At least he was good-looking. Which was helpful. Good-looking ones tend to be the easiest. Also the really dweeby ones. The dweebs are good because they are too caught up in the fantasy of a hot girl having somehow gone all Beauty and Beast on them—her seeing past their boring exterior to that heart of gold shit—that they never allow that fantasy to dissolve enough to believe they’d been had. The good-looking ones are easy because they can’t imagine anyone would dream of scamming them in the first place. So, yeah, John Thompson was a good-looking one, although good-looking with muted charisma—think a Clive Owen paint-by numbers that had yet to be filled in with any vitality (or, just think Clive Owen). And John Thompson was rich. Very rich. All he talked about was how he’d fleeced some so-and-so with a short sale, or scammed whomever with some put option. At one point, he even said about one of these deals: “The sucker never saw it coming.” Sophie liked to think that someday that would be John Thompson’s epitaph: Sucker never saw it coming.
Sophie Monroe was a package of contradictions. Elegant in her athleticism, boyish in her femininity, and harsh in her sweetness. John Thompson had spotted her ad on Craigslist. Young girl in town for a night, looking for someone with whom to have drinks.
Sophie and John pulled up to a big Colonial house in Greenwich. Brick façade, manicured lawn, three-car garage. They pulled up to the house in a Jag.A fucking Jag, Sophie thought. Not a Porsche. Not a Beemer or a Benz or something with actual high performance capability. A Jag. The ultimate in poser, look-at-me status symbols.
Sophie and John climbed from the Jag and stumbled up the walkway toward the house. At the bar earlier, it was John’s plan to get Sophie drunk by challenging her to shot after shot of Patron, John even suggesting body-shots for the last one. Which Sophie accepted—making sure to blow a puff of extra-warm air on his neck before licking the salt off of it—but the asshole didn’t realize she could hold her liquor far better than he could. Hell, she could drink Jose Cuervo under the table, if need be.
So from the Jag, they made it to the front door of what John called his Pad. That’s what he called it. His “Pad.” John was the type of guy that liked to invent hip, insider lingo—John-speak, if you will—and this lingo broke most things down to three letter catch phrases. The Pad. The Jag. He even called the Patron, “Ron.” “Wanna do a shot of Ron?” “Another shot of Ron?” Sophie wanted to say to him, “Who the fuck is Ron?” But instead, she smiled and said, “Absolutely. Another shot of Ron it is.”
At the front door of his Pad, John dropped his keys and, with Sophie hanging in his arms, he retrieved them with limited dexterity. As they stood from the stoop, Sophie slumped a little in his grasp. This slump was by design, of course.
“Whoa,” John said to her, “You okay?”
“I’m great,” she said with a big, goofy smile. “Just drunk.”
Just drunk: the mating call of assholes.
Some men would find this situation blurring ethical lines, and at this point, a look of moral crisis might come into such men’s eyes. Other men would have a look of disappointment—knowing that they could never actually take advantage of a drunken young lady. The really decent guys would immediately turn back for the car, saying that they’d bring the girl home right away. But not John. John closed deals. And John got a look in his eyes like he’d just hit the fucking lottery.
By the way, those decent guys that offered to drive drunken girls home, those were the ones Sophie avoided.
When John was finally able to gain his and Sophie’s balance, he fumbled the house key into its lock, unlocking the door and kicking it open. Before they’d even crossed the threshold, a Shih Tzu bolted up to them, its plumed tail wagging, the thing jumping around as if being electrocuted by its excitement.
A Shih Tzu: the final confirmation that there is a Mrs. John Thompson. Sophie figured it wasn’t enough that John lived in Greenwich rather than Manhattan, or that he lived in a house twice the size than was needed for a bachelor, but he owned a Shih Tzu. There are only two types of men that own Shih Tzu: men who are gay, and men who are married.
Although none of this was necessary for Sophie to deduce John’s marital status. The fact that he’d answered her Craigslist ad was proof enough. The good-looking ones were always married. Why else would they be answering a Craigslist ad in the first place?
Sophie bent down to greet the dog, saying, “Hey. Cute dog.”
She knew Shih Tzu tended to be little bitches—like their owners—and she half expected the thing to bite her. The dog backed away from her for a moment, growling, and then it approached her again to be petted.
“Yeah, that’s Wee.”
“Wee?”
“Well, Stewie. But I like to call him Wee.”
“Of course you do.”
Wee? she thought. How about Stu, that’s only three letters? But, no, pretentious prick goes with Wee.
Sophie stood from petting Wee and regarded the house. The place meticulously decorated. Another sign of his being married.
“I like the pad,” Sophie said, staggering drunkenly into the living room.
“Yeah? You really like it?”
Sophie turned toward John, pretending to stumble, and she lunged into his arms, saying, “It goes with your car.”
“John grinned and said, “Yeah? Well, the Jag’s for fun. The Pad is a necessity.”
Sophie plastered another goofy smile on her face. “We can have fun in the Pad, too.”
John smirked and pulled her up to his lips for a kiss. The kiss was tender at first, but then he opened his mouth to obtain her tongue.
Sophie pulled away, leaning a little off balance, and she said, “I could use a drink.”
John smiled, that lottery-winning look back in his eyes, and he said, “All right. I can provide that.” He then kissed her on the forehead and walked off for the kitchen.
Sophie watched him leave, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She turned her attention to the living room, making a slow, circling sweep of the space, inventorying the furnishings, the gizmos and the trinkets, the different knick-knacks on the shelves. She called toward the kitchen, “This really is a nice place.”
John called from the kitchen. “Thanks.” He then called, “Is wine okay?”
“Wine’s perfect,” Sophie called. She spotted a bookcase in a side nook of the room. As she headed toward the bookcase, she looked down to find Stewie at her feet. She bent over and quickly scruffed the top of the dog’s head before returning her attention to the bookcase’s contents. She was not surprised to spot a locket-sized framed wedding picture of John with a high-strung-looking woman. Sophie figured John had removed all the pictures of the wife—or children if there were any—but he must have missed this one. She looked down at Stewie and smirked. But the dog didn’t seem to give a shit about his master’s infidelity.
John called from the kitchen, “I’ll open a ninety-four Stags Leap. Got three bottles. Hard to find. They’re about four-hundred bucks a bottle.” He paused a moment and then said, “Hey, four hundred bucks for a bottle of Stags Leap. Get it?”
“Yeah, that’s funny,” Sophie called. She looked down at the dog and raised her eyebrows, saying, “Is he for real?” The dog cocked its head, looking as if he really didn’t give a shit that his master was a doofus either. Sophie called toward the kitchen, “Four hundred bucks, you say?”
John returned from the kitchen with two glasses of red wine. He handed one of the glasses to Sophie, and he said, “Yeah, I got them at auction, along with an eighty-five Cristal worth a cool G.” He clinked her wine glass and they each took a sip. “Smooth, no?” he said.
“Quite,” Sophie said. They took another sip. “So what’s the story with your balls?”
“Excuse me?”
Sophie motioned to three baseballs that were on the bookcase. She said, “You’ve got these baseballs here.” She picked one of the balls up, saying, “Doesn’t really go with the rest of the pad.”
John grimaced, as if Sophie had grabbed one of his actual testicles, and he took the baseball from her, saying, “Those baseballs are worth a fortune. Signed by Ruth, Maris, and McGwire, all from the years they broke the homerun record.”
Of course she knew what the balls were, and it was no accident that she had picked up the Ruth ball, knowing it would elicit the most anxious response from him.
“Oh, so sorry,” she said in her best I’m-just-a-stupid-girl voice.
John returned the Babe Ruth ball to the bookcase as if it were plutonium. He said, “I’m still trying to get a Bonds.”
“Oh, yeah? Whoever that is,” Sophie said, again with her just-a-girl voice.
“You don’t know who Bonds is?”
Of course I know who Bonds is, dipshit. “James Bond?”
“Um, no, Barry Bonds.”
“Oh. Right,” she said, rolling her eyes.
They sipped their wine again, and then Sophie said, “Hard to believe that such a successful guy like you would need to answer an ad on Craigslist for a date.”
John shrugged and said, “What can I say? The price of success can sometimes be loneliness.”
Sophie kind of almost threw up in her mouth, and part of her wanted to douse him in the Stags Leap. Instead, she allowed her gaze to drift toward the wedding picture on the bookcase, eliciting another anxious response from him. He quickly took the glass of wine from Sophie’s hand and set the two glasses on the coffee table.
He said, “Why don’t we sit on the couch?”
Sophie let that big, goofy smile slip onto her face again and said, “I was thinking more like, how about we hit the sack.”
It doesn’t take long before they’re rolling around on the bed in Mr. and Mrs. Thompson’s bedroom. Sophie wearing nothing but a pair of boyshort panties and a spaghetti strap top. John wearing his silk boxers and black, knee-high dress socks. Sophie would always make them keep on their socks. Something about the goofiness of a guy stripped down to nothing but his dress socks cracked her up.
While they were making out, John stopped and said, “Hard to believe that a smoking hot girl like you needed to post an ad on Craigslist for a date.”
Sophie said, “Well, sometimes the price of adventure is taking a chance.”
“Just how much adventure are you looking for?”
“Why? Are you feeling adventurous?” Sophie asked.
“Definitely.”
She smiled and flicked the hair of her blond wig from her face. Glancing around the room, she seemed to spot something, and she darted from the bed to the room’s curtains—she’d actually spotted the ties on the curtains when she’d first entered the room, and she’d known exactly what she was going to do with them, but still, she acted as if the notion had spontaneously popped into her head. She pulled free the ties, and turned back toward John, she holding the ties in her fingers as if about to create a cat’s cradle. She said with the most child-like smile she could muster, “Ever been tied up?”
It was Sophie’s experience that when a girl flashes a child-like smile and uses a baby-doll voice, she can ask a man to do anything, especially if that anything has an element of kink to it.
John, lying there, half-mast, looked as if he were about to pop right out of his boxers. This excitement for kink was always tinged with trepidation, as if the asshole were nervous he wouldn’t be able to keep up or handle it. And John deflected this proposal by saying, “From what I’ve seen so far, maybe I should do the tying.”
Yeah, you’d like that. If you can’t subdue her with alcohol, subdue her with bondage.
Sophie darted back to the bed. “Nope. You’re first,” she said, and then added for good measure, “because you’re such a bad, bad boy.” She said this in another baby-doll voice, and of course John’s hands came up immediately to be tied.
And that was the exact moment John gave up all control to a stranger he’d just met on Craigslist. Imagine, a master of the universe, who buys and sells the lives of thousands of naive investors, gets undone by a baby-doll voice.
John grinned and placed his wrists against the headrest of the bed. Sophie tied one wrist, all the time teasing him with blown kisses. John growled like a tiger, feigning scratches with his free hand. Sophie tied his other hand and then stepped back to inspect her work. She scrunched up her face in a displeased look and glanced around the room as if something more were missing. And, again, she knew what that something was the whole time. “Here we go,” she said, darting to the end of the bed and snatching up John’s discarded shirt. She returned to the bed and blindfolded Mr. Put-option, wondering how much he’d have made if he’d shorted this date.
“Don’t move, tiger,” she said.
John purred.
Sophie stepped back and took a moment to enjoy the sight: millionaire adulterer bound to his king-size bed with curtain ties, blindfolded with his own shirt, erection trying to free itself from his silk shorts, and, of course, the black, knee-high socks. Perfect.
Sophie gathered up her clothes and began to dress.
John, still blindfolded, cocked his head and said, “What are you doing?”
“Getting ready,” she said. “Now, don’t you move, tiger.”
“Where are you going?” he said, sounding as if the first bloom of premature blue balls were about to hit.
She slipped on the last of her clothing and started toward the door, saying, “I’m going to get the wine.”
She bounded down the stairs.
Stewie was waiting at the foot of the steps, the dog’s tail a blur, the thing eager for attention.
Sophie darted into the living room with the dog at her feet, almost tripping over the thing. She grabbed her pocketbook—an over-sized leather bag she’d left on the couch. She took the bag into the kitchen, where she found two wine refrigerators—the pretentious Sharper Image, yuppie specials. She opened the refrigerators and picked out the remaining bottles of Stags Leap and the bottle of Cristal. She also found a couple of bottles of Dom Perignon, and she wondered why the asshole hadn’t served the beverage with three letters to its name. Want some Dom? I have plenty of Dom. We can take my Jag to the Pad for some Dom.
As she stood from the wine refrigerators, the bottles clinking in her bag, she almost stepped on Stewie. She looked down at the dog, the thing looking up at her as if wondering why she was taking his buddy’s wine, and she said to the dog, “Don’t look at me like that. You know he’s an asshole.”
John called from upstairs, the blue balls probably taking full effect, “Hey, baby, where are you?”
She called toward the ceiling, “Just getting some goodies, tiger.”
He called down, “There’s whipped cream in the fridge, how about I be your dessert tonight?”
Sophie looked down at Stewie, asking the dog, “Seriously?”
Stewie cocked his head, his tail going nuts again.
John called, “C’mon, baby, I got a sweet treat for you right here. All it needs is a little whipped cream, and you can be the cherry on top.”
Sophie scrunched up her face, saying “Ew.” She then looked down at the dog and said, “See? Asshole.” She walked over to the stairs and called up, “Be right there, tiger.”
She returned to the kitchen, walking to the refrigerator—one of those industrial, silver monstrosities that belong in a restaurant—and she rifled through the trendy condiments and cooking sherries to find the whipped cream.
She started back toward the stairs, shaking the canister and saying to the dog at her feet, “C’mon, Stewie.”
She returned to the master bedroom with the dog, finding the eager John writhing on the bed in anticipation. She said to him, “I got a surprise for you, tiger.”
“Oh, yeah, baby?” he said, offering his tiger growl again.
“Oh, yeah,” Sophie said. She sprayed the whipped cream on his dick, which was now fully erect and sticking out of the fly of his boxers. The guy groaned with delight. And she said, “Ready, tiger?”
“Oh, yeah, baby.”
Sophie bent down and picked up Stewie, putting the dog on the bed. The dog immediately going to town on the whipped cream.
John groaned in ecstasy, saying, “Oh, yeah, baby.”
Sophie tilted her head, watching man and dog, and she covered her mouth with her hand. The scene belonged in a museum, a true masterpiece. She could have enjoyed this sight all night, but it was time to get going. She headed back down the stairs, and as she reached the bottom step, she heard John yell, “Hey, wait a minute, hey.”
Sophie ran into the kitchen, retrieving the bag with the wine. Then she went to the bookcase in the living room, all the time listening to John yelling from upstairs, “Stewie, no. Stewie, stop.” She took John’s baseballs from the bookcase, placing them in her bag along with a few other expensive looking knick-knacks.
John was yelling, “Hey, Shauna, where did you go? This isn’t funny.”
Sophie headed to the door, laughing. For one thing, her name wasn’t Shauna. And what’s more, it was funny.
More of Nocking the List will be coming soon to a F.N. Best Store near you.