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      Anything You Want

      I have three lovers.

      Jealous?

      You shouldn’t be. Sure, they have money (otherwise, why would I be with them?) and the sex is non-stop. The men treat me right and shower me with gifts, but, you know what? It’s damn hard keeping them happy.

      It’s even more difficult keeping them a secret from each other.

      I have the system down pat. For the past year, Monday nights are for Calvin. At twenty-eight, he’s younger than me (although he doesn’t know it!). Tall, athletic and very energetic. He has more money and more kinks than anyone I know. One would automatically think he’s a keeper. Ha. Ever try to fuck a hyperactive guy? You should see the skid marks on my back.

      Wednesdays are for Dennis, and they have been for about eighteen months. He’s not so hot, and he’s not so rich. He has a receding hairline and the beginnings of a beer belly. I have a strong feeling he’s married – he has that henpecked look about him – but I follow the “don’t ask, don’t tell” rule.

      Normally I wouldn’t give Dennis the time of day, but there’s something to be said about being the highlight of his week. Hell, who are we kidding? I’m the luckiest thing that’s happened to him in his life.

      But that’s not why I hook up with him every Wednesday. Dennis comes in handy. He can call in a favor for anything at anytime. I would think he was part of the Mafia or something, but he’s just not that interesting.

      And then there’s George. George is the oldest of the lot. He reeks of sophistication and success. I would love for some of that to rub off of me, but after seeing him every Friday for two years, I can safely say if it hasn’t happened yet, it’s not going to.

      George was my first provider. He bought the condo for me in downtown Seattle, and on special occasions he gives me some kick-ass jewelry. Not that I would know this at first sight, but I had the baubles appraised by a guy Dennis knows. Calvin pays for my utilities and food as well as my “incidentals”.

      Yeah, you got that right. I fool around for food. I figure it’s no different than going out on a date when the fridge is empty. Only with this set-up our expectations are clear and upfront. No confusion. No hurt feelings. I’m a sure thing and so is my dinner. I like this kind of deal and I’ve long decided dating is for amateurs. Wait. Was that the doorbell? Uh-oh…What day is it?

      Shit! I have no clue. My gut twists sharply. I wrap my arms around my stomach and stare at the door. I hate when this happens. That’s the downside of being a moonlighting mistress.

      Is it Wednesday? I frown as I try to recall. No, I think I’ve already seen Dennis this week. It’s so hard to remember. We do the same thing every freaking time.

      Dennis isn’t the only reason I have bouts of déjà vu. Not having to work outside my condo makes the days bleed together. Not that I’m complaining! These moments of panic are still better than all those years in dead-end, minimum wage jobs.

      I hurry toward the entrance, fix an inviting smile on my face and grab the doorknob. My heart is pounding against my chest. Sometimes I have weird dreams of all three guys showing up at the same time. Not that it would happen; I made sure of it. But the possibility, no matter how remote, still gets my blood pumping.

      Swinging open the door, my first thought is that there is only one man in front of me. Whew. I pause, connecting the name with the lover.

      I’m very proud that I have never called out the wrong name. Okay, I admit that I use the same endearment for each of them. It’s safer that way, especially when my mind wanders during sex.

      “Hello, love!” My smile grows and it’s probably wobbling with relief when I see George. I lean forward, letting my high and full breasts brush against the sleeve of his fine cashmere coat. I place a gentle kiss on his lips and slyly dart my tongue in his mouth, tasting a hint of cigar. I usher him inside. “I’ve missed you.”

      Okay, not entirely true. So what? It’s what they all want to hear and my job is to create a fantasy. And it’s not like I can’t stand being around George. I like him. I like having sex with him. I like getting paid to have sex.

      I probably shouldn’t admit to any of that, especially the last part, but it’s true. Would I spend my Friday nights with him if money wasn’t involved? I don’t know.

      “I know I’m late,” George says in his usual brisk tone. He steps inside and takes off his coat.

      “Would you like something to drink?” I ask as I close the door behind him. He’s into red wine, but I don’t have an open bottle ready. I’ll have to improvise.

      “No, thanks, baby. I can’t stay the night.”

      I pout and look at him through my long eyelashes.

      I’m really good at pouting. It’s one of my most effective weapons. You wouldn’t believe the stuff I can get out of men just by protruding my lower lip.

      “I know, I know.” George cups my cheek with his hand, cold from the winter night. “You hardly get to see me as it is. It can’t be helped. I’m a busy man.”

      I quickly lower my eyes, hoping I’m the picture of a disappointment, but my mind is whirring. Does George truly believe I wait all week for him with bated breath? That I live for these precious hours? Is he for real or is this part of the fantasy?

      Men are so gullible, I think as I watch George heading straight for the bedroom. Hmm…he’s not stopping for a chat or cuddle. He really is in a rush.

      Sometimes I suspect George has me on the side simply because he can. I’m like the fire-engine red Ferrari parked in his garage. Expensive, high-maintenance, and designed to make people envy him.

      And, like all status symbols, successful men don’t have time to maintain and enjoy them. That Ferrari is rarely taken out for a spin, and George can only fit me in his schedule once a week.

      I don’t have a problem with that. Really, I don’t, but I know I better make these visits worth every penny. If I’m not raring to go at a moment’s notice, he’ll trade me in for a cheaper model. Or worse, someone with all the bells and whistles.

      It can happen. I might get paid to have sex, but that doesn’t mean I’m the most knowledgeable person about the subject. Being a kept woman isn’t about knowing ancient sexual secrets, I remind myself as I stroll into the bedroom. It’s all about attitude. I am to act as if I exist solely for his pleasure.

      I step into the bedroom and see George loosening his necktie. “Sit on the bed,” he tells me.

      Maneuvering around him, I’m about to perch on the edge of the mattress when he stops me. “Wait,” he says. “Your hair. It’s wrong.”

      I

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