Valet walked up to my red Mustang, took my keys and escorted me through the doors.
To my surprise, the restaurant was empty. Are they closed? Am I at the wrong location?
“Miss Taylor” the hostess introduced herself, “my name is Tami and your guest is waiting on you.”
And then, it dawned on me. This man actually shut down one of the busiest and most exclusive restaurants in the city, probably on their busiest night, just for me.
I couldn’t help but question what his day job was; C-level executive, music mogul, or maybe even a benched athlete. Or, maybe it wasn’t a day job I should be worried about; maybe he was a big runner in the business of “street pharmaceuticals”. My mind was wandering, but I had to bring it back to the moment. The whole elaborate situation was suspicious, but I couldn’t help smiling at all his effort.
I was in awe of his presentation and now dying to know what else he had up his sleeve. The pleasure principle was now in his court and I was looking forward to seeing what he would do with it.
Jacob was seated at a table by the window in a crisp navy suit jacket and a complementary button-down shirt. His jeans were pressed and his hair cut fresh.
Maybe I missed that yesterday, but I’ll take it as a compliment that he took the time to get it done just for me tonight.
He greeted me with a raspy, “Good evening” as I approached the table. I don’t know if it was the vibe of the evening or what, but I immediately started to feel comfortable with him; almost like I’d known him for years. This was new and scary. My excitement was building and I needed something to bring myself back down to Earth. This was just another man…or so I thought.
Are you ready for Part II? Read the rest in “Untraditional: A Collection of Passion-Fy Short Stories,” available on Amazon.