I tucked myself into bed, pressing my back against the headboard as I gaped at my bedroom door, willing it to open, pushed by a god of a man who was going to keep me warm for the night.

Dean Cole.

Jesus, I hated him. Now, more than ever. He wanted to reevaluate my rent. He couldn’t. I was dirt-poor as it was. Especially by Manhattan standards. Besides, he made in a day what I made in two years. Was it really necessary, or did he want to get back at me for not giving in to his advances?

Closing my eyes, I envisioned the world-class douchebag eating out Jessica Rabbit, who was straddling his chiseled, perfect face, while Petite Brunette sucked him off. Appalled, I snaked a hand into my already-damp panties, the crease between my eyebrows deepening, and coughed softly.

Dean Cole was probably the filthy kind. The type to flip Jessica Rabbit over a second after she came and pound her from behind, pulling at her scarlet hair.

I pushed my forefinger inside my sex, then the middle one, looking for that spot.

Disgusted, I imagined Petite Brunette being grabbed by the neck and thrown into position on her back when he was done with JR. Now he was screwing her, too, pinching her nipples. Hard.

I arched my back, revolted.

I moaned, repelled.

Then I came hard on my fingers, repulsed.

I hated everything about Dean Cole.

Everything…but him.

S-E-X.

That’s what it all boils down to, really.

The whole world is built on one, single, animalistic need. Our quest to look better, work out harder, become richer, and to chase things we don’t even need—a better car, more defined obliques, a promotion, a new haircut, whatever bullshit they try to sell us on ads.

All. Because. Of. Sex.

Every time a woman buys a perfume or a beauty product or a fucking dress.

Every time a man enslaves himself to ridiculous payments on a sports car that’s not half as fucking comfortable as the spacious Korean car he had a week ago and injects steroids in the locker room at a stuffy gym…They. Do. It. To. Get. Laid.

Even if they don’t know that. Even if they don’t agree with that. You bought that blouse and that Jeep and that new nose to become more fuckable. Science, baby. You don’t argue with that shit.

Same goes for art. Some of my favorite songs were about sex before I even knew I could do something with my dick that didn’t involve pissing my name in snow.

“Summer of ’69”? – Bryan Adams was nine. He’d clearly been singing about his favorite sexual position. “I Just Died in Your Arms” by Cutting Crew? – Talks about orgasms. “Ticket to Ride” by the Beatles? – Prostitutes. “Come On Eileen”? That cheery fucking song everyone dances to at weddings? Sexual coercion.

Sex was everywhere. And why shouldn’t it be? It’s fucking magnificent. I couldn’t get enough of it. I was good at it, too. Did I say good? Scratch that. Amazing. That’s the word I was going for. For practice makes perfect.

And God knows I’ve had a lot of practice.

Which reminded me—I needed to order another box of condoms. I had them specially made by a company called SayItWithaRubber. I didn’t just design the foil to have my name on it—hey, some chicks wanted to keep that as a souvenir, who was I to deny them?—and pick the colors (I liked red and purple. Yellow made my balls look a little pale. Not a good color for me…), but I was also picky about the type of rubber, thinness—0.0015mm, if you must know—and the sensitivity level.

“Morning, you,” one of the girls croaked, rising from her sleep. She pressed a fluttery kiss to the back of my neck. It always took me a few seconds to remember whom I spent the night with, but this morning was even worse, because I’d spent yesterday drinking like my mission was to liquefy my liver into rum.

“Did you sleep well?” the second chick droned.

My body was tilted to the side, toward the nightstand, as I scrolled down a long-ass text message written by my friend and business partner, Vicious. Most people wrote curt text messages to get their point across. This intense bastard made Siri his bitch and sent me the whole fucking Bible. Waking up to a message from him was the equivalent of waking up to a blowjob from a shark. And this was what he wrote:

Dear Dickbag,

My fiancée brought it to my attention that her headache of a sister might be late to the rehearsal dinner next Saturday because she’s trying to save a few bucks taking two connecting flights to make it to Todos Santos.

She is Em’s maid of honor, hence her attendance is not fucking optional. It is mandatory, and if I have to drag her by the hair, I will, but I’d rather not. You know how I feel about this place. New York is hard on the body. Los Angeles is hard on the soul.