Call her Roz. All of her fans do...
Follow along with Rosalyn Patrice Hayes, a professional doxy. She's more than an actress, she's "a permanent affair." Every day, this southern-born beauty stars in a play she's also written and produced for an audience that doubles as co-star. It's a performance showing on a stage way off Broadway, the grandest stage of all—the hustle and bustle of life in New York. Told in 1st person, from the time the curtains go up until they go down you'll find yourself mesmerized by each deliciously naughty act.
Warning: 18+ Only! This title contains erotic scenes, graphic language, anal sex, M/M sex, M/F/M sex, Cowboy sex, F/F sex,
(sheesh, there's a lot of sex) umm...sex on a desk, sex toys, some light bondage, interracial/international sex, and a doxy with a smart mouth. Yep, that should cover it.
My gaze sweeps the small crowd and falls upon a woman perched elegantly on her chair. Thin, rouged lips sip clear liquid from a goblet, dark eyes scrutinizing my very presence. I know who she is and she knows of me, although she should not. It’s under the most unfortunate of circumstances that our awareness of each other is mutual.
She rises, abandoning her meal, arriving at my table with a face full of fury and a body quaking with liquid courage.
“I know what you do,” she hisses vehemently, eyes blazing. As I suspect she smells of vodka and the water glass is a ruse. A prop. Hands braced on my table she leans over to highlight her point. “I know what you are, you disgusting—”
“Maria.” That I've spoken her name only confirms what she already knows, but her face pales, eyes widen that I’d be so bold to admit it. I motion for her to take a seat.
“You smug bitch!”
Heads turn toward the outburst.
“Please, sit. There’s no reason to make a production of this.” She considers my words, pulls out the chair and drops into it.
“Would you like your meal brought over?”
“What? You act like we’re friends. I do not consort with hookers!”
Maria Burwell—yes that Maria Burwell, “of the Manhattan Burwells”—is married to one of the wealthiest men in the City. As such, she is the consummate socialite, attending every posh event with next season’s “it” bag in one hand and a stiff drink in the other. Educated as she is in the art of polite society, you’d think she knows the difference between a run-of-the-mill prostitute and a professional doxy such as myself. Further, half of the people she “consorts” with actually fall into the category she’s accusing me of.
“Maria,” I begin again, my tone even. “I understand—”
Her fist strikes the table, rattling my water, reminding me I've yet to receive my wine. “I will not sit here and allow you to patronize me. You listen to me, you little cunt. I don’t care what you think you understand. Only thing you need to do is stay away from my husband!”
There is no talking sense to some people. She’s content to cast me the villain and I have no problem playing the role. As I said, acting is adapting; if she wants drama, she’s come to the right place.
“What you've failed to realize, Maria, is that I’m not the one who initiated this affair, your husband did.” I offer it casually, voice inflected as though we’re old acquaintances having a nice chat. “And when Charles deems our relationship over, it will be. You've nothing to worry about from me.”
Appalled, her mouth drops open wide enough to let all of that hot air escape if she’s not careful.
“Do you know who I am?”
See what I mean? I’m aware her question is rhetorical, the acrimonious response of someone with more affluence than common sense, but it seems she’s the one who’s forgotten her role.
“Everyone knows who you are, Maria. You do make a habit of embarrassing yourself at every turn.” I pause for a swallow of water; place the glass back on the table. “At the mayor’s luncheon, you were so drunk you lifted your dress bare-assed.”
I’d arrived near the end of the soiree for an appointment, just in time to witness the woman’s flowing green gown go skyward. Chuckling softly at the memory I add, “And right now you’re on the verge of giving us all a repeat performance.”
She glances around, seeing the eyes, the reproachful shakes of heads.
“These people don’t know what you are, but I do.”
I take a deep breath. “And what am I, Maria?”
“You. Are. A. Whore.” Lips curl into a snarl as she snips off each word.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m a doxy.” Her eyes narrow to slits, a frown marring her perfectly arched brow. “Allow me to explain. See, a whore doesn't warrant a second thought. A whore is a fast fuck in an empty closet, or on the subway. A whore is nothing more than a passing fancy, a means to satisfy an immediate human urge. Whores are…”—I shrug—“base.
“Now a doxy like me,”—I lean forward, voice still low, eyes boring into hers. “I’m that random smile on your husband’s face in the middle of the day, Maria. I’m the pep in his step in the morning while you dawdle over the banality of which bag will match which shoes; contemplate what you and the girls will have for lunch over at Lupa’s in the Village. And when he finally pushes through the door after working late, yet again, I’m the only reason Charles can stomach coming home to you at night.”
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A little bit about Sable Jordan -
Writer of multi-cultural erotica and seductive romances, and whatever else comes to mind. Tattooed vixen. Wicked humorist. Incurable humanist. Proud geek! Lover of pit bulls, fast cars, all music, and candy. Alter ego of adventure/thriller novelist Isadora Monday. That's the short version.
She's a tough tomboy type with a hidden romantic streak. When not writing, Sable can be found reading everything from Steve Berry to Zacharia Sitchin, Walter Mosley to Iris Johansen. Words are wonderful things.
And she quotes 'Stories so Whet, you'll want to Lick My INK!'