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Shana

Shana has the vague idea that when you’re a sugar mama, your boy toy is supposed to be… well, cut. Ripped. Defined. Tanned and waxed. Not, in a word, gangly.

But when she feels his skinny hands kneading her shoulders, she has to tap mute on her bluetooth to let out an mmm. Reflected in the monitor, the logo of his stupid t-shirt makes her toes tingle.

“Hey, uh, Shana?” he says. “Maybe we could try Portal together again at lunch–”

“Busy, sweetie,” she purrs, slipping a few crisp bills from her Louis. “Go buy yourself some Playstations.”

(He does.)

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