Lacy Frye.
The name burns like bile on my tongue. His nauseously sweet rose water perfume haunts my nose. I'm going to be sick. He makes me want to pull my hair. One by one. Until my scalp is raw and bloodied and I forget Lacy Frye.
In the evenings, Lacy likes to luxuriate in his expensive jacuzzi. This takes about an hour. Sometimes he just lays there, enjoying the last light of the day. Most times, he's reading— books or a TV script he's filming. It makes him look surprisingly serene. When he's done, he stands on his elevated porch, outrageously naked as if he knows I'm watching him. Taunting me with his sculpted abs and swaying cock while he rubs his skin with expensive lotion like he's shooting a commercial.
Lacy is annoying. He knows he's hot and he'll make sure you know it, too. He's not satisfied until all eyes are on him and he's the center of attention. I hate that about him— and his oil slick, greasy hair.
He's a minor celebrity trying to make it big in Hollywood. I don't have a TV but I don't image he's good. He's too caught up in himself to be anything else. But guys like him always have a following. People who idolise him. People who know where he eats and sleeps. What his favourite meal is and what brands he shops. And that's the problem. I want him for myself.