So. Long(45)

Itch…NextDoor might have a certain itch…he asked if I was complaining.

I smile as I click to his photo gallery. Sexy man with his t-shirt stretched taut over defined muscles. No. I don’t suppose I would whine. I might even scratch that itch for him if he plays his cards right.

I’m just stating what I think is true.

What truth is that?

Do I say it flat out?

Why not? I’ll likely never meet this guy anyway. I shrug and type.

You already want me, sight unseen. Am I wrong?

I do find you very attractive.

You just hope I look like my pictures.

I’m not worried about that. I know you do.

How does he know that? He’s pretty trusting in my truthfulness online.

So I’m right. You already want me…

Of course I do…as much as you want me.

Hmmm…not so much then.

“Damn!” Adam’s voice finds its way down the hall.

I jump to my feet and rush to see what the problem is.

When I get to the living room, he’s typing on his phone. His shit-eating smile covers his entire face.

“Everything okay in here?”

He looks up, and that grin just gets bigger, his eyes sparkling. “Everything is just fine. I’ll be done in a few minutes. Sorry it’s taking so long—and about yelling. I’m…corresponding with a friend.”

I give him a thumbs-up. “Correspond away—and take your time. I’m just trying to air condition the entire state. No worries.”

At my desk, I click on the latest email from NextDoor.

Ah. I see how it is.

Though I’d love to answer him, I let him stew in my sass. He needs to know I’m not too easy.

A few minutes pass, and another email alert dings.

Let’s just get together. We’ll find out who wants whom and how much. Nothing will happen that you don’t want. You tell me when and where. I’ll be there.

Okay, as long as you are who you say you are, and as long as you look at least mostly like your pictures.

Worried I won’t be who I say, or that I don’t look like my photos?

Let’s just say I’ve had a bad experience with this online-dating thing.

Ah. Don’t worry. I promise, I will look like my pictures—more or less.

More or less?





I stare into the mirror.

For so long, this beard has hidden from the world that I’m fucked up—scarred. Shit… it might even hide that sometimes I’m scared.

It’s shielded me from those who might get too close, because it’s as good a barrier as any I could build around my uncertain life.

Kelsey climbed right over my fences—even though she says she hates the facial hair.

Could she like what’s under it?

The shaving cream and razor wait on the counter.

Can I find the courage to use them?


* * *

My shoes are shined to a mirror finish. And I’ve got six condoms in my pocket—just in case Kelsey doesn’t finish the job that IED started when she learns I’m the one she’s been sending sexy emails to through that dating site.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll be satisfied with a smack across my face. And maybe she won’t refuse to go anywhere with me. If her hand print is still there come show-time, I’ll have to think of an appropriate joke to make when I take the stage.

My asshole is puckered up to my fucking neck, and I feel like a teenager getting ready for my first date, still wet behind the ears and afraid the girl will stand me up. It doesn’t help much that I’m nervous as fuck about speaking at this dinner tonight.

Between Kelsey and my public speaking aversion…well, honestly, it’s more that I don’t want to pop open all my luggage and lay it out for the world to see, and, if I’m not careful, that may be exactly what happens.

But this isn’t my first date, and I’ve already tasted Kelsey, and I intend to taste her again and again—tonight.

I put Spike in his kennel to keep him out of trouble for the evening and make my way across the yard to Kelsey’s place.

She answers my knock immediately, but isn’t even facing the door. “Hey, I’m almost ready.”

A silky, black scrap of fabric that shows every curve hugs her figure. Her back is bare, except for several crisscrossed straps that don’t cover much, but they do show the way her muscles play beneath them.

“You’re stunning.”

A plastic smile is in place when she turns to me, as if to answer with the standard thanks, but she stops in her tracks.

Her beautiful smile melts into something akin to shock just before her expression morphs into anger. “NextDoor? What are you doing here? And how did you get my address? I didn’t give it to you.”

“I didn’t need your address.”