by Kevin Sean
The second I see his latest suggestive message, a wave of panic and anxiety sweeps over me. He wants to meet in person. Making plans to meet up with a guy shouldn’t be so unfamiliar, so new, but it is. I’m an awkward middle schooler at a dance, unconfident and painfully aware of the both first- and second-hand embarrassment emanating from everyone involved.
Is this man—BUSINESSCASUAL—embarrassed? I don’t think so. He seems pretty into me. All I can hope is that my pictures do me justice… if I’m embarrassed now, imagine how I’ll feel when we meet and he gets upset and asks me to leave because I seemed way hotter on Grindr.
Would he do that? I try to tell myself he wouldn’t, but I don’t want to delude myself. This is Grindr, not the Love Boat. I have no idea who this person is, let alone how he acts in real life.
I know nothing about this man… he’s a mystery. A damn sexy one.
Beep. My phone buzzes and vibrates to let me know I’ve received another message from my anonymous suitor.
What I see next shocks me: there, on my phone screen, is a photograph of a shirtless man wearing nothing but a blazer. His abs are out of this world. But more importantly, he looks just like the grumpy hottie I shoved a cupcake into at G&J’s bakery just a few short hours ago.
Not only does his face look the same, but the jacket in the picture appears to be identical to the one the businessman at the bakery wore today. Is that the jacket I ruined?
BUSINESSCASUAL: You still owe me for destroying this blazer.
BUSINESSCASUAL: I can send a car to take you here.
My head is spinning. BUSINESSCASUAL is… the Cupcake Disaster Asshole? I feel like I’m in a simulation or on Punk’d. Could it really be the same person? I scan his latest picture. The gorgeous face, the chiseled jaw, that damned designer jacket which I smeared frosting onto… it’s all there. It’s the same stranger from G&J, without a doubt.
Logan Lexington.
I think my brain just exploded. I should be upset or angry, but that isn’t the case. Knowing that the guy I’ve been sexting is the douchebag I was thirsting for and then raging at earlier is just making my cock even harder. He may have been rude, but he was hot. Criminally hot.
Sweat drips down my neck. Oh God, this just got a little too real. I know this jerk from earlier today isn’t looking for anything serious, but he’s still looking for sex, and I haven’t had any of that in what feels like a century. I’m not even sure those parts work anymore. I’m terrified of making a fool of myself or disappointing him in person.
I’m about to message back forget everything I just said, I’m all good, thanks but no thanks, when I see my unfinished sketches from this morning on the canvas. A wave of sadness sweeps through my body.
I’m saddened because I’m still not inspired even after going out and about in San Francisco and seeing so many sights which ought to have kick-started my creativity.
Thinking of the busy day I had brings me back to thoughts of Montana and the way going skydiving with a love interest caused a breakthrough in her music production. I need to follow Montana’s lead. I need to dive headfirst into new and exciting scenarios if I’m serious about my art.
A casual fling with a sexy asshole could be the very inspiration I’ve been missing all along…
ME: Okay, sounds like a good time. I’m in.
BUSINESSCASUAL: Perfect.
ME: Which neighborhood do you live in?
ME: I’m in the Castro—I’ll probably ride my bike there.
BUSINESSCASUAL: Biking won’t be necessary. Or possible.
BUSINESSCASUAL: Like I said, I can send my driver… Uber doesn’t come to my place.
BUSINESSCASUAL: It’s a little out of the way, but I promise the trip here from the city isn’t long.
Ordinarily this air of secrecy would send off alarm bells in my head, but I’m so determined to do something out of my comfort zone the same way Montana did when she went skydiving. Therefore, I ignore all red flags and double down on my decision to meet up with this man.
ME: Okay, my address is 174 Castro Street.
BUSINESSCASUAL: Perfect. Can you be ready in half an hour?
ME: Sure, sounds good. I don’t have any other plans for tonight.
BUSINESSCASUAL: Delightful. See you soon…
The moment I put down my phone, I realize I’m in no state to hook up with anyone after a sweaty day of biking and walking around San Francisco. I run to the shower and quickly clean my body. While I’m air drying, I go for my cell and type out a message for Montana.
ME: I’m following your advice and being adventurous.
ME: If I go missing, it’s because the stranger I’m about to hook up with has taken me hostage.
MONTANA: AAAAAHHH!!!!
MONTANA: I’m so proud. Go out, go get some and then get ready to report back to me when you’re recovering and learning to walk again!
“Montana!” I chuckle out loud for no one but myself to hear. I look at the time. I only have ten more minutes before a driver ought to be here. I’ve just finished putting on a cute outfit, combing my hair, and spraying my cologne when a notification pops up on my phone screen.
BUSINESSCASUAL: My driver has just informed me he’s arrived outside of your apartment.
BUSINESSCASUAL: See you very soon ;)
I take a deep breath. Okay. This will be an inspirational experience. I might as well enjoy it.
I double check my pockets for my keys and wallet, do one more glance in the mirror to verify I look presentable, and throw open the door to run downstairs before I have time to doubt myself. When I step outside I realize that the same black town car which I saw Logan Lexington step into at the bakery has now come to collect me.
A man in the type of driver’s uniform I’ve only ever seen in movies jumps out and rushes to greet me.
“Bonsoir! My name is Pierre, I’ll be assisting you in your journey tonight.” I love his heavy French accent and the fact that he speaks as though he’s reading the script for an airline pre-flight safety video.
“I’m Ben Carpenter—it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“As polite as you are handsome, Monsieur Carpenter! Enchanté!” He tips his hat and helps me into the car.
While I’m fumbling to put on my seatbelt, I accidentally push a button between the seats. This triggers a tray to pop out in front of me loaded with imported snacks: Italian mozzarella sticks and glass cylindrical water bottles made of thick glass and emblazoned with what appear to be Swedish exclamations.
After ten minutes of fiddling with air conditioning and seat warming controls, I return the surprise mini bar back into place. Now that I’m relaxed I glance out the window. I can tell from the street signs and buildings that we’re in Land’s End.
I remember coming to this gorgeous, desolate corner of San Francisco with Zach many years ago. We visited the Land’s End Labyrinth and then made out on China Beach while the Golden Gate Bridge lit up with the fiery blaze of sunset behind us.
I enjoyed this place last time I was here, but this can’t be right. We’re reaching the shore, and there’s no way Logan has a house hidden on this exposed rocky crag.
“Pierre, where… exactly are we going?” I stammer. All the nervousness I’ve been compartmentalizing floods in at once, and I’m drowning in fears of myself being kidnapped, tortured, never heard from again…
“We are about to switch to the boat, do not worry, Monsieur! We are already almost halfway there!”
As the vessel heads north from the city and makes it way across the bay, I realize that we’re headed to the Marin headlands on the other side of the Golden Gate. I wonder if Logan Lexington lives in the village of Sausalito, right on the other side of the bridge. It would make sense—it’s notoriously expensive, and he seemed like the type who isn’t afraid of a hefty price tag.
The lights of the Golden Gate Bridge flicker and glow in my peripheral vision. I take in the sight and wonder how many people have seen this iconic landmark from my cur
rent viewpoint. This is such a unique experience. If the sex tonight doesn’t inspire me to paint again, maybe I can try my hand at landscape art. Paintings of the Golden Gate Bridge sell like hotcakes.
“We have nearly arrived,” Pierre calls from the driver’s seat, his words softened by the French accent. Part of me wonders if he’s mistaken—it’s obvious after taking one glance through the window we’re still in open water. There’s no way we’ve reached the other side of the bay yet.
Before I have the chance to voice my doubts, the ferry jolts to a stop.
“We’re docking!” the Frenchman exclaims with glee. He jumps out of the driver's seat and rushes to the door behind him to let me out of the car. He leads me down a set of retractable stairs and off the ferry.
As my feet meet the solid ground of the wooden dock, I squint my eyes and scan my surroundings. Shapes and structures become visible as my vision adjusts to the darkness of night.
I can see that this isn’t a normal beach. I turn to Pierre. “Is this an island?”
He chuckles. “Oui, an island! A private island, mon ami!”
I didn’t even know there were islands besides Alcatraz in the San Francisco Bay, let alone private residential islands. I don’t want to seem ignorant or silly, though, so I nod my head and act as if arriving to a private island next to the Golden Gate Bridge is very normal and not at all extraordinary.
“Follow me!” Pierre calls out, gesturing towards a beautiful paper lantern hanging from a tree. Stenciled cutouts of dozens of tiny stars make it look like a constellation. Pierre walks up to the lantern and then disappears in to the trees behind it. “Monsieur?” he calls back, waiting for me to follow him into the woods.
I walk right into the trees and am greeted by the sight of a line of identical lanterns, decorated with stars, bobbing in the branches. They illuminate a rugged path which winds through the woods. I see Pierre’s shadowy form moving ahead of me, heading further inland. This must be the path to Logan Lexington’s house.
I can’t help but marvel at my surroundings: whoever designed this was very artistic. The colors of the lanterns and the way the light and shadows fall on the pines make it appear as though woodland creatures from a fantasy movie crafted the path.
“Wouldn’t it be more efficient to just build a driveway or a dock that reaches the house?” I muse aloud.
“Perhaps, but Monsieur Lexington puts a high value on his privacy. He comes here to unwind and to cut off the rest of the world, and these woods are effective in isolating the house and maintaining the peace,” Pierre explains.
I nod, distracted again by the entrancing effect of the glowing lights dancing among the tree branches.
Time passes quickly on the path. Before I know it I’m catching up to Pierre, who has reached a clearing in the woods up ahead and slowed his pace to a halt. He’s craning his neck up. When I arrive by his side, I see what he’s looking at: before us is a gorgeous house. Logan Lexington’s house.
It’s somehow both contemporary and Victorian: refined turrets and intricate painted archways give way to sleek floor-to-ceiling windows. The futuristic sheaths of glass and 19th century details go well together. I’m taken aback by the pure beauty of the house. I’ve seen nothing like it before.
Pierre and I walk up to the door, where a familiar face is waiting for us: my host, the man I spilled frosting all over, Logan Lexington.
For a moment we all just stand there in silence. I’ll admit it, I’m much more excited to see Logan again than I’d expected. One might even say I’m feeling awestruck and amazed, between seeing such a grandiose, modern house for the first time and seeing his handsome face for the second time.
“Well, I’m off! I will wait in the ferry to bring our guest home after your little rendezvous,” exclaims Pierre. He must be unaware of the sexual tension… or painfully aware. The chauffeur gives his employer a respectful tip of the hat and walks away, disappearing into the heavy woods surrounding the house.
And just like that… there’s no one but the two of us.
I look up and into the eyes of this mysterious stranger from my not-so-distant past and lose my breath all at once. We’ve only met once, but just looking at his face already makes my heart palpitate with a bit of extra force.
Logan. Part of me can’t help longing to say his name out loud, even though I know I shouldn’t. I’m not supposed to know what his name is. We’re supposed to be strangers. That’s part of the fun, right?
We’re supposed to be strangers. But aren’t we a little more than that, after our run-in at the bakery? If anything, we were close to becoming enemies before he hit me up on Grindr.
Logan interrupts my thoughts by tracing my jawline with his finger and then resting his digit on my all-too-eager mouth. My lips part, inhaling in sudden shock. I try to remain cool and collected. I can barely breathe. How could anyone with this sexy specimen of a man staring them down? With those beefy, beautiful arms reaching out towards them and touching them?
The foreign sensation of another’s skin on mine makes me very, very aware of the fact that I haven’t had sex in a year. Will I even remember what to do? Despite my trepidation and my worries, I want Logan close to me. And isn’t sex like biking? Even if it’s been a long time since you went for a spin, it’s no big deal to hop back on and ride…
The maelstrom of nerves and anxiety swirling in my gut pushes me to begin nervous word vomiting. “Before I came over, I texted my friend to tell her I my plan. I sent her my location a few minutes ago, too. Nothing personal, just the fact this whole scenario is very… Hitchcock murder movie. No offense.” Well, I definitely didn’t need to include the last part. I wonder if he’ll slam the door in my face.
“That’s no problem at all. Prudent of you,” Logan says, amused by my candor. “I’m a terrible host, keeping you out in the cold. Here, come in.” He gestures his arm wide and steps backwards through the grand front door, which is framed with silver tendrils of ivy and decorated with an elegant lion head-shaped door knocker.
I follow him and step in to the darkness, bracing myself for whatever is about to come. However nervous I may be about sleeping with a man for the first time in a long time, I’m excited to spend the night with Logan Lexington. I wonder if he’s excited too. Excited to have me all to himself… even if it’s just for one night.
6
LOGAN
The boy from the bakery looks even more beautiful than I remembered.
Just look at those green eyes—so bright and expressive. Equally entrancing are the hints of dimples on his cheeks. Even now when he moves his head, avoiding my gaze, messy curls of brown hair falling in front of his eyes… his irises twinkle and shine through.
I can’t take my eyes off of him. And I haven’t even mentioned his lips, which are so kissable. Nor the muscles of his body, which flex and ripple under his t-shirt.
How am I supposed to stop looking at him? I’m always very chill when someone arrives for a quick hookup, but for the first time I’m nervous and feel strange. It seems impossible to accept that he’s right here. Standing in my home, just inches away from me.
The boy from the bakery.
For a second I almost say I haven’t stopped thinking about you all day.
But I’d never tell him that. There’s no need. I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable. We only have one night to enjoy each other’s bodies, and that would put a damper on the limited time we have together.
“Wow, this place is gorgeous,” the young man says, blissfully unaware of my ogling him. He’s so breathless and so alight in the eyes it’s impossible he’s being insincere when he gushes about my house.
“Thank you very much,” I say, trying not to let the conversation veer too deeply into personal specifics like what my job or name is. He can admire the chandeliers and eyeball the candelabras all he wants, but I’d prefer to steer clear of divulging my dirt. I’ve invited him here for sex, not an FBI interrogation.
“It must
be a pain in the ass for you to clean though,” he continues. “I wouldn’t want to be in charge of that cleaning supply budget. And I definitely wouldn’t be up for pushing a mop from here…” this stranger who is now standing in my home gestures to one side of the high-ceilinged foyer before turning 180 degrees and moving his hands toward the other side of the room “…to here.”
The interior lighting is at just the right dimness to perfectly highlight and reflect off of the handsome features of this man who stumbled into my life by chance. Or maybe I’m the one who stumbled into his life uninvited.
“It’s a rather enormous home for just one person, yes, but I’m a pretty tidy person. I never throw Gatsby style parties, so no need to worry about the house getting trashed. My housekeeper, Katarzyna, is a tough Polish lady who runs this place like a ship.”
This makes him laugh. “She sounds fabulous.”
“She is! Katarzyna can be tougher than nails or as sweet as a puppy. I’d trust her with my life… or my private island.”
What I don’t mention is the fact that I’m barely ever home, so it would be difficult to make much of a mess. The reason I’m almost never around is that I also have a penthouse apartment in Lexington Tower above LexTech’s offices.
Most of my employees live in apartments in the building—I’d discouraged it, fearful of being hated for being people’s landlord and boss, but the apartments are gorgeous and I charge low rent. I invested in residential space in the tower for convenience, not to make a profit.
My guest is looking upwards. “There’s something new to look at everywhere I turn,” he muses.
I don’t know what to say in response to that.
“Listen, I’m sorry for making a complete ass of myself and overreacting at the bakery. All of that anger was related to work stress, and it was uncalled for of me to take any of my issues out on a stranger. Especially on a stranger as handsome as yourself.”