I blame the hotel WiFi for this entire situation.
About 10:00 p.m. every night, when all the businessmen stream porn and overload the network, my Netflix stalls just as Rory Gilmore is about to take a next sip of coffee. It doesn’t matter how many rewards points I have, I’ll never be able to upgrade to a connection that can exceed the drag of a Midwestern hotel full of lonely middle managers.
I could also blame the bottle of merlot that came courtesy of my company’s rewards points. I’m flying back to New York tomorrow, carry-on luggage only, and it seems like a waste to leave this bottle un-drunk. It has a twist-top, and I don’t even bother to get a glass from the bathroom.
I’ve drunk down to the top of the label when Kevin texts me. His Bitmoji avatar is holding a cat that says “You’re Purr-fect.”
We have had five dates and sex twice. He is big-hearted and big-boned, with a slightly ragged haircut and a laugh that reminds me of the luckdragon in The Neverending Story. I like him so much, even though he’s a total dweeb
I send him my Bitmoji avatar holding a huge wineglass that says, “Wine Time!”
Are u out?, he writes.
No, I’m in my room. WiFi isn’t working, but at least the hotel gave me free wine. Shrugging lady emoji.
We text back and forth about the day. He and his business partner started a video animation company that’s blowing up. They just moved into a new office in Manhattan and hired a bunch more people. I work for a global conglomerate that provides chemicals to major beverage companies. Basically, if you live on the East Coast and you have a sports drink after a workout, I brokered the deal for the ingredient that makes your tongue red. You’re welcome. I am not changing lives, but I went to a no-name liberal arts college and I’m just happy to have a benefits package and a fat savings account.
After a while, Kevin asks, WiFi still out?
Yup. Too many businessmen jerking off to YouPorn.com. As soon as I press send, I think,
Shit. He knows I’m kind of crass, but still I’m not sure I should have texted him about porn.
I get three LOL emojis back. Phew. Then, what are you wearing?
I slide my legs under the sheet. It’s not the wine making me feel tingly. Are we getting sexy now? We’ve had some dirty talk but not dirty texting. Still, he’s left it open enough that I could make a joke and deflect. But I don’t.
Depends. On how serious you are, I write.
I could be very serious, he replies.
I bite my lip. He’s really good at dirty talk and I’m not sure I can keep up. So I ease in with a joke.
Ok…I’m wearing a NYPL shirt and yoga pants, but I’m naked underneath all that.
If I were there, I would be taking off your yoga pants. Totally keeping on the NYPL shirt, tho. Literacy is hot.
LOL…Then what would you do…
I’m tracing the tops of my breasts with my fingertips. If this is going to get good, I want to be ready for his reply.
Then I’d be asking what your fantasy is
My fantasy... My fingers trail off.
I never know how to answer this question. Does he mean he wants to hear about me and Tom Hardy in three-way with with Cillian Murphy on the set of Peaky Blinders? Or is he talking about sex tapes and blindfolds?
Like a fantasy you never told anyone, he clarifies.
Umm… I reply.
Is this okay? That I’m asking?
Fuck you, Kevin, you are so nice. I mean, consent should be a bare minimum, but still…I’ve had such a long streak of Tinder fails that I forget what it’s like to have a guy be decent.
Yeah, it’s okay. I throw a heart emoji in there so he knows I like that he asked. I’m just deciding.
It can be one that doesn’t include anything too illegal :)
Well, I have a lot of fantasies. Can you pick a category?
Ok. Role play.
Fuuuuuuuck. I take a swig of wine. I’ve made it to the bottom of the label now. Should I cop out? Say something about a naughty nurse? Make him laugh and say, “I’ll be Ruth Bader Ginsburg and you’ll be my dissenting opinion. Bow chick a wow wow.”
Or should I tell him the truth?
I think back to four days ago, in his Brooklyn bedroom, where I saw him last. I had propped myself up on my elbows so I could watch his ginger head nodding between my thighs. He licked my pussy until it was a Slip-n-Slide, then curled his tongue inside me and did a shaking thing with his head that made me come so fast, I hardly knew what was happening. Then my arms were over my head, his fingers laced in mine, somehow a condom already on and he was deep-fucking me with this amazing grin on his face, like he’d already won gold but wanted me to see what he could really do. His dick was thick, and it felt great, but that wasn’t what I liked the most. It was the way his brow furrowed and, like, the intention behind the grind of his hips against mine. I don’t know what his Myers-Briggs type is, but this man applies himself to a task. Technically, yeah, the sex was vanilla, but good vanilla, the kind of vanilla where you realize he’s paying a lot of attention to detail. Like he’s taking notes in case there’s a pop quiz on my body. He went down on me again after he came, and I almost yelled, “Ten points to Gryffindor!”
I’m touching myself over my yoga pants just thinking about it.
Fuck shit goddammit. I want to tell him the truth. Because I think he would make it good.
Do you SWEAR you won’t make fun of me
April, I will cut off my own balls before I’d make fun of your fantasies
I take a deep breath (and another swig of wine). Then I type, Have you ever seen the movie Splash?
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