I needed to hire a personal chef. Someone who could throw down in the kitchen and be discreet when it came to my lifestyle. Although I am not as wild as I used to be when I first started making money, the last thing I needed was someone seeking social media fame by taking selfies of my place and tagging me to randomness online. As an influencer, I always had to be on the lookout for people wanting to immerse themselves into my life for attention. It was one of the main hazards that kept me shaky about leaping into full blown relationships. It was just too dangerous for me to just let someone in. Letting people in meant risk, and as temperamental as social media is right now, I knew that the wrong move could easily get me cancelled.
I didn’t even know how to find, let alone hire a chef so I asked around and in no time I got hooked me up with this vegan chef who had a resume full of b-list actors and a couple of well-known musicians. This was a huge plus because it meant that she knew a little something about discretion, and discretion was what I needed.
We met for coffee one afternoon at a quiet spot a couple of miles from my loft.
I made it a point to arrive early to business meetings so that I can have territorial advantage by the time the person I was meeting walked in. Home field advantage is always important. Plus, I could get a nice long visual without appearing to stare.
She walked in and spotted me right off under my Chicago Bulls cat. She walked up to me and held out her hand confidently across the table.
“Mr. Sevette?”, she said, “I’m Lydia Reed”.
I rose from my chair and took her hand. I looked into her eyes and held the gaze there a fraction longer than necessary while I shook it.
“Nice to meet you, Lydia. I’m Antione Sevette. Please… have a seat.” I said, motioning to the empty seat in front of me.
She slid easily into the chair and turned those huge brown eyes on me.
I’m 6’, so that made her somewhere around 5’8. Her skin was caramelized like that singer HER, with curly black hair that fell somewhere between her neck and her shoulders. She had on a black, almost see-through silk blouse with a black bra underneath. Her blouse was tight enough to reveal the outline of her body without trying too hard. Her breasts were well-formed, and I could tell that they were real, and spectacular. I had to make a conscious effort to keep my eyes from wandering to the Midwest. I also noted that she wasn’t wearing a ring on her lockdown finger, which meant that whether she had a man or not, she was unclaimed.
To say that she was not what I was expecting would be an understatement. I have to admit that she was more attractive than most of the women I’d dipped with in the past couple of years. I didn’t want to come off like a social media fuckboy, so I kept it all business. I asked her a few questions about her style of cuisine, and what type of dishes she could add to my pallet. Before I knew it, we were talking and laughing like we’d done it a thousand times. It had the excitement of a first date with a beautiful woman, but familiar, like lunch with an old friend.
Looks are great, chemistry is necessary, but I was determined to only center people around me who could help get me out of my own way. Eating like a college frat boy was becoming a lifestyle choice and it was starting to show. I was noticeably gaining weight and my skin was starting to look dry and faded on all of my photos. I was going crazy with the saturation filters and my analytics told me that my numbers were trending in the wrong direction.
I was impressed with the way that she handled herself. Partially because she was so passionate about food, but also because she treated me like I was just another guy. I mean, I am just another guy, but for a woman to treat me with sincere commonality was a refreshing change.
We discussed more of the particulars over a couple refills of coffee. It didn’t take long for me to make up my mind.
I hired her on the spot and within a week, I was eating better than I had in years. My energy level was through the roof and the color seemed to be coming back to my face. Yeah, Lydia was exactly what I needed, and everything was going so smoothly, like a brand-new relationship during the courting phase. I could sense that there was something happening between us. An unspoken chemistry that didn’t need the bi-play of words. It felt like we were reading each other’s minds and hearing each other’s thoughts. She could have her back to me, and somehow, someway, I just knew what expression she had on her face. We were in tune.
Even simple conversations in the morning like whether I wanted my eggs scrambled or over easy weren’t necessary. She just did what she thought was right and it was. Some mornings she would have hot coffee sitting on a tray waiting for me by the time I got out of the shower. Next to the coffee would be little post it notes with positive affirmations handwritten on them.
She turned me on to Kiwi’s, Avocados, Whole grain breads, everything bagels, ginger shots, black bean soup, watermelon juice with lime, how to clean my fresh vegetables, orange juice with the pulp and alkaline water…I mean everything about her was so organic. She made me feel like the social media influencer that people were expecting me to be.
And just when I thought things couldn’t get better, I was right, because things didn’t get better, they got worse.
Much, much worse.
I gave Lydia the access code to the loft so that she could come and go when she needed to. She took frequent trips to the market throughout the day so it only made sense. I wasn’t her only client, but she was always there for me, so it made me feel like I was. I was comfortable with her being there, and it felt good.
Its 3 something in the morning. Close to 4. I hear something. Can’t be sure that it is something until I hear it again. When I did, I knew that it was coming from downstairs. Has to be coming from the kitchen or the front room. Noises from the kitchen have no place in my loft at 4am unless I’m the one making them. I ease into the bathroom and towel up, because if there is a thief downstairs, I’d hate to have to wrestle with them in the raw.
I slide down the stairs two at a time with my back to the wall. My phone in hand.
I hear another sound. Then another. A clunk, then a thud.
I’m not alone. I freeze. Whoever it is, they can’t see me yet. I move slowly and quietly, determined to keep the element of surprise on my side when I start beating their ass.
I reach the bottom of the stairwell. It’s dark. The only light coming from the kitchen. But I always keep the kitchen light on.
I tighten the knot on the towel and head toward the kitchen door. My phoneless fist clinched. As I eased open the kitchen door, I could see my yellow night light reflecting off of the counter.
When I get around the last turn, the silhouette of a nude female figure stretched out along the length of the counter comes into view. Her shapely legs hanging over the edge, the yellow night light reflecting against her glowing caramel skin.
It was Lydia.
I freeze for a moment, caught off guard, then exhale a sigh of relief.
What the fuck, I mouth to myself as I walk slowly over to the counter.
She turns her head slightly and looks up at me. Her brown eyes dancing with lust.
The closer I get to her, the more her full body comes into view. Then I see a meticulously placed trail of fruit running from her lips all the way down to her lips.
“And what if I was a heavy sleeper?” I whispered, letting my terry cloth sarong fall to the hardwood floor.
She smiled, then said, “shit, I don’t know, maybe I would have had to set off a smoke detector to get you down here.”
“Oh, you doing that alright,” I said as I reach the business end of the counter.
It was 4am and I had a beautiful, naked plate of fruit laid out across my counter. A smorg-ass-borg you might say.
I lean down and taste her neck, licking off a piece of kiwi at the same time. I outline her breasts with my tongue. Her nipples are so hard that the pieces of kiwi covering them are holding on for dear life. I ignore the fruit and take her breasts into my mouth, one after the other. They are better than I imagined under that black silk blouse. Her body begins to twist and snake. Her breathing so shallow and ragged that I couldn’t tell if she was inhaling or exhaling. I run both hands along her hips, feeling the soft moist contours. I draw a damp trail with my tongue from her breasts to her belly, then down further and further, until finally I reached Georgia. Her moans acapella, her body changing rhythms, her skin damp with sweat and starting to stick to the counter, pleasure coming in waves, escaping in short gasps. She grabs the back of my head and pulls me in closer. I take her through my nerve shredding rituals until I am sure that she is close…then I stop.
I don’t let her come.
When I stop her eyes open, and she lifts her head slightly. Me looking North. Her looking South.
I smile.
She giggles. Chest heaving up and down searching for breaths.
I scoop her small frame up from the counter caveman style. She laughs and screeches as I take the stairs two at a time. Determined to finish what I started from the beginning. This time with more depth, more precision.
We spend the next two-hour sharing intimacy. Exploring one another. Taking turns giving, and receiving, then talking and laughing, then we give more of one another, and receive more of one another, minutes turn to hours, until there is nothing left to give, and nothing left to release. We pleasure dive until the moon dips, and the sun begins to peek through an amber sky.
When I wake up, were still spooned. I’m behind her. Still inside of her. Still filling her with me. I try to ease out of her but as soon as I move, she flinches, then moans softly.
I take her through another ritual that ends with enough DNA evidence to spawn a schoolhouse full of children.
I reach for my phone. My other hand still clutching myself.
“What a way to start a day.” I say in a joking manner. “But I have a meeting at 8.”
“Then I guess I better get in the kitchen then.”
We both laugh at her timing and retreat to opposite sides of the bed.
“You can use the other bathroom, you know where the towels are,” I say as I walk into my bathroom and close the sliding glass door.
I can see her outline as she heads downstairs.
The night brought me a lot more than I was expecting. It’s not like I didn’t enjoy it. It was better than I imagined the first time that I imagined her in that way. I just started feeling the regrets of what it meant, because for as much as I enjoyed her, she was not my woman, she was my employee. And I was not her man, I was her employer.
I turn on the shower and let the steam fill the space.
I disappear behind the steamy glass and thirty minutes later I’m fully dripped and heading downstairs. The remaining traces of last night conveniently flowing through my drainpipes.
I walk downstairs with my phone in hand. I feel like a new man despite missing hours of sleep.
I say, “Hey Lydia, you mind making me some banana pan…? “
I look up from my phone and stop mid-sentence. Once again, she’d hijacked my thoughts. It was becoming a little creepy. There was a fresh plate of pancakes on the table. She had already made them. I stare down at them and then back at her. She’s next to the same counter that I found her laid across just a few hours earlier. Only this time she has a cup of coffee in her hand, and instead of aphrodisia in the air, there was something else lingering amidst the aroma of bananas and maple syrup.
She hadn’t showered. She wasn’t dressed either. She was wearing one of my white button-up shirts and clearly still wearing my dried DNA all over her. Transparent flecks of me all over her.
It was the first time since we met that I was at a loss for words. I could not believe that she made my breakfast without showering first. What in the actual f8ck was she thinking. She was still wearing me like a secret indictment, a confession, like evidence of a crime. She was a professional chef. A profession that should put cleanliness right under godliness, so I could not understand why she thought this was ok, and why she thought I would be ok with this. Nothing about this made sense.
She smiled and said, “I already did. You know I can read your mind, right?”
Her smile was familiar and welcoming, like an old acquaintance. Perhaps that was what took us so far so fast. I don’t know. It was just another layer of the thing that was happening between us.
“Is that right? If you can read my mind, what am I thinking right now?” I replied without returning her smile.
My words came out sharp, more jagged than I wanted them to be, but that was the Scorpio rising inside of me.
“Maybe you’re thinking about round four…” she said, winking.
Then her smile disappeared.
She said, “What? Did I do something wrong?”
She could sense the energy shift. The cold disgust that I carefully layered in my tone. An unfamiliar crust of Scorpio reminding her that we were nothing more than two halves of a business deal.
“Antione, what’s wrong?”
I licked my lips and said, “Let me get this straight. You got out of bed and made my breakfast before you washed last night off of you? Why wouldn’t you…you know, take care of that first? Before you got in my kitchen and started making breakfast and shit? Touching shit and expecting me to eat it. “
“What?” she said in a shocked voice.
“Yeah…Yeah…”, I said, shaking my head to further convince her that my issue was valid.
She threw her hands up in the air, defensive, shaking her head back and forth as if she’s being pointed out in a police lineup.
“I’m sorry I didn’t even think about it.” she said. “Hell, I didn’t know I was on the clock yet… Mr. Sevette.”
Anger and sarcasm began to slowly seep from her tone. Her big brown eyes were narrowing, turning colder by the minute.
For a moment I felt the need to apologize, but the Scorpio in me was at its peak. I mean hell, I was the one with laced pancakes. I immediately began to regret the whole night. Regret following the trail of fruit. Regret the rituals I performed on her. I didn’t ask for any of this. I was in bed minding my own damn business. She was the one who blurred the lines, not me. But I knew one thing for certain, there was no way in hell I was going to eat those got damned banana pancakes, or anything else she cooked for that matter.
In a plaintive pitch I say, “Look Lydia, I enjoyed last night. Truly I did, but…”, throwing my hands in the air, “what are we doing?” “This, thing, was clearly a mistake.”
She stood staring at me from the business side of the counter. My favorite coffee mug still in hand. The blue Kalahari Resorts mug that I picked up from the Dells. For a moment I thought she might try to scold me with hot coffee, or even toss the mug at my head. The brutality etched across her face was definitely in alignment with that. But she didn’t. She gently sat my $20 mug on the counter and rearranged my button up which had started to fall at the shoulders, covering those spectacular, well-shaped, hardened peaks.
She took a deep breath and walked from around the counter. She was inches from my chest. If she was wielding a butcher knife there would be no way for me to defend it. She looked up at me and said, “Perhaps you’re right. Her expression still wielding narrow slits of fire. “You don’t deserve to be cooked for you mu….” She bit her lip. It helped her to bite back the acid remark that she was about to make.
I wanted to be the bigger man, but my ego was conning me that I deserved the last word.
I walk past her. Reach into the cabinet for a new coffee mug. I say, “I’ll send your last check for your services yesterday, and this morning.”
It was my way of saying, “thank you for the ass now leave”, because I wanted her gone and I wanted her to take it the wrong way. I was angry. I wanted her to be angry.
Within fifteen minutes my button up was hanging in my bathroom, and all traces of Lydia were gone. As she headed out the door, she turned and looked at me, her lips parting with a smile that never touched her eyes. And just like that, without another word, she was gone.
It didn’t take long for my life to return to what it was before I met, hired, f8cked and fired Lydia. I chalked the whole experience of her presence up to being a mistake and quickly moved on. I will admit that in the weeks that followed, I continued with the good eating habits. It was a shame that she didn’t take that kind of care in her post sex etiquette.
I spent the next month in go mode, not slowing down to even speak to a woman, let alone spend time with one. I was closing deals left and right. One opportunity fell into my lap out of nowhere, completely unsolicited, with a company I’d never heard of, called Elutre, or some shit like that. It was a neutral gender makeup line. They were convinced that I could help them promote and sell makeup to my male audience without me having to wear it. It made no sense to me but adding it to my platform and doing a couple of skin care videos would net me close to fifty grand for very little work, and I was down with that.
I was set to meet with some of their marketing people at a gathering being held at a restaurant not too far from my loft. Most of the deal was negotiated over messenger but we needed this face to face because I needed clarification on a few of the details. In addition to locking down the contract in writing, I wanted them to be crystal clear on the fact that I had no intention of wearing any makeup on my face period. I wasn’t opposed to skin care products, but I wasn’t about to paint and powder my face for anybody.
RuthAnn’s was an upscale spot in the heart of downtown Fletcher Island. I loved the food and the vibe, but rarely ate there because I hated waiting, and there was always a particularly long wait to get seated.
As soon as I walk in, a young, white Gen Z with a thin mustache and an overtly feminine disposition walks up to me and asks if I was with the EL EW TRE party. I nod, thinking, “that’s how you pronounce that shit”.
Then he or she, says, “this way please” and sashays through a crowd gathered in the lobby waiting to be seated. Apparently, there was more than one gathering being held tonight.
I trail little Sashay to a set of double doors that led the way into an elegantly designed area in the back of the restaurant.
He or she stops at the doors, turns to me, asks with a low, quizzical whisper, “What’s your name?” As if he or she would file the answer away for use at another time.
I reply, Antione Sevette. Adding an extra layer of DMX in my tone so that there was no chance of pronoun or preference confusion.
Sashay smirks, then gingerly wheels back around on their heels toward the door. I could hear the hard bottomed shoes staccato against the floor.
As they push open the French style doors, and the table comes into view, it is apparent that this is a private party for two, as there is only one table and two chairs in the intimate space. The woman sitting with her back to the door turns and looks over her shoulder without bothering to get up from her chair. She is black and beautiful. She has smooth, flawless ebony skin which must be made of silk or Gucci leather. She is tall, with dark, smoky, unreadable eyes that look deep down past the first couple of layers. Eyes that surely judge men often, and harshly I imagine.
My lips are desert dry, so I lick them evenly. Then wipe the corners of my mouth with my thumb and index fingers. I also check the gig line of my suit to make sure that my shirt, slacks and belt are all in perfect alignment. That’s a pro tip. I’m not nervous, but from the aura that this woman is giving off, she is the real deal. Now I’m excited. The real deal always excites me because I am the real deal, and real recognizes real. I decide to keep it cool. I mean this is EPMD, strictly business, so I have to stay in step and handle mine.
Sashay says, “Antione Sevette…Bianca Moore.”
Her eyes light up in surprise and she smiles wide as I come into full view. It’s amazing what a $1000 suit can do for your energy. I was in the moment, and feeling myself, and Sashays’ elegant intro took the moment up a few levels if you know what I mean. Gave the moment a bit of grandiose. I reach for her hand and instead of shaking it, I lean in and kiss it with enough tenderness to let her know that the vibe is masculine and the energy is real.
I hear the deep, but subtle wisp of air through her nose as my lips touch her hand. Her chest heaves enough to make her breasts bounce slightly.
She is clad in a black evening dress that hangs below her shoulders, with a jade necklace and matching earrings. She smells like sweet oranges with a hint of honey. Everything about her screams class and affluence. The right side of my brain shouts, “This is what the fuck I’m talking about!”
“It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Antionne.”, she says with a smile that never leaves her lips.
“Likewise. We’ve been playing messenger tag for a minute. “
I sit down, let Sashay push my chair in under me.
“Much too long” she adds. “I hope that you don’t mind, I took the pleasure of ordering us a bottle of wine?”
She giggles, revealing the fact that she was ready for a drink. Then follows it up with a wicked smile that rounds the corners of her mouth. I nod in agreement and return her smile. A knowing one.
“Not at all,” I say.
She licks her lips and stares into my eyes as if she is tasting me.
Then her eyes make their way over to Sashay who is standing on the side of the table watching the bi-play as if we were characters in a Tubi movie.
Sashay caught her hint and snapped back into work mode. Says, “I’ll be right back with your selection.”
Then wheels around with another series of heel clicks and quickly walks away, closing both doors behind them.
Silence ran over the space now. Before, I could hear the commotion of the restaurant, but now, it is quiet, intimate even. We discuss the brand deal in detail. I make certain to address my concerns about wearing any type of makeup. She laughs loudly when I bring it up. Her laugh makes me feel out of touch, and kind of homophobic. She assures me that I have complete autonomy over the videos, so long as they mention at least three advantages of the product manifesto.
After we’re both satisfied, she agrees to send the contract over via e-file along with banking instructions. After the business is out of the way, we both seem to let our guards down a bit. We discuss our origins, where we grew up, current events and social media trends. I share more than I am accustomed to, but she seems generally interested in who I am, and I feel like the space is relatively safe, so I share. In the back of my mind, I wonder if she subscribes to my content, but I don’t bother to ask.
In this moment I feel incredibly blessed and talented. Getting paid to sit across from a beautiful woman and be myself is something that very few men could boast.
Being in the moment, I don’t hear when Sashay comes back into the room. Perhaps caught up in the moment. He, or she, seems edgy when they returned with the wine. They apologize for the delay, grabs both glasses from the table and places them back on the cart. They place the bottle in front of both of us and wait for the nod of approval. One by one, Sashay pours the wine and places full glasses in front of us. I notice the bottle shaking slightly while they are pouring.
“Is…everything ok?”, Bianca asks in a voice that was a few notches below courteous.
“Oh yes ma’am”, tonight has just been a barracuda, grrrrr”, they joke, forcing a disingenuous laugh. Bianca joined in with the laughter.
I didn’t get the joke, or understand the bi-play between them, so I just sit with a smile on my face like a tourist watching two women speak in their native tongue.
I could sense that something was off. Just that quick, the frequency of the has night shifted somehow. But it happened so quickly that I couldn’t piece it together. The way someone would feel when a pick pocket bumps into you and dexterously lifts your wallet with a smooth, clean blur that doesn’t make sense until later when you get home.
We both reached for our glasses at the same time.
I say, “Here’s to the beginning of a wonderful partnership?” and stretched my arm halfway across the table.
Bianca smiles, and adds, “A partnership with fringe benefits I hope,” and quickly dives into a healthy sip of her glass.
Her eyes twinkle with a familiar excitement. A look that I know all too well. I’d see it on the faces of strangers in best buy and before I knew it, someone would have an I-phone in my face recording me before I even gave them consent. I call it the social media gaze, and she definitely has it.
I take a long sip of the wine and begin to think past business. Now that the deal is closed, I start thinking about closing another deal with this dark, beautiful woman. There is something special, no, something powerful about sleeping with a woman who admires you on social media. It’s weird, almost a fetish.
For their own reasons, they build up an award-winning fantasy fuck in their head, and then do whatever they can to make it come true. Lydia had the same look in her eyes after she realized who I was. The only downside is the risk of them posting some bullshit about you when things turned sour. This, in my world, usually happens within a couple of weeks. I have no worries about this happening with Bianca because she is a company woman, which means that she has something to lose.
Strictly Business.
I laugh at the thought.
Then another thought enters.
I can’t put a saddle on it before it rides off.
In the course of a few minutes my mind flooded with random thoughts. I hear them speaking but they sound like a talking head video in super slow motion.
A hear doors opening.
I try to focus on Bianca, but the room is seriously spinning now. I try to speak but the words keep getting trapped in my head.
Stop thinking so much, I prod my brain.
Something is wrong. I can’t seem to hold a thought in my head longer than a few seconds. I hear a familiar voice. Lydia’s voice I think.
Did I?
That was Impossible right?
I reach for a glass of water and down it. I feel drowsy. A darkness invading my body. Dragging me into another state of being. I feel like I’m going to black out at any moment. I struggled to keep my eyes open wondering why no one is moving. Why no one is asking if I am ok. But my thoughts have wheels. Wings. I was forcing back the darkness now. There was one face that I was sure that I saw before the blackness took control of my skull.
It was my personal chef.
It was Lydia.
I had a dream. I was in my bedroom making love to Bianca. We were in the throes of passion. I could feel her nails raking my back. It was dark. So dark that I couldn’t see her face, or her body. I could only feel her soft skin pressed against mine. Then I felt another set of hands, another set of lips running a trail of kisses on my back. Hands against my hips thrusting my body deeper and deeper into hers. I smelled fresh banana pancakes. Lydia’s pancakes. Her laughter filled the air. There were two bodies against mine, maybe three, I couldn’t be sure. Then I felt more hands. Hands all over me. More voices. Five hands, maybe six, I couldn’t count them all. Laughter echoing from each corner of the room. The room was a hot chamber, the air thick with lust, the room spinning in a maddening procession of darkness. The voices growing louder and louder, the room spinning faster and faster. Bodies twisting into one another, light skin turning dark as dark skin turning light, and then, all-of-a-sudden, the faces fade, the voices silence and the bodies stop swirling.
My world is still.
I wake up to light creeping through my bedroom window blinds.
I pat down my pockets for my phone. It was a reflex.
I was naked.
I stiffen and sit straight up in the bed like a vampire rising from a coffin. I look around. My bedroom is empty, my clothes neatly folded on the corner of my bed. My head feels lead heavy. My vision slowly coming back to me. The night coming back to me, only in fragments.
I leap from the bed and reach for my suit jacket.
No phone.
I begin to search my bed, under my pillow, the floor, the bathroom. No phone.
I walk to the stairwell and look back at my bedroom to get a full view. Everything is exactly where it should be, yet I knew something was wrong. My member had been used. I can feel the post pressure that only comes with sex or masturbation.
But who?
Was it Bianca?
We seemed to be having a great time before Sashay handed me that glass of wine.
If I did get drunk, how in the hell did I get home? The last thing I could remember clearly is sipping wine with Bianca at the table.
Had she brought me home?
I feel light-headed and my throat is so dry.
I’m still disoriented. Fear now replacing the confusion. The feeling you get when you black out and someone else must fill in the blanks of your sorted night for you.
On my way down the stairs, I kept thinking about the dreams. I’m fully awake now. Images and voices coming to me in short bursts of reality.
Then I hear it.
The sound my phone makes when I get a notification.
I rush down the remaining stairs, holding on to the rail to make sure that I don’t fall.
My phone is on the counter. Next to it, a plate of banana pancakes.
Lydia’s pancakes.
I pick up my phone and hold it close to my face so that face ID would recognize me.
When it opens there are over 2k comment notifications on a pic that I posted four hours ago.
I didn’t post a f8cking pic. Or did I?
My heart begins to beat wildly. I hold my breath as I view my profile.
Posted four hours ago is a picture of me in my bed, lying next to the figure of a man, partially covered with a comforter, with a plate of banana pancakes in one hand and a bite full on a fork close to my lips, as if he is feeding me. From the angle of the picture, you can’t see the man’s face, but you know that the person lying next to me in my bed is a man. I look asleep, as if I had gone through rituals. Pink marks all over my face and chest.
The post reads, “Banana Pancakes and Pink Lipstick with my new bae Bianca.”
I look down at my chest, and it is covered in pink lipstick kisses.
I walk slowly to the bathroom, turn on the shower and get in.
I know in that moment that my life would never be the same.
I delete the post, but that pic was viral in a matter of hours.
I tried to seek legal action against Lydia, but there were no grounds for the police to arrest her.
There was no record of a Bianca Moore at EL EW TRE.
There was no thin mustached Gen Z waiter who sashayed.
There was no record of a party.
It was all an elaborate hoax.
You see, Lydia wanted revenge, and she wanted me to suffer the same humiliation that she felt that I put her through.
I tried to contact her, but she never answered. I left countless messages threatening revenge, until one day a sheriff showed up at my door with a restraining order.
It was over and I learned a valuable lesson.
Never fuck where you feast…
Goodnight
Check out the Audio version on my YouTube Channel, HE READ THAT:
BT
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