"You'll remain a virgin for the rest of your life," yelled his best-friend.
"I am getting married in a week," he shrugged.
"I don't care. There will be strippers and pole dancers at your stag party. Stop whining," he said nonchalantly.
"I don't want hookers at my bachelor's night. She will have a heart-attack if she gets to know about it," he shook his head frantically.
"Well, you'd finally get rid of her then," his best-friend smirked.
He threw a cushion at his best-friend, who ducked and diverted his attention back to the ongoing 007 film. He stared at the motion picture, but his mind was blank. His best-friend had struck a nerve.
He actually did want to get rid of his fiance. He didn't love her. He didn't love anyone. He didn't even know what love felt like, and he had no intention to experiment it with, whatsoever.
He groaned. He wish he had rejected the idea of marriage altogether, but he belonged to a family where his father's opinion was never second-guessed. He shook his head. He tried to look at the brighter side. He would be settled, he would be in a stable relationship. He would be grounded. Moreover, his fiancé wasn't that horrid either. She was pretty, she was smart, she was ambitious and driven. She had the qualities he lacked. He lacked conviction, he lacked confidence and he lacked courage.
Still, this marriage, he knew would cost him his freedom. He liked to be left alone, introspecting and having a blast in his own personal space. He couldn't let go of that. He didn't want his isolation to be intruded upon, and knowing his fiancé, that was something he'd have to adjust to.
She asked too many questions, she was too opinionated and expected him to be more open. He tried at first, to impress her and share his innermost thoughts with her but since she was a lawyer, she would one way or another transform their simple conversation into a debate. A debate, she would always win, and his opinions got lost in the process. In the end, he had given up. He had shrugged, picked up the newspaper and submerged himself into world affairs. He felt tired around her, and they weren't even married yet.
Maybe, his ass of a best-friend was right. Maybe he did need an impetus. He needed a little bit of self-indulgence, he deserved to have a bit of fun.
He tugged at the collar of his red-shirt. He felt uncomfortable. But, he was sure it had nothing to do with his fine cotton shirt. He looked at his best-friend, grinning from ear-to-ear. He had not been able to avert the situation. They were at the bar of their suite. His other friends were passed out, too drunk from the bourbon. They had settled to retire for the night, in their respective rooms. His best-friend slurred out his final command before dozing off, "she is all yours."
He hated when people objectified a woman's body. It was disrespectful. He looked at his best-friend, completely knocked out on the sofa. He got up and slammed his fist into his jaw. That'd would give him a nice little shin.
Feeling satisfied, he returned to his bedroom, sat down and nursed another gin. He hated gin.
"You have a pretty good arm," a female voice invaded the air. He looked up, surprised. He had forgotten the reason why he had bruised his best-mate.
Her. The hooker.
She was sitting there, sprawled across his bed like it was the most natural thing to do.
He gaped at her. He had never seen a more perfect face. He couldn't keep his eyes off her face. He kept staring at her.
"Are you okay?" she frowned.
He nodded, still staring at her face,
"Right. So what do you want me to do," she was still frowning.
