Sex Says(22)

But it was about to come to a close, and I needed to find something else to occupy my time. I wasn’t consistent, but I was consistently busy and intended to keep it that way. I wasn’t the kind of man who liked to be idle. I needed to be out, doing, seeing, learning new things.

And that was even more true now that I’d met Lola Sexton, fallen completely in lust with her personality, and then lost her.

Zero communication.

I’d tried sending her an email about a week after our date at Bitters, Bock & Rye, but she never replied.

“Reed!” Kenny yelled again, this time a lot closer.

I looked to him with a smile and a wave and packed up my picnic. Time to work. Despite how it may seem, I wasn’t lazy. I worked hard from day-to-day to accomplish the goals set forth—they just weren’t long-term.

In fact, we were rounding the finish line on this particular venture today. Painting this bridge was a routine necessity, thanks to the foggy microclimate and its destructive effects on paint, and as I found out, they didn’t fuck around. They used a huge crew so that the time wasn’t wasted and the work got done as quickly as possible. It didn’t do all that much good to get one end of the bridge done, move to the other, only to have to do the first end all over again.

So I got down to work for the last time on this particular task and basked in the glory that lived about 750 feet above the water.

I’d spent my entire life in San Francisco, but I’d only once had a view as interesting as this—and I’d only had my first experience with it three weeks ago.




My apartment was dark thanks to the drawn curtains as I let the door slam shut behind me and tossed my keys onto the table right beside it. The flash of the light on my answering machine—an honest to God machine circa the 1990s—sporadically illuminated the cozy space.

I hit the button as I crossed the room, headed to open the curtains and window so I could smoke a cigarette before hitting the shower.

Okay—and check my email. I’d become goddamn compulsive about it.

I’d honestly never had a woman pique my interest as much as Lola Sexton. I wasn’t a traditional kind of guy when it came to my tastes in the opposite sex. Big tits, curvy asses, long legs, those weren’t what drew me in. Sure, I occasionally appreciated—I wasn’t a fucking monk. But it wasn’t the physicality of a woman that excited me. It took an intelligent, rare, free-spirit type who had a natural confidence about her that had nothing to do with the size of her bra or external beauty.

A woman like Lo-la. God, even her name trips off my tongue in two perfect syllables.

Sure, I dated, spent the occasional night enjoying the company of a woman, but I’d yet to find someone who actually intrigued me like the eccentric and beautiful little conundrum that was the dating columnist who rode a bicycle with pink wheels and a basket.

“Hi, this is Rhonda Leech from the San Francisco Journal, and I’m looking for Reed Luca,” the message played just as I brought the screen of my computer to life.

My head jerked to the side at the lack of my mother’s or sister’s voice—two of the only people who ever really called me—and I started paying attention.

“One of my interns alerted me to your video from a few weeks ago—”

Holy shit. People are still actually finding that thing? I hadn’t thought much about it—other than the woman behind the original words and the way she’d reacted to my own—since the initial buzz. Actually, if I was honest, I’d been pointedly not paying attention.

“And we’ve been watching its performance ever since. Viewership has been through the roof, as I’m sure you know—”

Because she’s obviously familiar with me personally, I thought drolly.

“But we needed to know how it would do on a much smaller stage here in San Francisco before reaching out to you. Anyway, we’re interested in discussing an opportunity with you, but we’re on a real timeline. It’d be best if you can get back to me today at 415-555-0000. I look forward to hearing from you.”

My machine’s ending beep was shrill and final and rang out into the silence of my apartment with a somewhat eerie quality. Good old Rhonda had said a lot, but at the same time, she hadn’t said much of anything at all—which I was sure was a finely tuned tactic appointed to sway the probability that I would head down to the Journal to find out what the fuck she was talking about. Consider me old fashioned, but I preferred to have conversations in person where important nuances like facial expressions and body language could tell you more than words—and I fucking loved the element of surprise.