Sailor Moon Fan Fiction ❯ The Real Hedonist ❯ When The Stiletto Fits... ( Chapter 1 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Louise Proell 
Anime/Manga: Sailor Moon Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Comedy / Romance | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 08.23.2006 | Pages: 1 | Words: 2.6K | Visits: 179 | Status: Work In Progress
Anime/Manga: Sailor Moon Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Comedy / Romance | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 08.23.2006 | Pages: 1 | Words: 2.6K | Visits: 179 | Status: Work In Progress
Disclaimer: No Sailor Moon for me.
Leave comments, please. Hopefully, you guys like it, since Mina stories aren't written a lot.
The Real Hedonist
Chapter One - When The Stilleto Fits...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------
Oh. My. God.
What have I done? Why? Why?
I stare down at Tyler's still form, his chest rising up and done in perfect harmony. Tyler Markham, my co-worker.
Oh Christ. This is a new low for me.
I pause in my nervous (albeit silent) pacing, and force myself to sit down on the corner of my bed. OK, think. This is a simple situation, really. All I have to do is tell Tyler that he should mention this to absolutely no one, and we'll just avoid each other at any point in the future. I breathe out. Yes, yes, good plan.
It just shows how being calm and collected in these types of...um, circumstances really helps out. I'm sure Tyler will agree with what I will have to say. I mean, it's his job, too. And plus it would never work out, and then it'd just be awkward whenever we see each other. Everyone else will treat us differently, I'll be known as someone who slept with a co-worker. Maybe Tyler will even say that I guilted him into the relationship!
Wait. What am I saying? I don't even like him.
I watch his face as I think about the speech I will have to deliver in about thirty minutes. I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It's six twelve. Soon I'll have to wake him up, straighten things out and make sure he understands what will happen and why it'll happen. Not that Tyler is stupid or anything; he wouldn't work at a prestigious scouting agency if he was, but there's still the chance that he won't want to break it off or part in a fairly civilized manner.
I really wouldn't know-we haven't exchanged two words before last night.
I get up again, to pace across the room, cursing the awful Christmas party we workers had to dutifully attend. As if they didn't work us hard enough. Of course any sane person would immediately stake out the open bar and order a couple of drinks to dull the otherwise strong and painful voice that reminded you that business dinner parties were your least favourite thing in the world because you have to endure them and watch yourself at the same time so you don't accidently make an ass of yourself by engaging in an embarrasing dance ritual, or drink enough to make an alcoholic proud and promptly make horrifying conversational attempts with the most important person in the room.
OK. Calm down. There's no need to recall that memory of a fairly new girl asking the seventy-year-old guests of honor if they still had sex.
My momentary nervous breakdown was put on hold as the subject in question stirred under the sheets. Time to get into my hussler-mode and be ready to talk sense (and if that failed, threaten to tell everyone he was a lousy lover) into him.
Not that I remember, being so thoroughly drunk I must have forgotten my own mother's name after all those delicious Cosmopolitans and Manhattans. (I have a rule that in public I must only drink lady-like cocktails, and reserve my favourite Gulping Vodka Straight From the Bottle practice only for utterly private moments where no breathing human being can lay eyes on me).
“M-Mina?” Tyler wondered quietly, stiffling a big yawn. What a charmer.
“Uhh, yes... it's me,” I said lamely, wilting on the inside. My lack of eloquence sometimes makes me cry. I focused on his stunned face.
“Did we-I mean, last night...” he trailed off, staring at me expectedly. Maybe it's because he has only just awakened, but I don't remember ever greeting him half-dressed in the morning.
I ponder for a split second and review my options. It's times like these that make me wish I had my notepad to write it all out. Tyler does not know whether or not we have actually “done it.” I am 80 percent certain we had. What if the knowledge of our drunk one-night stand would somehow make him think that we are in a relatioship? Yes, I know what a far stretch that it; men in the New York look for a noncommital fuck before moving on. But, again, I have no clue what Tyler is like, and I can't risk jeopardizing my career at the office because of whatever he thinks.
So going out on a limb, I confirm: “No, actually. We came close, though. But I was still wearing my underwear when I woke up.” What can I say? I'm a sensational liar.
“Oh,” he said plainly. His short brown hair is messed up, he clutches the white sheet guardedly and seems eternally relieved. Wow, I did not know the prospect of having had to do anything sexual with me was so unpleasant. “That's good 'cause I have a girlfriend.”
I blinked.
Erase anything I had thought about Tyler prior to those words.
He smiles wolfishly up at me, and glances at the clock. “Right--well, I'm sure that a testimant to how wild the party was. I guess we're not going to drink so much next time, right, Mina?”
I return the smile, albeit steelily. “Sure,” I reply noncommitedly. Wow, am I resisting the urge to rip out his tongue.
Standing up from the bed, I concluded that I must leave this unholy place as soon as humanly possible. Tyler's revelation really did not leave me feeling well. Apparently he had not received the hint of my sudden claustrophobia because he merrily went on talking about his supposed girlfriend. "I would have went with her to the dinner but she was out of the city. She's a PR person, you know, very important. Had to go with a client..." My mind successfully drowned out his incessant voice as I desparately searched for my overly extrevagant and expensive Fendi handbag. It seems that during our drunk passion and need, my slinky, silver dress and bag to match had been discarded as well as Tyler's dinner jacket and pants.
Fortunately I had donned my designer dress before he had woke up, the sleek farbic somewhat crumpled after spending the night under Tyler's bed. Which did not put me in a better mood, considering the price tag. My bag was, however, another story.
Struck with a sudden inspiration, I ran out into the living room where my heels lay on separate sides of the room, and my bag carefully set down on the neon green couch.
Collecting my personal belongings, I had surveyed the room as I had not the previous day. It was done up bright colors (presummably by the girlfriend) with an ugly bright red sofa chair in the corner of the room and dark blue wallpaper. Well, at least the fact that she had no taste whatsoever in interior design, and by default, men, made me feel a tinsy bit better. And I was sleeping with her boyfriend, not she with mine.
"I'll see you at work, then, all right?" Tyler said slowly, coming out of his bedroom. "I'm glad we understand each other on this." He gave me an easy grin, and I wanted to shout at him, throw my heels at him, something! Honestly, I was relieved that there no proverbial strings attached to the one night, but he was supposed to be begging me to reconsider, not him smiling slyly at me like we were partners in crime or something.
"Whatever, Tyler." I tugged on my heels, grabbed my coat and sped out the door. Man, did I feel like shit. I tapped my foot against the bare floor, checking my watch impatiently. Honestly, don't you hate it when the elevator just seems to wizz by when you don't need it but when you do, it'll take an actual half an hour getting to your floor? The same thing with the subway trains, or taxis. When you're waiting for someone to get off at the stop so you can go to a dinner, or a movie, it seems there's a train every thirty seconds. But when it's you who needs to get downtown urgently, it will take at least ten minutes to come around.
Besides, it was too fucking early for anyone to be awake, what business did the elevator have being occupied?
Mercifully, the doors opened and a very beautiful woman stepped out. She let out a gasp of surprise, starring at my dishevelled appearance, the wrinkled dress, my face pale and without make-up. I felt about two feet high as she swooped past me in an expensive fur coat. I hoped some animal activist would pour paint all over it.
I stepped out of the building, feeling the chill. OK, so I was in that morning-ugly-looking phase before I had the chance to make myself up, have my coffee, shower, etc. And for what? Sex I didn't remember?
What a terrible way to start the day.
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When I finally made it to my apartment, there were three calls waiting. I threw my coat on the nearest chair, and shot straight to the bathroom, to inspect the damage.
Oh, God.
I looked awful. My face was all sallow, and nasty-looking, and my eyes had dark circles around them where the mascara and eyeliner I was wearing the night before smudged. See, this is what I mean. Teenage girls buy make-up by the boatload because we are constantly told that we need it to look beautiful. (Hey, companies can deny that all they want, but I don't see them mentioning that us girls will be able to stand up to anyone's standard without a gob of chemicals smeared all over our faces. And after all, they always imply that if you want to be beautiful and striking, use their cosmetics). And then you'd have some up-tight crow giving a press conference that all girls are beautiful no matter, which is a bunch of bullshit. We wouldn't need to buy your products if that were true, not would we?
So after we use the make-up for about twenty years and finally wise up, or get the courage to think that we are actually very beautiful without it, our skin is ruined, pores show, and we look like a shell of our former selves. And the only way to look good is to smear some more make-up on, thereby destroying our skin even further. It's a total Catch-22.
Yes, it was definitely too much thought before I had my morning coffee.
I washed my face as gently as I could, before walking back to the livingroom to hear my messages.
The first was from Ann. Her upset tone wafted to my ears.
"Ugh, you won't believe it! He fucking dumped me! Jesus, we had the dinner, and then he's like, "I'm sorry, but this isn't working for me. I need some space." Can you fucking believe his nerve? After a year and a half!" Jenna screeched, breathing heavily. I could tell from the slight slur in her voice that she was already drunk, or at least on her way. "Anyway, I'm just calling to tell you that. I'm at a bar downtown. We'll see who misses who tomorrow!"
She slammed down the phone.
Ann had been going out with Mark for a year and a half, like she said, and Ann thought that it was finally getting serious. As in, he was going to ask her to move in with him, propose, or similar actions that would put her on some solid ground. For all the time they had went out, it was only dates, with Mark moving any stuff Jenna had left behind in his apartment (a la Carrie Bradshaw) back to her place. It left her feeling dispirited but determined to get the ring.
Ann is one of those girls who could probably have any guy she wants, and yet she sets her eyes on the one who's content to dick her around.
Another thing I should mention about her, is that she's fucking crazy. And I can call her that, because we're friends. Her last boyfriend, who broke up with her via email, got his little brownstone (don't ask me what he was doing there) severly egged and TP'd, along with a trail of garbage on his walk-up. It all taught us the lessons that if we ever did stop being friends with Ann, we had to arrange to move out of the city, change out names, and live in fear for the rest of our lives.
The next one was from Richard. I tiredly listened to it, wanting to lie down somewhere and sleep. "Hey, Mina. I was wondering what you were doing this week? You could come up to my place and we could... celebrate the New Year." His voice was delibarately low and husky. "Call me."
Richard is a good fuck. I can always rely on him if there's no other guy, but I can't stomach his goddamn attempts at sounding hot. Trust me, rough voice is nothing compared to knowing the guy is hung like a horse and knows how to use it.
The last message was from my sister, Abby: "Mina! Hello, there. We just wanted to let you know that we're holding Andrew's first birthday party on Thursday. It's at 4, at our house. See you there!"
Abby, Abby. I love my sister, but she's like the perfect little girl for Mom and Dad. They always bitched at us when we were teenagers, to settle down with the right guy, and give them lots of grandkids. Apparently, the time that was not spent with us during our childhood would go to our kids.
Of course Abby took this to heart. She went off and got married at 27, had her kid when she was 29, and now is a content soccer-mom-in-the-making. Her husband Pete insisted that she quit working and stay at home and plop out babies while he brought home the check. I always wondered how she could do that, leaving herself totally uncovered in case Peter would ever leave her. I never told her, though, she'd probably call up Mom and whine that I was wishing her marriage fell apart.
Abby is a decent sister, but there's just something about living with someone for 16 years that makes you sick of them. But hey, I was two years younger, which would lift my spirits.
And a party! Great, now my week was really set. There would be all those stay-at-home moms that Abby no doubt gathered around her, all clucking and cooing over Andrew. Oh, fuck, I definitely needed Ann (or any non-mom, for that matter) to be there.
But first, first I needed a nap, and maybe some schnapps.
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Well, what did you think? Like it? Don't like it? Leave one and tell me.
Leave comments, please. Hopefully, you guys like it, since Mina stories aren't written a lot.
The Real Hedonist
Chapter One - When The Stilleto Fits...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------
Oh. My. God.
What have I done? Why? Why?
I stare down at Tyler's still form, his chest rising up and done in perfect harmony. Tyler Markham, my co-worker.
Oh Christ. This is a new low for me.
I pause in my nervous (albeit silent) pacing, and force myself to sit down on the corner of my bed. OK, think. This is a simple situation, really. All I have to do is tell Tyler that he should mention this to absolutely no one, and we'll just avoid each other at any point in the future. I breathe out. Yes, yes, good plan.
It just shows how being calm and collected in these types of...um, circumstances really helps out. I'm sure Tyler will agree with what I will have to say. I mean, it's his job, too. And plus it would never work out, and then it'd just be awkward whenever we see each other. Everyone else will treat us differently, I'll be known as someone who slept with a co-worker. Maybe Tyler will even say that I guilted him into the relationship!
Wait. What am I saying? I don't even like him.
I watch his face as I think about the speech I will have to deliver in about thirty minutes. I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It's six twelve. Soon I'll have to wake him up, straighten things out and make sure he understands what will happen and why it'll happen. Not that Tyler is stupid or anything; he wouldn't work at a prestigious scouting agency if he was, but there's still the chance that he won't want to break it off or part in a fairly civilized manner.
I really wouldn't know-we haven't exchanged two words before last night.
I get up again, to pace across the room, cursing the awful Christmas party we workers had to dutifully attend. As if they didn't work us hard enough. Of course any sane person would immediately stake out the open bar and order a couple of drinks to dull the otherwise strong and painful voice that reminded you that business dinner parties were your least favourite thing in the world because you have to endure them and watch yourself at the same time so you don't accidently make an ass of yourself by engaging in an embarrasing dance ritual, or drink enough to make an alcoholic proud and promptly make horrifying conversational attempts with the most important person in the room.
OK. Calm down. There's no need to recall that memory of a fairly new girl asking the seventy-year-old guests of honor if they still had sex.
My momentary nervous breakdown was put on hold as the subject in question stirred under the sheets. Time to get into my hussler-mode and be ready to talk sense (and if that failed, threaten to tell everyone he was a lousy lover) into him.
Not that I remember, being so thoroughly drunk I must have forgotten my own mother's name after all those delicious Cosmopolitans and Manhattans. (I have a rule that in public I must only drink lady-like cocktails, and reserve my favourite Gulping Vodka Straight From the Bottle practice only for utterly private moments where no breathing human being can lay eyes on me).
“M-Mina?” Tyler wondered quietly, stiffling a big yawn. What a charmer.
“Uhh, yes... it's me,” I said lamely, wilting on the inside. My lack of eloquence sometimes makes me cry. I focused on his stunned face.
“Did we-I mean, last night...” he trailed off, staring at me expectedly. Maybe it's because he has only just awakened, but I don't remember ever greeting him half-dressed in the morning.
I ponder for a split second and review my options. It's times like these that make me wish I had my notepad to write it all out. Tyler does not know whether or not we have actually “done it.” I am 80 percent certain we had. What if the knowledge of our drunk one-night stand would somehow make him think that we are in a relatioship? Yes, I know what a far stretch that it; men in the New York look for a noncommital fuck before moving on. But, again, I have no clue what Tyler is like, and I can't risk jeopardizing my career at the office because of whatever he thinks.
So going out on a limb, I confirm: “No, actually. We came close, though. But I was still wearing my underwear when I woke up.” What can I say? I'm a sensational liar.
“Oh,” he said plainly. His short brown hair is messed up, he clutches the white sheet guardedly and seems eternally relieved. Wow, I did not know the prospect of having had to do anything sexual with me was so unpleasant. “That's good 'cause I have a girlfriend.”
I blinked.
Erase anything I had thought about Tyler prior to those words.
He smiles wolfishly up at me, and glances at the clock. “Right--well, I'm sure that a testimant to how wild the party was. I guess we're not going to drink so much next time, right, Mina?”
I return the smile, albeit steelily. “Sure,” I reply noncommitedly. Wow, am I resisting the urge to rip out his tongue.
Standing up from the bed, I concluded that I must leave this unholy place as soon as humanly possible. Tyler's revelation really did not leave me feeling well. Apparently he had not received the hint of my sudden claustrophobia because he merrily went on talking about his supposed girlfriend. "I would have went with her to the dinner but she was out of the city. She's a PR person, you know, very important. Had to go with a client..." My mind successfully drowned out his incessant voice as I desparately searched for my overly extrevagant and expensive Fendi handbag. It seems that during our drunk passion and need, my slinky, silver dress and bag to match had been discarded as well as Tyler's dinner jacket and pants.
Fortunately I had donned my designer dress before he had woke up, the sleek farbic somewhat crumpled after spending the night under Tyler's bed. Which did not put me in a better mood, considering the price tag. My bag was, however, another story.
Struck with a sudden inspiration, I ran out into the living room where my heels lay on separate sides of the room, and my bag carefully set down on the neon green couch.
Collecting my personal belongings, I had surveyed the room as I had not the previous day. It was done up bright colors (presummably by the girlfriend) with an ugly bright red sofa chair in the corner of the room and dark blue wallpaper. Well, at least the fact that she had no taste whatsoever in interior design, and by default, men, made me feel a tinsy bit better. And I was sleeping with her boyfriend, not she with mine.
"I'll see you at work, then, all right?" Tyler said slowly, coming out of his bedroom. "I'm glad we understand each other on this." He gave me an easy grin, and I wanted to shout at him, throw my heels at him, something! Honestly, I was relieved that there no proverbial strings attached to the one night, but he was supposed to be begging me to reconsider, not him smiling slyly at me like we were partners in crime or something.
"Whatever, Tyler." I tugged on my heels, grabbed my coat and sped out the door. Man, did I feel like shit. I tapped my foot against the bare floor, checking my watch impatiently. Honestly, don't you hate it when the elevator just seems to wizz by when you don't need it but when you do, it'll take an actual half an hour getting to your floor? The same thing with the subway trains, or taxis. When you're waiting for someone to get off at the stop so you can go to a dinner, or a movie, it seems there's a train every thirty seconds. But when it's you who needs to get downtown urgently, it will take at least ten minutes to come around.
Besides, it was too fucking early for anyone to be awake, what business did the elevator have being occupied?
Mercifully, the doors opened and a very beautiful woman stepped out. She let out a gasp of surprise, starring at my dishevelled appearance, the wrinkled dress, my face pale and without make-up. I felt about two feet high as she swooped past me in an expensive fur coat. I hoped some animal activist would pour paint all over it.
I stepped out of the building, feeling the chill. OK, so I was in that morning-ugly-looking phase before I had the chance to make myself up, have my coffee, shower, etc. And for what? Sex I didn't remember?
What a terrible way to start the day.
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When I finally made it to my apartment, there were three calls waiting. I threw my coat on the nearest chair, and shot straight to the bathroom, to inspect the damage.
Oh, God.
I looked awful. My face was all sallow, and nasty-looking, and my eyes had dark circles around them where the mascara and eyeliner I was wearing the night before smudged. See, this is what I mean. Teenage girls buy make-up by the boatload because we are constantly told that we need it to look beautiful. (Hey, companies can deny that all they want, but I don't see them mentioning that us girls will be able to stand up to anyone's standard without a gob of chemicals smeared all over our faces. And after all, they always imply that if you want to be beautiful and striking, use their cosmetics). And then you'd have some up-tight crow giving a press conference that all girls are beautiful no matter, which is a bunch of bullshit. We wouldn't need to buy your products if that were true, not would we?
So after we use the make-up for about twenty years and finally wise up, or get the courage to think that we are actually very beautiful without it, our skin is ruined, pores show, and we look like a shell of our former selves. And the only way to look good is to smear some more make-up on, thereby destroying our skin even further. It's a total Catch-22.
Yes, it was definitely too much thought before I had my morning coffee.
I washed my face as gently as I could, before walking back to the livingroom to hear my messages.
The first was from Ann. Her upset tone wafted to my ears.
"Ugh, you won't believe it! He fucking dumped me! Jesus, we had the dinner, and then he's like, "I'm sorry, but this isn't working for me. I need some space." Can you fucking believe his nerve? After a year and a half!" Jenna screeched, breathing heavily. I could tell from the slight slur in her voice that she was already drunk, or at least on her way. "Anyway, I'm just calling to tell you that. I'm at a bar downtown. We'll see who misses who tomorrow!"
She slammed down the phone.
Ann had been going out with Mark for a year and a half, like she said, and Ann thought that it was finally getting serious. As in, he was going to ask her to move in with him, propose, or similar actions that would put her on some solid ground. For all the time they had went out, it was only dates, with Mark moving any stuff Jenna had left behind in his apartment (a la Carrie Bradshaw) back to her place. It left her feeling dispirited but determined to get the ring.
Ann is one of those girls who could probably have any guy she wants, and yet she sets her eyes on the one who's content to dick her around.
Another thing I should mention about her, is that she's fucking crazy. And I can call her that, because we're friends. Her last boyfriend, who broke up with her via email, got his little brownstone (don't ask me what he was doing there) severly egged and TP'd, along with a trail of garbage on his walk-up. It all taught us the lessons that if we ever did stop being friends with Ann, we had to arrange to move out of the city, change out names, and live in fear for the rest of our lives.
The next one was from Richard. I tiredly listened to it, wanting to lie down somewhere and sleep. "Hey, Mina. I was wondering what you were doing this week? You could come up to my place and we could... celebrate the New Year." His voice was delibarately low and husky. "Call me."
Richard is a good fuck. I can always rely on him if there's no other guy, but I can't stomach his goddamn attempts at sounding hot. Trust me, rough voice is nothing compared to knowing the guy is hung like a horse and knows how to use it.
The last message was from my sister, Abby: "Mina! Hello, there. We just wanted to let you know that we're holding Andrew's first birthday party on Thursday. It's at 4, at our house. See you there!"
Abby, Abby. I love my sister, but she's like the perfect little girl for Mom and Dad. They always bitched at us when we were teenagers, to settle down with the right guy, and give them lots of grandkids. Apparently, the time that was not spent with us during our childhood would go to our kids.
Of course Abby took this to heart. She went off and got married at 27, had her kid when she was 29, and now is a content soccer-mom-in-the-making. Her husband Pete insisted that she quit working and stay at home and plop out babies while he brought home the check. I always wondered how she could do that, leaving herself totally uncovered in case Peter would ever leave her. I never told her, though, she'd probably call up Mom and whine that I was wishing her marriage fell apart.
Abby is a decent sister, but there's just something about living with someone for 16 years that makes you sick of them. But hey, I was two years younger, which would lift my spirits.
And a party! Great, now my week was really set. There would be all those stay-at-home moms that Abby no doubt gathered around her, all clucking and cooing over Andrew. Oh, fuck, I definitely needed Ann (or any non-mom, for that matter) to be there.
But first, first I needed a nap, and maybe some schnapps.
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Well, what did you think? Like it? Don't like it? Leave one and tell me.