You’ve always stayed with the safe guys because you grew up somewhat privileged. Jarell was fun, aggressive and scary. Kyle taught you what kinky was, but you couldn’t see yourself with a criminal justice and a conservation major. Come on finance, business, economics, possibly engineering if he wasn’t excessively nerdy. Your dad was a bullshit artist that found his way in sales. He said to himself, “Damn! Look at all this money! Let’s get Beemers and a boat!” Mom loved to shop! Brand names and a boob job. So, you spent more time getting dressed for the SAT’s than you did studying. Your score didn’t really kill it. Cheerleading and softball when you wanted to hang with the sketchy kids in drama or the hilarious and kinda nerdy school paper kids. You’re creative and you’re a great writer but you doubt yourself too much.
Then, you meet HIM. Handsome, athletic – kinda built like Jarell. But wait, you just said something witty like the school paper kids. I like your style too. Brand names for sure, classic but mixed with a little of that style forward. Shopping well on a budget, hmm. This weekend you have to what? Change the brakes on your SUV? By yourself? Fixes his own brakes? Your dad could barely fix a sandwich. And then the fatal blow… You have a blog? Oh? Well, lot’s of businesses have blogs. I mean, could he? Oh!! Oh!! You want to be a writer? Like full-time? A journalist or something? God, please!! Please!! Telling stories about relationships and personal journeys, but making it something grown-ups will respond to…That’s amazing! Catching your breath.
You work. You got your dad’s salesman gene and you sell real estate or travel or sometimes – insurance (wince). But you wish with all your heart you could just run away from it all and write. You’re so tired of being pretty and filling in little wrinkles and coloring the grays and keeping the tummy somewhat presentable cause you stopped fighting the cellulite on your ass. Your husband is a type A, insecure, mostly boring but kinda funny when he’s drunk cause he lets his guard down long enough to show you the guy you fell in love with in spite of him only being half of what you really wanted. And he just wanted a good woman to give him kids like you’re supposed to do.
Things are stable at home but boring. He’s mostly focused on work where he can almost see the top and then in retirement you two can start living. Won’t that be great? Fine for him because he’s tired. Work drains him. He works out to keep from having a heart arrack like his dad who died on Christmas Day when he was only 60. And sex to him looks a lot like whatever premium porn he’s been watching. He’s busting out weird little moves that seem to only fit if they were for an audience. It sometimes feels good but it’s right up there with family dinners and beer with the neighbors, you do it cause it’s what you do.
Then HE texts you one morning. I mean, cause you’re touch after the networking event. A Good morning with a flower emoji – friendly right? Or is it? Hey, wanna meet for coffee? I’m at so and so writing. Writing? It’s Saturday, early…Don’t have to be anywhere until early afternoon. Oh crap, he’s never seen you with no makeup. Bet he won’t be flirty then. Oh well, mascara and something on the lips. Ponytail, workout clothes – go!
You see him at a table alone. Ballcap and workout gear too. Mmmmm. That’s a big warm hug. Holy crap his back is all muscles. (Jarrell) I knew he was fit but my goodness!! What’s his deal? Really? Model? Yea, you can see it. Not Shemar but kinda like a Common. Hmm. On insta? Oh, yea, Let me find you…Here you are, that’s you right. Let’s see…Holy do me in my car right now! What the hell? And you’re not my son’s 29-year-old high school basketball coach Mr. Eye fuck you and I want you to see me doing it!
Coffee is cozy. In the back, not across but slides the chairs close together. Talking freely, easily, openly. Laughing. Lingering glances. Fucking Instagram! You’re throbbing a little. You shouldn’t let yourself feel like this. But God you want someone to play with and explore with who’s interested in your projects and ideas. Who looks at you at 8 am on a Saturday like you just stepped on the red carpet. Your eyes are so aqua when the sun hits them, pretty. He says matter-of-factly. Throb, throb. Why not. Why the hell not?
He feels so familiar. His words are kind, sweet. He seems “proud of you” and that doesn’t make sense but it feels comforting. Your husband doubts you, criticizes you, pressures you to still be his 20-year-old trophy as he slides anxiously into late middle age. Daddy! It’s your dad. You’re “Pumpkin” again. You’re tender and sweet. You can be silly and nonsensical. No furrowed brows or sighs and shaking heads. His elbow is on the table and chin in hand like when you would recount your day of elementary school adventures. Daddy would listen intently like the universe didn’t exist except for you – his Pumpkin.
This “Daddy” just licked latte foam from the corner of his mouth and you watched his tongue emerge and retreat between those gorgeous lips. He has you. You’re not fighting it now. Your neglected needs are drawing you in helplessly. It’s not a matter of selling yourself or being impressive. Now you’re shedding layers. Opening, peeling, laying them down in long narratives that he eats right out of your hands and licks your fingertips. He’s fucking you. And you’re fucking him back. It’s the grownup version of school paper mental foreplay.
He’s Jarell with a higher intellect. Kyle with passion and drive. He’s your mess of an adoring father with strong, skilled hands that you want on your body. Is he trying to seduce me? You ask yourself. You don’t care. He fits where you’re hopelessly empty. He ties your past into the present. He is pulling back the covers on a potentially addictive bed of fulfilling deception. Peel, expose, confess, confide. The world melts away into a conversation where words only seem to narrate the transfer of emotional energy and desire. Now, you’re sucking foam off your fingertip and crawling eagerly between the sheets.