I did not receive an invitation to the royal wedding of Prince George and Hannah MacReady. Instead, I received a non-disclosure agreement, from an impressive-sounding law firm, along with an offer—or bribe—of $50,000.

I immediately called Kolker, since I knew he would receive one too. An NDA, I mean.

“50 grand is a fucking insult,” Kolker spat. I could hear him playing Call of Duty in the background. “What we know about Princess Spitroast is worth at least twice that.”

“Think about how many of these they have to send out,” I reminded him. “Between her and Georgie, the royal family could be shelling out millions in hush money.”

“I know how we can make way more than 50 grand,” Kolker said.


“Think about it, Max. Her paying us—the things she’s paying us for—make what we did with her in college acts of prostitution, essentially. Retroactive prostitution.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I’m 30 years old and still living at home. I need the money.”

“And I’m saying we can make more than that.”

I knew Kolker was serious. He was the kind of guy who played Call of Duty, then went out and bought a gun.

“I’m going to excuse myself from whatever you do,” I told him.

“Suit yourself. Let me ask you this, though: are you upset that we didn’t make the cut for the wedding?”


“I am.”

I laughed. “Are you serious, Kolker? There’s no way Hannah invites us to her wedding.”

“I’m talking about George. I did a lot of favors for that douchebag in college.”

“None of which he’ll want to acknowledge on his wedding day.”

“Dude. The Queen will there. The fucking Queen. I’d just like to look her right in the eye and tell her I blew my load all over her new granddaughter-in-law’s face. Or however they’re related.”

“That’s why you’re not invited,” I said.


By now everyone knows about the impending wedding between Prince George of _____ and commoner-turned-tabloid-super-darling Princess-to-be Hannah. I omit the prince’s country of origin because we all know where he’s from. “Somewhere” in Europe. Many of the European countries still cling to their remnants of royalty. What the royals do now, except attend each other’s weddings and smile gamely for the paparazzi, is anyone’s guess. But once upon a time in a land far, far away, the golden-haired soon-to-be Princess Hannah, fiancée to the heir of _____’s storied throne, was a fresh-faced American college student named Hannah MacReady. Kolker and I know a few things about her that probably won’t make it into the Encyclopedia Britannica.

Prince George, Hannah, Kolker, and I all went to a small liberal arts college in New England. Kolker was my neighbor in the dorms freshman year. Hannah lived upstairs. Kolker and I were the kind of secretly-smart public school smartasses who goofed off in high school, but actually got good grades. That’s how we got into such an upper-crust school. We both would have copious student loans when we graduated.

Hannah’s father was a hedge fund manager in New York City. Or The City, as Hannah called it. She had gone to private schools since she was four and that experience informed her view of the world. She was smart, charming, beautiful, and there was nothing she could not have.

Our college was the kind of place that occasionally attracted a celebrity. The previous honor went to an actress everyone now knows from the Marvel movies. She graduated the year before we all arrived, so we didn’t have to feel cheated when it was announced that Prince George would be joining our graduating class. The royals needed to go to college, too, so that they could get well-paying jobs. For the first few weeks of freshman year, campus was abuzz with Prince George rumors and sightings. And since it was a small school, Georgie soon became someone you saw everywhere. In class. At parties. Walking the quad. Pouring milk over his Cocoa Puffs. Just like a commoner.

Hannah was queen of the party girls. Every weekend, she could be found at the school’s poshest bacchanals, shitfaced and gyrating in a throng of dumb, envious boys. Training herself, I assumed, for when she graduated and moved back to NYC, or LA, upon which professional social scene she would wreak real category-five destruction. I met her was through Kolker, who knew all the party girls. Kolker was one of the kids who could get you drugs, which made him popular with everyone.

I’ll spare you any banal meet-cutes with regards to Hannah. Life is not a Disney movie. I was not the quiet good boy who just happened to be assigned Hannah’s partner for the Psychology 101 research project. One night I was playing video games in my dorm room, alone, when Kolker showed up with Hannah and a handful of molly. I paused my game and we had our first threesome on my cramped single bed.

You probably want to know a few details, and don’t worry, I’m no gentleman. You’ll get your details. That’s what kind of story this is. Kolker and I had dozens of threesomes with Hannah MacReady. Which is to say Hannah liked to fuck two guys at once. Kolker and I did not have sex with each other. Hannah was the gamemaster, and after we had gotten sufficiently drunk and/or high, she would tell us what she wanted us to do with her. To her. Whatever. We did everything. Oral, anal, Eiffel Tower, double penetration. Anything a woman could do with two men, without the men really touching, we did.

I’m not here to judge Hannah MacReady’s sexual appetites. Or present them for judgment. Nothing we did was beyond the scope of any fairly-standard pornographic scenario. There was no defecation, or any of that sick shit, so if that’s what you’re reading this crap for, sorry. After three or four months, we all moved on to other partners, and the fact that I banged Hannah MacReady might have evaporated from the sands of time without notice. Except that she later became engaged to Prince George, ended up on every magazine cover in the world, and is now the most recognizable face in what can only be charitably termed contemporary “culture.”


Kolker usually called me once a week or so to complain about the latest royal hypocrisies. When you go to school with a celebrity, I guess that becomes the only thing you end up talking about with your school friends later in life. I haven’t seen Kolker in years.

Us Weekly has Georgie and Hannah in Africa, distributing medical supplies,” Kolker said. “What fucking saints. Handling those children’s scrawny, blistered arms. Using plenty of hand sanitizer, I’ll bet.”

“Looks like a real PR blitz, with the wedding coming up.”

“That fucking wedding. So many of our friends are invited, dude. And not us.”

“I don’t see myself as the kind of person who attends a royal wedding,” I said, reporting live from my parents’ basement.

“I contacted that law firm,” said Kolker.

“Uh oh.”

“I gave them a counter-offer. Invite me to the wedding, all expenses paid, plus the 50 Gs, and I’ll sign a notarized document saying I never stuck three fingers up Hannah’s ass or whatever they want.”

“So are they making you an usher?”

“I received a more serious-sounding letter back.”


“Now it’s all-out war. I’ve called or emailed all the talk shows and tabloids. No word back yet.”

“Please omit my name from anything you tell anyone.”

“I was just going to say I have a witness.”

“How much are you hoping to steal—I mean earn, here?”

“At least a hundred grand. 50 doesn’t even cover one year of tuition at that fucking school. I’ve still got loans up my ass, dude.”

“This will all look really good on your LinkedIn profile.”

“They started it,” said my six-year-old friend. “I wouldn’t be as upset if George had just called me up and, like, man to man, asked me politely to please be discreet about our past. The fact that they think they can just buy our silence—through intermediaries—is insulting. Oh, sure, dipshit Kolker is unemployed, he’ll sign away his only eternal leverage for the price of a fucking Hyundai.”

“If you’re driving a Hyundai, I’ll give you my share of the money.”

“I don’t even have a car. And if Georgie’s going to buy me one, it’s going to be a Corvette.”

Kolker retains more animosity towards Prince George than I do. He knew the kid better. I knew George to say hello. We played intramural soccer together. He never called me by name. He called everyone “my good man.” Kolker actually was his good man. One of his fixer-uppers. In college, Prince George had a cabal of lackeys who supplied him with drugs and women. Not just Kolker. There were like several of these guys. Each week there would be some exclusive party, usually at George’s frat, and Kolker and the other scroungers would have to each supply a girl for the frat bros as the cost of admission. Each of the scroungers would spend all week cultivating a particular girl, usually a freshman who hadn’t learned much yet about predators, and promise her access to the party. Maybe even a date with the future king. Starry-eyed, the girls would show up to the party wearing their best come-fuck-me outfits. Honestly, I can’t really blame them. We were all young and stupid, right? Isn’t that what we say about college kids? Our pathetic immaturity, later excused as understandable inexperience? Anyway, Georgie and his bros would ply the girls with booze and drugs, then whisk them away to some dark corner of the frat house, perpetrate dubiously consensual acts of debauchery upon them, then usually never speak to them again. This routine worked well for the boys. And it worked for one lucky girl. Kolker eventually brought Hannah to one of the parties, a special gift for the prince, and she was tenacious or crafty enough to hook that fat fish for life.


My mom is one of those sickos who collects royal crockery. She has commemorative plates, mugs, cups, saucers, all bearing the name and face of various European monarchs. Her exhibit has been on display in the dining room for like 20 years. I told her I’m going to throw it all out when she dies. She looked very unhappy when I said this, which made me feel slightly unhappy.

So, of course, whatever demented entity manufactures royal crockery came out with a special edition George and Hannah tea set for the wedding. Now people like my mother and her friends could be a real part of history, staring at Hannah on TV as they sipped tea from a cute cup with her face on it. The collection featured images from the couple’s pre-wedding photo shoot and included several large plates, one of which showed Hannah’s smiling face, unrecognizable from the rapturous contortions I had once had the privilege of witnessing.

Now there was a picture of Hannah MacReady in the dining room. I passed it several times a day. My mother knew, obviously, that Hannah and I had gone to college together, since she told everyone on the fucking planet that her son had been “good friends” with the prince at university. I could not, however, in good taste explain to my mother that seeing Hannah’s face constantly reminded me of how I had once filled every orifice on Hannah’s body, including both of her ears, with my own semen.

The truth is, I thought about Hannah MacReady, the old and the new, all the time. I saw her picture every time I went to the supermarket. Every time I turned on the TV. New and evolved fantasies ran constantly through my head. Never since college had I participated in anything close to those libertine threesomes. I didn’t even have a girlfriend anymore. It was a bear market on the Max Exchange.

But I found a good use for the George and Hannah tea set. Every night after my parents went to bed, I crept out of my subterranean lair and absconded with one of the Hannah plates or cups. Once again, I unleashed a stream of juices upon her, ejaculating all over the plates, filling the cups with my seed, then replacing them in the dining room before the sober rays of the morning sun shone upon my shame. Pathetic? Depraved? Yes, but it brought back the dorm room decadence like a peak high. What do you want from me? I already said I don’t have a girlfriend. I also have a small penis. Fuck you.


Prince George would probably pretend to remember me if I saw him now. Or maybe pretend not to. Whichever presented him in the more advantageous light. But Hannah can never pretend she doesn’t remember me. And not just because we 69ed while Kolker masturbated on her forehead. Hannah and Kolker and I will be forever connected by an incident which exists somewhere in the public record. This, I suspect, is the real reason for the NDA.

It was the end of freshman year. The three-ways were becoming less frequent. I understood that I was going to be the one left behind. But Kolker, even as he continued to prey on innocent coeds for both himself and the prince, seemed to imagine that his sexcapades with Hannah were destined to continue.

One day, the three of us were out on a shopping date at Nordstrom, where Hannah shopped regularly. I was tagging along. I could afford nothing at Nordstrom. Kolker was doing everything he could to simulate the appearance of a real boyfriend, carrying Hannah’s water and everything else she accumulated. We went to Neiman Marcus and DSW first, so that by the time we reached Nordstrom, Hannah toted several different bags. And by Hannah toted, I mean Kolker toted, or I toted. Hannah plucked things off the display racks, held them up to herself, modeled them, and then sometimes handed them absently to Kolker or me. When Hannah MacReady looked me in the eyes, there was nothing there. Not seduction, not affection, not even recognition. I ignored this at the time because I was young, stupid, and I preferred the view from behind her anyway. Finally, when Hannah had amassed a small wardrobe of clothes and accessories, she guided the three of us to the dressing rooms.

This isn’t Cinemax After Dark, so I cannot accurately say that the three of us slipped into a changing room stall, disrobed, and tried on a slew of salacious positions while the buxom fitting room attendant diddled herself on the other side of the slatted door. Hannah went in by herself with all her stuff, leaving Kolker and I to stand there in the men’s department, plucking at our Dockers.

“Dude,” Kolker said. “I think she expects me to pay for all this shit.”

“You’re going to have to sell way more weed if you want to date her,” I told him.

“I don’t care about the money,” he said. “I sold Kip Calligan an ounce yesterday. It’s the entitlement I don’t like. Watch; we’ll get to the registers and she’ll just drop her loot on the counter and look at me.”

“You think maybe we could all head back to my dorm after this?” I asked.

Kolker glared at me.

Hannah came out of the dressing room, carrying her bags from the previous two stores, minus everything she had brought into the stall to try on. For a moment, I thought she wasn’t going to buy anything after all, making this an entirely pointless afternoon from my point of view. I would sit through a downpour of shopping if there was a threesome at the end of the rainbow. But Hannah strode out of the dressing room with a steely frown on her face.

“Nothing fit,” she said, loudly. “Let’s get out of here.”

We walked through the store toward the mall entrance. I hoped I could at least get a frozen smoothie at Orange Julius. Hannah handed her bags to Kolker and me so she could pretend to shop on our way out. Suddenly, she turned sharply away from a display of earrings and bolted for the exit. Kolker and I hurried after her.

We made it three steps out of the store before we were suddenly surrounded by two men and a woman, in plainclothes, one of whom flashed an official-looking badge.

“What the fuck is this?” Kolker demanded.

One of the men grabbed the bags he was carrying. “We need to speak with you back in the store,” he said humorlessly.

Idiot that I was (am), I had no idea what was going on, even as they escorted the three of us into a windowless office with a bench and a bank of cameras. Kolker started yelling at the store detectives, who stared back at him patiently, before the woman turned Hannah’s shopping bags upside down and out poured several items she had brought into the dressing room.

Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to thank the Academy. Best Actress, Hannah MacReady. We were searched, handcuffed, and threatened with arrest. Hannah turned the faucet on full blast. She had no idea how those items got in her bag. She had paid for everything at the previous stores and could produce receipts. The loss prevention team was picking on her because she was pretty, and a girl, and was sometimes mistaken for a model (her words).

Finally, she turned to Kolker and me. “I can’t get arrested,” she sobbed. “My father is very well-known on Wall Street, and if this gets out, his clients might walk away.”

She said this as if loss prevention wasn’t even standing there. They had their case and they knew it. The woman held the receiver of the office phone. “You’ve taken a felony amount of merchandise,” she said. “Since you were all carrying the bags, we cannot determine who is at fault. Unless one of you confesses, I have to call the police, and you will all be arrested.”

“They’re mine,” Kolker said, thrusting his chin defiantly at the loss prevention agent. “Everything. I took everything. I was going to sell it back at school.”

His lie convinced loss prevention to let Hannah and I go. Then they called the police and Kolker got arrested.


The day of the royal wedding, my mother invited all of her friends over for a viewing party, the mom-equivalent, I guess, of all those dads who get together to watch fights on pay-per-view. Partly out of curiosity, and partly because my life really was this vapid, I accepted their invitation to join them.

We gathered around the TV. The room smelled highly of perfume. I had smoked a bowl beforehand and my head drifted lazily around, like a balloon.

“I can’t believe you knew them, Max!” cried Mrs. Brubaker. “This must be so surreal for you.”

“Maxy was good friends with them at university,” said my mother. “Weren’t you, Max?”

“We were deeply connected,” I confirmed.

The wedding began, and there they were, parading down the red carpet at _____ Palace, reminding the whole soul-sucking world that some people really are better than others. I squinted at the screen, cannabis dancing through my brain, straining to make out old college chums among the guests in the sizable, almost immeasurable, crowd. One or two people looked familiar, a few of the other party girls maybe. In a crowd, party kids all look the same.

The event was emceed by two very-serious-sounding newscasters, consciously downshifting their enthusiasm to reflect the gravitas of history.

“2,000 guests in attendance,” said one of the anchors. “And yet, still an exclusive list.”

“Not everyone was happy to be left out,” said the other anchor. “As this incident from earlier will show.”

The screen changed to footage of a demented young man shouting and waving his fists in a crowd as the royal limo pulled up outside the gates of the palace. The man then jumped onto the hood of the limo, where he was swiftly tackled by security and dragged away, still screaming, before George and Hannah could get out of the limo to wave to their fans. The offending gate-crasher, I saw, was Kolker.

“Was she so pretty then?” asked one of my mother’s friends, and I realized she was talking to me.

“Who?” I asked.

“Hannah,” my mother said emphatically.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Everyone wanted a piece of her.”

I wondered if Kolker would still get his hush money or if his stunt would cost him the 50 grand. I had still not responded to my own NDA. Better to keep them guessing, I decided. Hannah MacReady would remember me one way or another, even if it was only to wonder if I’d ever publish a lurid memoir about her sticky fingers.

“Just think, Max,” my mother said. “If you’d played your cards right, you could have married her.”

“Then she wouldn’t be royalty,” I reminded her.

The ceremony went on and on and fucking on. About halfway through, my mother served refreshments. Tea and cakes, just like the royals enjoyed. I accepted a plate of shortcake and a cup of tea. I sipped mindlessly, wondering if Kolker was being tortured in a windowless room somewhere. As I finished my cake, my stomach suddenly shifted into reverse. The image revealed on the plate was the royal couple, Prince George and the now-Princess Hannah, kissing in a garden, she holding a bouquet of flowers.

The tea cups. My mother and all of her friends, pinkies erect, lapping up the milk of the aristocracy. Savoring the crumbs off the plates of the royals. Princess Hannah’s face smiling up at me from the plate on my lap, inches from my cock, the closest my little soldier would ever come to her face again.

“Excuse me, ladies,” I said to the group. “Something doesn’t agree with me.”

I spent the rest of the royal wedding puking in the bathroom. The gleeful cries of my mother and her friends pirouetted around the living room. I thought of Kolker, handcuffed, a bag over his head. George and Hannah beaming for the cameras.

The moral of the story, obviously, is never jerk off on your mother’s commemorative crockery.