Yes, yes, all part of my teaching methods.

I’m full of shit.

A hand goes up, saving me from the turmoil of my fucked up inner monologue. “Yes?”

The sound of my voice prompts Allison to take her seat, and I force my eyes to Maryanne Carrington, the portly, middle-aged woman from Day One who has proved to be the mother of the group. Probably because her husband likes to fuck girls young enough to be their daughter. “It’s evident that I’m no longer a spring chicken,” she says in her endearing southern drawl. “I’m not a size 2, and gravity has taken its toll. There’s only so much nippin’ and tuckin’ I can do without looking like a circus clown. How can I be tempting? What can I do to make my husband find me sexy again?”

“Mrs. Carrington, forgive me, but do you have tits?”

“Wha-what?” she stammers, clutching her chest with phantom palpitations.

“Tits? You have them, right?”

“Well…yes. Of course.” Her cheeks heat with crimson, and she lets out a nervous chuckle.

“And ass?”

“Why…yes.”

“Then you can be sexy. You aresexy. You just need to believe it enough to make your husband see it too.” I scan the tops of every coifed head, speaking to no one, yet needing everyone to hear me. “It’s not about being the skinniest, or having the biggest breasts, or the best ass. We don’t give a fuck about pumping your lips full of collagen or threading extensions in your hair. We just want you. We are simple creatures, ladies. Give us something that makes our mouths water. Strut around in that frilly lingerie and heels while you dust the furniture, pretending to be totally oblivious to our stares. Bend over to pick something up with the top buttons of your blouse undone so we get a peek of that cleavage. Wear your hair down so we can imagine the feel of it between our fingers, pulling it while you cry with passion.”

Almost as if it were rehearsed, my eyes meet Allison’s lively gaze. She thinks these words are for her. She probably thinks she’s somewhat special. But what she doesn’t see is the real reason I am so drawn to her…so tempted to taint her perfectly poised façade.

I pity her.

Just as she believes that I’m an outsider, a mere spectator to her world, she suffers the same fate. This life of glitz, glamour and garishness is not for her. She and I are cut from the same cloth—misfits among millionaires.

She may have the money and the status, but she’s faking it. She can’t even be honest with herself, and that is why, as much as she intrigues me, she disgusts me just the same.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

I finish the class, shoulders tight with agitation, counting down the minutes, the seconds, until I can escape to the one place where I can be free. I’m already stripping off the restraints of Calvin Klein by the time I hit the front door. But I don’t change into my swim trunks or running shorts like I’ve done almost every evening. I head straight to the shower, setting the water to scalding temperatures even though it’s warm outside, the dry desert heat sucking the life out of my parched skin. The water burns, but I don’t register the pain. A different kind of heat consumes me right now, my body aching to extinguish the flame.

I take my cock into my slick, wet hand and squeeze, relieving some of the pressure. I feel it throb against my palm, urging me to put it out of its misery. Eyelids heavy and muscles taut, I stroke it slowly, grunting out a curse. That’s all I should give myself for being such a careless fucker, but I need this. I need to rid myself of this longing. I’m no better than those cheating bastards—I amthose cheating bastards—but at least my alternatives don’t hurt anybody. Stroking my dick doesn’t make Page Six. E! News won’t show clips of me coming inside my palm.

I grit my teeth as I tug my shit, chanting the fire out of me with deep groans. Eyes tight, I come so hard that my knees buckle, hot seed spilling into my hand before dribbling down the drain. Under the scorching spray of water, I stand panting, bracing myself against the marble-tiled wall. Even with my skin flush and pink from the water, I feel cold. I feel empty. I feel…alone.

Hours pass before I resurface, towel draped over my shoulder and dressed for my nightly swim. It’s quiet tonight. Still. Not even a breeze to keep me company under the opus of sparkling, luminescent stars.

I swim until exhaustion greets me and my lungs burn. My muscles ache and quiver until they feel like jelly. Yet, I prolong my torture, pushing my body past its limits. Past pain, and pleasure, and feeling, altogether.

She doesn’t come tonight.

Maybe she pities me too.

“THERE’S ONE THING that a man wants you to stroke more than his cock: his ego. Throw in the money and power, and you’ve got a Hulk-size ego that needs to be fed around the clock.”

I step around the lectern, a devious smirk playing on my lips. I’m better today. My head isn’t clouded with bullshit thoughts that I shouldn’t be thinking. My balls don’t ache every time my gaze touches her. And, after killing myself with running and swimming, my body is just sore enough to be a physical reminder of why I shouldn’t give two shits about her, or her perfectly flawed face, or the waterfall of silken red that’s draped down her back.

It’s not for me. None of it is.

Allison didn’t come here because she wants Justice Drake to fuck her. She came because she wants Evan Carr, her spineless fraud of a husband, to fuck her. She wants him to want her. She wants him to love her. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.

“Feed the beast, ladies, and it’ll come to you every time it’s hungry. Make your man feel like he’s the biggest, baddest motherfucker on earth, inside and outside of the bedroom, and he’ll adore you.”

Lacey raises her hand and speaks up. “So what if he’s not? What if he’s an old, wrinkly has-been that can only last 5 minutes before blowing his load?”

A few ladies giggle, but my expression remains stony. “Lie.”

“Lie?”

“Lie your ass off. Tell him how big he is, how full he makes you feel. Tell him it almost hurts when he’s inside of you. Tell him that it feels so good that you wanna die. Who’s ever faked an orgasm?”

Every head nods, and murmurs resound around the room, altogether less surprised and disgusted by my brashness. After a few days of instruction, my words have nearly lost their shock value. Still, every so often, I have to shake them up to keep them from getting comfortable. Because being in love, being locked down in the endless, spiraling purgatory known as marriage, is about as uncomfortable as it gets.

“Good. Then you can fake everything else. Shower your man with adoration, and you leave no room for another woman to take your place. Men are like children. They constantly need positive reinforcement. And if they don’t get that, they settle for negative reinforcement.”

“You mean, they cheat?” Lacey interjects, her ice blue eyes narrowed into slits. She purses her doctor-enhanced lips, making them look like two giant wads of bubble gum.

“Correct. Not because the woman is more beautiful or younger, but more so for the fact that she makes him feel like fucking Superman. Invincible. All-powerful. They want to believe the fantasy.”

Lacey stands so that every eye is drawn to her, and places a hand on her narrow hip. “So if it has nothing to do with age or beauty, why are they fooling around with these Pop-Tarts fresh outta high school?”

A few ladies murmur in agreement. Maryanne Carrington even throws in an approving “Mmmm hmmm.”

“Honestly? Intelligence. Those girls are easily impressed, thus easy to bed. A bottle of champagne, a limo and it’s pretty much a done deal. They don’t want someone they have to work to seduce. That’s what they have you for.”