Do you know what I love about America? Summer time on a Saturday at about 8 o’clock at night. It’s then when everyone is in their cars trying to scurry off to some club or bar and Highway 10 is jam packed. It’s then that the orange lights from the buildings contrast with the pale yellow of headlights and the blinking red lights on the back of the cars. You will probably never get the chance to see it from my perspective. But from the penthouse in a 20 story building in Westwood, there is nothing better. And as I stand on the balcony balls deep in some wannabe actress admiring it all, I think about how lucky I am to be here.
Americans just don’t know how good they have it. When I grew up I went to an all-boys school in puritan London. Do you know how much that stifles a young man’s curiosity? There is something about the presence of girls in a boy’s life that just makes childhood worthwhile. And as I was hitting my shower jacking off endlessly to the thought of half decent nuns, American boys were getting blow jobs by girls named Britney. God bless America. That’s what I say.
I almost didn’t end up here. In fact if I had my choice I wouldn’t be. But fate, ah fate. It’s a mean, mean bitch. But I guess it does have its soft side.
I am, for all intent and purposes, a Sheikh. Yes, I’m Arab, as uncool as that is to say. But I make it work. Back in my heyday I was that obnoxious guy driving a Lamborghini to a club in Dubai. I was the one who bought the entire club a drink and then waited for the women to flock to me. I like to think of myself as a humanitarian. Because after all, if I deflowered every Arab virgin, who would be left for those crazy fanatics in the afterlife? You’re welcome.
At that time I was thinking that my life was probably as good as it was going to get. I had women lined up for me. Everyone turned their head when they saw me. I had access to the family jet and I made use of it. And any young beautiful person who was anyone knew my name. I don’t know if Sheikh is the right word for what I was. But calling yourself an Arab God can sometimes get your head cut off, so I’ll play within the rules.
I think my life, like the lives of many people throughout history, was ruined by the British royalty. I can’t believe how many people just go crazy for those two English princes. The older one isn’t kinda boring. But the redheaded one, now he is a guy who knows how to be a Prince.
The orgies that would go on in the palace… if you only knew. And it’s not like he arranged them anywhere else. It had to be in the palace. The only ones who were invited were royals, and amongst our own, there were no rules.
If you knew the amount of times that a British Duchess lay nose deep in royal pupes one night, and then dressed up in those silly pillbox hats and sipped tea at a polo match the next morning, you would be shocked. Duchess, Princess, royalty? No one can be that prim and proper all the time. In fact, my experience is that the more polite someone seems in public, the dirtier they are in private.
That’s why I considered myself to be a more authentic royal. Who I was in private was the same man everyone saw in public. I whored around in private and was with the same girl naked on top of the Asteria Hotel at 4 PM on a Tuesday. What can I say? I am an authentic person.
But going back to that redheaded Prince. He was more cautious when he was younger. The guest lists of these royal orgies were always very well edited. But that little horny bastard just got sloppy. And hell, I love the idea of adding Japanese royalty. It was about time that a little more spice was added to the mix. But, God damn. Did he have to invite everyone?
Some of those fuckers engaged in some crazy shit. What do they call it? Voodoo? I know that’s not it, but whatever they do over there with their magic, white-faced Japanese theater thing, that messed some people up real bad.
Because what I know was, I was having my usual great time, and then someone grabbed my ass. I swiped them away, as I would do, and then I felt a bite on my neck. And it wasn’t just some nibble like some of those freaks did. It was a full on breaking the flesh, me screaming in pain, sort of bite. That shit hurt. And after that, the next morning, God damn did I feel different.
After that night I seriously could not get enough sex. You could line up a bunch of naked women in front of me, let me hit each one to orgasm and I could keep on going. It was fucking insane.
It didn’t take long for me to figure out why. I had become a wolf. I’m not talking about a metaphorical guy who chases women. I mean someone bit me and now I can turn into a wolf. And whatever came with that came a sex drive that you would never believe.
Now, I went through different stages as I was discovering my new self. First I didn’t notice anything. Some may ask how I could have missed the fact that I was barely dressed anymore. I would say I was busy. But after a few weeks of it, I noticed that I had dropped some weight, I sat down and thought about how many meals I had missed due to my carnal appetite. There were a few. But on the upside, my thrusting muscles were looking very toned.
The second stage is when the moon started to get closer to full. I was getting a little bit more aggressive. Let’s say that I got into a fight at a club. I was not a fighter. I had bodyguards to do that for me. So when I found some guy’s shirt in my grip and my fist continuously pounding on his smug face, I realized that something was going on.
But it was when the moon changed that I realized who I was. I was a wolf. Actually, I was fucking two supposed virgins, then suddenly I was a wolf.
The cleanup on that was not good. And we know exactly what happened because, don’t fool yourself ladies, there is a video camera in every Sheikh’s bedroom. We are very careful about these things. If we ever need to make things go away, we need to know what we’re dealing with. And if no one else in the world, the Saudi Royal family knows how to make things go away.
So there you have it. I was a wolf. It was all recorded. And it took hours before my parents knew.
Great! That was exactly what I needed. My father watching me have sex and then slaughtering some socialites. First he would critique me on my fucking technique. And then he would give me a speech about how royalty doesn’t turn into wolves and slaughter people. I got it Father. I’m not as good as you. That was not what I needed to hear.
My family’s response, however, was swift. It was no less than banishment. Within days everything that they thought I needed was packed up, and to my surprise, I was on a plane. I say ‘my surprise’ because I wasn’t fully conscious at the time. I had become one of the things that the Royal Family needed to go away.
I woke up as we crossed over the Atlantic Ocean. Perhaps my first thought shouldn’t have been about sex, but you must forgive me, I have an affliction. Did I want to be having this much sex? Certainly not. Maybe not. But I couldn’t help myself.
Think of me as a victim of my environment. I’m like one of those kids who grow up in the ghetto and can’t help but rob a liquor store. I mean, if all my brain will allow me to think about is sex, how do you expect me not to have more sex?
So here I was on a plane flying across the Atlantic to America, not yet sure who I was anymore, and with no idea what was happening to me. See, if you were in the same place, you’d be terrified, right? This was a scary time for me. Me! I am royalty. I’m not supposed be dealing with shit like this.
But like I said, it has all worked out well in the end. I ended up in Los Angeles. My jail cell is the top three floors of the most luxurious condo complex in Southern California, if not the world. And I figured out how to have an endless supply of desperate young actresses to feed my unfortunate affliction. See, I’m the sympathetic character in this story. I’m the one you should root for.
So now as I pull myself out of Britney… I am assuming her name is Britney… Every twenty something actress wannabe is named Britney… And I shoot my load on her back, I pulled myself back up and really admired the view. Because as great as Britney was… or did she say her name was Jennifer… anyway, as great as she was, there is no beating Los Angeles on a Saturday night at about 8 PM. There’s nothing better.
“Get dressed,” I said savoring the rush I got right after orgasm. “Wait.” I stuck my hand between her legs and gripped onto her swollen flesh. This was something I did.
When sex happened in a bed, one of my favorite moves is to grab onto her bald, naked pussy and whisper in her ear, “you know I own this right?” And I keep saying that until she finally says “I know.” I’m not sure why I liked it so much. Maybe it’s a feeling of power. Who knows? But it’s more about the feeling of her body in my hand. I feel like I am in control of her.
And before you start thinking anything crazy, I am not some possessive, control freak. I don’t literally think that I own their pussy. It is just what I say to play into the whole ‘possessive Sheikh’ fantasy. If anything, that is the role that the women I’m with force me to play.
Oh, don’t think that I don’t know what your stereotypes of Sheikhs are. We are those super aggressive, possessive guys that chain women up in their harems. I know that’s what you all think… Yeah, who’s a bad person now? Because I will have you know that I have never chained anyone up. Do I have relatives that might have done that? Maybe a few. But to think that I do it simply because I come from a long line of people who did, well, isn’t that the epitome of stereotyping. So to that I say, shame on you.
I just enjoy women. They smell good. They feel good. And as long as they don’t speak, they are the best things in the world. See, I’m practically a feminist.
As Britney got dressed I watched her pale, lean body move in the night’s lights. God, was she gorgeous. “Stop for a moment,” I said just wanting to admire her for a moment longer. “Okay, that’s enough. Get dressed.”
Although Britney did satisfy my night’s urgings, I still had a lot of things left to do for the night. I didn’t exactly have full access to Los Angeles. I was pretty dependant on the people who worked for me. It was them who cooked my food, did my shopping, arranged my parties and made sure I was comfortable.
The only sort of control I had was over who I would invite back after my Saturday night party. Like I said, I had an affliction. I have certain needs that need to be satisfied. And on the second floor of my three-story abode were all of the women who I would have a chance with for the next six days until my next party. Talk about pressure.
“Why don’t you get yourself something nice,” I said as I left her a little cash. And again, don’t think I’m treating her like a prostitute. Girls like nice things. Either I can buy her something that she won’t like, or I can give her the money and she can buy exactly what she wants. Now, if you had the option of a shitty gift or the money to buy a great gift, which would you choose? See, that’s what I thought. So I left her some money.
Leaving the bedroom I made my way down the grand staircase. The party was still in full swing. What I loved most about them, was how much they looked like a magazine ad. You know the ones I’m talking about. They have good-looking people dressed elegantly drinking colorful drinks in martini glasses.
Usually the shot is in black and white and is used to make everyone who can’t have a life like that feel bad. Well, that is what my parties are like. And there is no need to feel bad because practically everyone here is an actor. The women are all struggling actresses, and the guys are paid actors who are there to make sure that although the women have a good time, there is no chance of them being competition for me.
As I stood there picking out the women whose number my bodyguards would acquire, I noticed one person who seemed very out of place. Let me paint the picture for you. Beautiful blonde, beautiful blonde, beautiful brunettes, heavyset girl. Now which of these women do you think is out of place? And here’s a second question, how much do you think I’m going to yell at the guy who let her in?
Now, before I tell you what I’m going to do, let me first admit that I am not a perfect person. Just like everyone else, I have my questionable moments. Perhaps this is one of my questionable moments. Perhaps I could’ve handled the situation better. But cut me some slack. These three floors are all I have in life. If I don’t get my entertainment this way, how do you think I’ll get it?
So walking up to her and intentionally treating her like a waitress isn’t the nicest thing I can do. But I can’t spend every moment of my life being a nice guy, right?
“Get me a drink,” I said to her never really looking her in the eyes.
“Why are you asking me?” she asked as if she didn’t know.
“You’re the help, aren’t you?”
“Do I look like the help?” she asked not knowing what she was in for.
“Well, look around. What’s does it seem like to you?”
This is when I turned and looked at her. She had really poured herself into her dress. It’s not that she looked bad. In fact, for her size, she was cute. But does that mean that I should turn my parties into one of those you know what fests? I don’t think so.
Standards. My parties had standards. My parties looked like the same parties from a magazine. If I didn’t have that, then what did I have?
“Are you always such a jerk?” she asked me with a lot less cowering than I assumed she would have. It didn’t suit her. I felt like she should have been more of the cowering type.
“Are you always so fat?” I asked in reply. Again, are you ready to judge me? Keep in mind that I have an affliction and I am in jail. No matter how expensive the furniture, a jail cell is still a jail cell. And the one bit of social interaction that I get all week is this party. Can’t I at least have this?
“So yes, you are always such a jerk,” she said with way more confidence than she deserved.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” I asked needing to get to the bottom of this.
“So now you wanna know my name?”
“Well, this is my party. I think that if I’m going to be insulted, I should at least know who it is that’s doing the insulting.”
“Do you always get what you want?”
Now that was an interesting question. Did I always get what I wanted? I’m going to say that I never got what I wanted. As to the fore mentioned boys private school, that wasn’t what I wanted. Being banished to Los Angeles, that wasn’t what I wanted. The endless stream of beautiful women… okay, that was what I wanted. But come on people, there is more to life than just women. I can’t imagine what that is, but I’m sure I heard that somewhere.
“Why yes I do,” I settled upon.
“Then I guess this is going to be a rough night for you,” she said with a smile… a smug smile.
Okay, this was interesting. First of all, this was the most I had talked to any woman all night. Second of all, she is coming across as the least perceptive woman that I have ever met.
Let’s go over the facts. Number one, doesn’t she know that she does not belong here? Why would she stay? Number two, I am the Sheikh. That doesn’t mean a whole lot to me, but I know it means a lot to young women. So why isn’t she cowering? And number three, no one calls me a jerk. I may act like a jerk. I may call myself a jerk. But no one calls me a jerk. I don’t want to say that that’s a Saudi law, but yeah, it’s a Saudi law.
“I’m sorry, why are you here?” I asked her again.
“I’m here with her,” she said pointing across the room.
I turned and hell if she wasn’t pointing at Britney.
“You came with Britney?” I asked turning back around.
“Who? No. Samantha.”
Oh, was that what she had said to me?
“Who are you, her bodyguard?”
“Oh, are you one of those girls who holds the purse when the pretty girls go out and dance?”
“No, I’m the one that tells the obnoxious men to go away after we’ve gotten what we want from them.”
Wait, was she inferring something about me? No, that doesn’t seem right. “And what do you do? Are you an actress as well?”
“I’m a law student.”
“Oh, so you’re the bitter, smart one.”
“I imagine that your definition of smart isn’t all that challenging. So I guess comparatively speaking, yes I am.”
Okay, I might not be the smartest guy in the room… okay, maybe in this room, but in a typical room… but I think she might be calling me dumb. I was starting to dislike this girl.
“So I guess you two will be going now?”
“No, why do you ask?” she said smugly.
“Well, you got your drinks. Your friend got laid by a Sheikh. She even made a little money on the side. What else could you all possibly want?”
“Oh, you thought that my friend and I were here because of you. Oh no. My friend has a boyfriend. He’s smart, good-looking… you know, the opposite of you. He’s a real quality guy. But he pissed her off. So she said, who can I sleep with that would get back at him the most. And I said, you should sleep with someone who is so trashy and horrible that it would make your boyfriend feel bad for the stupid shit he did. And then when she got the invitation to come to this thing and meet you, we both thought, who could be more trashy and horrible than a Sheikh. So here we are. And once we have had a few more drinks, then we will have everything we want.”
First of all, who the hell is this girl? Second of all, did she just call me trashy and horrible? I am not what you would refer to as a sensitive soul, but ouch. That stung in a way that I did not expect. I couldn’t even come up with a witty response.
This woman, this girl, was just like one of those mean girls that I grew up with. I wasn’t always the smooth-talking debonair type I am today. Believe it or not I was once a less than confident, only child who got picked on more than once by very mean older female cousins.
You could never imagine anything meaner than a Saudi princess whose boobs have not come out. Those weren’t fun times for anyone, much less me. And this girl with her angry ways and sharp tongue, she was reminding me of that kid I was trying to escape. I didn’t like her very much.
“I think it’s time for you to leave,” I said less than subtly.
“Are you throwing us out?” she asked surprised. “Did I hurt your feelings?”
Okay, nothing could have made me feel worse than her asking me if she hurt my feelings when she did. This was all bullshit. I had one night a week to just be myself again, and this woman had taken it from me. I hadn’t invited her here. Yet here she was ruining my night. I was so upset that I couldn’t even speak.
I could’ve signaled my bodyguards to carry them out immediately. I could’ve done a lot of things. I was still a Sheikh no matter where I was. It was just by my good graces that I decided to be the one to walk away. I had to walk away. I was starting to lose control. And if I really lost control, there would need to be a whole lot of cleaning up going on. I am the good guy here. I walked away escaping to my third-floor dungeon.