THE IT PARADE
BY
J
INX
W
IATT
Â
Fill in the Blanks
Â
It's no secret that ageless beauty Demi Moore went cougaring and captured hunky Ashton Kutcher in her hunter's net. She even tamed the baby-faced stud into total domestication.But at least her twenty-somethinglover has brains (he's outsmarted every naysayer in Hollywood)and impressive bank (his accountsare big to bursting). So it's too bad that a certain TV news diva who just hit the half-century mark and is now spewing venom on a morning chat show has to settle for a dumb-as-dirt/poor-as-dirt young buck when she moves in for the kill.
9
Sutton
Sutton walked into the Stone Rose at the Time Warner Center feeling not even a few bucks shy of a million dollars.
The Beehive
was a ratings hit, Emma Ronson was itching to quit the show, and all the naysayers who swore up and down that Sutton Lancaster would recede into oblivion after leaving Fox News were eating shit on a silver platter.
She slid onto a seat at the bar and surveyed the scene, takingin the ambient lounge music, the Columbia students laughingit up at a corner table, the junior sales executives seeking refuge from their lonely hotels and sterile office environments, and the other women ... just like her.
Some were from Connecticut, some from New Jersey, some from Manhattanâthe Upper East Side, the Upper West Side. They were seasoned and well groomed and freshly Botoxed and personally trained as far as their gravity-fighting bodies could endure. And they were all here for one thing.
“What can I get you?”The hot young bartender was talking.
Sutton was listening. She smiled at him. “What would
you
order?”
“I make a Cosmo that'll make your toes curl.”
“Really?”
He nodded with confidence.
“Bring it on.”
“You got it.”
She watched him work, instantly attracted to his lazy guy manner. Punishing sessions at the gym were not part of his agenda. He was fit but lanky, probably kept in shape by enviablemetabolism and the occasional game of pick-up basketball.His hair straggled down to the nape of his neck, and the fuzz on his handsome angular face was at least three days' worth of growth.
He presented his electric pink masterpiece with a cocky grin. “One sip and you'll tell me to get started on a second round.”
Sutton fingered the stem of the martini glass, seductively stroking it up and down before knocking back a greedy gulp.
The bartender waited.
Sutton savored. It was the finest Cosmo ever. “That's the best thing I've had in my mouth in a very long time.”
“I've got something even better than that.”
“Oh, I bet you do.” She raised her drink and let out a dirty laugh.
“Another?”
“Absolutely.”
“Coming right up.” He went to work, pausing intermittentlyto flash Sutton a flirtatious smile. “I've never seen you in here before. First time?”
“First time at Stone Rose,” Sutton clarified. “Not my first time at the rodeo.”
He nodded up and down, impressed. “Okay, then. Good to know.”
Sutton drained the last of the first Cosmo, timing it perfectlywith the arrival of the second. “Cheers.”
The bartender checked his watch, a cheap Timex digital. “Hey, in about five minutes I can join you.”
“Who says I'm looking for company?”
He made a show out of glancing around. “Well, for starters, everyone in this bar. Should I poll the people on the sidewalk,too?” He laughed.
Sutton laughed, too. “Is it that bad?”
The bartender lifted his brow. “I don't know. Maybe it's that good.You tell me.”
She stared at him for several long seconds, taking in the full impact of his easy sex appeal. “What's your name? And how long have you been able to legally drink?”
“Scooter.Three years.”
Twenty-four
. Sutton shook her head. “I think I'm going to need a note from your mother.”
“She'll write one.After my last girlfriend? Believe me, she would do it.”
“What kind of a name is
Scooter
? It makes you sound like a golden retriever.”
He shrugged. “Early nickname that stuck. What's yours?” “You don't know who I am?”
“Should I?”
“You must be one of these young people who gets their news from Jon Stewart and
The Daily Show
.”
Scooter shook his head. “I work days and party at night. Hardly ever read or watch television. Sometimes I check headlineson the Net, but I prefer online porn.”
“I see,” Sutton remarked. “A true intellectual.”
He shrugged again. “But something tells me you didn't come in here looking for a smart guy.”
“No, I've had my share of those. They're definitely overrated.”The remains of Cosmo Number Two went down the hatch. A delicious buzz tingled inside Sutton's brain. She liked this bar. She liked this bartender even more.
Glancing around, she noticed other women not unlike herâwell preserved and dispirited by bastards closer to their own age. She had indeed entered a den of cougars.
“Can you handle a third round?” Scooter asked.
Sutton challenged him with her eyes. “You'll quit before I will.”
Scooter tilted his head, smiled, and went to work, showingoff some impressive cocktail moves.
Sutton admired his beautiful hands and the impressive body they were attached to. Right away she started comparinghim physically to her ex. Unfair, yes, since Scooter was almostthree decades younger. But fairness never entered the equation when men operated in precisely the same fashion. Where Garrison was soft and fleshy, Scooter was hard and sinewy. There. She thought it. And it felt fantastic. The sweetestrevenge.
“Keep that one cold for me,” Sutton instructed. “I'll be right back.” She slid off the stool and ventured toward the ladies' room, swaying slightly to the music, her cheeky mood suddenly compromised by the thought of Garrison sending Emma a flower arrangement identical to the kind he used to send her. What a lazy, unoriginal son of a bitch.
Sutton checked her face in the dimly lit mirror, finger-combingher hair a bit before applying a fresh coat of lip gloss. She looked good.
For fifty
. Goddamn the qualifiers of getting older. But who was she kidding? Garrison wanted a younger, firmer, tighter piece of ass. And Scooter probably just wanted a nice tip left on the counter. She was absolutely nowhere.
Sighing deeply, Sutton flung open the door to leave and nearly collided with Scooter, bracing her hands on his chest to avoid impact. She could feel the heat of his skin underneaththe fabric of his Oxford shirt.
“I'm betting on the fact that you can get dirty after two drinks,” Scooter whispered. “How about a preview before the main event?”
Sutton took in a short, shocked breath.
“Come with me.” Scooter took her by the hand and stealthilyglanced around as he pulled Sutton into the men's room, clicked the lock into place, and ushered her inside a stall.
Sutton was simultaneously appalled and aroused. “I don't do it in public bathrooms. That's twenty-year-old cokehead territory.”
Gently, Scooter placed his hands on her shoulders and guided her down to a sitting position on the commode. “Think of it as a chance to recapture your youth.” He unhooked his leather belt with the skull-and-crossbones buckle, the weight of which dropped open his lived-in jeans.
She stared first at the elaborate ivy tattoo surrounding his belly button, then nearly gasped at the sight of his cock, only semierect yet still impressive and adorned with a large gauge circular barbellâa Prince Albert piercing.The sight was luridly fascinating. She could not take her eyes off of it.
Scooter smiled down on her. “It's not on exhibit.You can touch it.You can suck it.”
“Will I get lead poisoning?” Sutton asked, only half-jokingly.
He laughed and stroked her hair. “You've never seen one of these before?”
Sutton shook her head, inspecting the jewelry's insertion points on the outside of the frenulum and then into the urethra,nearly wincing as she thought about how painful it must have been.
“It didn't hurt that much,” Scooter said as if reading her mind. “It's a highly vascular part of the body, and the tissue is very elastic. The worst of it was going without sex for ten days. Now that was painful.” He paused a beat. “I can take it out if you want. I'll do anything for a blow job at this point. But girls my age love it. They can't get enough.”
Girls my age
. In Sutton's current state of mind, those were trigger words, a challenge to prove that she was young enough, hot enough, vital enough to keep up with the baby bitches steaming up the asphalt jungle of Manhattan.
She took him in her mouth, tentatively at first, adjusting to the warring sensations of hot flesh and cold metal. And judging from Scooter's rapid breathing and soft mewls of pleasure, Sutton was catching on quite well. Maybe there was something to be said for age and experience after all.
Suddenly, there was a jangle on the bathroom door.
Sutton's heart lurched.
“It's out of order,” Scooter shouted. “Come back in five.”
Sutton halted her efforts.
“No, don't stop,” Scooter murmured. “Everything's cool. Everything's fine. Keep going. I'm almost there.”
Sutton continued on, out of desire more than anything else. The urgent, unsavory quality of the encounter pushed her to perform at the peak of her abilities. She wanted this young buck to remember her as one of the best. Hopefully, he would brag about it to his buddies. And then the next time they passed by a woman like her on a crowded sidewalk, maybe they would think twice before looking through her as if she were past her prime and not even there.
This one was for the girls.
THE IT PARADE
BY
J
INX
W
IATT
Â
Fill in the Blanks
Â
Some girls have all the luck. That delicious news anchor turned morningtalk show host deserves a far better specimen of man on her Pilates-sculpted arm. First, her whirlwindromance with America's prince ended with him going for a quickie marriage (his second) and baby (his firstâthat we know of!). Now her latest romance (with a much older media magnate) could be on the rocks if she ever finds out what goes on in the back of his limousine duringthe A.M. drive from penthouse to office.
10
Emma
“You have
got
to get over this ... get over
him
,” Delilah said, tipping back her third glass of wine.
“Don't you think I know that?” Emma cried. “I'm not wallowing out of self-pity or self-indulgence. I just can't shake him off. God, what is wrong with me?”
Delilah gave her a quizzical look. “I have no idea.” One beat. “Was the sex that good?”
“Yes ... I mean, no ... I mean, yes, the sex was good, but that's not the only reason. It was him. I've never responded to a man like that before. He reached me on almost every level. And he's such a jerk. So, ultimately, what does that say about me?”
“That you're a very self-aware ... twit,” Delilah offered cheerily.
Emma rolled her eyes. “Oh, that's nice. Says the woman who hasn't made it past a third date with the same guy in ... how many years?”
“Two. And that's only because I don't suffer fools.”
“Right, right,” Emma murmured, swirling her wine. “You have absolutely no issues of your own to speak of.”
“I'm not the one sniveling like some bitter old cow.
You're
the one in crisis. We're analyzing you tonight.”
“Well, fine, but at least
try
to be a bit supportive.”
Delilah picked up a sequined throw pillow and tossed it in Emma's direction. “I can't
do
supportive. You know that. What am I supposed to say? âOh, there, there, one day your prince will come back to you.'”
“Once in a while, something like that would be nice,” Emma countered.
Delilah shook her head. “I can't do the enabling thing. Even on a total bullshit level. It's just not in me.” She dipped a Thai spring roll into a spicy mango sauce and wolfed it down.
It was Saturday night, a standing date for them to indulge in Netflix, takeout food, and catching up. So here they were, ensconced inside Delilah's Greenwich Village studio, already half-drunk and arguing like teenage sisters who share the same closet.
“Maybe we should go out,” Emma suggested.
“On a Saturday night?” Delilah fired back. “Are you insane?I cede this night to the bridge-and-tunnel crowd. Besides, in your current state the risk is there for you to fall for New Jersey's version of Dean Paul.”
“Hmmm,” Emma murmured with faux interest. “I'm intrigued.What is New Jersey's version?”
“I'm sure that he wears cologne, earrings, and hair gel. I'm sure that his parents own a small chain of Subway shops or something. And I'm sure that you would think the barbed wire tattoo around his arm was really hot.” Pleased with herself,Delilah drank up and poured herself more wine, topping off Emma as well. “Am I right?”
“Probably,” Emma grumbled.
“This thing with the Jewish grandfather is obviously doing nothing for you. I say end it. Spend some time alone. Go on a man diet. Trust me. It'll clear your head.”
Emma regarded Delilah for a moment.
“By the way, that's me being all treacly.”
“I know. And it's so ... revealing of your emotional incapability.”
“I had a cat once,” Delilah argued, laughing at herself. “But she threw up a hairball on my brand-new flokati rug, so I gave her away.”
Emma grinned. “You're right, though. I'm not being fair to Garrison.”
“Screw Garrison!” Delilah thundered. “Think about yourself.That's the important thing.You're not being fair to you.”
Emma fell silent.
“It must make it hurt more, you know? To be with someoneyou don't really want to be with just to avoid being alone. That's worse than actually being alone.”
“Maybe you're right,” Emma whispered.
“Do you want the rest of that?” Delilah asked as she reached for the last carton of Thai fried rice.
“Go ahead. I'm done.”
Delilah proceeded to work the chopsticks like a pro. “But it must be hard trying to get over an ex-boyfriend when he's constantly showing up in the
New York Post
with his wife and new baby. That's got to suck.”
Emma drank deep on her wine. “Do I hear an actual note of sympathy coming from Delilah Krause?”
“Am I going soft? Whatever you do, don't tell the writing staff at
Laugh Track
.” She paused a beat. “Or go right ahead. They'll never believe you.”
Emma smiled.
“But let's talk about something. Here you are mooning over Dean Paul Lockhart, and he couldâshock of all shocksâbe gay.”
Emma shook her head. “Delilah, please.”
“I'm just reading between the lines from what's been in the columns. And where there's smoke ...”
“So he's friends with Finn. Big deal. Lots of straight guys have gay friends.”
“But why?”
“Delilah, get out of that sophomoric writers' room for a minute. It's not that unusual.”
“Unless he's working out a latent curiosity.”
“You're impossible.”
“All I'm saying is that could be another sound reason to move on. Think about it. He's a cad. He's no stranger to gettingmarried, even though I'd still classify him as a commitment-phobe.And now he might be bisexual. Emma, this guy is
Manthrax
. Run for your life!”
“You can't believe what's in the columns. Most of it is total crap.”
“Do you dismiss those hints about his marriage to Tilly being on the rocks?” Delilah asked. “Or do those accounts actually give you some hope?”
“I really hate you right now.”
Delilah shrugged. “You said you wanted to talk. We're talking. If you want to bullshit, I'm not the girl for that.”
Emma steadied her wineglass on the coffee table and sank back on the sofa, burying her face in her hands. “God, I'm such a mess.”
“Well, if the dream is to one day marry Dean Paul, then you need a new dream.
Immediately
. It would make you the stepmother to a child named Cantaloupe. What more reason do you need to move on?”
Emma laughed a little. “You're awful.”
“I'm also right.You have to steel yourself. If the marriage trouble talk is true, then watch out.
Hollywood Live
is failing, too. Don't think you can save him, either. Because you'll get caught up all over again. And you'll get hurt all over again, too. He'll just use you to get through the rough patch, and you'll be back to square one.”
“You sound so sure,” Emma murmured.
“I am. My relationship résumé might be spotty, but I understandmen. I know how they think. I spend countless hours with them in the writers' room for brainstorming sessions that last days. Literally.We pull all-nighters all the time. It's like reading an X-ray of the male psyche. In fact, if I were a smarter woman, I'd be a lesbian right now.”
Emma laughed again, this time from the gut.
“Oh, you think I'm kidding. But I'm totally serious.”
“No, I believe you.”
Delilah finished off the Thai fried rice, and opened up yet another bottle of wineâthe third of the night. She sloshed both of their glasses up to the rim and giggled. “This is fun.”
“For you maybe.”
“For both of us. Don't worry. If we don't have you sorted out by the time we finish this bottle, then ... well, then we'll just have to open up another one.”
“Let's go out,” Emma said. “I can't sit here and drink all night. I'll pass out on the couch.”
“So? You've crashed here before.”
“I know, but I'm already fading. I need some air and new scenery. There has to be some club in town that's not overrunwith commuter riffraff.”
Delilah considered the situation. “We could try Retox. The door is murder. Sometimes too tough for me alone, but the two of us should have no trouble getting in.” She shrugged. “I'm game if you are.”
Emma thought about it. “Let's go. If we stay here and watch
Legends of the Fall
for the gazillionth time I'll be asleep before the opening credits.”
Delilah stood up. “Okay, party girl. It's on.” She disappearedinto the bedroom for a moment, emerging to toss out a vintage Sex Pistols T-shirt. “Lose the cashmere. This is a rock club.”
Emma stripped off the sweater and replaced it with the long-sleeved tee. Now with her boots and drainpipe-fitted jeans, all she had to do was add hot water and stir for instant punk rock priestess.
Delilah stepped over to inspect. “You're almost there, daytimegirl. But the soft pink mouth gives you away.” Ceremoniously,she presented a dark tube of lipstick.
Emma glanced down, noticed the color was called Grunge Whore, but swiped some on anyway. “Do I pass?”
Delilah nodded. “Like a Motley Crue groupie.”
Emma grinned. “You would know.” And Delilah Krause did. Though her exploits did not quite make it into the pages of
The Dirt
, the band's notorious rock autobiography of sex, drugs, and extreme excess, among her premium achievements were the bragging rights of bedding down both Vince Neil and Nikki Sixxâon separate occasions, of course.
They tumbled into a cab and swung out on West Twenty-EighthStreet in Chelsea. A long line of club hopefuls clogged the sidewalk.
Emma groaned, her sudden burst of night energy morphinginto fatigue. “It's a clusterfuck.”
“Come with me,” Delilah commanded, taking Emma's hand and stalking past those waiting in queue and moving directlytoward a doorman who wore a very discerning expressionon his face.
“We just improved your hot girl ratio,” Delilah announced. “Plus, we've got cool jobs. I write for
Laugh Track
, and she hosts a new morning talk show.”
The doorman gave her a smug look.
“I know. I'm wondering the same thing. Is this club good enough for us?”
This last bit made him break a smile, and suddenly, they were being waved inside the intimate rock haunt with its deep red lighting, snakeskin furniture, and black crystal chandeliers.
The D.J. slammed the crowd full throttle with “Rock the Casbah” by The Clash.
“What are we drinking?” Emma shouted.
“I've got it covered!” Delilah hollered back. Within moments,she was pushing into Emma's hand a strange brew of vanilla vodka, pineapple juice, sour mix, lime juice, and milk that the club had christened the Horny Goat.
Emma recoiled at first, then chased down the tasty concoctionas easily as vitamin water. “This was a great idea!” she squealed, gyrating her hips to the turgid rock beat. “I needed this!”
Her gaze swept up and around, across the black-and-white West Coast rock scene images lining the walls, then onto the packed dance floor of rock disciples. She noticed a young peroxide beauty channeling Debbie Harry from her hottest Blondie era. She also noticed the man grinding against her.
It was Dean Paul Lockhart.
She glanced back to see Delilah swaying obliviously to the music, both hands sweeping in the air, feeling no pain.
But Emma Ronson was suddenly hurting bad.