I have a lot of favorite things.

First – sex. Hey, I’m a twenty-one (almost twenty-two, hey!) year old man. What do you think the first one of my favorite things was going to be? My dogs? Fuck that shit.

Second – performing. Nothing else comes close to it - a bunch of horny girls screaming your name and wanting nothing more than to fuck you. It’s awesome. And I get to meet some pretty fucking awesome people and work with them too. And, even better, if they are a member of the opposite sex, I probably get to fuck them.

Three – Driving Lauren Wiggins absolutely bat shit insane. It is, like sex and performing, something I happen to be really good at. And something I can do all the time when I’m not having sex, performing, or sleeping. Or taking a shit – although there was that moment in New York last week and I called her instead of hotel maintenance to unclog my toilet from the massive deuce I left behind.

It was truly a glorious, glorious moment and something I will cherish until I do something else that will cause Lauren to wake up at two in the morning to handle shit I could very well take care of myself.

But hey, if she’s getting paid, why the fuck should I have to do it?

I really think the only reason I keep this chick around is because I love it when her eyes bug out of her head when I ask her to do something bordering the impossible.

Like two days ago when we were on the jet coming back from a promotional tour in New York City. I casually told her that I needed her to plan my birthday party that I wanted thrown for me in LA in three days time. I thought her eyes were going to pop right out of their sockets.

I guess she didn’t read the memo that I always have a birthday in Los Angeles, schedule permitting, and I always have the after party at my house.

Which is why she’s running about my home like a fucking gerbil trying to clean it up because Trace cancelled the cleaners since they come ‘too early and wake the whole house up.’

There is something really, really funny watching Wiggins vacuum my living room in her cheap ass business suits and high heels. So Trace and I have set up camp on the couches with chips and dip, watching her intently when the commercials come on for Sports Center.

“Dude, Wiggins,” Trace begins as he lobs a chip over the coffee table and onto the floor, “you missed a spot.”

She ignores us as she pushes the vacuum over the offending chip and continues with her work.

And look, I’d be fucking lying if I said that she didn’t get shit done. Sure she had that fuck up the first day of the job, but now Trace and I just tease her about it without mercy every chance we get. But she was on fucking point in New York, and sure my late night party schedule and my sleep time were severely cut down, but I was on time for everything and somewhat functioning most of the time.

Does she know I kind of appreciate her hard work? Hell fucking no. The fact that I haven’t fired her ass and continue to pay her should be enough gratitude.

Trace continues to litter the carpet with chips and I would be joining him in this endeavor if I weren’t high as a fucking kite. Chips on the floor only to get sucked up by Lauren’s vacuum are not helping the wave of munchies in my stomach.

“Knock it off, Trace. At least throw them into my mouth if you’re going to be chucking them anywhere.” And for the next five minutes Trace is trying to throw chips into my open mouth. Most of them are just landing onto the couch and I know Lauren’s going to have to clean it up later, but what the fuck ever, man. This shit is funny as fuck.

Once the laughter has subsided and all the chips have made it from the bag to either the floor, the couch, or one of our stomachs, I turn to Lauren who has just finished her sweeping of the massive living room.

“Anything else?” she asks as she leans against the cleaner.

“Yeah. You need to pick my mom up from the airport tonight,” I explain before I start to giggle, “And it’s Burbank airport, so don’t wind up at LAX again.” Trace’s eyes widen and he begins to cackle and soon I’m joining him.

I’m sorry, but that shit is never going to get old.

“Sure, no problem,” Lauren responds and soon she’s wrapping the cord of the vacuum cleaner up and storing it wherever we keep the vacuum cleaner. I don’t know, I just paid for the damn thing; do you really expect me to use it?

But that’s what is so dope about Lauren. She’s so submissive I fucking love it. She’s nothing like my old PA, who was basically afraid of my shadow and would be reduced to tears every time I tried to give her a fucking task to do.

Lauren just puts her head down and does the work. No task is too difficult and if it is, she doesn’t let me or anyone else know. And the best part is, every time I insult her it’s like she looks at me and says ‘thank you sir, may I have another?”

And that is fucking AWESOME.

--

You know, I’m going to take the time to give myself a pat on the back.

Sure, I feel like an idiot rushing down the hallway where the bathrooms are patting my right shoulder (and I play it off like I’m working a kink out when I get a weird look from some scantily clad woman), but I have managed to pull off this party without Justin yelling at me or Trace screwing it all up.

But that might be because Justin has not left his position since he arrived a few hours ago and is still sitting on a plush couch surrounded by a bunch of people blowing smoke up his ass.

I have to admit he’s been pretty tolerable for the majority of the evening, but I’m sure that will change once he makes his announcement that everyone is to head back to his house for the after party.

For the life of me I can’t understand why he’d have another party. It’s almost three in the morning and by the time everyone gets over to his house it will be closer to four. And I will not be happy if he decides to cancel the party; I spent all day cleaning his house and dealing with setting up for this party.

“Lauren!”

I turn around and see Trace stumble out of the men’s room. He is absolutely hammered and I’m surprised that he’s still standing. But then the door to the bathroom opens again and a girl prances out in six-inch heels, wiping the corner of her mouth.

Oh God, gross.

“I’m going home to fuck this chick,” he yells over the music. It doesn’t seem like the girl heard him because she’s currently staring in the large mirror on the opposite wall, fluffing her hair, “Call us a cab.” Well, at least he’s being responsible and not trying to drive anywhere under the influence.

Trace and his lady friend follow me out onto the main floor as I make a quick phone call to the cab company I have on speed dial. It seems like the party is starting to wind down, the crowd on the dance floor has definitely thinned and there aren’t as many people by the bar. So hopefully this after party won’t be some huge thing. I can handle babysitting a handful of drunks, not an entire club.

“Trace! Wiggins! Get your asses over here!” I turn around and see Justin standing up from his couch. His little throne room is raised above the dance floor, allowing him to survey the entire area.

I grab Trace by the collar of his shirt and drag him away from the girl who is currently gyrating all over the little weasel. She shouts out in indignation and I’m glad the music is loud so I can’t hear her stilettos clacking on the floor.

“’Sup, man?” Trace asks when we reach Justin. He’s returned to his seat on the red suede couch and there is currently a redhead perched on his lap, nibbling on his earlobe.  His hands are resting on her upper thighs and I want to vomit when I notice that he’s started to massage them.

If you have never seen your boss in a sexual situation let me tell you, it is not pleasing, at all.

“Birthday shots!” he proclaims and that’s when I notice five shots of I don’t even know what resting on the table in front of the couch. Trace yells out in jubilation and sits down next to Justin’ his gal pal hot on his heels. She squeals in fake protest as he pulls her down on top of him.

God these two are the biggest morons.

I watch as Justin, Trace, and their women for the evening grab the shots on the table. There’s one left and everyone is looking at me expectantly.

“Well?”

“What?” I ask as I look at my boss with trepidation. He can’t be serious, can he?

“You’re taking a fucking shot, Wiggins,” he demands, his words slurring together.

“No. I don’t drink on the job,” I insist. I would really appreciate it if the cab would call me back to let me know they’re here to pick up Trace. That would be very beneficial to my interests.

“You’ll do what I fucking tell you, and you are going to take this shot for my birthday. I’m twenty-two, Lauren, it’s all down hill from here.”

“Not exactly. I mean, you have to be twenty-five in order to rent a car without extra insurance,” I blurt out just as the DJ stops the song to change a record over. So there is no doubt that everyone on the couch heard me.

“Dude,” Justin says as he shakes his head, “you are so fucking weird, Wiggins. Just do the fucking shot. You know I won’t leave you alone until you do it.”

He has a point, the bastard.

I reach over and pick up the shot and try to hide my smile when everyone cheers. I’m not going to lie; it’s nice to be included and to be considered like an actual party guest instead of running around all night like a woman possessed.

“Happy birthday!” we chorus before the shots are downed. I immediately make a face. I hate vodka. It tastes like straight alcohol to me, but it seems like everyone else has enjoyed it profusely.

And then I’m watching Justin’s redheaded Flavor of the Moment shove her tongue down his throat while she simultaneously straddles him. This is so awkward, and I know he won’t remember this in the morning. And the shot I just took will definitely not make me even the slightest bit tipsy, or buzzed for that matter.

“Wiggins,” he manages to gasp out as Big Red travels down his neck, “Go get the car. We’re…. we’re going home. Now.”

--

It’s another twenty minutes until I manage to get Justin and Big Red into the Escalade. Trace and his harlot rode off into the sunset in a yellow cab heading for whatever crack den she crawled out of. And then Justin felt the need to announce to the entire party to fuck off and not show up at his house. 

So, you know, I cleaned up the whole house for nothing.

There’s a thump in the backseat followed by a crescendo of giggles. Justin and Red are in the back, all over each other. Since the last birthday shot, they have gotten progressively drunker and it has apparently led them to believe that they are being driven home by some magical entity that doesn’t notice the hardcore making out and heavy petting going on in the backseat.

Just keep your eyes on the road. Do not look back. Ignore it. Eyes on the road, Lauren, eyes on the road.

This becomes my mantra as I try to stay as focused as possible. It’s not that I’m interested in watching my boss make out with some hussy; it’s just really distracting to my driving. And the last thing I need is to get into a car accident with my boss in the vehicle.

I continue to drive down Sunset, going through every single Queen song lyric in my head. It takes me another minute to realize that the sound in the back has died down and it’s actually silent.

My eyes dart to the rearview mirror when we stop at a red light, and I see Justin, but not Big Red. He’s leaning back with his arms behind his head, a look of pure satisfaction on his face. It seems like Big Red was drunker than I thought – she’s passed out in the back and that’s why I can’t see her in the mirror.

Thank God.

The light turns green and I step on the gas, thankful that things won’t progress in the backseat.

“Oh fuck, yes…” Justin gasps deeply.

And then I hear the slurping noises from the floor of the backseat.

Oh my Sweet Gentle Jesus and Moses. Oh my God. 

“Hey, Lo-ho, eyes on the road,” Justin manages to snap out and my eyes immediately fly away from the rearview mirror and to the road in front of me.

I cannot believe this is happening. Thank God it’s dark because I can feel the heat rising up in my face to create, what I am sure, is a very deep blush. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

I cannot believe my boss is in the backseat getting a blowjob right now. I cannot.

“Lo-ho,” Justin pants, “I-I need you to pull over…oh fuck. I need you to pull over and get me protection.”

“Excuse me?” I find myself saying incredulously. I know this guy doesn’t like any of his requests questioned, but I’m still trying to wrap my head around that I am involuntarily witnessing a sexual act in the back of the car.

“You heard me. Go to a gas station and…” his voice falls away as he moans and I want to die, “condoms! Just get some fucking condoms.”

I still cannot. Oh sweet Lord Almighty.

And of course I happen to be on the one stretch of Sunset Boulevard that has decided gas stations are a bad idea. Of course.

“Oh yeah, you know Daddy likes that…”

Dirty talk. Of course I would have to listen to dirty talk. And ‘Daddy?’ Seriously? Who the heck is this guy? I knew I was working for a schmuck, but not the biggest one on the face of the planet.

“Does Daddy like this?” Oh! Big Red, she speaks!

Wait, why am I listening to their conversation? Or lack there of? Why am I even in this car? And where the hell is a gas station?

I see the sign of a Shell station in the distance and I don’t care that I speed up and cut a sedan off as I try to reach the station in record time. I cannot get out of this car fast enough.

We pull into the lot, and I try to park as far away from light as possible. I know that Justin will not listen to my requests that they put their love fest on hold while I go get their prophylactics and avoid getting seen due to the blinding fluorescent lights.

I swear to God I have not exited a car so fast in my life.

Walking into the station, I head straight for the counter. There’s no need to browse the store and make it look I’m here for something else. This is what boyfriends must feel like when their girlfriends ask them to go to the store to buy them tampons.

“What can I get you?” the clerk asks. He’s about two hundred pounds overweight and looks like he hasn’t showered in three days. I can see the sweat stains around his neck and armpits and his long black hair that’s shoved under a trucker hat that’s more ugly than Trace’s, looks greasy and unkempt. You could probably cook a burger from the stuff you squeeze out of his hair.

“Um, can I get a pack of Trojans, please?”

He turns around and grabs the standard box off the wall and turns back towards me. I hand him the cash and as he presents me with the receipt he gives me a smirk and a small nod.

Gross.

‘Actually, these are for my superstar boss who is currently contracting some form of STD in the back of his car,’ is what I want to tell him, but I’m pretty sure that would be breaching my confidentiality portion of my work contract.

I walk back across the lot towards the car and stop dead in my tracks when I realize it is rocking back and forth like there is no tomorrow. If I didn’t know what was going on in there, I would suspect someone had decided to throw an impromptu dance party.

But with Justin and Big Red screaming like sex banshees in the backseat, it isn’t hard to decipher what they’re doing.

And I refuse to go back in the store. So I knock on the window of the backseat and I’m not surprised that I’m completely ignored.

Good to know that I risked my dignity to buy you condoms and you aren’t even going to use them, Justin. I really hope he doesn’t blame me when he ends up with crabs or syphilis.

I can totally see that happening.

So I try to drown out the noise by muttering Justin’s schedule under my breath. When that doesn’t work (because hearing Justin’s voice, albeit muffled, yell out ‘give me more, give me more, I’m going to cum,’ is incredibly distracting and embarrassing at the same time) I start to sing Queen, loudly.

I don’t care if I look like a lunatic singing ‘Under Pressure’ at the top of my lungs at a gas station in the middle of the night in the heart of Hollywood while there’s a very expensive car rocking back and forth feet from me. This has to be an every day occurrence in LA so I’m not really bothered.

But I am bothered by the fact that my boss thought it was a good idea to engage in sexual activity while his employee was still in vicinity.

Then again, when does Justin ever think?

There’s a big crescendo of moaning in the car and it finally stops moving. I immediately stop singing and ignore the applause from a group of college guys who were filling up the tank of their car.

I jump as the back window rolls down and Justin’s face appears, a huge shit eating grin on his face. I can’t see Big Red and I really hope she isn’t going for round two.

“Never mind about those condoms, Lauren. But we need to take Kelly…”

“My name is Tina!” Big Red interjects from the other side of the car before she giggles drunkenly.

“Yeah, Tina. We need to take Tina home.”

“So get a move on it Lo-ho!” Tina exalts and Justin starts laughing as I get in the front seat.

“I like that. Lo-ho. I like that a lot,” Justin muses as I pull out of the gas station.

Yeah? Well, I hate you.