Sex, Life, and Hannah » seduction

The beauty of sexual tension…

hannah — Thu, 12 May 2011 16:08:07 +0000

Last night, I was re-reading Chapter 14: Friends...with Benefits and came upon the beginning of one of my favorite storylines in the SLH book series, the interesting relationship that develops between Hannah and her new boss Phillip Ferrari. It made me miss the tension of office romances...and I've had a few:) It also put me on a quest this morning to find that scene out of 9 1/2 Weeks, that inspired me to write this scene:

Room with a View.

hannah — Fri, 04 Mar 2011 20:00:36 +0000

“Why aren’t we getting married?” Jack drags himself over to where I'm sitting and slumps over my lap. I haven't seen Jack drunk in a really long time, “because we have a PACT; because I haven’t lost all hope; because I don’t feel like my ovaries are shriveling up yet; because I really do love Christian.” Jack starts rubbing my calf, “we would be good together. I would make a good husband.” I rub his head a little, “you will make a good husband one day.” Joan, a woman that looks more like a man, walks in, clears her throat and hands me and Jack two freshly made drinks, Jack grabs it, and takes a swig. He then tries to stand, and luckily Joan is there to stabilize him. “So, girl-that’s-marrying-someone-other-than-me, do you want to see the viewing room?” He holds out his hand to me and tells Joan she's done for the day. I take Jack's hand, “I’m not going to walk in on anything bizarre am I?” We start walking out of the library, "says the girl who banged her fiancée in a peep show booth,” Jack gives me a smack on the ass.

Kissing in public.

hannah — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 20:19:28 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 18: KNIGHT IN DARK ARMOR) I’m leaning over the bar, finishing up a cigarette and flirting with the bartender who has been pouring me generous drinks all evening. “You look fucking fantastic,” I hear from behind me. I turn around. It’s Phillip Ferrari, looking pretty fucking fantastic himself. He’s wearing dark jeans and a t-shirt, probably handmade by some up-and-coming designer out of SoHo, and a driving jacket. He looks casual yet sharp, as always. He takes the half-smoked cigarette from between my fingers and drops it in an empty glass. “But you’re going to have to quit that.” Fairly tipsy, I throw caution to the wind and wrap my arms around him. “I started thinking you weren’t going to make it.” He’s clearly taken aback, but gives me a squeeze. “And miss seeing how the rich kids on the West Coast live? Not a chance.” He reaches into his pocket, takes out a pack of mints, and pops one in my mouth. I suck on it happily.

The Cock, the Pool Boy, and the Cardinal

hannah — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 14:48:01 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 18: KNIGHT IN DARK ARMOR) Ireland, Celeste, and I are sipping cocktails on large deck chairs at the pool. Well, except for Celeste, who is sipping mineral water. “Special lady friend?” I tease, taking a sip of my cocktail, which is a lot vodka and a little soda. Ireland hikes up her dress again because it’s barely covering her massive assets—a testament to why a twenty-year-old Hollywood producer wants to play house with her while his parents are out of town. “I think it means he likes me,” she says winking. “My dad calls some of my mom’s friends his ‘special lady friends,’” says Celeste. “But she doesn’t seem to like that.” “Doesn’t it imply someone you just like to get your rocks off with?” I feel Jack and I have talked about this term of not-so-endearment. Celeste scowls at me. Ireland lights up a cigarette. “How would he know what anything means? He’s twenty.” She adjusts her top again and points across the pool from us. “See that guy in the ponytail and white jeans?”

Sleeping your way to…something.

hannah — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 15:04:31 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 17: THE BUSINESS OF PLEASURE) The blue electronic clock lights up 9:33 p.m. on my dash as I drive home from the office. I turn the volume up on a good beat coming from KCRW. I crack my sunroof and breathe in the stiff air. In a town like Los Angeles, you hear a lot about women and men sleeping their way to the top. The streets are littered with posers, and everybody wants to be a celebrity. Sex-and sex tapes—seem to be the golden ticket—Jack has often vouched for that and Holly seems to be living proof. But I was never one of those people. There was no “top” I wanted to sleep to—not here anyway. Sure, I enjoyed the paychecks; and I’d gotten good promotions and the paychecks had gotten bigger. But that was about the only thing I enjoyed. I was just biding my time. Waiting for The Ex and I to get married and then for me to get knocked up and quit. And then…I never planned that far ahead. The sultry sounds of “I Put a Spell on You” come through the airwaves, and I can’t help but find it apropos for what happened tonight. I had crossed a line I never thought I would. I can’t even explain what came over me. It was like I was somebody different, someone…empowered—or completely screwed in the head. I’m not exactly sure what I slept my way into, but it was exactly how I always envisioned it would be. I crank the volume louder.

His mouth is hard, and he’s an awkward kisser, but…

hannah — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 15:43:22 +0000

Photo: Corbis

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 17: THE BUSINESS OF PLEASURE) My office line rings. Why is my office line ringing at eight at night? I look at the caller ID. Why is Phillip Ferrari ringing me on my office line at eight at night? I think about not picking up. He can’t know I’m here. He probably wants to leave me a voicemail about a project; he might even get irritated if I pick up the phone and prevent him from leaving a voicemail—he’s that type of man. Then again… I prep myself to express both surprise and fatigue: “Hello?” “I noticed your light was still on.” His voice is static, yet deep and purposeful. “Are you working on the Benson project or the Bridgeloft project?” I can’t quite put my finger on Phillip Ferrari yet. He works—all the time—and he makes everyone feel like they’re not working enough. All he ever talks about is work—even when we’ve gone out to research “everything L.A. has to offer” as “friends.” He doesn’t like anything about Los Angeles; he complains about how it’s not New York: the service is slow, the people don’t care about their appearance, everyone’s always going somewhere but nothing ever gets done. If he has a drink, it’s only ever one type: Lagavulin single-malt scotch, straight up. I once moved his attaché to make room for some paperwork; he moved it back. His clothes are never frumpled, even when it’s hot; he always rolls up his sleeves—two times, exactly—when he’s not wearing a jacket; and he never talks about his private life, maybe because he doesn’t have one. He lives and breathes his career. How I wish I did. He repeats his question and I snap out of it. “The Benson project; I’m not on the Bridgeloft project, remember?” “Can you come into my office?”

Risky Business

hannah — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 18:17:44 +0000

Things got a little tense Tuesday at the office. Phillip and I needed to talk about the Benson project, and how there were still issues with the contractor. We strategized, and I got up to leave, when he got up too, and grabbed my hand. He said he was really looking forward to seeing me all weekend. We had a moment…and then fucking Aiden, the front desk guy, burst in, freaking out about the monitor in the board room not working. Phillip quickly let go of my hand, and sternly told him that if he ever interrupted again when the door was closed, it would be his last day. Aiden apologized, nervously, but I know he saw something. It was risky what Phillip did, but it made me realize that our relationship meant more to him than just a disposable, casual fuck. There was something more to it, even though he didn’t want to talk about it yet. He wouldn’t risk his reputation, a multi-million-dollar project, or his career if he didn’t…like me. I’m sure there were plenty fitting options clamoring for the seat I was in right now, and he didn’t need complications. I can’t help but obsess a bit over the idea that this could be something real. It makes me want to penetrate him, like he penetrates me. Makes me want to know what’s going on in his mind when he eats, sleeps, and fucks me. It makes me want to make myself so indispensable that he forgets about all of those other women clamoring for the seat. I finish my mimosa and set my glass down on the deck. I crawl up onto him slowly, feeling him, stopping to kiss his smooth chest, and when I notice him stir under me, I make my way back down, and undo the draw string of his pants, and then, the buttons.

The reality of for better or for worse…

hannah — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 15:37:45 +0000

PeeWee, one of my friends on FB, thinks I should go to San Diego this weekend and seduce hubbie. He also thinks we should have a real wedding one day. And that having kids doesn't save a marriage. PeeWee is full of good advice today. But I tell PeeWee I'm not in the mood for any of the above right now. God I used to be such a bitch when hubbie would leave for a production gig. Like a night without him would just burst my little world. I'd make him pay for it, by whining or being cold-hearted or indifferent when I would see him or talk to him on the phone. I'm sure he was thinking "why the eff did I marry this attention whore?" It wasn't about that though. I just want what I want, when I want it, and I can be really impatient. Now, I want some alone time. I don't think that makes him happy either. I know he was kinda upset that I didn't want to drive down with him last weekend, "but I'll be gone for three weeks." I stared at the ceiling as he packed and told him I needed to get more work done on the next book, and get my corporate sponsorship proposal finished, and continue looking for work. Get my life in order. Start kicking some ass and get somewhere with my life, like I used to be able to do, before this...identity crisis.

Sex Shop Adventures.

hannah — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 23:01:08 +0000

We’re at the glass case near the cash register looking at cock rings. Christian tells me he doesn’t want leather or rubber. The big Latin man behind the glass case looks impatient when I point to a big heavy brushed metal ring. “What size?” I look at Christian. He shrugs. The big Latin man rolls his eyes, “you wanna try?” I’m confused. “Me?” And so is Christian. The big Latin man takes out several sizes of the same cock ring and points to two doors to his left. “And her?” Christian points at me, and picks up the heavy metal. The Big Latin Man just stares. I tell Christian I don’t think I have to go in for the sizing. “Oh no, no, no,” he pulls me with his free hand, “this was your idea.”

Sex in an Airplane Bathroom.

hannah — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 20:00:21 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 12: POST-EJACULATORY REMORSE) I’m in my closet preparing for my date with Mr. Smyth. It’s been nearly three weeks since our last date, and it’s our two-month anniversary. Not that I think he’s keeping track, but… I grab a short dress (as in, I-thought-it-was-a-sweater-when-I-first-saw-it-on-the-rack short) and hold it against my body. Yup, it still falls just below my ass. I smile; it’s perfect. I throw on the three-quarter-sleeved black cashmere aphrodisiac and a pair of strappy black heels to match. I head to the bathroom. My face is better, but there’s still a yellowish-green tint around my eyes and nose. I grab the MAC cosmetics bag filled with the all-new makeup I bought the day after my accident, and try to remember how to apply everything in it. And generously—just like the full-figured goth girl behind the counter did. My phone rings. “Something strange happened today.” It’s Jack. “Strange? To you?” Jack saying something strange happened to him is like Rocco Siffredi saying he likes having sex in front of the camera. “Anyway…I get on the plane—” “Oh, so you finally decided to leave Maui.” I’m still not happy about that. After Holly proclaimed she never wanted to go back to Montreal and Lola prodded her on by saying we were all welcome to stay as long as we wanted, Holly convinced Jack to stay there with her an extra few days. “Stop being bitter.” Jack sighs. “Anyway…I find my seat and start putting my bags away, when this stewardess saunters up to me, her full ass swaying from left to right, and says in this thick French accent: ‘Sirrr, I theenk yuu ave ze rong zeet.’ And then she ushers me to first class!” Of course. Jack gets to extend his vacation, fulfill some childhood fantasy he’s been hiding about my sister, and nabs a ride home in first class. I on the other hand, get to rush home to a job I hate; riding in a cramped seat, sipping on a small plastic cup of ginger ale, and munching on a bag of preservatives. “But that’s not the strange part!” Jack interrupts my self-pitying ruminations. “Halfway through the plane ride, she whispers in my ear ‘Get te ze batrum, an liiv ze duur apen.’” “Great accent, Jack.” I mean it. “You could almost pass for a French slut.” “I’m trying to give you the full flavor of the situation.” I tell Jack I prefer not to taste anything he’s ever been involved with. “Whatever—I get up and look around, and there’s only two other people in first class; one’s asleep, and the other is grooming himself while reading some boring financial paper.” “No other stewardesses?” “No, they were all busy serving the poor people in coach.” I put Jack on speaker phone to try my hand at the concealer. “So I get in the bathroom, and I have no idea whether to get naked or start washing my hands. Five minutes pass, which feels like an eternity when you’re stuck in the only type of bathroom smaller than a port-o-potty, and finally the door starts to open and I pray it’s the busty French airline tramp and not the gross fat man picking his ear.” “And…” I prod. “And it’s her. She walks in, grabs my face, and starts tongue-wrestling me like Super Barrio on Spanish Fly.” I stop dabbing. “Super-what?” “Oh my god, you are so not international. He’s a famous Mexican wrestler who helps impoverished children.” “Helps them do what?” I reach for the foundation and a sponge. “Who cares! Anyway, she tastes like a total French stereotype: red wine and cigarettes, and it’s almost making me nauseous; but then she stops and jumps on top of the little toilet seat that leads to nowhere, and says ‘Eeet ma chatte.’”

Hot lovin’ in an elevator…almost.

hannah — Wed, 26 May 2010 18:09:30 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 10: LOVE IN AN ELEVATOR) I’m sitting on the floor of the elevator with my head tilted back against the wall, the ice pack covering my face again. The Ex is beside me, his dress shirt back on, his undershirt glued to my nose. The bleeding has stopped, but the elevator hasn’t started. According to the maintenance man The Ex got ahold of, it’s going to be a while. Apparently all the elevators are down, and a woman in labor is stuck in one too; so we’re not a priority. I close my eyes and try to imagine myself elsewhere. I always thought The Ex was The One. When I was thirteen, we had to make a poster of what we wanted our future to look like, and he was it: tall, dark, and fashionable. Not that my whole collage was of the perfect man—I had included my fantasy wardrobe, too—but the male model I’d cut out of the October issue of Cosmopolitan was the centerpiece. And when I strolled up to the Beverly Hilton concierge that fateful Saturday morning looking for directions, I had an eerie feeling I’d just met my centerpiece. We were in love—through the growing pains and the glory. Even when he broke up with me eighty-seven days ago and I ran after him, tears, mascara, and eye shadow streaming down my face, screaming: “Are you sure? Because this is it!” and he stopped, and I went on: “There’s no going back after this! I’m done. No need to hang on to that engagement ring! Are you sure this is what you want?” and he paused, staring at me, and finally said, “I’m sure,” his voice cracking and his head turning away quickly, and I yelled out: “You’re dead to me!”—I still believed we would be together forever. I sigh deeply, wondering how the hell we got here: broken-up, broken, in a broken elevator. “How’s Genie?” I ask flashbacking to our last drama that took place on an elevator. We were at Nieman Marcus, going up to the men’s shoe department, when The Ex’s annoying little micro dog decided to take a whiz all over Charlie Sheen’s shoes. I started apologizing, and The Ex started yelling at Genie, before picking her up and realizing she was getting pee remnants all over his new polo…and pushing her onto me. Then he blamed me for not taking her out for a walk earlier, and I reminded him it was his dog. And worse, just another trendy phase he was going through. He handed Charlie his business card, apologized, and said he’d comp him an all-inclusive weekend stay at the Beverly Hilton. I rolled my eyes. “I moved into a new place that doesn’t take pets, so I gave her to one of the front desk girls at the hotel.” Figures. I move the ice pack, and then turn my head around to face the brushed steel interior of the elevator wall. I am immediately horrified. “I look like the pet project of Dr. Frankenstein gone wrong.” I want to cry. “I’m probably scarred for life. I’ll probably need plastic surgery.” I feel him squeeze my arm. “Hey.” He tugs me to face him. He puts his other hand under my chin. “You’re still sexy as hell.” He smiles. My stomach curls into an anxious knot. Sitting next to The Ex, on this sterile elevator floor, stuck between floors two and three, on this first day of spring, exactly three months before our six-year anniversary, in the midst of this chaotic night, and painful memories, and awkward small talk, I realize that…I am still in love with my ex-boyfriend...

Before you cheat, get sober.

hannah — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 15:27:08 +0000

There is something about this picture that really says it all to me. The man is being taken by a woman. Perhaps he just met her, perhaps it's a regular tryst. His wife, in the corner, is watching him. Of course she's not really there, but he knows she's there. No matter how good the blow job or how tight the pussy, he can't deny she exists. And his wife is not alone either. She may not be enjoying it, because perhaps she's doing it out of spite, but once trust is broken anything goes. And there's the rub. I've been there; the cheater, the other woman, and the scorned lover. You know what I remember? I was drunk. Cheating is not a logical decision. You're usually wasted off your ass, set up in some swanky hotel in a different city, with a $300 expense per diem begging to be spent on that top shelf...oh wait, that was 2003. Yes, the secrecy and spontaneity can be thrilling but YOU'RE DRUNK, three sheets to the wind, off your rocker, and if you're not and you're cheating, you're in a fucked up relationship and you should get out. Unless you're in an "open" marriage or swingers, and the only reason she's standing in the corner giving you the stink eye is because she's pissed you ended up with the better half of the couple. More on those confessions in the Summer Season... Sober the eff up people! As I wrote on my facebook page after I posted this Esquire article that spurred some healthy debate: When you are not completely honest with yourself and the people around you, you are simply living in a mirage of yourself. And if that metaphor doesn't make any sense to you, just get sober before you do anything. Now off you go to that happy hour.

Stumbling towards the bedroom.

hannah — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 16:23:53 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (CHAPTER 6: VALENTINE’S DAY MARTYRDOM) Mr. Smyth and I walk inside. I toss the bouquet onto my coffee table. We look at each other in silence for a few moments. And then, in typical drinking-all-night-and-picking-up-the guy-you’ve-been-drinking-with-all-night fashion, I grab hold of him, and we start making out hard and fast. Clumsily our hands fondle each other; clothes get unbuckled, unhooked, unbuttoned, and unzipped. We stumble toward the bedroom, then the bed, our lips furious and our hands adamant. And then I pass out. I wake up feeling my hangover. I turn my head and attempt to focus on my neglected alarm clock. Shit! I’m late. I turn my head the other way. Shit! Mr. Smyth! Mr. Smyth and I walk inside. I toss the bouquet onto my coffee table. We look at each other in silence for a few moments. And then, in typical drinking-all-night-and-picking-up-the guy-you’ve-been-drinking-with-all-night fashion, I grab hold of him, and we start making out hard and fast. Clumsily our hands fondle each other; clothes get unbuckled, unhooked, unbuttoned, and unzipped. We stumble toward the bedroom, then the bed, our lips furious and our hands adamant...

OMG I wanna be a cougar!

hannah — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 16:24:08 +0000

I get an email the other day: I was sitting in a bar two nights ago and this very cute, somewhat drunk boy I was talking to invited me to his place to...listen to Eric Clapton. I bought him a drink but I didn't take him up on the offer. What's a cougar to do? Ummm...take a pack of condoms everywhere you go. Seriously, what's a cougar to not do. I've been doing a lot of thinking about this lately (hence the recent poll) and as far as I'm concerned, if you're a cougar you have it all. You're old enough to take care of yourself, and experienced enough to know exactly what you like in the sack. And the best part, you feel no pressure to get married or have kids because you've been there and done that. Relationships are suddenly not complicated because they don't have to go anywhere, and there is a sea of eligible bachelors dying for a no-strings-attached rendezvous. Being a cougar is like getting to relive your twenties the way you always wanted to. So my advice to you: go ahead and be a slut. I'm so jealous. p.s. more questions always welcome:)

Seducing my Boyfriend

hannah — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 18:18:05 +0000

I am going to seduce my boyfriend. We’re supposed to go to this glossy New Year’s Eve Party at the Beverly Hills hotel my boyfriend manages. He’s supposed to pick me up at seven. It’s six twenty-three. I’m not planning on getting dressed. I lift my vodka cocktail off the bathroom counter and take a sip. Tensions have been running high in our relationship. This is nothing new. After five and a half years together, no more than five months have ever gone by without some kind of drama, incident, or break-up. But we are going to make it. We’ve been together way too long to not make it. I fidget with my garter belt, trying to figure out what’s supposed to sit left, right, and center. I need us to make it. I’m done fucking around. I’m twenty-eight and I don’t want to be single. And I do not want to be like my older sister who has no direction or aspiration. And never wakes up before noon. And devotes all her affections to three birds and a cat. I unroll each thigh-high and try to attach the hooks evenly. I take another sip of my cocktail. ...