Read Sex Snob Online

Authors: Elizabeth Hayley

Sex Snob






Amanda, for your unwavering love and support and for being our partner in hijinx. We couldn't ask for a better namesake for our Sex Snob.


We stumbled up the stairs, clinging to each other for support. We had gone for a few drinks after dinner, but we’d gotten a little carried away. The last few shots at the bar had done me in.

I always get horny when I’m
drunk, so I couldn’t wait for Zach to get on top of me and give me the fucking I’d been hoping for. We laughed into each other’s mouths, mingling the tastes of beer and tequila. When we entered his room, Zach immediately pulled his green T-shirt over his head and then lifted his feet up clumsily, one by one, to take off his shoes.

Okay, I guess we’re gonna take off our
own clothes. That’s a new one.

I followed Zach’s lead and removed my shirt and bra. When I shimmie
d my skinny jeans down past my ass, Zach spun me around to face the bed and stood behind me, pressing his erection into my asscrack and pushing on the back of my neck to bend me over.
Oh, no. He’s definitely not going to do this!
I pulled away, quickly collapsing to the bed as I removed the rest of my clothing and tossed it to the floor.

Zach followed me onto the bed and hovered above me. He began scooting his crotch up toward my mouth, making no effort to conceal his intentions. I closed my eyes, but as I felt the head of his penis slap me in the side of the face, my eyes shot back open.
Yeah, strike two, buddy. This shit isn’t happening either. I needed to find a way to change positions. Fast.

I pulled his
hips down, and he took that as an invitation to penetrate me (if it could even be called that) without warning.

Ooookay, so we're skipping the whole foreplay thing then. No problem, Zach.
I rolled my eyes.
It’s overrated anyway.

I had to remind him to get a condom. So I waited, for much too long, while he fumbled with the wrapper
. Christ, has this guy ever had sex?
Condoms are the easiest things to open. They are made to be opened in the dark with slippery, frantic fingers.
My three-year-old cousin could open one
I actually saw it happen once when I was babysitting her. It wasn’t entirely my fault, though, because I was wrapped up in a
Dance Moms
marathon and she somehow managed to find one in my purse. I can’t even find my keys in that black hole most of the time and that little fucker somehow found a condom?

Zach finally got the damn thing open and, once it was on, he wasted no time picking up where he left off. As he entered me (I think), he grunted into my ear, “I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

Is he serious? Is that supposed to turn me on?

But he wasn’t done talking. “You feel this rock hard cock, baby?”

Um, no, actually. I don’t feel much of anything. Well . . . except maybe regret.

“Your pussy feels so fucking wet,” he said in between grunts. “You’re so fucking tight.” Had he been memorizing lines from poorly written romance novels in the hopes of compensating for his less than mediocre performance in bed?

First of all, the word “pussy” is so not hot. Second of all, there is no way in hell that I’m wet. And he’s clearly delusional if he thinks he’s big enough for me to feel tight.

He continued his awkward, monotonous movements. In. Out. In. Out. And when I started fantasizing about leaving to get a bacon, egg, and cheese from Dunkin’ Donuts, I knew this was going nowhere—for me anyway. It was time for whatever this was to end.
The only thing worse than bad sex is bad sex that lasts longer than it needs to. So I did something I rarely need to do: I faked it. And badly, I might add. I think I muttered an “Oh, God,” and let out an unconvincing moan or two. Not my best performance, I’ll admit.
But at least Zach and I have something in common
. I laughed silently to myself at my observation.

Further confirming my suspicions that he had no idea what it was actually like to get a woman off, Zach sped up and let out a loud “Uhhhh" within seconds. He either believed that he had given me an orgasm, or he didn’t care if I got one or not. Then, he stretched his sweaty head and chest up, like he was in the cobra position at a hot yoga class and yelled, “Fuck, I’m fucking coming inside you.”

Well, not exactly, Zach. I’m pretty sure you’re coming in a condom. But now’s not really the time to split hairs.

collapsed, a heavy, perspiring mass on top of me and was asleep within seconds. When I finally found the strength to roll him off, I considered leaving.
Breakfast sandwich? Vibrator?
They both seemed like better options than sleeping next to Zach, but I couldn’t drive in my inebriated state. So, I had no choice but to stay the night.


My phone alarm sounded with LMFAO's “Sexy and I Know It.” But as I felt the waterbed sway beneath me, my body reminded my brain of where I was, and I felt anything but sexy. Rubbing my eyes, I quickly shut off the alarm and flipped over gently.

Thank God.
Zach is still sleeping.
The string of drool that connected the corner of his lips to his pillow was as good of an indication of this as any. I took note of his muscular physique, his squared jaw, his rumpled dark hair. He was gorgeous. Which only made what happened last night that much more disappointing. Finding out a hot guy was a train wreck in bed was even more devastating than finding out a hot guy was gay. At least I always found out a guy was gay
I slept with him, so I didn’t waste a few hours of my time. Or in Zach’s case, a few minutes.
Well, except for that one time with Johnathan.
I internally scolded myself for not being more observant of his sexual orientation when he refused to let me shorten his name to John. But Christ, even
had been a better lay than Zach.

What happened to the good old days when drinking led to blacking out?

Slipping out from under the tan comforter, I couldn’t help but lift it up to confirm my suspicions.
Yup, he’d never taken the condom off.
. Nothing better than waking up with semen crusted to your skin.
Better him than me

Zach is exactly why I have Rule Number 1:
always sleep with a guy I’m interested in by the fourth date. In Zach’s case, it had been our second, and I was glad I wouldn’t be wasting any more time with him. I don’t want to get too invested in a guy and then find out he’s awful in the sack. The attachment could make it sad when we have to part ways. And I can’t have that.
Yup, better to know early on.

“Always test drive before you buy, Amanda,” my
grandfather told me when I bought my first car at age sixteen: an ’87 Nissan Sentra. Though I’m pretty sure he hadn’t meant for his advice to apply to situations such as this one, I couldn’t ignore the parallels. If Zach were a car, the Lemon Law would allow me to return him. He was rugged and beautiful on the outside, but once you took him for a ride, you’d realize there was something definitely wrong with the engine. Or the carburetor. Or maybe the transmission.

As I searched the room for my clothes,
I couldn’t help but remember the “sex”—and I use that term loosely—that transpired here after our date.

Now, a
s the morning sun streamed through the windows, I scanned the room,
desperately trying to locate all of my clothes so that I could get the fuck out of there. I wondered how I had even managed to keep my buzz through that sexual nightmare. I guess miracles do happen. I smiled slyly as I wrote Zach a note and left it on the pillow where I had slept:



Dear Zach,

Last night was really something. We should do it again if I have time before I move to Holland next week.



If he bought my pathetic
When Harry Met Sally
performance last night, he’ll definitely buy that.
I descended the stairs, still putting on articles of clothing as I exited the side door and began the half-mile walk back to the bar to pick up my car.


As I entered the elevator in my office building in Center City, Philadelphia at 9:07, my only thought was,
Thank God it’s Friday
. I thought I had left Zach’s in plenty of time to get myself ready for work, but after a night of horrendous sex and way too much alcohol, the walk back to my car had proven more treacherous than I had anticipated. I knew a shower was a necessity, but I skimped on the make-up to save time. I opted for a little bronzer and tinted lip-gloss to give my washed-out complexion some color and threw my damp blonde hair up loosely in a clip. By the time I actually made it to my office, I knew my new boss would have my ass, even if I
only ten minutes late.

Steve Bader was an arrogant dick.
If the movie
Horrible Bosses
had been real, I would have hired Motherfucker Jones to help me kill him. He found fault in every
and every
. And to add to his condescending personality, he insisted that no one call him by his first name.
God forbid he lose any of the precious authority he bestowed upon himself.
But little did he know that the entire office was laughing silently (and sometimes aloud) when they addressed him.

How our new boss had managed to go through half a century without noticing that “Mr. Bader” sounds almost exactly like “masturbator” is a miracle I’ll never understand
And not only was Mr. Bader a dick who had a name that so appropriately caused you to picture one too, he actually looked like a penis. He was bald for the most part. And his wrinkly face turned red (and sometimes a subtle shade of purple) when he was angry—which was often. He kept a few awkward strands of facial hair around his mouth and nose, creating what I’m sure he thought was some sort of a trendy goatee, but actually more closely resembled a pre-pubescent boy’s first glimpse of manhood.

And even though the universe had played a cruel joke by inflicting Bader on me, at least some stars had aligned in my favor.
Since I am a “glass half-full” kind of girl, it should come as no surprise that it was
idea to have the rest of the office staff address Mr. Bader directly as often as possible, simply for our own entertainment.

I’ll have those files on your desk tomorrow, Mr.
we’d assure him. Or,
I’ll get right on it, Mr. Bader.
That last one proved to be
exceptionally funny due to its double meaning and the frequency at which it could be used.

Of course, when Mr. Bader wasn’t in earshot, we referred to him as
Bader. Doing so allowed us to double our amusement: in addition to insinuating that our boss pleasured himself frequently, we could also point out his gratuitous abuse of authority.

I will say, though, that despite the fact that working at an accounting firm is a notoriously boring job, the people I work with are amazing (other than Master Bader, obviously), and they
get me through the day. It’s like A.A. there: one day at a time. And I couldn’t even get through
of those days without my co-workers.

As the elevator doors opened and I stepped into the brightly lit waiting area of Riley & Maddox, Inc., for a moment, I was thankful for my job.
I obviously couldn’t complain about the money, and the atmosphere was lively and inviting with its natural light and contemporary blue and white décor. I even had my own private office
complete with a comfy leather couch and a view of the city through
the nearly floor to ceiling windows.
I mean, I could be working in an old middle school with no air conditioning and barely any heat like Lily

“You’re late, Mandi.
And you look like hell. You
realize you’re working in an office building and not a wholesale store, right? You look like you just rolled out of bed.”

Aaand, there goes my moment
“Good morning, Mr. Bader,” I replied with a sincere grin, courtesy of my getting to call him by name so early in the morning. I avoided acknowledging my lateness altogether. He wouldn’t care if I apologized anyway. “And I actually prefer Amanda,” I added. I had told him this on numerous occasions, but he refused to listen. Correcting him was futile, but I couldn’t resist.

“I know, but
prefer Mandi,” he said as if that were an acceptable reason to call someone by a name they couldn’t stand.

I also hated that Bader had a British accent.
Under normal circumstances, I loved accents. Australian. English. Italian. They all had the effect of making guys seem significantly hotter. But in Bader’s case, it just made him seem more pretentious than he already was.

“I met a beautiful girl named Mandi when I climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro years ago,” he continued.
“She was striking. It’s been decades now, but I can still remember gazing longingly at what I could see of her golden skin and high cheekbones through her oxygen mask.” He looked up past my shoulder as he . . .
well, fantasized. "This was before the days of cell phones and
My Face
or whatever it’s called.”

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