Love Starved (2 page)

“Okay, first of all, I am not high-strung. And second of all, why does it matter?” Micah spat out, annoyed, and straightened. He was twenty-seven and hardly a prude, dammit. Why was he still letting this dirty-minded pixie affect him like that? “Why are you so worried about my sex life anyway?”

“Because sex is
awesome
.”

“Sex is overrated,” he grumbled and gestured to the bartender for another drink.

That made Daphne gasp. “Okay, that’s it, I’m getting you a guy. You need to get laid. Urgently.”

Micah sighed, resigned to his fate. He’d lived with Daphne for three years; that was enough to know that once she got hung up on something, there was no distracting her until she was finished. If he let her get her crazy out, she would be back to normal soon, and he could pretend this conversation never happened.

Daphne was nearly bouncing. “Let me think, let me think. Ooh, I know!” She reached for her gym bag and started rifling through her big purple wallet. The thing had a dozen partitions and hidden pockets, but finally she let out a victory cry—“Ha, I knew I had it on me”—and pushed something into Micah’s hand.

It was a simple business card, its thick white paper pleasantly textured against Micah’s fingertips. It had a respectable, professional feel, except the only information on the card, embossed in glossy black letters, was a first name—
Angel
—and an email address. When he picked it up, the changing angle of light made the paper momentarily shimmer red.

Micah arched an eyebrow. “Something tells me this is not your chiropractor.”

“This, my dear, is a guy,” Daphne said, looking as proud as if she’d solved the problem of world hunger. “A smoking hot guy who will do everything you can dream of. He’s not cheap, but he’s worth every penny. You can thank me later.” She grinned. “Oh, and mention who gave you the card when you email him, or he won’t reply. He only works through referrals.”

“He—what?” If Micah’s eyes were as wide as they felt, he probably looked like an anime character. “Did you just give me a card of a male prostitute?” he hissed.

“Oh come on, don’t get your panties in a twist.” Daphne rolled her eyes as if his reaction was unreasonable. “He’s an escort. Or a fantasy date provider, as he calls himself.”

“Of the kind of dates that end with kinky sex,” Micah clarified.

“Kinky or not, adult dates usually do, you know.”

“How do you even know him?”

“We used his services,” she said.

“You, as in, your company? For bachelorette parties or something?”

“No, we as in Danny and me. Angel was his anniversary gift.”

That made Micah’s jaw drop even further. “Danny? You mean—”

“Have I ever said my husband was completely straight?” She winked. “The point is, we were both immensely satisfied with Angel’s services and I wholeheartedly recommend him as a way to fulfill your needs if you don’t have time for a relationship. He’s safe, he’s gorgeous and his skills in bed are amazing.”

“I’m not going to pay for sex!” Micah whispered, scandalized.

“Then pay for the romance,” Daphne said. “Choose the mood, play out your fantasy, whatever it may be. He’ll deliver. You won’t regret it.”

“No, Daphne,” he said firmly. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m fine. I’m not interested.”

“Whatever.” She shrugged, clearly finished with the topic at last. “Keep the card. I have him in my contacts anyway. You may yet use it when you stop thinking like a prude and realize what you’re missing.”

“I don’t think so.” Micah pushed the card toward her over the shiny surface of the bar.

She pushed it back with an exasperated expression. “Keep it, okay? Now, enough about your sex life, or lack thereof. You’re making me depressed. Let me tell you about the hilarious wedding scenario I get to play with next.”

By the time he got
home, Micah had forgotten all about the card in his pocket. The empty silence of his apartment bothered him after the welcome respite of the bar. He wished Daphne could have stayed longer—after that weird conversation about sex, they’d fallen into their usual rhythm, chatting about work and college friends and new places to eat in the city, and suddenly Micah wished they could stay like that all night, talking, the way they’d done sometimes in their apartment years ago. They hadn’t had nearly enough time for each other this past year, each of them so preoccupied with work that they often went weeks without contact, and it was only when they met after such a break that Micah realized how much he’d missed her.

But they weren’t college kids anymore; they were adults with careers and responsibilities, so they’d said goodnight before ten, promised to meet again next week if possible and gone their separate ways. Micah hadn’t even drunk enough to be tipsy.

That was easy enough to fix, at least. He could continue such a promising evening at home—he had a bottle of good whiskey in one of the kitchen cabinets, and there should be some ice left in the freezer, too. His Kindle was probably having abandonment issues by now; a few hours with fine liquor and something new to read sounded like a perfect night. He would relax, get pleasantly buzzed and go to bed early. Tomorrow he would get right down to work, rejuvenated and energized.

The plan was good. The reality, however, left much to be desired. Looking through new book releases and trying to pick something to read left Micah restless; he skimmed a few samples, but nothing held his interest. He wanted something that would grab his attention and hold it, a world he could lose himself in, but his patience ran out before he could find anything that fit the bill.

Maybe tonight wasn’t a reading night after all. Maybe he needed some mindless entertainment to let his brain decompress. A second glass of whiskey in hand, Micah curled up in his favorite armchair and reached for the remote. He had months of TV shows to catch up on. This was as good a time to start as any.

But even as he zoned out with old episodes of
Supernatural
, watching the Winchester brothers try to save the world again, one monster at a time, a rogue part of his mind kept spinning, edgy and uncomfortable. Some of Daphne’s words stayed with him, nibbling at his brain.

“Brian doesn’t count,” she’d said. Oh how Micah wished he didn’t. But you don’t simply dismiss the person you gave over two years of your life.

Micah washed down the bitter taste in his mouth with more whiskey and forced himself to focus on the show. No use wasting one more minute on Brian. And he did honestly like being single. He loved the independence, loved being the master of his time and his body. He didn’t need anyone.

Why then, if that was the case, did he find himself staring through the screen again, another episode halfway over and he didn’t remember a word of it?

Ugh, he was tired. Tired and suddenly very drunk. The ground swayed under his feet when he switched off the TV and got up from the couch. He glanced at the piano standing quietly in the corner, untouched for weeks, but his coordination was shot by now, and he didn’t feel like more frustration tonight. He should go to bed. It was still early, but he was getting maudlin. Better to sleep it off.

Taking out his contact lenses was a struggle and Micah gave up on the rest of his bedtime routine. He staggered to his bedroom with the half-empty bottle of whiskey in hand, in case he needed some help falling asleep.

A piece of paper fell out of his pants pocket and fluttered to the floor as he stumbled out of his clothes. Micah picked it up, squinting in confusion before he recognized the card Daphne had pushed on him. “Fantasy date,” indeed. As if anyone, let alone a stranger who got paid for sex, could give him the fantasy he’d abandoned years ago. With a hollow laugh that hurt his throat, Micah put the card away on his nightstand, took one last long swallow of liquor and crawled under the covers.

But no matter how comfortably he settled in the duvet cocoon, sleep wouldn’t come. His thoughts were slow and heavy, their sharp edges smoothed by the alcohol, but there was no escaping them in the darkness. Micah lay in his bed wide awake, staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours and remembering.

He thought of the way he’d met Brian, a junior assistant at the company where Micah had interned during his sophomore year. Brian was sweet and charming and a little brokenhearted after a recent break-up, and he asked Micah out for coffee three times before even attempting to kiss him. The fourth time was an official date, dinner and a movie, and Brian asked him if he’d consider going steady. After that, Micah was gone. He gave himself over completely, body, heart and soul.

Now, alone in his bed, he shook his head over his twenty-year-old self’s desperation that had kept him coming back to Brian’s downtown apartment, where they usually ended up watching sports TV that Micah didn’t really like or having sex he didn’t particularly enjoy. He remembered their brief Rhode Island vacation during their second summer together, a week when they’d barely left the luxurious hotel bed even though the ocean had been calling to Micah from beyond the closed windows, and for the hundredth time he wondered what on earth he’d been thinking, believing they were forever.

He didn’t miss it. Even right after the break-up, he’d been surprised how little he missed Brian. He’d missed being part of a couple, feeling wanted. He’d hated the looks he was getting from people who’d witnessed or heard about the whole unnecessarily public scene Brian had made while dumping him, but he never minded being single.

Gingerly, as though he might disturb some delicate balance, Micah recalled his dreams from long ago—hopelessly romantic fantasies of a closeted teenager who’d naïvely believed that college in the big city would fix everything. That it would mean freedom and happiness and true love.

Well, he’d been right about the freedom, at least. Most of the time, he was pretty happy with his busy, independent life. His company was growing more successful every year, giving him interesting professional prospects and more money than he ever thought he would make. What else could a man want?

And yet.

The hollow feeling in his chest growing heavier—
that is exactly why I shouldn’t get drunk
, he remembered—Micah reached out blindly for the tablet he kept in the nightstand drawer. Quickly, before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed the escort’s card and tapped out a short message.

Hi, I got your card from my friend Daphne and I wanted to ask—do you work with fantasies that are not strictly sexual?

The moment he hit
Send
, he already regretted giving in to the stupid moment of weakness. But it was too late.

Well, he could always ignore any possible replies.

Just then, the tablet pinged in his hand and he looked down to see a message pop up:
[email protected] wants to be able to chat with you. Okay?

Micah’s first reaction was panic. He scrambled to sit up in the bed, staring at the little
Yes
and
No
boxes as if they could bite his finger if he touched them. What the hell was he doing? Was he honestly considering hiring a prostitute just because he was drunk and lonely? He was much too young for a mid-life crisis that might explain such desperate impulses.

But he was also much too young to believe everything exciting he could hope for in his personal life had already happened. A man his age should be looking forward to romance and intimacy, to building relationships, if not a family—not looking back at naïve high school dreams that had never come true as the best romantic experience he’d ever had.

What if he could make them come true, though, if only for one night?

Reaching for the whiskey bottle with an unsteady hand, Micah remembered his last birthday in March. He’d spent the evening with friends and colleagues, laughing and drinking in one of the swanky downtown bars, only to come home at two a.m. and cry himself to sleep because he so badly wanted to not be alone, to experience what he’d used to believe in so totally: true love.

He’d been deeply embarrassed about his meltdown the next morning. But now, with the alcohol flowing through his veins and reducing his rationality to a tinny background noise, he felt it again: the pull to risk it, to let go, to try.

What could it hurt?

Whiskey warm in his stomach, Micah touched the dangerous little
Yes
box.

me:
hi

Angel:
Hello :) It’s nice to meet you, Micah. I thought it would be easier to discuss your question like this rather than exchange emails. I hope you don’t mind.

me:
no, of course

sorry, that was a stupid question

Angel:
It’s not stupid. I work with all kinds of fantasies. What did you have in mind?

me:
um

do you ever pretend you’re someone else?

Angel:
All the time. Who would you like me to be?

me:
my boyfriend

is it weird?

Angel:
Not at all. Do you need a stand-in for some sort of event?

me:
no

it’s not my friends I’d like you to convince

Angel:
Okay. Who is it then?

me:
me

Micah paused, heat rising in his face as he waited for Angel to reply. The timestamp said that it barely took two minutes, but it felt much longer. Finally, the answer came.

Angel:
That’s a first. Tell me more?

Micah took a deep breath, shook his head and picked up the tablet again.

me:
you know what, this is a terrible idea

let’s forget I wrote to you at all

Angel:
No, wait. This is different, it doesn’t mean I’m not willing do it. I like a challenge. I just need to know more to determine if I’ll be able to give you what you need.

me:
it’s stupid

Angel:
It’s not stupid. It’s your fantasy, something important to you. I want to help you fulfill it if I can. Tell me more about what you want.

Micah hesitated before replying.

me:
okay

I want a perfect date

one night of feeling like I’m loved

wanted

cared for

like I’m the center of someone’s universe

just for once

there, I’ve said it

told you it’s stupid

Angel:
And I told you it’s not. So you’ve never felt that way?

me:
I don’t know

I’ve had dates and been with people

I was in a long term relationship even

but it was nothing like what I thought it’d be like

Angel:
What did you think it would be like?

me:
romantic. slow. beautiful

real. deep.

I don’t know

it was supposed to be special, and instead it felt like a fake

I guess real life is not a fantasy, right?

Micah bit his lip and took another sip of whiskey.

but I want to feel the magic I dreamed about

just once

even if it’s not real

I wanna know how it feels

Angel:
I get it.

me:
you do?

Angel:
Of course. You want the magic without the risk of disappointment or a broken heart. That’s not too different from the reason most people come to me.

me:
so does it mean you could do this?

Angel:
I would like to try. But I have to be honest—this sounds harder than my usual requests. I mostly work with desires, not feelings. And no matter how good I am, I can’t control your ability to believe the fantasy. We would have to build it together to make it work. Can you accept that?

me:
yes

when can we meet?

Maybe he should be embarrassed about how eager he sounded, but right now, Micah was too excited to care about that. The prospect of having what he’d always longed to experience had the allure of a long-awaited trip to Disneyland to a kid: This was the stuff of dreams and magic, something Micah had watched from the sidelines but never got to touch himself. Love, the ultimate happiness as depicted in a thousand movies, in books, in every other song on the radio. He’d soaked it up like a sponge growing up, letting it shape him even when he’d already known that in his case, love would never be as it was portrayed in the mass media; he was waiting for Prince Charming rather than looking for a beautiful princess. Even then, love was the goal, the life-changing gift.

He’d seen it all around him, too—in his older sister Claudia’s first relationship that he witnessed and quietly envied every day through most of his high school years. In his own parents, who even now, after thirty years of marriage, still looked at each other like love-struck teenagers. How was he not supposed to hope for it with everything he had? Not to build up his dreams and expectations until the mere thought of having a boyfriend one day had filled him with happy tingles?

How was real life supposed to measure up to this ideal? His parents were lucky. His sister, too—she was still with her high school sweetheart, happy as ever, engaged and casually planning life five years from now, ten, twenty, as if still loving each other was so obvious. And Micah? He’d endured a few awkward dates in college and then thrown himself into the first relationship he’d been offered, giving the guy everything he had, letting him into his heart without stopping to think, without reservations, diving in blindly.