Club Desire(7)

By: Amy Brent

As I started back around the desk, I noticed Stacey’s computer bag on the floor. I leaned down and plucked out the black card and slipped it into my back pocket, then sat down behind the desk and let go a long sigh.

So far, it had been a great fucking day.

It was a pity she was a fucking reporter.

Stacey what’s her name would have made one hell of a Specialist.

Chapter 2: Amy Rossetti

I certainly don’t mean to sound conceited, nor do I want to come off as a whiny bitch, but I was so freakin’ tired of men (and some women) judging me by the way I looked rather than for the brains in my head that I just wanted to scream.

I know, I sounded like some shallow bimbo with blonde hair and big tits whining about my life just to get noticed. But in my case, it was the truth. I couldn’t help the way I looked. My dad was an Italian immigrant from Milan and my mom was an Italian-American from Queens. They were both stunningly good-looking people with jet black hair, olive skin, dark eyes, and bright smiles that could light up the world, especially when they were smiling at each other before my mom passed away a few years back.

My six brothers (yes… six!) all favored my dad, but I looked like my mom, the spitting-image, my dad would say with big tears in his eyes. I had the same shoulder-length black hair and bangs, deep blue eyes, wide smile, and—thank Jesus—the same big boobs, and curvy figure. I also had the same fiery attitude. I was an Italian princess from Queens, bitch. I could knock you on your ass with one hand while I drank you under the table with the other, and out-cuss you any day of the motherfucking week. I tried to keep my temper and foul mouth in check, but there wasn’t much I could do about my looks other than play them down as best I could.

So, I never wore makeup when I was working. None. Not a lick. I kept my hair pulled back and rolled into a tight bun at the crown of my head. I wore huge, tortoise shell glasses that were purely for show. I had 20/20 vision. The glasses were purchased off a sample rack at an optometrist shop and the lenses were clear glass. They looked like something my Grandma Leona wore back in the day when I was just a child watching her make homemade pasta in her tiny kitchen.

I wore the most-confining bras I could find to mask the fullness of my tits. I swear, strapping them into that bra was like putting on a bullet-proof vest every morning. It reminded me of a line from an old Bill Murray movie: “Is that a bra you’re wearing or are you expecting an assassination attempt?” It was uncomfortable as fuck, but it helped mash them down pretty well.

I always wore the same style of outfit to work. Black slacks, black jacket, dark top buttoned to the collar, low-heeled shoes, and no jewelry other than an inexpensive watch and my mom’s wedding ring, again, meant to deflect those men who were put off by such things. It didn’t stop them from ogling me, of course, but it slowed them down when they started spewing a line of bullshit they thought would get me in bed.

The truth was, I couldn’t remember the last time a man even got near my bed. I was pretty sure my cooch was covered in cobwebs and would have to be aired out and fumigated before being used again. At the very least, it would need to be thoroughly scrubbed and freshly lubed. Sometimes it even squeaked like a rusty hinge when I walked.

Okay, that was bullshit, but you get the point.

It was a sad state of affairs, given the fact that I sometimes bordered on nymphomania in my youth and loved to fuck as much as the next red-blooded Italian-American girl.

Sadder still was how most fucking these days came with strings. I was not a fan of strings, even if they came tied around a thick, long cock like a Christmas bow.

So, every morning when I looked at the woman in the mirror I just sighed and shook my head at the lengths I had to go to be taken seriously. No makeup, hair in a bun, huge glasses covering my eyes, tits strapped down like watermelons on the back of a farm truck, ass hidden by the jacket, and no jewelry or fingernail polish, not even a swatch of Chapstick for my dry lips.

I looked like a fucking librarian.

And I felt like a fucking fake.

And like hunting dogs on the scent of a fox, men still managed to sniff me out.

Men took one look at my face and my tits and my ass, even disguised as they were, and became blathering idiots. Even though I never dressed provocatively, my looks caused their brains to shift control to their cocks. I cannot tell you how fucking frustrating that could be, especially when I was trying to lead a meeting of mostly-male IT directors from a dozen or so Fortune 100 companies.

That’s what I did for a living. I owned a company, Amy Rossetti and Associates, even though I was the only employee other than my personal assistant, Serena Diaz. I was basically a consultant, an expert in the fields of Computer Science, Internet Technology, and Cybersecurity. Companies hired me to find holes in their networks and to try to breach their security systems, then show them how to plug those holes and patch those systems in exchange for a six-figure check.