Oh damn, picturing Elle burning out batteries with a vibrator between her legs will require a long shower for me tonight. “Why’s that?”
“He talks dirty to her a lot.” She glances down to where she’s twisting her fingers together.
“What kind of dirty?”
“He calls her a slut and a whore.”
“I see. And when you read that you thought it was hot?”
“I did . . .”
“But it’s a lot different when you’re the one being called a slut?”
She nods and her eyes tear up again.
I slide back against the cushion of the couch so that our shoulders are touching.
“We’ve talked a lot in my group about watching porn vs. reality. It’s easy to get desensitized as to what is good for you and the woman you’re with and what isn’t.”
She sighs. “Sex can be confusing.”
“Mind-blowing and amazing, but yes, confusing too.” I flip through the rest of the pile. “Hey can I read one of these?”
“Why would you want to?”
“Maybe to understand what makes the female fantasy psyche work.”
“Are you sure?” She sounds nervous.
They must really be dirty. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
She grabs the pile and sorts through it. “Here, read this one.”
“Torched?”
“It’s so hot.”
“Seriously? I mean with the flames in this picture it looks like his head’s on fire so I guess that’s hot.”
“Well, I think the story is hot.” She gives me a demure smile.
“Okay. That’s good enough for me.” I turn the book over in my hands a few times. “I better get going.”
“Hey, Paul Junior?”
“Yes, Ms. Jacoby?”
“If you ever decide to be a man-whore again will you have sex with me?”
I kiss the top of her head. “You’ll be first on my list.”
This time, as I lift off the couch and say good-bye, her smile is genuine.
That night I climb into bed and crack open Torched. I’m not even to the end of the first chapter when the main dude, Luke, is fucking this Lucia chick in the back of his parent’s tasting room at their vineyard.
I shudder at the dialogue and descriptions—throbbing clits, massive cocks and all the wetness. It all starts with the guy ripping her panties off. Have you ever tried to rip off a pair of panties? It’s not like they just pull apart. Those things are sewn to stay together, and I gave a girl a skin burn once trying to yank off that lacey shit.
But the best are the orgasms on command. “Come!” he commands. And she does.
I roll my eyes. Right. If only . . .
I close my eyes and imagine I’m hearing the buzz of Elle’s vibrator as she reads, dropping the book on her bed to circle her nipples while the vibrator gets her off. Now that’s my kind of erotica. I sigh as I grip my hard cock. It’s going to be a really long night.
The next evening the phone rings just as I’m finishing off my second scotch and watching the game.
I glance at the screen. Damn.
It’s her. Elle, with a capital E.
The girl that kept me up late last night jerking off. I’ve got a little buzz going from my couple of drinks and talking to her right now is risky.
I clear my throat and try to push my dirty thoughts aside. “What’s up, Elle?”
“Hi, Paul,” she says in that breathy voice.
I’m already getting hard again. Damn.
“I just wanted to let you know that thanks to you I’m feeling so much better today.”
“That’s great,” I say, impressed with how much better she sounds. “And what brought that on?”
“I was thinking about what we talked about . . .”
I can’t resist the impulse to fill in all the blanks of what she wants to tell me . . . and the dirty book I gave you to read . . .
“And it occurred to me,” she says earnestly.
. . . how much I want you, Paul . . .
But when she finishes her thoughts it’s nothing like what I thought she would say.
“Why should I let one bad apple spoil the whole bunch?”
I sit straight up. What the hell? Can we hit rewind?
When I reply my voice is louder than intended. “Did you really just say that one bad apple shit? My mother used to tell me that. Have you ever considered that the whole bunch on Tinder could be bad apples?”
“You’re so funny!”
“I’m not joking,” I say.
“Seriously Paul, I’ve decided to throw myself back into the game.”
“But Tinder’s not really a game, Elle . . . it’s more like the mosh pit. What if you get head butted again?”
“I’ve realized the mistake I made. This time I’m going to spell it out to the dude before we get to the sexing.”
“Spell it out, huh?”
“Yeah, no weird stuff like latex or furry suits. No demeaning talk or behavior. No bondage. No threesomes.”
“Or foursomes?” I ask.
“Ewww, no!” she says.
“Are you trying to make me feel bad?”
“What? No, why?”
“I told you about my foursome.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot about that. That was when you were a man-whore.”
“Yes, thanks, although I prefer the term ‘sex fiend’.”
“Well . . . that’s still what you told me.”
“I did. So see, I’m the very guy you wouldn’t want to sleep with.”
“Ummm.”
“Yet, you pretty much asked me to screw you when we met. Do you see how complicated this is?”
“Can I ask you something, Paul?”
“Sure, why not? You know so much about me already.”
“Did you do men too back during your sex fiend days?”
I almost drop the phone. “Sex with dudes? No! Why would you ask that?”
“So your orgy was really just you and a bunch of women. Did you have a harem or something?”
“I could have.”
She huffs into the phone. “Oh really? A harem? What if you’re making all this stuff up? Why should I believe you and all your big talk?”
“If you don’t believe me, I don’t care. It doesn’t change anything.”
“What if you made up all those sexy stories . . . like that you were addicted to sex. What if you’re really more like your accountant brother?”
I feel the vein pop out on my forehead. Why is she screwing with me?
“I know what this is about,” I whisper in a dark voice.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“You’re provoking me, trying to get me to come over there and fuck you and break my oath. Well, it’s not going to happen.”
“Good!”
“Yup, good.”
“Because you know what, mister? You don’t fit into my profile anyway.”
“Oh that’s rich. You must have one hell of a profile.”
“Well look at you. You’re searching for a little complacent wifey who will roast your chicken and birth you a bevy of babies.”
“Roast my chicken? What’s that a metaphor for?”
“It’s not a metaphor, it’s dinner.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re pretty weird, you know.”
“And you don’t want to fuck anymore and nothing’s weirder than that . . . so who’s calling the kettle black?”
“Who says I don’t want to fuck? I never said that. I want it.”
“Really?”
“Sure.” I want it bad. So bad it hurts, but I don’t tell her that.
“So it’s that you just don’t want to fuck me?”
“Oh, I want to fuck you. Right now I want to throw you on the bed and ride you so hard you won’t be able to walk the next day.”
There’s a long silent pause. Maybe that was too much.
“Ms. Jacoby, are you still there?”
“I’m here, Paul Junior. I’m just distracted thinking about you throwing me on the bed.”
“And mounting you?”
“Yes.”
I hear a soft moan.
“And fucking you hard?”