Authors: Tami Anthony
Pink Butterfly Publications
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
The BACHELORETTE Project
Copyright © 2012
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher or author.
ADULT READING MATERIAL
: Contains adult language and adult content
A woman’s timeline of life is simple. First, we conquer the trials and tribulations of our confusing childhoods questioning horrible hair-dos and don’ts (i.e. the overly frizzy, dried-out perm, and pigtails … PIGTAILS!), the mystery of the dreaded menstrual cycle (why oh why does it happen to us and not the boys?), and of course, the struggles of being a “lady” … whatever that means. During this time, we experience our first kiss which is often sloppy and disgusting, and may or may not hold the characteristics of a Hoover vacuum (because let’s face facts … boys at this age have absolutely no idea what romance is nor that the French kiss does not necessarily mean “I’m going to shove my tongue down your throat to your esophagus.”). And then there’s the dreaded high school prom where you search months on end for the perfect dress which in twenty years—that perfect dress will be something that you live to regret—a dress that you may have lost your virginity in or it’s just the simple symbol of a fashion disaster.
Ah, yes, childhood in all its glory. In just 17 or 18 short years, we as women learn many of life’s important lessons and just how shitty it actually is to be female (God, are you listening? Womanhood sucks!). Anyway, we graduate high school, go on to live the college life (massive drinking, the dreaded “Freshmen 15” weight gain regimen, far too much nudity, the almost uncountable boyfriend mistakes, 20 page research papers, etc.), we then graduate college, dive into our respected careers (or whatever employment we can find after graduation), and then we move on to our ultimate task which can be spelled out in four little letters: L.O.V.E.
Love! What can I say about it? After finding the perfect job post-college years, we strive to find that perfect love. I’m not talking about the love that you get from your parents or your brother or sister or the way your dog may lick your face out of admiration and affection or something. I’m talking about the ULTIMATE love: marriage! The love that we dreamt about when we were little girls. You know, when we would dress up our Barbie dolls for Barbie and Ken’s wedding day, put a napkin on our heads and pretended that within that moment we have also found Mr. Right (even though at that time he could’ve very well have been our magical, invisible friend). It’s precious, it’s perfect, but sadly it’s pretend because when you’re in your twenties looking for a mate, it is by far easier said than done. Fortunately for me, I got lucky … oh-so incredibly lucky!
I met ‘Mr. Tall, Dark, Handsome, Wealthy
, and Refined’ at a benefit two
. Sadly, I don’t remember what the benefit was for, but more than likely my law firm was donating to ill children (great for advertising and personal imagery by the way because not all lawyers and paralegals are the parasites that we are made out to be). Anyway, I wouldn’t exactly say it was love at first sight. The fact that he accidentally spilled a drink on my Dolce & Gabbana evening gown was definitely a not-so-romantic way of meeting someone, but in some weird and crazy universe it actually worked for us. His clumsiness was the icebreaker, and the fact that he bought me another drink and offered to pay for my dress was the tip of the iceberg. Not love at first sight, but surely the beginning of something wonderful, something special, something that has lasted for two years, and for the past six months we’ve been cohabitating. Isn’t life great?
Victor is his name, by the way. Victor Repetto. Hotshot news anchor with the mind of a genius and the body of a god. I … LOVE … HIM! Everything about him is just so intriguing and attractive—and damn sexy! His perfect olive skin, his movie star smile, his out-of-this-world physique, and the sex? Oh, the sex! Mind blowing sex! The type of sex you see in movies that makes you sweat and orgasm in your seat. Yeah … it’s that good. Out. Of. Control.
So, here we are once again, another benefit. I’m escorting my boyfriend—excuse me, my BEAU (can I call him that?)—to another charity event because those who are wealthy and successful like Victor come to these events to donate for the cause, whatever the cause may be (sadly, we’ve been to so many benefits this year that I don’t even know what this
one is for either), and more often than not, the men tend to flaunt their money … and their women. I am the quintessential trophy girlfriend and my guilty pleasure, which is sometimes shameful to admit, is that I absolutely love it. I am the beautiful girl hanging on the arm of one of New York City’s most successful young men.
God, I am lucky.
“Oh, Leslee! Is that Versace you’re wearing?” an older woman at my table asks me, the wife of a successful Wall Street man, a Park Avenue wife with two rugrats at home and nannies working around the clock. I nod. You can’t just come to events like these wearing just
. You have to look classy and sophisticated. If there’s anything that I’ve learned from my New York City lifestyle, it’s that keeping up with the Jones
es is the only way to survive.
Speaking of Jones
“Yes, so I hear that the Dow Jones is looking quite good this quarter,” another woman says at my table. Another Park Avenue wife, another trophy of sorts she is. You know, it’s actually kind of funny how these wives are so much like their husbands except they all lack one thing: employment. They are the stay-at-home and shop-till-you-drop women. The I’m-spending-all-my-husband’s-money-and-staying-beautiful women. Most of the time, I can’t relate to them. I’m a 27-year-old paralegal who works my ass off in order to pay for my addictive designer fashion habit. I know I don’t have to work because Victor makes enough money to support him, me, and probably half the population of Hoboken, but I can’t see myself not working. It almost seems so gold diggerish not to, but then again who am I to judge? Another thing that annoys me is this whole Dow Jones thing. I’ve wondered for years who or what the hell Dow Jones is and why is this person or thing so significant to our lives. Maybe it’s just something that the Wall Street wives know. Maybe it’s some sort of secret. Like I said, I’m a paralegal. There hasn’t been any reason for me to know who Dow Jones is unless my bosses are representing this person in court.
Victor stands up from our table and taps a champagne glass with his fork. “Can I have everyone’s attention please?” he says then proceeds to clear his throat. Victor is the type to make those heartwarming announcements that you hear during charity events. Another thing that I looooove about him is how sensitive and thoughtful he can be, even though he’s secretly (but not so secretly) flaunting his money at the same time. I wonder exactly how genuine these speeches are to him, if he can actually relate to the hardship of others; then I remind myself what a nice ass he has.
God, he’s so hot!
I think to myself.
Let’s go home!
“I would like to thank everyone for coming out tonight in order to support the children of Vietnam,” he says and everyone watches in awe. “Education is so important and we can not take that for granted. For those who are more fortunate, we must give to the less fortunate as a symbol of pride and support.”
Yeah, yeah, hurry up so we can go home and have sex, okay?!
“We must never forget that the children are our future and that we owe it to them and ourselves to provide them with the best schooling possible. Every dollar earned from this benefit will assist in better education for our brother country.” Brother country? I totally missed that memo. “To the children of Vietnam and education.” Victor raises his glass as the onlookers make a toast to the children that they’ve never met and a country that they will more than likely never visit. We are all hypocrites. ALL OF US!
An older Park Avenue wife leans toward me and whispers. “Hey, aren’t you part Vietnam or something?” I sigh
Really? Did she just ask me that?
“No, I’m not V
” I respond and correct her at the same time. “My mother is from Korea and my father is from … Philadelphia.”
” the woman says plainly then continues to gawk at Victor. Education much?
“Onto other business, I would just like to announce that this is the second year in a row that I’ve been voted New Yor
k City’s favorite anchor person,
” Victor says as the Wall Street wives and network executives clap as soft and elegantly as they can. “And I just want to say that these have been the best two years of my life and it only gets better from here.” Victor
looks at me then
lowers himself on one knee while pulling out a small velvet box from his pocket. He opens the box to reveal the most breathtaking diamond ring th
at I’ve ever seen in my life. Victor
looks into my eyes, lovingly
“Leslee, I can’t picture my life without you. You are my best friend, my lover, and my support system.”
This is it!
I think to myself.
The moment you’ve always dreamed of!
“Leslee Marie Robinson, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
I gasp in my seat
as tears begin to run from my eyes
. I’m crying so much from the shock that I can barely breathe. I can’t believe that this is it, the final factor of making my womanhood complete. I can’t speak. I can’t answer. I’m choked up!
What are you doing?!
I ask myself.
Say yes! Say yes!
I begin to nod my head furiously as I place my left hand onto Victor’s hand. He gently places the ring on my finger and I sob in complete and utter happiness. The room is filled with applause and admiration. Victor lifts me in his arms and hugs me tight
. “I love you, Leslee,
” he whispers to me and I smile.
“I love you, too, Victor,
” I whisper back with happiness. “I love you, too!”
Mondays usually suck.
I will survive work today. I will survive work today. I will survive work today … now that I have a big, shiny engagement ring to gawk at
I chant in my head. As I sit at my desk, I can not help but to just stare at my left hand. It’s so shiny. It’s so perfect.
I’M ENGAGED! I’M ENGAGED!
I want to scream in my office. I want to sing and dance on top of my desk like one of those Frank Sinatra mo
vies, do a little tap number or
something. But, in a civil attempt to be normal, all I can do is stare at my ring and smile. Life is almost too perfect.
“Leslee Robinson?” I hear the secretary say through my speakerphone but I ignore her. I’m too happy to respond. I begin to daydream of running through fields of grass in my beautifully beaded wedding gown. Not Frank Sinatra … more like
The Sound of Music
. I sigh and smile. I can see the budding lilacs in the grass already. Lilac … lilac … would that be a good bridesmaid color?
“Leslee, there’s a call for you on line one,” she says. I should’ve taken today off so I can just
at the flawless diamond on my finger. Pink! Pink is a great bridesmaid color.
I finally decide to take my call. “Leslee Robinson, how can I assist you?” I say.
“I miss you,
” says the deep voice on the other end: Victor. So sexy, so suave … soooooo my
. “Do you miss me?”