“I was at office”, she wrote in.
“Hang on”, I said. “Do you want to be named?”
“Of course not”, she pinged back. “I’ll sue your ass.”
“Fair enough”, I tapped back.

 

“I was in office”, she continued, “When my phone beeped. I had a match, it appeared. No biggie. I get matches all the time. Very little to do with me, mind you. I just think guys swipe right addictively. There’s no concept of careful selection. One just needs to be a woman. That should do the trick.”

 

“So anyway, he says hi, and I say hi, and he says what you upto, and I say I’m at work, and he says what do you do, and I say I murder unicorns for a living, and he says lol and I think what a shame, he’s a good looking man with a below average sense of humour.”

 

“We talk a bit more, and I find him interesting, but I don’t want to sound too eager, you know me being a woman and all. But thankfully I don’t have to, because in a few hours, he asks me if I want to have a drink at CyberHub. I see no problem with that, I make it clear to him we’re going dutch, he agrees, and we fix a time.”

 

He’s there before I reach. And I reach on time. He’s dressed in this really nicely fitted white shirt (top button open). I sneak a peek at the beginning of his chest – nice package, I think to myself. We order, he raises a toast to our evening, we drink, laugh, talk about what we do, about tinder, about marriage, about the US elections. He hates Trump. I couldn’t care less.”

 

The evening is going really well, and we’re really into each other. Both of us are painfully aware that the evening is coming to an inevitable end, and both of us want it to continue. I make a move. I ask him if he wants to continue drinking at my place. He knows what I mean. I know what I mean. He shrugs and says, sure. I know what that means. He knows what that means. We’re adults.

 

We come back to my place, and I wish I had kept the house a little neater. A quick sweep around the place and I see there’s a bra on the sofa, a towel on the chair, a glass of half finished milk on the table.

 

I ask him to make himself at home, point to the sofa, and quickly start cleaning up. I’m great at that. I can clean up an entire house in five minutes flat. I just pick up everything and dump them in the room that nobody uses.

 

He offers to help, I say don’t be silly, he says it’s not a problem, I say it’s done. He holds up the bra and asks where he should keep this. I’m embarrassed and I don’t know why, because I know he’s seen a goddamn bra before, and he must know that I wear one, but I’m also suddenly feeling a little shy and somewhat under confident about my B cups. I take the bra from him, open the door to hell and throw them in.

 

We start drinking. He makes my drink – what a gentleman. I put my phone on silent, and switch off the next day’s alarm. I’ll have to call my maid and tell her not to come tomorrow. At some point, he asks me if I want my feet massaged, he says he’s really good at that.

 

I say sure, and I throw off my shoes. He puts them on his lap (can I feel a hard on there? Is it my imagination?) and he starts to rub them. He’s horrible at it, I think. But this must be his big move. The pressure is all wrong, the thumbs are tickling my sole and he’s holding them all wrong.

 

But I love the sincerity. I take back my feet and tell him I’d like to return the favour. I put his feet on my lap, and I start rubbing them. He moans. At some point, we start kissing. He’s a good kisser. No tongue. I hate tongue on the first kiss. He holds me lightly. After the kiss, he smiles and says “wow.”

 

Full points.

 

He stands up, takes me by the hand and leads me to the bathroom. He opens the door and says “Where’s the bedroom?” I take him by the hand and take him to through to the next door.

 

He starts peeling my clothes off. I’m already a little wet, and I can’t wait. He’s a great talker, he’s charming, wonderfully boyish, and fun. I can’t wait to tell my friends about him. Butt naked, I start unbuttoning his shirt. Then unbuckling his belt. I find that so sexy. The jeans come off, and with them, his boxers. Simpsons boxers. I smile. Bart looks like Pinocchio.

 

He gently pushes me onto the bed, and he makes amazing love to me. I totally lucked out. I close  my eyes and enjoy the moment. It’s been a while.

An hour (two hours?) later, we’re lying in bed naked. I reach for my cigarettes and light one up. Ask him if he wants one. He takes a drag and gets up.

 

Starts putting on his clothes. I find that odd, so I ask him why he’s getting dressed, and that he can totally stay the night. I want more where that came from.

 

He finishes buttoning up his shirt, leans and kisses me, picks up his phone and says “I’d love to baby, but my wife is waiting.”

 

He leaves, as I stare on.

Dick, I think I mutter to myself.