What Men Have Always Wanted
He only paid attention to me in that cafe because I was holding a baby and wearing his jersey. A sign from the universe as clear as if God himself came down and placed it in front of him. The baby was resting on my hip while I waited for my coffee. I bounced him up and down, softly, because I could feel a tantrum brewing.
People love to stare at the baby and I like playing out my little motherhood fantasy, so I welcome the attention. When I’m nannying I make sure I look casual, yet done up. My hair appears naturally blown out, the made up glow on my cheeks embodies the privileged allure of sweat without the workout, and my expensive biker shorts are fit for a mommy on the go. The child on my hip is mine, if only for an afternoon. He reaches for me, completely enraptured, like Adam reaches for Eve, blue eyes wide and mouth wet with spittle. Though, he will have to make do with the feeling of me, a stand-in Madonna, during the three hours I watch him on Sundays.
I pulled on a jersey at the baby’s house without really thinking about it. The baby spit up on my perfectly oversized sweater, so I went into his mom’s closet looking for a replacement. Maybe my subconscious knew it was Sunday, football’s day, and The Team was doing pretty good this year.
I stalked The Quarterback on Instagram yesterday. He smiles broadly in every picture, with a balanced nose, strong jaw, and blue eyes that perpetually look a little wet. I could imagine holding him crying after losing a big game. I scrolled back a year to a post of him walking into The Stadium for a game. His loose charcoal dress pants, black skinny belt, and white tee communicated easy editorial luxury. His hair was cropped in the front and effortlessly tousled, shorter on the side, while slightly longer in the back, my ideal kind of soft mullet. He’s the kind of man who looks like he’s good at everything. He could be an actor, a businessman, or a secret agent. He moves through life buffeted by a constant sense of ease, he’s here to win and leaves women and men alike swooning over his god-like presence.
I tapped *more* on the post to read the comments:
@bbygirljenny: that’s my husband(2 likes)
@zoom.knight17: One of them 1s(84 likes)
@brettsims1: Bro couldn’t be colder(5 likes)
@kmlivin: You know I feel that I know You forever <3(0 likes)
I wouldn’t dare comment or even like the post. Fans comment. He’s any other hot person I thought, yet his magic had already permeated beyond the screen. I felt butterflies yesterday when I heard someone mention his name on the subway.
“Who’re you starting in fantasy tomorrow bro?”
“Mason Matthews.”
“Damn, you’re lucky. He’s one of them ones.”
After hearing that, I thought maybe he isn’t like any other person. He must be a Real Star, one of the best kinds of people. If subway riders talk about you with adoration, then it must be true.
So when I saw the corner of his jersey peeking out of the closet I smiled to myself and shrugged it on with pantomimed casualness. I was bored, so maybe that’s why I pretended to be his wife and this was our baby when I walked out the door. It made me love the baby a little more and the moment felt special, like my fantasy was a breath away from becoming real.
The overwhelming environment of the cafe brought me back to the moment. The baby fussed and the line was long. I thought maybe I shouldn’t have come here at all. In the chaos I hadn’t even noticed a man come up to me.
“Need some help with that little quarterback while you order?” a man said.
I hadn’t looked up at who said it and was thrown off by the question. “Uh—sorry?”
Mason Matthews, the one from The Team, the man I’ve been lusting over, was standing right in front of me and he’d started to blush.
Sometimes there are moments so otherworldly you feel as though you’re standing under a spotlight. You’re reacting without forethought, entirely present, as though you’re in a dream. There’s nothing to base the moment off of because you never saw it coming and it’s incomparable to any moment that came before. The only thing that exists is the expression of yourself, a thing so pure you wouldn’t dare try to grasp it. I thanked the purest expression of myself for knowing how to play it cool.
“Shit, that’s my bad. I must sound really creepy. I thought you knew me,” Mason said.
I acted like I was looking at him closer, his appearance only a second away from clicking in my mind. “Ohh Matthews,” I said and motioned to my jersey. God I sounded so dumb, the inflection of recognition in my voice was clearly forced.
“This isn’t my jersey, I just borrowed it from his mom, I’m his nanny.” I hoisted up the baby so they could both get a better look at each other. The baby had managed to stay quiet, his eyes wide at the stranger before him.“He’s a huge fan of The Team,” I added.
“But you’re not?” He looked at the baby before looking at me with those open, wet eyes.
“I think some of my friends are obsessed with you, but I really only watch a couple games a year.”
“Sure..” he said.
“I’m more of a basketball fan anyway.”
The baby cooed and stuck out his hand. Mason reached out and the baby wrapped his sticky hand around Mason’s pointer finger.
“Well could I have your number and try to make you a football fan?”
Now I was the one blushing. “Yeah of course,” I said.
…
Mason and I went on our first date last Friday. He took me to the nicest restaurant I’d ever been to and even sent a car to pick me up.
He asked about my family and where I grew up. I inspected his strong yet slender fingers as he picked up a wine glass, before imagining them around my throat, constricting my airway while he fucks me.
I complimented his music taste: Tame Impala, Frank Ocean and Role Model. Quite basic, but you can’t expect a rich man to have a sense of niche artistry, he’s used to taking what’s right at his fingertips.
At the end of the night we stood outside on the curb waiting for our cars to take us home. When I’d asked if he wanted to stop at mine for a drink, Mason insisted he needed a good night’s sleep. His face was softly illuminated from the restaurant’s yellow light and I thought he was going to kiss me.
A group of young men passed by and I heard them whispering, “Yo is that Mason Matthews?” Mason must have heard them too, he turned his face away from me and looked toward the street.
I studied his face in profile. The shape of his nose seduced me more than any words he’d said that night. The slope of it reminded me of some ancient marble bust hidden deep below the earth. A relic of a life turned to dust, only to be immortalized in Mason’s statuesque nose. My car pulled up and Mason gave me a hug goodbye. He held me tight and I felt it would be nice to keep my face pressed against his expensive sweater, eternally.
…
He sent a car to pick me up a week later. I didn’t even have his address. Mason told me it would all be taken care of. This lack of information would usually worry me, but something about Mason made it okay to have no control. He texted me all week, asking how my day was, what I was up to. We texted about our favorite movies and the places we vacationed as children. I wanted him to know everything about me and I brainstormed all the things I wanted to ask him. What gets him through the day? How does he handle the pressure? Is there life after death?
I put deodorant on a second time before running out the door. My palms were sweaty when I typed out omw. I looked in the mirror and gave a soft smile. Then a seductive smize. I painted on a sense of confidence, but deep down, in the well of myself, I felt I wasn’t enough.
I pulled up my shirt to check my stomach. Toned but too skinny. My skin looks like it’s dripping off my face. I should’ve Gua Shaed. I have no friends, he’s going to certainly going to think I’m a freak once he knows that. I grab at my chest, there’s barely anything there.
I checked my phone to see if he’d responded and considered telling him that I’ve been in a freak accident and I’m never going to be able to meet him because the doctors said any human contact will kill me. I thought I was ready and now it’s clear no preparation will be enough. Every fear and inadequacy I possess will be confirmed if I cannot acquire his complete love and devotion. I was nearly shaking from the fear of him, this famous, handsome and rich man, who had probably barely contemplated me and just thought I looked pretty in a coffee shop. It suddenly felt so cruel. All this deep, unbridled emotion I projected onto him. The hope I placed on a man I barely knew and in my foolishness, I turned my ultimate desire into my greatest fear.
Mason “hearted” my message.
I’d been in the car for about 45 minutes when we finally pulled up to the house. It has an iron gate and a winding tree-lined drive up to a rather traditional looking house. I guess I was expecting something a little sexier than a red brick colonial with tall white columns, but it was bigger than any house I’d ever been to, so I can’t really judge.
I step out of the black SUV into a cold early December night. Only a few dead leaves are left on the flagstone drive, the crusted relics of a forgotten day in spring. I decided to have a shot of Tequila before I got in the car so my anxiety is shrouded and replaced with a shaky confidence. My heeled boots click on the stone in a way I find satisfying and I knock on the big wooden door. I feel myself to be the woman I’ve always dreamed about, meeting with high-profile men while feeling a sense of streamlined power, a feeling like the warm hum of an expensive car.
The front door starts to open and I feel excitement rise in my stomach. Expecting Mason, instead it’s a slightly overweight man who looks to be in his mid-30’s. He’s wearing a Team shirt and a pair of joggers. I’m a little taken aback by this stranger and I can’t get out a greeting before he does.
“Hi,” he says brusquely, like he has important business. Before I can return the hi he adds, “Please come inside.”
The entryway is a small alcove with an arched doorway that leads to the rest of the house. The interior strikes me as surprisingly Tuscan with tan marbled walls and to my right on a small dark wood accent table is a small bronze statue of what looks like the Greek god Hermes.
“Mason requested you to sign this NDA.”
“Uh, why?” I feel uneasy, the fantasy of my romantic evening starting to crack.
I think he senses my anxiety and turns on a fabricated sense of care, “It’s to protect you and Mason. Not that he thinks you would say anything about him, he just has to be careful being…you know, a public figure.”
This makes enough sense to me, but it still feels odd. Mason could have at least told me he’d like me to sign an NDA.
“Okay, I’ll sign it.”
There’s a small table to my left with the NDA and a pen already waiting for me. I pick it up and scan the document. My heart is racing and I can’t make sense of the words.
The Encounter, including its existence, shall remain confidential and treated as private information belonging solely to the Disclosing Party
I sign the document. The pen spurts out a glob of ink that my signature looks ugly. I hand it to this unknown man.
“Great, let’s find Mason.”
He leads me through the entryway, into the kitchen and living room area. There are two men sitting on the couch playing a video game. They don’t look up from their game when the older man asks where Mason is.
The bigger guy who looks like he’s a linebacker for The Team says, “He’s in his room.”
The smaller guy, who’s thin and who with his delicately chiseled face looks like he could be a model, stares at me for a second as we walk out of the living area toward what I assume is Mason’s room.
We walk up a spiral staircase and down a hallway lined with trophies and memorabilia from Mason’s sporting past. Him in high school receiving an award in the school gym during an assembly. A picture of him playing in college next to him holding the Heisman Trophy. Mason as a toddler opening up a football in front of a Christmas tree. His frozen smiling face seems to be watching me with the look of a mischievous boy who always gets what he wants.
At the very end of the hallway are two double doors. The unknown man knocks. “Ay Mase, Talia’s here.”
The double doors open up and Mason is standing there in a pair of gray loose sweats that accentuate his considerable bulge and a dark hoodie. I realize I’m overdressed in my heels, feeling not like this is a date, but instead like I’m a service he’s called in. My face feels overpainted like a clown’s and as the anticipation of meeting him face to face fades, I see things for what they truly are. I’m not that delusional, I know I will not be saved by true love’s kiss here, but somehow my anxiety remains. My heartbeat is pounding in the space beneath my collarbone and I feel like I’m floating two feet above my body, watching the scene unfold around me.
“Hi Talia,” Mason says and pulls me in for a hug. The double doors close behind me. “Talia, you’re shaking.” He rubs my back and I start to calm down.
“I just get really anxious sometimes.” I look over his shoulder at a cozy looking sofa. Two glasses of wine are perched on a table next to it.
“Why don’t we sit down and you can talk to me about it.”
He leads me over to the couch. The room smells like the lobby of an expensive spa. He rubs my shoulders and coherent thoughts start to form again in my mind.
“What’s up,” he says in a slow, whispery tone.
“Sorry this just feels like a lot to me. I wanted to be cool, but I wasn’t expecting the NDA thing. I’m not like used to this kind of stuff.”
“It’s okay. I should’ve said something about it. I’ve been burned before and—.” His eyes are wet and his brow is furrowed. He’s thinking about something I don’t feel daring enough to ask about.
“It’s okay I get it,” I say. I pause, considering if I should continue. Something about the way he’s running his fingers along my arm has lulled me into a trance. “I put a lot of pressure on myself. I kinda feel like I have to perform for you.”
“I just want you to be yourself,” he says and pulls me into another embrace. “Can I get you something to drink? I poured us some wine if you want.”
“Yeah, please,” I say and take the glass from him.
Mason gets up and puts on some music. “Everybody Here Wants You” by Jeff Buckley.
“I love this song,” I say. The red is smooth and rich in my mouth. We talk about nothing. I feel myself sliding down the surface of him. There’s nothing deeper than the drink in my hand and the wetness of his eyes. The music starts to sound better than anything I’ve ever heard. With expectations removed there is only how good this moment makes me feel. The edges of my vision blur and he’s kissing me, his hand up my shirt and my hand down his pants. He reflects everything in my heart back to me and I’m stunned by its beauty.
I want more and so does he. Somewhere between him picking me up and carrying me over to the bed the bedroom door opens. Mason’s on top of me and in my pleasure I barely register the sound of the door or that we’re no longer alone. There’s a hand on his shoulder and he pulls away from me.
The thin model-looking man from the living room is standing naked next to Mason and they’re kissing. I look up at them and though a small voice within me starts to scream, I can’t move and I’m unsure if this is really happening. The man kneels between Mason’s legs and starts caressing my toes. My mind hovers above the bed as I look down on the scene. Mason is moaning from pleasure of the blowjob. I see him in profile and he’s turned into a statue. He grips the man’s shoulder and trembles from the power of his submission. I’m transported to an Ancient Greek gymnasium. Men wrestle and train together, bodies slick from oil and the sweat of their exertion. They run a drill, then get up and slap each other’s backsides in congratulations. After training they get in the showers and instead of facing the wall they turn toward each other. Mason looks at me, his eyes are dry, losing their usual quality of watery reflection. It’s clear to me this is what men have always wanted. Who was I to ever deny them?
…
Mason
I nearly forgot about Talia after Anthony came into the bedroom. She’s still on the bed and when I glance at her. Her eyes are like two black voids and she stares back with such a knowing, I feel like I’m looking into the eyes of my grandmother. I must’ve put too much ecstasy in her wine. As quickly as that look was there, it’s gone. She gets up and kisses me deeply on the lips. She seems excited by it all, more than I thought she would. She seemed so traditional and genuine, like she wouldn’t care if I was a nobody. I almost didn’t invite her over, but I felt compelled to when she looked at me with her shifting hazel eyes full of hope, like I’m capable of loving her back. I hate myself, I could never be that honest.
The three of us move onto the bed and the night finishes. This time doesn’t satiate me like usual and I’m left with a sense of emptiness while the three of us cuddle. When she leaves in the morning, the livestream of my bedroom is still on the TV in the living room. Cam forgot to turn it off. She definitely saw it. Fuck, I’m going to need to send her a purse or something before ghosting her, I think as her car pulls out of the driveway.
Practice later today. Breakfast the chef makes. Shower. Three games of Fortnite. Mom calls. Scroll Instagram. DM some Instagram model from Denmark. Stalk my ex-girlfriend. She has an athleisure company now. Started it with the money I used to pay her off. Drive to the facility. Calf massage. Drills. Throw balls. Ice bath. Watch film. Coach tells me how great I am. Drive home. Dinner the chef made. Anthony comes over. Watch a movie. He tries to kiss me. I push him away, because that would be gay.
…
Talia
After last night’s bliss I feel like I’ve plummeted back to earth. When I walked through the living room on my way out there was a livestream of Mason’s room on the TV. I almost start laughing when I stumble out the front door into the frosty early morning. I don’t smoke, but I want a cigarette and a cup of really shitty coffee. I want to sit in a diner with normal people who have late bills and look like just another overdressed disheveled woman who’s been disappointed by the mystical promise of a one night stand. I want an overly nice waitress with a New York accent and bad fake lashes to say, “What can I get you hon?” She’s been there before and she’d never judge.