Gray
Later that night in bed, I scroll through one of the dating apps Celena put me on. It’s a new one where you can search through potential partners based on a set of criteria and then, for each result, you tag the person with up to three categories. The categories range from “Cross to the other side of the street” to “Good for a one-night stand” to “Dear Future Husband.” The more people you tag, the more the algorithm learns what you like and curates a list of people you may wish to reach out to. If you and another person select at least one of the same categories for each other – all except for the cross the street one – the app will notify you both that your goals match. The name of the app is InSync.
Celena also has me on one of the older, more established apps as well. She wanted to put me on four or five dating apps, but I don’t have time to check them all, so I limited her to two.
Celena also created my profile for me. I’m listed as a teacher, because I learned that listing my occupation as “professor” intimidates men. According to my profile, I like sports, talking dirty, and drinking wine.
The picture of me she chose was taken at the beach this past summer. She’s cropped out of it, and I look pretty good in my bikini. My breasts are a C cup, and they’re decently perky in this top, but I worry about the message the picture sends to the men on the app. I’m not looking for justsex. I want an actual boyfriend.
I look over the profile of one guy who works in finance and likes to take his boat out on Long Island Sound during the summer. He’s decently attractive and a couple years older than me. I tag him as “Let’s have coffee” and “Down to have dinner,” then shut down the app.
It’s late and I have one of my early classes tomorrow, followed by two back-to-back ninety-minute committee meetings. I can get out of at least one of those meetings in the future if I start working with Ash, but I have some serious concerns about accepting this project, not the least of which is having to see the man whose dick pic still sits on my phone.
I stare up at the ceiling.
I willnotlook at the dick pic. I willnotlook at the dick pic…
I grab my phone and open it to pull up the dick pic. I really need to delete it, but I can’t bring myself to do it. If I were a different kind of person, I’d be on the phone with the tabloids auctioning it to the highest bidder. Fortunately for Ash, I’m not that kind of person.
Unfortunately for him, Iamthe kind of person who’s going to pull out my vibrator and masturbate to the pic before bed.
Celena was right. I need to get laid.
I reach into the second drawer of my nightstand and pull out my vibrator and a dildo. It usually takes both to get me off, and I take one last good look at the picture of Ash’s cock before setting the phone aside, turning on the vibrator, and laying back on the bed.
I press the vibrator to my clit to get things going, and when I feel myself get wet, I slide the dildo in. I haven’t used it much lately, so it fits tightly, and I can’t help but wonder how Ash compares. I think he’s bigger than the dildo, but I can’t tell for sure from the pic.
I start to rock against the toys, and the sensation builds quickly. I imagine Ash above me, moving between my legs as I grip his shoulders and rock my hips into him.
What would he be like in bed? He’s a hockey player, so aggression must be in his nature, but he’s also got that boy-next-door look abouthim. Would he be a gentle lover, or would he take me hard and fast?
I always tell myself I want the former, a man who’ll make love to me slowly, but it’s the thought of the latter that sends my body into overdrive.
I come as I imagine Ash driving into me while he tells me what a great fuck I am. I cry out as I hold the vibrator to my throbbing clit, and my muscles spasm around the dildo.
When I finally come down from my orgasm, I shut the vibrator off and lie there to let my breathing return to normal.
A minute later, I pull my phone off the nightstand and google, “When does the NHL season start?” Opening night is October 7 this year, a week and a half from now.
I do a search on the Stanley Cup playoffs. Those start in April and go anywhere from mid-June to late June, depending on how many games have to be played. Each round is the best of seven games, so teams might play only four games, or they might need all seven.
Six to nine months. That’s how long I could potentially work with Ash if I agreed to do this.
Six to nine months to come up with an intervention that will ‘fix’ him.
Six to nine months of having to look him in the eye after masturbating to the dick pic he almost certainly sent me by accident.
I sigh and reluctantly delete the pic from my phone. If I’m going to do this, I need to start with a clean slate. No more fantasizing about him. I had my one lapse, and now it’s time to be professional.
I shut my phone down and plug it into the charger. I’ll double check with Melinda tomorrow that I’m okay to do this, then I’ll email Kaladin’s people. They can tell Ash. There’s no way I’m texting him, since I don’t want him to think his dick pic was a deciding factor.
I grab my toys and head into the bathroom to wash them off. My clean slate starts with rinsing the evidence of my shame down the drain.
Chapter 4
Ash
I feel like my head is weighted down with lead balls the next morning. The alarm clock on my nightstand makes three different sounds of increasing urgency when it goes off, and it’s on the last one of its cycle, which tells me I’ve been out of it through the first two.
