Jesse: I’m locking the men’s room and taking a photo for you.
Jesse: And now I feel even more respect for the guts it took to send that to me. This is awkward and embarrassing and difficult.
Me: I took and deleted about thirty before I got the one I liked.
Jesse: Yeah, I’ve taken like fifty and there’s someone banging on the door. This one is okay, I think. Not as good as yours, but then, you’re a goddamn goddess and I’m just a scruffy nerfherder.
Me: You’re gorgeous, and I love that you just quoted Star Wars to me.
A few seconds later a photo pops up in the thread, and I immediately tap it to make it full screen.
My jaw drops, and my core immediately begins weeping with joy.
He took off his jeans and shirt, stood in front of the mirror of the bathroom, and took a mirror selfie in just his underwear. Tight black boxer briefs. He must have zoomed a little, because it’s a bit grainy, but worth it because I can see his entire package outlined by the stretch black fabric.
And holy mother of all fucks, is he well-endowed.
My heart crashes in my chest, and my core tightens, and my nipples go so hard the pink heart stickers fall off. The thing in his underwear is ENORMOUS. So long, and so thick. I enlarge the photo, shamelessly, hoping for more detail or something. What I see makes me whimper out loud: at the very top of his underwear, just beneath his navel, is a hint of pink. As if his underwear weren’t quite up to job of totally containing him.
God, oh god.
There’s no doubt. I stare at that photo long enough that I’m absolutely certain the tip of his penis is visible.
Why that drives me so nuts, I don’t know.
But it does.
So nuts that I don’t hesitate to whip out my little friend and set it to work between my thighs. I stare at the picture he sent, at his enormous chest and thick arms and hard stomach, at his broad shoulders and trim waist and powerful thighs, at his rugged features and incredible hair. And yeah, at his package, at the erection only barely hidden by his underwear…
An erection caused by me.
I’m in the middle of my orgasm when he texts back.
Jesse: So? What do you think? It’s been like five minutes and not a word from you.
I can’t quite bite back the half-scream of my orgasm, which is, for some reason, heightened by the fact that he’s texting me as I’m coming.
And then…my phone rings.
It’s him.
I answer it. “H-h-hello?” I whisper, breathless.
“You can’t just not text back after I send you that. Gonna give me a complex. Or a panic attack.”
I’m gasping, still shivering and trembling from the aftershocks. “Sorry. I was…um…just…enjoying your photo.”
His voice goes deep and raspy. “Imogen. No. Please, no. Don’t tell me I called you in the middle of what I think you’re in the middle of.”
I hold my little friend up to the phone, so he can hear the buzzing. And then I replace it between my thighs, and immediately a whimper is torn out of me.
God, there has to be something wrong with me. Did getting divorced short-circuit all of my inhibitions? Like, what is actually wrong with me that I’m doing this?
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jesse growls. “You are. You’re seriously—” His voice drops, and I hear background noise fade away, as if he’d gone outside into the parking lot. A moment later I hear a car door open and thunk shut. “You’re seriously doing that, right now?”
I let another whimper escape, as answer, holding the phone up to my ear. “Jesse…”
“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
“God, yeah. I’ve already come once.”
“Shit. Why’d you answer?”
“I—I don’t know. Oh god. Oh god…”
“You’re looking at the photo?” His voice is strained, tense.
“So hot,” I say. “The little hint of the tip sticking out the top is what put me over the edge.”
And then I groan, a long, low sound of impending release, and I hear rustling on the other end. “I’m gonna get arrested, but fuck, I can’t help myself. If I don’t come right now, I’m gonna go haywire.”
“Do it,” I urge. “Right now.”
“In my truck, in the parking lot of Billy Bar.”
“While on the phone with me.”
“Then hold off.”
I groan. “I can’t. Not for long.”
I hear him hiss, and then growl. “I’m doing it.”
“Doing what?” I ask. I don’t know who I am, right now. The words coming out of me are some other person. Some other Imogen who has phone sex with men I barely know.
“Touching myself.”
“Looking at the photo?”
“Yeah,” he says, through grated teeth. “And picturing that little glimpse of your pussy that I got the other day. That little glimpse has haunted my dreams ever since.”
“Have you done this before?” I ask. “Jerked off thinking about me?”
“Have you?”
“I asked first, but…yeah, I have. A couple times, actually.”
“I have too. I tried not to, but—after that day in your kitchen, you in that goddamned outfit? I couldn’t help it. I felt like a dirty jackass for using you like that, but god, you turn me on in a way I’ve never been turned on before.” He groans again, low and ragged.
“It doesn’t make you a dirty jackass, not if I don’t mind. And I don’t.” I’ve slowed the stimulator, but I’m still riding the edge. “Jesse, I need to—I can’t hold off much longer.” I hear a slick sound, and the knowledge of what that is makes me squirm and pant. “Now, Jesse. I need to come.”
He moans, and then snarls. “Now, Imogen. Right now. I’m coming.”
I hear him groan, a long sustained animal snarl, and I wrap my own breathy scream of release around his growls, and then there’s silence between us.
“Jesse?” I say. “Where—if you’re in your truck, where’d you…you know, put your…cum?”
He laughs, still out of breath. “Empty bottle.”
I laugh, somewhat hysterically. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
“Yeah, me neither,” he says, chuckling nervously. “It’s a first for me.”
“Me too.” I hesitate. “Is this whole thing a little crazy?”
“Yeah, maybe a little. Or a lot.” I hear a knock on his window. “But I’m okay with crazy.” Another knock. “Look, that’s my buddies giving me shit for vanishing. If they see this bottle and what’s in it…”
I laugh. “Go. But…call me later, okay?”
“You bet your ass I will.”
He hangs up, and I promptly scream into my pillow in equal parts excitement, thrill, embarrassment, and euphoria.
And then several days go by, and I don’t hear from him.
8
I refuse to call him or text him first, just to retain at least a sliver of my dignity.
Then I start my new job—and I love every second of it. It’s amazing. Challenging and intense and difficult and rewarding, and it pays really well, considering what I’m used to. I’m so busy that first week that I barely have time to turn around.
After my shift that first Friday, I go out with Audra. She immediately notices that I’m off, somehow, and demands an explanation, but I adamantly refuse to admit there’s anything weird going on with me. Audra being Audra—meaning a bloodhound for gossip—doesn’t believe a word of it.
Audra Donovan has been my best friend for twenty-five years. We met in a YMCA pool the summer we both turned fifteen, and have been inseparable since. We have a weird relationship, though—we don’t see each other every day, and we don’t even talk or text every day. We get together a few times a month, and get tipsy together, and catch up on what’s happened since we last saw one another. We’re both super busy, and Audra has a crazy social life on top of a demanding job, and it’s just the way we do things.
She�
�s five feet six (“and a half,” she insists on emphasizing, to this day), keeps her naturally platinum blonde hair in a pixie cut, and has a body a twenty-five-year-old would be jealous of—breasts most people wrongly assume are fake, an ass that doesn’t quit, and taut, toned, firm everything. But then, she’s a personal trainer at a national gym chain—she’s the top trainer for the region, so she travels from gym to gym, training clients and supervising the other trainers and working out like a fiend. It’s kind of an addiction for her, I think. But it clearly works, on a physical level, because at forty, she’s in better shape than most women—and men—half her age.
We’re at our usual place—the Mexican restaurant I went to by myself the other day; we’ve been coming here for burritos and margs for at least ten years, if not longer. We split a pitcher of margaritas and each of us orders the house special—an enormous burrito stuffed with beef and rice and cheese, smothered in sauce and sour cream and drowning in a sea of refried beans. After we eat, we drink more margaritas, and finally, after two hours of wheedling, Audra manages to get me to admit that there just may be something going on.
But that’s all she’s getting.
I’m not talking about Jesse.
Nope, nope, nope.
“Dammit all to hell, Imogen Catherine Irving!” Audra screeches, leaning over the table and gripping my forearm with clawed fingers. “Tell me what the hell is going on with you! You never keep secrets from me!”
I shake my head, sipping water. “Audra, please, just give it a rest. I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
She sits back, sighing. “You’re no fun. You clearly have juicy gossip, but you’re not sharing.”
“It’s not gossip, it’s my life.” I meet her sky-blue gaze, trying to communicate assurance. “I’ll tell you everything, I swear. I just need a bit more time, that’s all.”
“It’s a man,” she mutters. “I know it’s something to do with a man. That’s the only thing you’d ever keep from me.”
If I say another word, she’ll have it all out of me. She’ll guess, correctly, and because I can’t ever lie to her, I’ll corroborate her guesses. And I’m really not ready to hear what Audra would have to say to me. Because I already know—she’d ask why I haven’t slept with him yet, and then ask if I’ve even seen his dick.
Yeah, she’s a little crazy, but I love her.
She narrows her eyes at me, and I can feel the guesses coming. “You’re all hung up on a guy, aren’t you? He’s got you flustered and confused, and you’re too stubborn to do anything about it, because of feelings.” She somehow manages to turn that last word into a swear word and a caustic mockery at the same time.
“Shut up and have another drink,” I say, pouring more margarita into her glass, hoping it’ll distract her from the truth in her guess.
“How about I have another drink and don’t shut up?” she says, taking a long gulp. “I’m onto it, aren’t I? Is he hot? A brick would be hotter than that ugly blobfish of an ex of yours, so it can’t be hard to find someone hotter than him. He’s gotta be pretty hot if you’re not willing to talk to your best friend of twenty-five years about him.”
Doesn’t she just wish she knew Jesse? She’d stop talking to me for a month just so she wouldn’t be tempted to steal him from me, if I let her meet him.
Which is why I’m not telling her about him, and why she won’t ever meet him. At least not until things are more solidified.
Wait. Solidified? Things aren’t going to be solidified. There’s nothing there but attraction. I’m sex-starved and horny, and he’s a willing target for my desperation. That’s all it is.
Audra is watching me like a hawk. “You’re thinking about him right now, aren’t you? I can tell. You’re trying to talk yourself out of whatever it is, because you’re scared and your divorce was just finalized, and you think there has to be some kind of waiting period before you move on, emotionally and physically. Which is bullshit. The best way to move on is to live your best life. And that involves letting yourself have something you want, just because you want it. Not everything has to mean something.”
I sigh. “Audra, you’re lecturing me based on your own guesswork. I’m neither confirming nor denying anything.”
She shrugs. “I know I’m right, and I’m lecturing you based on that.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Audra Roslyn Donovan. I said I’m not ready to talk about it yet. Can you just…please…give it a rest?”
She sticks her lower lip out in a faux-pout. “I just want you to be happy, and you haven’t been happy for a very, very, very long time.”
“I know.”
“I only act like this because I love you,” she says.
“I know. And also because you can’t handle not knowing every last detail about everyone and everything.”
“This is true.” She eyes me. “But when you do tell me, I’m going to freak out, right?”
“Audra.”
“Fine.” She wakes her phone to glance at the time: 9:55pm. “Shit. I should go. I have a meeting halfway across the damn state at seven tomorrow morning, so I should get to bed.”
“Yeah, I’ve got an early shift tomorrow too.”
It’s my turn to pay the bill, and then we hug it out at our cars.
“Don’t wait too long to tell me,” Audra says, letting me go. “You know how I get.”
“I know, I know.”
“Whatever it is, go for it.”
“What if I’m considering hard drugs and unprotected sex with homeless men?”’
Audra cackles. “You’re way too straitlaced to even have protected sex with a man you do know, and the one time you tried pot in college you freaked the fuck out and swore off everything harder than wine and margaritas.”
“Maybe getting divorced has brought out my wild side.”
She doesn’t cackle, this time. “I’d say it’s about time, in that case. You’re smart, and you’re careful, both of which are good things, but sometimes, babe, we need to be dumb and reckless.” She boops my nose with her forefinger. “Even at forty.”
“Especially at forty.”
“Truth. I’m going now,” she says, getting into her car, a beautiful white, convertible, two-year-old Mercedes E-Class, which I’m not at all jealous of. “Be bad, Imogen. You’ve more than earned it.”
I laugh. “I’ll try, but I’ll never be as slutty as you.”
“You could be, with practice and training! Squad goals!” she shouts out her open window.
I laugh even harder. “Two people can’t be a squad, Audra!”
“Semantics! Be bad!”
I drive home on mental autopilot, considering Audra’s advice. Generally speaking, I try to do the opposite of whatever she advises me. She’s a cut-and-dried commitment-phobe—her dating life is somewhere between serial monogamy and hookup artistry. She rarely sees the same guy more than a few months, never lets them get to know the deep-down, really-real her. My relationship and subsequent divorce from Nicholas only served to confirm her bias against commitment, and I very seriously worry she’ll never let herself feel anything deeper than casual affection. The why of it all, for Audra, is a very long story and one best left untold, but suffice to say she’s got her reasons.
But it doesn’t stop me from worrying. Just like she worries about me, for the diametric opposite reason.
What if, in this one instance, she’s right? What if I should just be bad this one time?
Take what I want and consequences be damned?
I don’t know if I’m capable of that, which is the root problem.
What if I try, and it backfires? I’m fragile enough as it is right now—another heartbreak would put me beyond any capability of repair, I think.
Would it be worth the risk?
With Jesse, just possibly.
I turn onto my street and then, half a block from my house, I slam on the brakes so hard my tires squeal. My front yard is brilliantly illuminated, shining from the ba
ck rack spotlights on Jesse’s truck, which is backed up part way onto my lawn on a diagonal, the front tires on the street. I pull into my driveway, exit my car, and stand there, stupefied.
He has completely rebuilt my front porch. Before, it was three too-short, too-narrow steps leading up to a landing just big enough to stand on as you enter the front door. Now, the front porch spans the entire width of the home, with the steps properly sized and spaced for a natural tread. As I stand there, gaping, he presses his nail gun into the bottom-most tread at the front left corner, squeezes the trigger to send in a nail with a pneumatic thwack. And then he sinks back on his knees and tosses the nail gun aside.
He turns to me, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist, grinning. “Hey.” He gestures at the new porch. “Surprise!”
I open my mouth, and close it again without making a sound. “Um.” I have to try twice to even get that much out. “Why?”
“Well, I sort of vanished on you, and I came by this afternoon to talk in person, and my foot went right through the step.” He shrugs. “So, I ran over to the lumber mill and got down to business. I started out thinking I was just gonna do another porch like you had, but then said nah, fuckit, might as well go whole hog, you know? I was done for the weekend, so this is all on my own personal time.”
I step away from my car and sit on the edge of the porch a few feet away from Jesse. “I don’t know what to say or how to even begin thanking you.”
“Well, ‘thanks’ is a pretty good start.” He gives me his trademark cocky smirk. “I can probably think of a few other ways, if you’re really determined to thank me properly, though.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. O’Neill,” I say, smiling coyly up at him.
“I drive a hard something, all right,” he murmurs, standing up to tower over me. “Not sure if ‘bargain’ is the right word, though.”
“Would you like to come in for a glass of wine?” I ask. “I have to work early in the morning, so I can’t stay up super late, but if you wanted to talk, we could do it over some wine.”
He nods, wiping his brow again. “Sounds good. Let me put my tools away and I’ll be right in.”