A while later, Drew tells me he and Jack are going to go party with the Dutch world travelers. “Are you coming?” he asks. “Drop some anchor, do a little deep-sea muff diving?”

I scan the dance floor, trying to catch a glimpse of electric blue. “Nah, I’m working on something here.” I watch Jack by the door, entertaining the five girls, and ask, “Which one are you going for?”

“The girl in the middle seems like quite the eager beaver.” He chuckles at his own joke.

Called it. I snort and Drew asks why. “You don’t think it’s unusual that out of five Scandinavians, you’re shooting for the lone brunette in the bunch?”

Drew gets my point. But he blows it off. “Thanks, Sigmund. If I want to be psychoanalyzed, I’ll throw good money away on an actual f**king therapist.”

“Whatever you say, man.” I slap him on the back.

After Drew and Jack leave, I do a lap around the club. I spot Dee on the dance floor with Tony Soprano Junior and it turns my stomach. His spastic, rough steps are a sharp contrast to Dee’s effortless, rolling movements, and I wonder again what the hell she’s doing with him.

I find an empty table but get blindsided by an aggressive, chatty blonde in a short-sleeved cashmere sweater and leather skirt. She sits herself down and seems oblivious to the fact that I’m not paying attention to anything she says.

“. . . and I was like, really, Dad? Like, how am I supposed to focus on graduate school with that measly allowance . . .” The droning continues until a dark-haired girl happens by the table. Blondie grabs her hand. “Tracy! Omg, it’s been, like, forever. Let’s get a pic.” She leans her head against Tracy’s and snaps a picture with her iPhone. “That’s going on my Instagram!”

But, as soon as Tracy’s out of earshot, Blondie turns to me with a glower. “I hate that bitch.”

You know what I hate? Fakeness. Phony affection. It’s stupid and a waste of time. The only falsies I appreciate are on a set of cosmetically altered boobs.

I’ve had as much of this chick’s company as I can stand, and then I see Delores, walking out the door of the club, behind the Italian loser. Determined to salvage the night, I ask Blondie, “Do you want to get out of here?”

She beams. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Chapter 7

Blondie doesn’t want to ride the Ducati to her place, so she gives me her address and I settle her into a cab before climbing on my bike to meet her there. I’m unusually indifferent about the prospect of getting my dick wet. This girl’s like a salad that’s included with your meal—you’ll munch on it, but only because it’s already on the table in front of you. My mind keeps drifting back to Dee, walking out of the club with that undeserving f**kface.

I remember the way she moved Wednesday night and the appreciative, sexy sounds I elicited from her each time I sunk into her, slow and deep. I wonder if he’s hearing those same tantalizing noises—and it pisses me the hell off. Not because Dee’s screwing another guy, but because the guy is so goddamn unworthy.

At least, that’s why I tell myself I’m pissed.

I shake off my conflicted feelings as I find a parking spot, at a meter, around the corner from the blonde’s apartment, who I now think of as “Salad-girl.” She’s waiting for me inside the atrium of her building and opens the door to her first-floor apartment.

“Wow, it’s really cold,” she tells me in a high-pitched, almost whiny voice. “I can’t believe how quick the temperature dropped. I wonder if it’s going to snow early this year. I hate the snow. Even at Christmastime, I’ll take a sandy beach over . . .”

I kiss her eagerly—just so she’ll stop talking.

She squeaks into my mouth before recovering and putting her all into kissing me back. Her tongue flicks at mine quickly—too quickly. There’s no rhythm or finesse. Feels like there’s a stingerless bumblebee trapped in my mouth, and its wings are beating the hell out of my tongue. She shoves me back onto the sofa and yanks her sweater over her head, revealing a beige, lacy bra, encasing a set of mega-huge melons.

Like I said before, I’m a breast lover, so I try and focus my attention on this positive attribute, but her idea of dirty talk is a major distraction.

“Oh, yeah,” she moans, pushing her tits together. “I’m a bad girl. You gonna be my daddy? Daddy gonna punish his naughty slut?”

There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don’t even know where to frigging begin.

First off, the Daddy talk is a boner killer. It’s as effective as being submerged in a tub of ice water. It makes me think of my father and children and a thousand other things I don’t want to be imagining during foreplay. The naughty slut was a valiant effort—I’m definitely into the name-calling, ass-slapping, dominant role-play thing women seem so fond of these days. But her babyish, breathy voice ruins the effect.

Delores’s voice is low, sultry, unmistakably woman. When she begged me to f**k her, or called out how she wanted me to f**k her—it wasn’t forced or fake. It was unrehearsed and real, because she was so turned on, so caught up in the ecstasy of the moment, that staying silent simply wasn’t possible.

I grunt as Salad-girl pounces on my lap. She claws at my shirt but only succeeds in giving me rug burn on my neck. Shirt-burn. Then, with surprising strength, she forces my head between her br**sts, holding me so tightly I can’t f**king breathe. The Vikings believed dying on the battlefield was a “good death,” and normally I’d feel the same way about being tit-smothered . . . but these aren’t the tits I want doing me in. I struggle to turn my head, finally succeeding when I grip her biceps and push back. I tilt my head up and reinflate my lungs.

And then, still holding her arms, I look at Salad-girl’s face. A cute nose, wet, pink lips, and round blue eyes gaze back at me. She’s hot. A solid 8. Any other night I’d be all over this, but tonight . . . I’m not.

Because the eyes I want gazing back at me are light brown with flecks of gold. The lips I want to nibble on are red and full and have the most direct, unexpected responses coming out of them. I’m more turned on picturing Dee in my head than I’ve been for the last five minutes with this topless alternative grinding on my lap.

“Wait . . . hold up a second. This isn’t working for me,” I tell her.

“What do you mean?”