Come Party with a Doxy!

*singing* "Oh, it's party time...havin' a par-tay!" ~I forget whose song that is, and I'm too lazy to look it up, and I know it would take less energy than typing this sentence, but you'll get over it.

This summer has been a crazy one. First there was the release of the anthology, Summer Heat, followed by the extended version of my short, Shaken and Stirred (both of which are available to download for FREE in case you slept through June and July).  And if I was excited for those two, I'm ALL THE WAY TURNED UP about ---->> The Doxy's Daybook: A Friday In Two Acts  


A bit about this story before I give you a lick of the INK I've been teasing you with.  This book went through a lot of transformations from "Act 1" to "The End". My editor and my character are both very strong-willed (stubborn) women, and they had differing opinions on how this story should be told.  My editor thought the character was too brash—my character, Roz, politely told my editor to, uh, well I won't repeat it. Suffice it to say, things were tense for a while, with me, the lowly author stuck in the middle.

In the end, and with a well-made argument, Roz won out.  (No worries, my editor and I are still on speaking terms).  But we all agreed the best way for this story to be told would be the exact way Roz tells it.  'Kay, I'll stop rambling, here's the Lick:

Blurb:  Call her Roz.  All of her fans do...

Follow along with Rosalyn Patrice Hayes, a professional doxy.  She's more than an actress, she's "a permanent affair." Every day, this southern-born beauty stars in a play she's also written and produced for an audience that doubles as co-star.  It's a performance showing on a stage way off Broadway, the grandest stage of all—the hustle and bustle of life in New York.  Told in 1st person, from the time the curtains go up until  they go down you'll find yourself mesmerized by each deliciously naughty act.  

Warning: 18+ Only! This title contains erotic scenes, graphic language, anal sex, M/M sex, M/F/M sex, Cowboy sex, F/F sex, (sheesh, there's a lot of sex) on a desk, sex toys, some light bondage,  interracial/international sex, and a doxy with a smart mouth. Yep, that should cover it.

Excerpt:  My gaze sweeps the small crowd and falls upon a woman perched elegantly on her chair.  Thin, rouged lips sip clear liquid from a goblet, dark eyes scrutinizing my very presence.  I know who she is and she knows of me, although she should not.  It’s under the most unfortunate of circumstances that our awareness of each other is mutual. 

She rises, abandoning her meal, arriving at my table with a face full of fury and a body quaking with liquid courage.

“I know what you do,” she hisses vehemently, eyes blazing.  As I suspect she smells of vodka and the water glass is a ruse.  A prop.  Hands braced on my table she leans over to highlight her point.  “I know what you are, you disgusting—”

“Maria.”  That I’ve spoken her name only confirms what she already knows, but her face pales, eyes widen that I’d be so bold to admit it.  I motion for her to take a seat. 

“You smug bitch!”

Heads turn toward the outburst.

“Please, sit.  There’s no reason to make a production of this.”  She considers my words, pulls out the chair and drops into it.  “Would you like your meal brought over?”

“What?  You act like we’re friends.  I do not consort with hookers!”

Maria Burwell—yes that Maria Burwell, “of the Manhattan Burwells”—is married to one of the wealthiest men in the City.  As such, she is the consummate socialite, attending every posh event with next season’s “it” bag in one hand and a stiff drink in the other.  Educated as she is in the art of polite society, you’d think she knows the difference between a run-of-the-mill prostitute and a professional doxy such as myself.  Further, half of the people she “consorts” with actually fall into the category she’s accusing me of.

“Maria,” I begin again, my tone even.  “I understand—”

Her fist strikes the table, rattling my water, reminding me I’ve yet to receive my wine.  “I will not sit here and allow you to patronize me.  You listen to me, you little cunt.  I don’t care what you think you understand.  Only thing you need to do is stay away from my husband!”

There is no talking sense to some people.  She’s content to cast me the villain and I have no problem playing the role.  As I said, acting is adapting; if she wants drama, she’s come to the right place.

“What you’ve failed to realize, Maria, is that I’m not the one who initiated this affair, your husband did.” I offer it casually, voice inflected as though we’re old acquaintances having a nice chat.  “And when Charles deems our relationship over, it will be.  You’ve nothing to worry about from me.”

Appalled, her mouth drops open wide enough to let all of that hot air escape if she’s not careful. 

“Do you know who I am?”

See what I mean?  I’m aware her question is rhetorical, the acrimonious response of someone with more affluence than common sense, but it seems she’s the one who’s forgotten her role. 

“Everyone knows who you are, Maria.  You do make a habit of embarrassing yourself at every turn.”  I pause for a swallow of water; place the glass back on the table.  “At the mayor’s luncheon, you were so drunk you lifted your dress bare-assed.” 

I’d arrived near the end of the soiree for an appointment, just in time to witness the woman’s flowing green gown go skyward.

Chuckling softly at the memory I add, “And right now you’re on the verge of giving us all a repeat performance.”

She glances around, seeing the eyes, the reproachful shakes of heads. 

“These people don’t know what you are, but I do.”

I take a deep breath.  “And what am I, Maria?”

“You. Are. A. Whore.” Lips curl into a snarl as she snips off each word.

“That’s where you’re wrong.  I’m a doxy.” Her eyes narrow to slits, a frown marring her perfectly arched brow.  “Allow me to explain.  See, a whore doesn’t warrant a second thought.  A whore is a fast fuck in an empty closet, or on the subway.  A whore is nothing more than a passing fancy, a means to satisfy an immediate human urge.  Whores are…”—I shrug—“base.

“Now a doxy like me,”—I lean forward, voice still low, eyes boring into hers.  “I’m that random smile on your husband’s face in the middle of the day, Maria.  I’m the pep in his step in the morning while you dawdle over the banality of which bag will match which shoes; contemplate what you and the girls will have for lunch over at Lupa’s in the Village. And when he finally pushes through the door after working late, yet again, I’m the only reason Charles can stomach coming home to you at night.”

Monologues always have been a strong suit for me, even short, spontaneous ones such as this. 

I wait, but as expected Maria has no response; mouth working but nothing comes out.  Poor thing has forgotten her lines. 

A shadow appears to my left and I look up at the newcomer.

“Is everything all right here, ladies?” Marc’s eyes shift nervously between us.

“Everything’s fine, Marc.  Maria and I were just arguing semantics, and I believe I’ve won the debate.”

She stands to leave.  The air on the moral high ground must be thinner as Maria looks very much like she might faint.  Turning on tipsy legs, she stumbles away from Peacock Alley, leaving me in peace.

“She’s a problem that Mrs. Burwell.”  Marc sighs, hands clasped behind his back, watching the woman’s retreating form.  “Didn’t even pay her bill.  All that money can’t buy class, as they say.”  He turns to me.  “I’ll see what’s keeping your lunch, my dear.”

Marc shuffles away and I’m left to review the encounter. 

I understand why some might take issue with my profession; argue that what I do is wrong, immoral even.  But I learned long ago there is no right or wrong in life, there is only choice. 

Take the Burwells, choosing to continue in a loveless marriage to keep up appearances.  Many years ago, Maria had a relationship with her husband’s business associate, a man who almost ran Burwell Industrial into the ground, embezzling funds using information provided by none other than Mrs. Holier-than-thou. As everyone in the Manhattan scene knows, nothing hurts business quite like a scandal, and the Burwell divorce might have gone down as the disgrace of the decade. 

Still hurt by the situation but unable to leave his wife for the sake of the company, Charles sought out my services.  Maria found comfort in socializing and alcohol—the higher the proof the better.

Things were fine until the couple’s recent attempt to reconcile when, in the throws of passion, Charles called his wife “Roz”.  Repeatedly.  An argument followed, and I assume she has since caught sight of me leaving my appointments with her husband.

And so, two years since my arrival, the couple pretends all is fine in the Burwell house; Maria up to her ears in vodka, and Charles balls deep in his doxy. 

* * * *

I know, I'm a tease.  But here's the best part... it's just 99 cents! 
So what are you waiting for? Oh, right, the buy links! Of course:

Doxy on AllRomanceEbooks
Doxy on Smashwords
Doxy on Excite Ebooks

Amazon and coming soon!

Don't forget, sharing is caring. So help spread the word. And join me next week when I sit down with Roz and have an in-depth interview about what it is to be a doxy...

Thanks for coming to party, and thanks for Licking My INK!