* * *
Imogen,
I wish James would let me not charge you, but he’s a tightwad like that. I really have had an amazing time working on your house (and getting to know you!) and I hope, selfishly, that you have something else on your Honey-Do list just so I can come back over and fix it.
Or, just call me. Or text me.
Even if something isn’t broken, if you’re so inclined.
Hope to talk to you again soon,
Jesse O’Neill
* * *
PS: don’t be too surprised if I just show up at some point. I may not be able to help myself.
* * *
I have his number in my phone, so I bring up a new thread and try to figure out what to say to him.
Me: I have a check in the mail for you. Thanks for being so cheap! You deserve so much more than what you charged me for the amazing work you did. Say thanks to Franco and the others for me.
Jesse: You could have waited to send the check. No rush. And you’re welcome. Wish it could have been less, or free. I feel wrong about charging you. Franco says if you want to thank him, meet us at Billy Bar. It’s our favorite local watering hole. He’ll buy you drinks as thanks.
Me: Him buying me drinks as thanks makes no sense. I do know where Billy Bar is, but I have to work early in the morning, so I’ll have to take a rain check on that tonight. Thanks for the invite, though.
Jesse: Consider it a standing invitation. We’re there pretty much every night after work. Not late, and we don’t go hard…not anymore at least. Just a few buddies having a few drinks. Low key.
Jesse: If you ever do come, I’ll buy you a few shots of tequila and hope tequila works on you like it does the girl in the Joe Nichols song.
Me: LOL. Didn’t peg you for a country music fan.
Jesse: I’m not, but James is, and if we have to ride together in his truck, country is all he’ll listen to. Gag.
Jesse: Does it, though?
Me: Does it what?
Jesse: Make your clothes fall off.
Me: at this point in my life, Jesse, pretty much any alcohol will make my clothes fall off. A slight breeze, for that matter. Hell, just say please.
Jesse: Please?
I laugh out loud.
Me: You’re with Franco. If I send you a pic right now, he’ll see it.
Jesse: You think I’d let that tool see it? Not a chance! I’d guard it with my life.
Am I really considering doing this?
God, I’m pathetic.
I can’t send him a full nude, though—I need to leave him something to want. I can’t give it all away all at once.
An idea strikes me, and I race upstairs to my bedroom. In the closet of my bedroom is a single box of things from my life with Nicholas that I didn’t throw away—mostly photos from our wedding, simply because there are some great, nostalgic photos of me with my parents, and me with Audra. Also in the box are the envelopes I sent the invitations in, and the large, pink, heart-shaped stickers I used to seal the envelopes. I’d bought a huge quantity of them simply because it was cheaper, and never threw the extras away because they’re pretty, and I’ve actually used the stickers for various things in the past.
Never anything like this, though.
I toss a packet of stickers on my bed, close my blinds, and then strip out of my clothes. Naked, I ask myself again if I’m really going to do this. It’s rash, irresponsible, and crazy. It’s not the kind of thing a divorced forty-year-old woman is supposed to do.
Or maybe it is.
I don’t know.
But I’m doing it.
I place a sticker on each of my nipples—the stickers are just barely large enough to cover my nipples, and I mean barely. If my nipples were to get hard, the stickers would probably pop off. I make sure my bed is neatly made, and there’s nothing on the floor around the bed, and then climb on the bed and try a few poses with my phone in selfie mode.
God, this is hard.
Why am I doing this?
Because I’m dumb, and horny, and desperately want him to like me.
Because I desperately need his approval and compliments; the affirmation that I’m still attractive to someone is addictive.
Yeah, I realize all this, objectively.
Still doing it.
I snap a few photos. The picture I end up liking best is of me sitting up, weight on one arm, with one leg curled under me and the other bent up and crossed over to hide my core, with my torso twisted to face forward, chest pushed forward, shoulders back. The expression on my face is the hardest part to get right, I find. Try too hard to look sultry and I just look constipated. Can’t be a blank look either, or a typical selfie grin. And not too serious.
Finally, after about thirty deleted tries, I have one I feel is decent. I’ve edited it a tiny bit, just to brush out some wrinkles and work some magic on the lighting, but I’m pleased with it, for my first and only nude selfie.
My tits look good—big, firm, perky. The stickers are coming loose in the photo, which even sort of adds to the sexiness of it, because you can almost but not quite get a glimpse of my nipples.
Before I send the photo, I text Jesse: I’m going to send you something. You have to promise me no one will ever see it except you.
His reply is instantaneous: I’m actually alone in the bathroom at the moment. And I promise on my life, and on my honor as a man.
Me: Okay, well…I’m probably crazy for sending you this, but…here you go.
Before I can second-guess my recklessness, I send the photo.
And immediately panic.
Oh dear god—what did I just do? I just sent a man a topless photo of myself.
He’ll show it to Franco and James and everyone he knows.
He’ll post it online.
Worse yet, he won’t like it and he’ll ghost on me.
He texts me back a few seconds later: Holy shit, Imogen! I have no words. None.
Me: that is, very literally the only nude I’ve ever sent anyone.
Jesse: Really?
Me: Absolutely. Like I said, you bring out the worst in me. Or, to be fair, not the worst, just…the craziest. You make me do crazy shit I have no business doing. Like sending you a nude.
Jesse: I see nothing crazy about it.
Jesse: You’re incredible. I have to stay in the bathroom and not look at the pic just so I can go back out without embarrassing myself. My buddies are probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
Me: You like it that much?
Jesse: Imogen. Legit, I’m fighting the urge to whack off in the bathroom of this fucking bar. That’s how much I like it.
Me: I’m not sure I believe you’re that turned on. I might need photographic proof.
Jesse: Are you soliciting a dick pic from me?
Me: *blinks innocently* why, no. That would be positively salacious of me.
Jesse: Can’t say I’ve ever actually taken a picture of my own dick before.
Me: You can be…creative about it. Also, you don’t have to. I was just being silly.
Jesse: Don’t walk it back now, Imogen. Never apologize for what you want, and never hesitate to ask for what you want. With me, and in life. You deserve everything you want and more.
Me: Don’t ruin our witty banter with your damned heartfelt saccharine bullshit. ;-)
Jesse: I’m locking the men’s room and taking a photo for you.
Jesse: And now I feel even more respect for the guts it took to send that to me. This is awkward and embarrassing and difficult.
Me: I took and deleted about thirty before I got the one I liked.
Jesse: Yeah, I’ve taken like fifty and there’s someone banging on the door. This one is okay, I think. Not as good as yours, but then, you’re a goddamn goddess and I’m just a scruffy nerfherder.
Me: You’re gorgeous, and I love that you just quoted Star Wars to me.
A few seconds later a photo pops up in the thread, and I immediately tap i
t to make it full screen.
My jaw drops, and my core immediately begins weeping with joy.
He took off his jeans and shirt, stood in front of the mirror of the bathroom, and took a mirror selfie in just his underwear. Tight black boxer briefs. He must have zoomed a little, because it’s a bit grainy, but worth it because I can see his entire package outlined by the stretch black fabric.
And holy mother of all fucks, is he well-endowed.
My heart crashes in my chest, and my core tightens, and my nipples go so hard the pink heart stickers fall off. The thing in his underwear is ENORMOUS. So long, and so thick. I enlarge the photo, shamelessly, hoping for more detail or something. What I see makes me whimper out loud: at the very top of his underwear, just beneath his navel, is a hint of pink. As if his underwear weren’t quite up to job of totally containing him.
God, oh god.
There’s no doubt. I stare at that photo long enough that I’m absolutely certain the tip of his penis is visible.
Why that drives me so nuts, I don’t know.
But it does.
So nuts that I don’t hesitate to whip out my little friend and set it to work between my thighs. I stare at the picture he sent, at his enormous chest and thick arms and hard stomach, at his broad shoulders and trim waist and powerful thighs, at his rugged features and incredible hair. And yeah, at his package, at the erection only barely hidden by his underwear…
An erection caused by me.
I’m in the middle of my orgasm when he texts back.
Jesse: So? What do you think? It’s been like five minutes and not a word from you.
I can’t quite bite back the half-scream of my orgasm, which is, for some reason, heightened by the fact that he’s texting me as I’m coming.
And then…my phone rings.
It’s him.
I answer it. “H-h-hello?” I whisper, breathless.
“You can’t just not text back after I send you that. Gonna give me a complex. Or a panic attack.”
I’m gasping, still shivering and trembling from the aftershocks. “Sorry. I was…um…just…enjoying your photo.”
His voice goes deep and raspy. “Imogen. No. Please, no. Don’t tell me I called you in the middle of what I think you’re in the middle of.”
I hold my little friend up to the phone, so he can hear the buzzing. And then I replace it between my thighs, and immediately a whimper is torn out of me.
God, there has to be something wrong with me. Did getting divorced short-circuit all of my inhibitions? Like, what is actually wrong with me that I’m doing this?
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jesse growls. “You are. You’re seriously—” His voice drops, and I hear background noise fade away, as if he’d gone outside into the parking lot. A moment later I hear a car door open and thunk shut. “You’re seriously doing that, right now?”
I let another whimper escape, as answer, holding the phone up to my ear. “Jesse…”
“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
“God, yeah. I’ve already come once.”
“Shit. Why’d you answer?”
“I—I don’t know. Oh god. Oh god…”
“You’re looking at the photo?” His voice is strained, tense.
“So hot,” I say. “The little hint of the tip sticking out the top is what put me over the edge.”
And then I groan, a long, low sound of impending release, and I hear rustling on the other end. “I’m gonna get arrested, but fuck, I can’t help myself. If I don’t come right now, I’m gonna go haywire.”
“Do it,” I urge. “Right now.”
“In my truck, in the parking lot of Billy Bar.”
“While on the phone with me.”
“Then hold off.”
I groan. “I can’t. Not for long.”
I hear him hiss, and then growl. “I’m doing it.”
“Doing what?” I ask. I don’t know who I am, right now. The words coming out of me are some other person. Some other Imogen who has phone sex with men I barely know.
“Touching myself.”
“Looking at the photo?”
“Yeah,” he says, through grated teeth. “And picturing that little glimpse of your pussy that I got the other day. That little glimpse has haunted my dreams ever since.”
“Have you done this before?” I ask. “Jerked off thinking about me?”
“Have you?”
“I asked first, but…yeah, I have. A couple times, actually.”
“I have too. I tried not to, but—after that day in your kitchen, you in that goddamned outfit? I couldn’t help it. I felt like a dirty jackass for using you like that, but god, you turn me on in a way I’ve never been turned on before.” He groans again, low and ragged.
“It doesn’t make you a dirty jackass, not if I don’t mind. And I don’t.” I’ve slowed the stimulator, but I’m still riding the edge. “Jesse, I need to—I can’t hold off much longer.” I hear a slick sound, and the knowledge of what that is makes me squirm and pant. “Now, Jesse. I need to come.”
He moans, and then snarls. “Now, Imogen. Right now. I’m coming.”
I hear him groan, a long sustained animal snarl, and I wrap my own breathy scream of release around his growls, and then there’s silence between us.
“Jesse?” I say. “Where—if you’re in your truck, where’d you…you know, put your…cum?”
He laughs, still out of breath. “Empty bottle.”
I laugh, somewhat hysterically. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
“Yeah, me neither,” he says, chuckling nervously. “It’s a first for me.”
“Me too.” I hesitate. “Is this whole thing a little crazy?”
“Yeah, maybe a little. Or a lot.” I hear a knock on his window. “But I’m okay with crazy.” Another knock. “Look, that’s my buddies giving me shit for vanishing. If they see this bottle and what’s in it…”
I laugh. “Go. But…call me later, okay?”
“You bet your ass I will.”
He hangs up, and I promptly scream into my pillow in equal parts excitement, thrill, embarrassment, and euphoria.
And then several days go by, and I don’t hear from him.
Chapter 8
I refuse to call him or text him first, just to retain at least a sliver of my dignity.
Then I start my new job—and I love every second of it. It’s amazing. Challenging and intense and difficult and rewarding, and it pays really well, considering what I’m used to. I’m so busy that first week that I barely have time to turn around.
After my shift that first Friday, I go out with Audra. She immediately notices that I’m off, somehow, and demands an explanation, but I adamantly refuse to admit there’s anything weird going on with me. Audra being Audra—meaning a bloodhound for gossip—doesn’t believe a word of it.
Audra Donovan has been my best friend for twenty-five years. We met in a YMCA pool the summer we both turned fifteen, and have been inseparable since. We have a weird relationship, though—we don’t see each other every day, and we don’t even talk or text every day. We get together a few times a month, and get tipsy together, and catch up on what’s happened since we last saw one another. We’re both super busy, and Audra has a crazy social life on top of a demanding job, and it’s just the way we do things.
She’s five feet six (“and a half,” she insists on emphasizing, to this day), keeps her naturally platinum blonde hair in a pixie cut, and has a body a twenty-five-year-old would be jealous of—breasts most people wrongly assume are fake, an ass that doesn’t quit, and taut, toned, firm everything. But then, she’s a personal trainer at a national gym chain—she’s the top trainer for the region, so she travels from gym to gym, training clients and supervising the other trainers and working out like a fiend. It’s kind of an addiction for her, I think. But it clearly works, on a physical level, because at forty, she’s in better shape than most women—and men—half her age.
We’r
e at our usual place—the Mexican restaurant I went to by myself the other day; we’ve been coming here for burritos and margs for at least ten years, if not longer. We split a pitcher of margaritas and each of us orders the house special—an enormous burrito stuffed with beef and rice and cheese, smothered in sauce and sour cream and drowning in a sea of refried beans. After we eat, we drink more margaritas, and finally, after two hours of wheedling, Audra manages to get me to admit that there just may be something going on.
But that’s all she’s getting.
I’m not talking about Jesse.
Nope, nope, nope.
“Dammit all to hell, Imogen Catherine Irving!” Audra screeches, leaning over the table and gripping my forearm with clawed fingers. “Tell me what the hell is going on with you! You never keep secrets from me!”
I shake my head, sipping water. “Audra, please, just give it a rest. I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
She sits back, sighing. “You’re no fun. You clearly have juicy gossip, but you’re not sharing.”
“It’s not gossip, it’s my life.” I meet her sky-blue gaze, trying to communicate assurance. “I’ll tell you everything, I swear. I just need a bit more time, that’s all.”
“It’s a man,” she mutters. “I know it’s something to do with a man. That’s the only thing you’d ever keep from me.”
If I say another word, she’ll have it all out of me. She’ll guess, correctly, and because I can’t ever lie to her, I’ll corroborate her guesses. And I’m really not ready to hear what Audra would have to say to me. Because I already know—she’d ask why I haven’t slept with him yet, and then ask if I’ve even seen his dick.
Yeah, she’s a little crazy, but I love her.
She narrows her eyes at me, and I can feel the guesses coming. “You’re all hung up on a guy, aren’t you? He’s got you flustered and confused, and you’re too stubborn to do anything about it, because of feelings.” She somehow manages to turn that last word into a swear word and a caustic mockery at the same time.
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