I hung up the phone, torn between the giddy feeling that lingered from my date and the perpetual chuckle left from the conversation with Connie and Dwayne. Either of them could plant a smile on my face. Together, they were a force of nature. But they both loved me and only wanted me to be happy. In Dwayne’s case, paternalism might take that a step farther into “what’s best for me” territory, but the principle was the same either way. They were the best friends—no, the best family—I could ever imagine. I was lucky to have them both in my life.
My stomach rumbled, and I realized it was well past dinner time. After a depressing search of my sparsely stocked kitchen, I wandered down the apartment stairs to my car, then drove to celebrate with some well-earned Chinese takeout. Nothing said “amazing date” like crab Rangoon.
Thirty minutes later, I sat in my den, oblivious to whatever show was on tv, lost in the bliss of cashew chicken and daydreams of Ryan bending over to putt. I closed my eyes, savoring a bite, and the curve of his taut lats peeking out the side of his tank-top gave me a shiver. My mental eye roamed up to his exposed chest and the glistening sweat my conscious mind hadn’t registered earlier. Apparently, my unconscious mind had a better eye for detail. I wanted to lick that sweat so badly. I could taste the salt.
Wait, that was a cashew.
I threw myself back on the couch and realized I’d become hard just visualizing Ryan. That never happened. My motor needed to be primed—and touched—before it roared to life. The idea of an image, mental or otherwise, bringing Little Michael to full attention was unheard of. Out of stupid lizard-brain curiosity, I unbuttoned my jeans and pulled the zipper down. Lo and behold, Little Michael popped up faster than a Jack-in-the-Box. I chuckled at that thought, then realized the double entendre of Jack.
That made me harder.
Getting harder made me think about Ryan.
My hand, still greasy from the Rangoon, grazed the tip of my penis. It quivered. I closed my eyes and replayed every hole, imagining Ryan walking, bending, stretching, and flexing. His tank top blew in the breeze. A gust came along and somehow—in the way unexplained things happen in dreams—it vanished, leaving him standing, bare chested, putter in hand.
I had my putter in hand, too. Stroke after stroke.
I watched him squeeze the shaft of his club, gripping and releasing, sliding his hands up and down. He knelt to line up his shot and his jeans cupped his perfectly round ass. Blond hair blew in the breeze, and I could smell his musk, a delicious mixture of sweat, heat, and Irish Spring. Damn, those leprechauns knew how to make soap.
Satisfied, he stood, fiddling the club with his fingers, rubbing it, making it his. He owned that club. I felt him own it. I felt him own me, want me, love me. He needed me. I knew it. He had to have me, to stroke me, to stroke—
Then, without warning, he putting and the ball shot through the clown’s mouth—I mean face—I mean into the hole.
Dammit.
I shot all over my cashew chicken.
If I hadn’t been so turned on by the scene in my mind, I would’ve been horrified by the desecration of my favorite meal, but it was worth it. Ryan might not have realized it, but we’d just come together for the first time.
Alright, it was in my head, but I was daydreaming. In my own weird way, I was admitting to myself just how bad I had it for this guy.
Connie was right. I was smitten.
Spent, mentally and physically, my mind returned to the present. I stared up at the ceiling, grinning like an idiot, wishing Ryan had been there to take his shot for real.
Pick your entendre. I wanted them all, as long as they were his.
Saturday 9:51pm
Hey you. I really had a great time today. That was supposed to be a quick round of putt-putt, but I couldn’t stand the idea of going our separate ways so quickly. Thanks for giving me a whole day. You looked super sexy, by the way.
I have to go out-of-town tomorrow for work and will be gone all week. Can I see you next weekend? Dinner, maybe? Rematch in pool since you crushed my hopes and dreams?
Let’s talk online this week while I’m gone.
Thinking of you (and smiling).
Ryan
I really don’t know how long I stared at the monitor, drinking in every word of that email. The goofy grin never left my face. Ryan was thinking about me—and wanted to see me again. That made my heart go into hyper-drive. This was real. I wasn’t imagining things. This amazing, funny, smart, successful, insanely hot guy—with poochy lips—liked me.
I grinned wider thinking about his lower lip protruding before him. It had seemed like such an annoying flaw when we’d first met, something that distracted from his other, more delicious qualities. Now, as I saw that lip in my mind’s eye, my chest warmed. It was cute. It was part of him, something no one else had. I wanted to kiss that lip.
“Shit, you’re sappy,” I said to myself, chuckling at my own schmaltziness. “But you can’t leave him hanging on such a great email. How does a smitten puppy respond without sounding so—smitten?”
10:02pm
Hey you back.
Today was one of the best dates I’ve ever had. Really. Putt-putt was a blast (even if you cheated on that last shot – chuckle), and all the other stuff was fun, too. I still can’t believe we never run out of things to talk about. Is that normal?
What kind of business trip are you going on? Where will you be? Inquiring minds . . .
Yes, let’s do dinner next weekend. And yes, let’s IM and email. You make me smile.
Oh, did I mention that tank-top was inducted into the Dating Hall of Fame? I was having naughty thoughts all night thanks to you. Really naughty thoughts. Way to ruin this righteous PK, mister. (grin)
Enough of that. Have a great trip. Can’t wait to see you next week.
M
As I was re-reading my email for the third time after sending it, giggling at my own cleverness, Mr. AOL announced, “You’ve Got Mail.”
Ryan had already replied.
I turned into a thirteen-year-old girl with her first school crush, hopping out of my chair and wiggling in a weird white-man-happy-dance before plopping back into the chair. I sat with my feet tucked under my butt and leaned toward the screen—as if his message would hop out and kiss me or something.
10:03pm
You had naughty thoughts about me? I love that. Why don’t you do something about it? Unzip and take care of yourself thinking about me. That would be so hot.
I’m a Scorpio. I like it hot and hard. What can I say?
Enjoy yourself.
Ryan
I laughed as I read his message. If he only knew what I’d already done to my poor Chinese takeout in his name . . .