Hot Mess. Emily Belden

      I spot my father standing in the back, filming on his phone as my mother claps so hard, her Tiffany charm bracelet looks like it’s about to unhinge and fall into what’s left of her dessert. Seeing them both smile proudly across the room at who their daughter has wound up with warms my heart. It’s been an uphill battle, but I’m confident we’ve won them over.

      Benji whisks me back to the kitchen and before I can congratulate him on a successful evening, he pushes me up against the walk-in fridge. His tongue teases my mouth open and I am putty in his hands. With his right hand, he pulls down the collar of my romper, exposing my black lace bra. He frees my breast and kisses my nipple. My neck turns to rubber and my eyes roll back.

      “Benji,” I pathetically protest, very aware that all that separates us from a roomful of people who are currently picking a filter for a photo of the two of us holding hands is a swinging door that doesn’t lock.

      He continues kissing my neck, my breast still exposed. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you, Allie.”

      “Oh, really?” I say, recognizing that the natural high he’s on is most certainly fueling whatever is happening here. He slips a hand up my thigh.

      “You made everyone out there have a good time tonight.”

      “I know,” I playfully agree. He pulls my panties to the side. I know where this is going.

      “And now it’s my turn to get in on it.”

      Before I know it, he’s inside of me and we’re officially having sex against a cooler with forty people standing fifteen feet away, two of whom are my doting parents.

      Sex between me and Benji has always been explosive. It’s like he knows exactly what I need and where to touch me without me having to give a lick of instruction. Sex has never been like this in my entire life. Granted, I’ve only got about five solid years of experience, but nothing rivals what Benji has introduced me to in the last three months. There’s virtually nothing I’ll say no to with him. Pornos, toys and now public places. Who am I?

      I’ll figure it out after I get off. A few hushed moans later, and I’m there.

      “You did so good tonight,” he whispers in my ear as he helps adjust my outfit. “Now I need you to go back out there and get everyone to leave so I can fuck you again over that balcony with the view of the lake in the background. Okay?”

      I come back down to earth and reply, “Yes, sir.”

      Back in the dining room, I brush shoulders with Benji’s sous chef, who’s on his way back to his station. I give Sebastian a nod and return to my post, trusty water pitcher in hand.

      There are a few stragglers left in the dining room, including my parents, finishing the last sips of their BYO selections. From what I can tell as I clear empty dishes and put the tips in a billfold, people liked dinner. They really liked it. The average gratuity being left on the prepaid meal is about fifty dollars cash per person.

      After subtracting the dealer’s cut, it’s looking like we’ll walk with about $2,000 cash for ourselves and I can’t help but feel like a bit of cheat. I know nothing about this world—this high-end foodie club that I got inducted into overnight—yet people are emptying their wallets of their hard-earned cash to show their gratitude for what we’ve done. Do they realize just hours ago, the black squid ink from course two was being stored on ice in my bathtub? Regardless, we need the money. Benji may have kicked his expensive habit, but I’m the only one with a steady job right now and being a social media manager for Daxa—yes, the organic cotton swab brand made famous by Katy Perry’s makeup artist on Snapchat—isn’t exactly like being the CEO of Morgan Stanley.

      “Excuse me, where is the ladies’ room?” a tipsy guest asks. Benji might not have taught me how to sous vide a filet mignon, but he did tell me you always walk a guest to the bathroom when they ask. I promptly put down the dirty glasses and the wad of tips and walk the boozy babe to the loo.

      Upon my return, I nearly collide with another guest, this one quite a bit soberer.

      “Allie.” The prim-looking thirtysomething woman with a bleached-blond pixie cut says my name matter-of-factly. I stand up straight; this chick has CRITIC written all over her face.

      “Yes, ma’am. Can I help you? Do you need a taxi?”

      “No, thank you. I just wanted to give you a tip.”

      “Oh, that’s so kind of you. You can actually just leave a gratuity on the table.”

      “No, I meant, like, some advice.”

      I tilt my head to the side and try not to lose my grip on my smiley service. She’s five foot nothing, but her demeanor is as bold as her bright red lipstick.

      “I’m not sure Benji would be cool with you leaving a billfold with what I’d guess is about $2,000 in it just sitting on a table in a room full of drunk people who don’t know that it’s time to go home. It would behoove you to keep an eye on your shit.”

      She jams the billfold into my chest and proceeds to walk right past me to the elevator bank.

      And just like that, I’ve officially been felt up twice in one night.

       2

      It’s been two days since the pop-up and I’m meeting my girlfriends, Jazzy and Maya, for a very belated birthday celebration they arranged at Tavern on Rush, a glitzy Gold Coast eatery whose only meal I can afford is this one: Sunday brunch.

      I’ve known Jazzy and Maya since high school. We ended up going our separate ways for college, but stayed in touch through thousands of group texts and visits home over the holidays. The four years flew by and it was no surprise that we would all wind up back in the city after graduation. The two of them live together in a cute two-bed-plus-den walk-up in Bucktown. They asked me if I wanted in on the lease but the could-be third bedroom was more like a Harry Potter closet and by that point I had determined my days of trying to hook up with a guy on a twin-size mattress ended the moment I was handed my bachelor’s degree. So that’s how I wound up solo in a studio in Lincoln Park, but it’s all good—especially given how things shook out with Benji.

      Admittedly, it’s taken longer than it should for our little friend group to get together and celebrate my big quarter-of-a-century milestone, but I’ve been...well, I’ve been with Benji. Regardless, today we’ve got reserved patio seats looking out onto an area of town called “The Viagra Triangle” and the change of scenery, no matter how perverse, is welcome.

      There’s no direct route from Lincoln Park to this part of town, but the people-watching is worth the public transportation shortcomings. Everywhere we look, there are men sixty years and older valeting drop-top Bentley convertibles and ushering around girls my age with tight bodycon dresses and fake tits. What these ladies will do for a Chanel purse the size of a dog crate is...well, come to think of it, pretty similar to what people do to get near Benji. I just hope no one petitions us for a foursome while we’re sitting out here.

      “Thanks for putting this together, you guys,” I say as a montage of mimosa flutes and Bloody Mary tumblers connect in the center of our table.

      “Cheers to twenty-five!!” they harmonize back.

      “Oh, wait. Keep your glasses like that,” I say. “This is a great Instagram.”

      I pull out my phone to get the bird’s-eye shot: Jazzy’s champagne flute angled slightly toward Maya’s Bloody Mary tumbler. Fresh pastel-colored gel manicures and just a hint of the robust bread basket overflowing in the lower left corner. It’s perfect for my Sunday morning social streams.

      Too bad I’m not actually taking the picture. I’m really just checking my phone to see if Benji has tried to reach me. I know if I pull it out at the table and start texting, the girls will give me major shit about the fact I can’t go two hours without looking at