By Paul McGuire © 2008
Ryan Mansfield had a Wednesday routine. He woke up at 7:39am, or exactly one snooze allotment after he had originally set his alarm. He showered, popped a Xanax as prescribed by his recently acquired psychiatrist Dr. Levine, and dressed in a pressed suit that the cleaners around the corner had delivered the night before. Wednesday was fresh suit day. It was also a special day for other reasons.
Ryan Mansfield sat on his couch and watched the first ten minutes of Sportscenter before he left his apartment in Murray Hill. He lived seventeen blocks away from his office in Midtown and always walked. He used the time to check his work messages via his cell phone. Ryan Mansfield never answered his work phone past 4pm so every morning he compiled a list of angry clients who would be looking for him later that day.
Ryan Mansfield hated coffee and he loathed the business practices of the evil Starbucks corporation, but he religiously went to the store on the corner of 43rd Street and Third Avenue because of one particular girl who worked there.
She looked like a cross between a J. Crew model and a Suicide Girl. She always wore bright lipstick which brought out a little gleam in her lips. She frequently smiled, but never initiated any sort of conversation.
Ryan Mansfield was infatuated with Maisy. So much so, that he masturbated no fewer than a dozen times a week with her as the major character. He'd get lost in a jack off frenzy in a kaleidoscope of images of giving Maisy the ass pounding of her life while standing in the stairway of his elementary school on Long Island.
In a five day work week, Maisy usually served him three times. So during 60% of his visits to Starbucks, Ryan Mansfield had roughly ten seconds to say something witty, or funny, or something that would make him stand out from the thousands of other suits that Maisy served on a daily basis.
Most of the time, Ryan Mansfield said nothing. He was far too shy. He tried to make small talk once but that was a disaster.
"How's it going?" he said
"Tough day. I'm so hungover," she said.
"Yeah, you totally look like shit."
He couldn't believe that those words rolled off his tough and shoved a stake through the his heart as any future with Maisy slipped between his fingers. Not even a $5 tip could make up for his horrendous mistake.
That's why he avoided speaking at all to Maisy. He just smiled back when she smiled at him and that was it.
For over a year, Ryan Mansfield had thirty seconds a week where he was face-to-face with his crush. It only cost him $25 in coffee and tips. Stalkers literally killed for the opportunity to be in a consistent contact with their crushes. Hollywood cranks out bad romantic comedies based on the same concept. It's a part of the life cycle. There's something you want badly, but are afraid to chase it for fear of being rejected. It's sort of premature rejection, except you do the rejecting instead of the object of desire.
If Ryan Mansfield was served by Maisy, he immediately rushed to his office and headed to the bathroom to furiously rub one out. On the days she didn't serve him, he went to the news stand bought a lottery ticket instead.
When Ryan Mansfield was married, his relationship with his wife deteriorated when he developed an addiction to massage parlors. He couldn't control himself and visited them four or five days a week. He'd eat lunch at his desk and then use the rest of the time to visit one of the seven massage parlors within walking distance of the office. On the nights that his wife was busy, he'd find a hooker from the back section of the Village Voice.
Ryan Mansfield was spending at least $500 a week on hookers. Some weeks he blew a grand. His wife got suspicious. He lied and said that he was lost a few grand playing online poker and was chasing a loss. She was skeptical at first and rightly so, because Ryan Mansfield was a horrible liar. His addiction was his downfall. His wife eventually busted him and they got divorced.
Ryan Mansfield visited Dr. Levine twice a week as he sought out a solution to curtail his abundant sexual appetite. Dr. Levine encouraged Ryan Mansfield to masturbate more and to stop paying for hookers all together. They were financially draining and he was putting himself at risk for contracting various venereal diseases. Ryan Mansfield couldn't quit cold turkey. He was a stone cold junkie and sex addict. He limited himself to one day a week. Wednesday was hooker day.
After his morning meetings, Ryan Mansfield spent the next two hours scouring the intertubes for a quickie in the casual encounters section of Craigslist. Since he was a veteran, he could easily pick out the escort ads from legit postings. It took him a while to sort through all the spam until he found a couple of potential candidates. He'd get monster erections as he wrote sexually explicit emails and ogled naked photos from some of the women. He was so worked up that he'd have to rush out of the office and find the closest rub and tug operation. When he returned from his massage, he'd spend the rest of the afternoon arranging drinks or a meeting time with the women he plucked off of Craigslist.
Occasionally, Ryan Mansfield got laid from a hot chick, but most of the time he attracted soused cougars, horny fat chicks, or total sex freaks that made him seem like a Mormon wandering around the West Village in special underwear. In a couple of instances, Ryan Mansfield picked up a hooker. He thought it was a cheap trick, but most of the time he was so horny that it didn't matter.
That Wednesday night, Ryan Mansfield arranged a meeting with a girl who he knew was fronting for an escort service. He didn't care. Wednesday was hooker day and the one night a week to indulge in his sexual fantasies.
A lanky Eastern European woman showed up at his apartment. She reeked of cigarettes and he could not stop staring at her glassy eyes. She was buzzed, but not completely wasted.
"$250 for a half hour," she said in a lazy accent. "I can do an hour for $400."
"How much to let me fuck you in the ass?" asked Ryan Mansfield.
"$400 for a half hour," she said.
He peeled off a wad of $20 and $50 bills. She slowly counted the money three times before she stashed it in her purse.
"So anything else you want?" she said as she slid her hands up his shirt.
"Yeah, your name is Maisy," he said.
"Sure, Daisy. I'll be whoever you want."
"It's Maisy! Not Daisy you stupid fuckin' slut!" Ryan Mansfield screamed as he seized her by the neck.
Ryan Mansfield squeezed harder as she struggled for air. She frantically fought back and kicked him a couple of times until he finally relaxed his grip and smiled.
Paul McGuire is a writer from New York City.