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Tim:
And please confirm or deny if there’s a loyalty card because I WILL become a platinum member. Ten orgasms and the eleventh one’s free.
Tim:
You’ve been walking around with a sex-club-grade dick and didn’t even tell your favorite sibling? MA’AM.
Tim:
I provide love. Emotional support memes. Actual childcare. And you’re out here being the First Lady of the kink economy without even a whisper?
Tim:
This is a betrayal I may never recover from.
Tim:
Also, please advise which club is best for crashing. I will NOT behave. I might get us banned.
My head snaps up and I look at Gage as he flicks the faucet off. “You’re a sex overlord?”Shit.My brother will pay for that. “I mean, you own sex clubs?”
His lips twitch. “A sex overlord?”
“Ignore that. Tim said that. Not me.”
I tap the link Tim sent and am taken to an Instagram post.
@thetea_gasp
Bestie.Sit the eff down. @gageblack’s secret life just hit the TL and we are NOT okay. Apparently Mr. BSE™ isn’t just serving CEO energy. He’s also serving sex club owner energy. Plural, bestie. FIVE. Count them. FIVE. Did ya’ll know? Because we sure as hell did not. Turns out our fave Mr. I Could Fix Him But I Don’tWant To billionaire owns a string of elite invite-only sex clubs in NYC and LA, and no, you can’t get in, don’t ask. And while we’re not judging (we stan a Filth Facilitator king), this could have major implications for another Black brother. You know, the one giving President? Let’s just say, the tea is HOT and the optics are SALACIOUS. Gage out here collecting safe words while his brother collects votes. Is this gonna tank @bradfordblack’s rep? Or is it giving “cool brother with a morally grey portfolio” energy? Jury’s out. #staytuned
“Amelia. Stop reading.”
I look at him again. “I’ve already read it all.”
“And?”
“And what? I’m just over here waiting for confirmation.”
He just watches me for a moment. Carefully. Like he’s trying to get a read on me. Then, he nods. “Yes, I own clubs.”
I blink.
Sexclubs.
Not bars. Not gyms. Not private member lounges where rich men drink $900 whiskey and pretend they have depth.Sex clubs. Plural.
Oh god.
I stare at him like I’ve never seen him before, even though he’s right there, shirtless, towel in hand, casually getting ready for bed in his low-hung grey sweatpants like he didn’t just drop the kind of information you should only tell a woman after she’s had at least five stiff drinks, not mid-boob ogle in the bathroom.
My brain tries to compute this. Fails.
Becausewhat even isa sex club owner? Like, what does that mean in real life? Am I supposed to know all the ways a personcan be tied up? Or how an orgy even works? Because I do not. I can’t even perform a good striptease. I once got tangled in my own bra straps mid-strip and almost dislocated a shoulder. Also, is there a code word for “I’ve made a terrible mistake and need to leave immediately”, or do you just scream and hope for the best?
And what kind of sex do you have to enjoy to even start one, let alone five?
It’s at this point that my panic sets in.