I’m The Host

Sharing my fantasies: Part 2.

I was never supposed to have this job.

A woman in late-night is like a fish on a bicycle, or whatever the phrase is when men don’t want to fuck you but also don’t want you to succeed. I clawed my way into this studio with teeth and jokes sharp enough to bleed sponsors. Now I sit behind the desk five nights a week, tossing my hair and smirking at my own punchlines while the audience laughs like trained seals. On screen I’m America’s foul-mouthed auntie. Off screen I’m just another bitch with insomnia and a vibrator that keeps dying mid-thrust.

Casual sex isn’t casual when you’re famous anymore. Everyone’s got a phone, a cousin who works at TMZ, a Venmo account that suddenly needs topping off. I tried the “cute sad girls” phase, hiring escorts with bright smiles and tits like buoyant balloons. They made me jealous with their perky optimism I couldn’t buy, no matter how much filler and La Mer. I’d send them home before I got too bitter, before I clawed at them like a drunk prom queen.

Now? Now it’s men. Big, thick-necked men I find through Feeld, filtered like cattle through my assistant who does the paperwork and waves the NDAs with dollar bills under their noses. Beefy, dominant, all muscle and no poetry. They sit waiting in my dressing room, slouched on the sofa where the band once did coke in the eighties. Now they all micro dose.

During commercial breaks, I run back there, still hot with studio lights, makeup caked and lashes itching. I pull up my skirt and sit on their faces like a queen on her throne. They grunt and grab at me, hungry, obedient. I ride them, tugging their hair, grinding down until I’m slick and swollen.

But I never let myself cum. That’s the rule. My private little cruelty. They don’t get my orgasm, they don’t get that power. I get off on denying them the satisfaction. Call it ego. Call it kink. Call it the only control I have when the world has eaten me alive.

Until last Monday.

He was already waiting when I slipped off stage, applause still ringing in my ears. Too beautiful for my taste: broad shoulders, the kind of jaw that belongs on a bottle of cologne, not in my dressing room. I almost turned back. Pretty men are trouble. Pretty men want to be adored. I don’t adore. I consume.

But I sat on him anyway.

The first thing that hit me was his strength. Most of the others held still, good little stools for my cunt, waiting for me to grind the life out of them. Not him. He gripped my thighs like handlebars, fingers digging into flesh, tugging me forward until I was flush against his mouth.

He didn’t start slow. No easing, no delicate licks meant to flatter. His tongue pressed flat, wide, claiming me. His nose nudged against my clit like he’d mapped me before I even arrived. I grabbed his hair to remind myself I was in charge. But he didn’t flinch.

He pressed harder.

I tried to keep my rhythm clinical rocking, grinding, denying. This was supposed to be my game: get wet, get high on the edge, then leave them frustrated, their faces sticky and unsatisfied. But he wouldn’t let me float above it. He pulled me down into the act itself. His hands kneaded my ass, lifted me, repositioned me until I was riding him the way he wanted.

He pinned me harder than I expected, his mouth not sweet but punishing. Every flick of his tongue, every scrape of his teeth, carved the air out of my lungs.

I thought of the cameras still warm on stage. The audience waiting. The lights, the applause. I should have pulled back. But he shoved his tongue deeper, then sealed his mouth over me, sucking hard, obscene.

I told myself not this time, don’t give it to him, don’t break your rule. But my body didn’t listen.

The orgasm ripped out of me like betrayal. I bucked, I cursed, I slapped at him and called him a stupid fucking idiot over and over while I came, soaking his face. My makeup smeared, my thighs trembled, my heart galloped against my ribs.

I came hard, wet, soaking him, shaking with rage and relief. My mascara smeared into the corners of my eyes. I couldn’t stop the shudder that ran through me, wave after wave, long after I meant to be finished.

I hated him for it. I hated myself more.

The stage manager knocked: 30 seconds.

I shoved off him, tugged my skirt down, smeared my lipstick back into place with the heel of my hand. He lay there, smiling faintly, his face slick, satisfied. He knew what he’d done.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of words.

I walked back on stage. The crowd cheered like nothing had happened.

And maybe nothing did.