Hunting

I've always been known for my beauty. My thick blonde hair and green eyes make me an object of many men's desire. Most men see me as an object, something they can have. But I have a brain, too—a good brain. I got into Columbia but couldn't afford it, so I ended up at a shitty state school that gave me an academic scholarship and a spot on their track team. I left town the minute I graduated and haven't spoken to anyone there since. I always thought I could do better. I looked down on them for settling. Aren't your twenties supposed to be fun?

Everyone I went to high school with still lives in our hometown and is married with a couple of kids each. That isn't the life I want. I don't think it is, at least. I have always dreamed of living in the 'greatest city in the world,' and I do. My current roommates, twins I met online, and I share a small, rent-stabilized apartment on the Lower East Side. It's designed for two, but we've constructed a makeshift wall, unbeknownst to our elderly landlord who can't tell them apart – that's how we get away with it. The mice live rent-free. I've been living here for the past few months. My last roommate and I fell out of touch after she bought her own place. I still have the designer bag I borrowed from her one night. I don't think she even realizes its absence, but I appreciate its presence. The bag is roomy, but I only carry my cell phone and wallet. Space is crucial for the day's agenda. 

I bring my big borrowed bag to Sephora, my first stop. I flirt with the man wearing winged eyeliner, although I know he isn't interested in me sexually.

"Your makeup is perfection," I tell him as I discreetly scrape items into my bag when he turns his back to find a new product. His intricate blue-green shadow combo must have taken over an hour to blend. It's a Saturday, so the store is somewhat chaotic. I perfected the art of swiping in middle school when I used to take things home with me from the mall I didn't pay for. As a straight-A student and a track star, I was never suspected of theft. I tell him his skin is radiant as he runs my credit card. He smiles. Approved. I smile back and thank him. He throws in a few free samples at check-out. I leave the store with $200 worth of items I paid for and another $400 worth of makeup inside my purse—phase one, complete. 

I spend the next five hours showering and doing my step-by-step skincare routine. I hit the jackpot today at the beauty counter, I think to myself as I check out my goodie bag, filled with La Mer lotion. You can never have too many high-quality skin creams. I made sure to swipe some new brushes as well. I've learned from past excursions, where I've accidentally taken the wrong foundation, to avoid grabbing products that aren't the right shade. Lipsticks are easier, so I took some of those too – Nars and Dior are my go-to brands for lips. I slather the stolen goods on my freshly washed face. 

I then blow-dry my locks and smooth everything over with an iron. I seal my hairstyle with hairspray. It's June, so not too sticky yet, but yesterday was officially the first day of summer. I look in the mirror as I apply my makeup, layer by layer. I am at the contouring phase, streaking different shades of brown and red along my jawline, forehead, and nose. I practice saying my lines out loud. 

"Excuse me, sir," I say to my reflection in a tantalizing tone. "Pardon me." 

I need something elegant to wear tonight while I hunt for my sugar daddy. Websites are designed for "arrangements" like these, but I do well in the wild. I finger through my closet to find my black gown. The first step is knowing my audience; tonight's crowd is the upper echelon of Manhattan's elite. The people who have apartments on Fifth Avenue, overlooking the park. The ones who drive Bentleys and keep them in spaces that cost as much as my month's rent. The man who started a big-shot tech company will be there. He'll be there because his grandson, Nathan, is getting married tonight. I know there will be eligible bachelors there; there is plenty of high-quality meat. 

I give my full-C tits a scoop to make them pop. Not too much, though, because elegance is vital. My necklace falls right above my constructed cleavage. It shines bright, drawing attention to the right place. This necklace, like my bag, is also borrowed. I helped myself to my employer's jewelry one night after I put her kids to sleep. I'll return it next time I babysit. I could have a high-paying job if I wanted one, but I don't like to work. I'd rather play. Instead, I use my beauty and seduction to pay the bills. I bite my tongue as I select an Uber black. I'll make the money back, I think. Keeping up with appearances is essential to me—phase two, complete.

The entrance to the venue has a red carpet. I hear the sweet sound of the violin as I walk up the stairs lined with candles. I watch as the violinist elegantly moves her bow back and forth, her fingers moving at lightning speed to hit the notes with the slick horsehair from the bow. 

"Last name?" a woman dressed in waiter garb asks me. I tell her, "Cohen," a safe bet. She gestures to her left, and I grab a place card that isn't mine. I could be Jamie Cohen, I suppose, for now.

The hotel smells expensive. My nostrils are overwhelmed with the scent of the floor-to-ceiling roses adorning the hall. Another member of the staff offers me a glass of champagne. My red fingernails wrap around the crystal flute, and I sip the cool, bubbly liquid as I scan the dimly lit room. I peer down at everyone's hands, looking for wedding bands and watches. I know to steer clear from the married men who won't give me what I want, which is ultimately next month's rent. Perhaps, they could, but I don't believe in home-wrecking. 

To begin phase three, I brush up against a man wearing a Rolex. "Pardon me," I say, in a sultry manner, much like I had rehearsed in my bathroom mirror. I look back in time to see him look me up and down, licking his lips. Too thirsty, I decide. I prefer something more challenging. The chase is fun for me. 

I walk into the ballroom and see hundreds of chairs, each soon to be filled for the bride and groom. I wait to sit until the room is more full and ultimately choose a seat across from a seemingly single guy with a Piaget around his wrist. I feel his stare. 

The band begins to play, joining the solo violinist. First comes Nathan, the groom. Next, the bridesmaids and groomsmen, followed by the flower girl.  

The wedding party stands evenly distributed on either side of the altar, decreasing in height. The girls wear silver satin, each carrying a bouquet of peonies. The guys are in tuxedos and pocket squares for a pop of color. The group looks impressive in its austere simplicity. The room falls silent. The band is cueing up the next song for the most important moment. I rise, along with the rest of the crowd, as we wait for the bride to make her grand entrance down the aisle. The solo violinist who greeted the guests starts the orchestral interlude before the rest of the hired symphony joins her—Canon in D, a classy choice. The high ceilings elongate the sounds from the strings. All of my senses are stimulated. 

Then, the french doors open wide. Step by step, she glides into the center of the room. Her beauty radiates through her veil, her luscious brown hair bouncing with every step. Her dress is ornate, lacy, and poofy, like Cinderella's. As she walks closer, I can see the detail in each flower stitched into the veil. Her gown is low in the back and higher in the front, with a tasteful amount of cleavage—the train trails behind her in a perfect silhouette. I look down at my chest and begin to feel self-conscious. The entire room watches the bride in awe. I turn my head back to the altar and look at the groom. His expression is pure. It isn't how guys look at me, which is more like how a lion looks at his prey – cunning and raw. Nathan's love is palpable. Suddenly, my face feels hot. I feel too exposed, even though I usually feel more confident with my boobs pushed out. I listen to them exchange vows about how beautiful they both are on the inside.

On the contrary, my insides start to twist and contort, making me feel sick. I glance to my left and see the man with the Piaget wink at me. Usually, I'd smile back, but my lips refused to curl. I fear a man will never look at me and see beneath my exterior. 

My vision slightly blurs as the two share their first kiss as a married couple. I blink rapidly, thinking it was a spec of dust, only to feel a single tear roll down my cheek. I dabbed my face lightly with Jamie Cohen's place card since I didn't come prepared with a tissue. I must be allergic to the peonies. I don't cry. 

Typically, phase four entails entertaining my male prospects, possibly sealing the deal in the bedroom later because I find sex to be emotionless. But, instead of saying hello to Piaget man, I leave the venue before cocktail hour kicks off.

The summer air feels nice. I take a deep breath, and the hotdog stand wafts into my nostrils. The sign reads, "Nathan's The flavor of New York since 1916." The closest thing I have to a Nathan is a brand of hotdogs, the particleboard of meat. Another tear leaks from my tear ducts. What the fuck is going on? I thought. I decided it was probably the smoke coming from the stand. I take Jamie Cohen's place card from my purse and blow my nose on the other side of the beautiful calligraphy. 

I try to order one with all the toppings, but the man can't understand me through my sobs. I nearly choke on the street meat as I shove my face full of sauerkraut and mustard on my way to the subway back home.