But when I open the email, it’s not for him.
Instead, it’s an urgent last-minute date request for tonight. The man has a dinner he has to attend and requires a date. Formal attire, suit is fine, and if accepted, he’ll pick me up. It’s for five hours. Fuck yeah. I need that money. I check the time real quick. He’ll need to pick me up at six. It’s four thirty right now, so I’m going to be cutting it close.
I respond quickly, accepting the date and confirming my pick up location would be the normal one. It’ll be tight, but I don’t want to be picked up at my home by someone I don’t know. I take a moment and check out the picture and holy fucking hairballs. He’s hot as hell.
“Down boy! He wants your company, not your ass. Malcolm is taken, but he’s the first person to catch my eye in a long time.” I look down at my semi hard shaft, trying to tame the beast growing inside. But if he wants to fuck, I’d gladly rock his world.
I’ve been working outside this morning and then packing up Nana’s room to take her things to the homeless shelter, so I need to shower. Lifting my arms, I take a sniff of my armpits and nearly faint. I smell like a fucking skunk.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I check it, smiling when I see it’s my email. Opening it, my grin gets even wider when I see the new message.
Subject: New Booking – URGENT RESPONSE NEEDED
My heart skips a beat because this booking is definitely for Malcolm. It’s for three consecutive days—Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Each day is for an eight-hour booking, even though Iknow he’s getting me for the full weekend. I’ve just got to play the Foxy game.
I quickly accept and then send another email, closing out the rest of my time for the weekend so no other bookings can come in. It may raise some eyebrows, but Foxy will never question me as long as I don’t do anything that will come back on her.
This weekend is going to be a big step for Malcolm. We’re heading out to Lennox on Friday morning. It’s seven hours away, and the likelihood of running into anyone he knows is low. We will be there all weekend, and I have several outings planned to get him out of his head.
My mind starts to drift, thinking of him and how it felt having his body next to me. It was as if his body was perfectly molded to mine. Malcolm is so sweet, kind, and a tad bit insecure. Why did I ever feel nervous about going to his house?
“It was the fear of being a meatsuit, dumbass!”
Knowing time is ticking, I head to my bedroom and open my closet. I need a suit, but not the one I wore to Nana’s funeral. Wearing that suit again is something I never want to do. Slowly, I slide the metal hangers across the rod. The sound is sharp and grating—almost as bad as teeth scraping across silverware. It’s an ick and total red flag for me. Any man who can do that is one who would secretly put rat poison in your food for the life insurance payout after your death.
Shaking my head, I get back to work. I need something to wear and begin searching again, grasping the hangers one by one, moving them. My mind drifts back to that movie I watched with Nana. And I start screeching, “NO MORE WIRE HANGERS!” I pull off an empty one, holding it in the air dramatically as I try to recreate the scene before laughter bursts from me and I double over holding my stomach, unable to contain myself.
I really need a man if this is what’s entertaining me now.
One by one I move the clothing until my eyes land on an unexpected find in the back of the closet. A suit I haven’t seen in years. I wore it to a wedding a few years back and I silently pray that it still fits. I pull it off the rack and hold it to my nose, smelling it. Not terrible, but you can smell a faint mothball scent, but I can easily fix that. First, I need to shower.
I make my way to the bathroom and turn the shower on full blast while I begin to undress and quickly shave. Not that there was much to worry about to begin with, not even enough to make a five o’clock shadow. Once I’m happy that my face is as smooth as a baby’s bottom, I remove my clothing, drop them in the hamper and step under the hot spray of water.
Steam clings to my skin as the sound of water pounds steadily against my back, washing over me in waves, warm and numbing. I run my hands over my body slowly—cleansing, but distracted. It's been so long since I’ve felt anyone else’s touch. Since that last date. The one before I met Malcolm.And now? Things are getting close, complicated. Intimate. Each moment we’re together, I have to remind myself he’s not mine. He never will be. Malcolm’s heart belongs to someone else, and I’m just the vessel that’s helping him to win him back before he loses him.
The lucky fucker. If I knew who he was, I’d go give him a firm kick in the ass. Tell him what a fool he is for not being patient with someone as sweet as Malcolm. But that wouldn’t be right either. According to Malcolm, he’s been that and more. He’s just tired of being a secret, and I can’t blame him for that. I wouldn’t want to be one either.
I pick up the body wash, squeezing some in my hand as I begin to wash. The ache in my chest grows with each movement. But it’s more than that. It’s a physical need too. A kind of frustrated hunger, laced with yearning. I let my hand drift lower, the decision already made without even thinking about it. My fingers wrap around my hardening length. I exhale hardthrough my nose, leaning forward, bracing a palm flat against the tiled wall as my hips instinctively move with each stroke. It’s not just lust driving me—it’s the pressure of wanting, of feeling something build and build until it explodes.
It’s not just any man that my mind pictures, it’s Malcolm—laughing, the way his heart races when I touch him and push him out of his comfort zone, and the way his eyes light up when he talks about something he loves.
The images hit me hard, sending a rush straight through my core. The rhythm of my movement quickens, and my breathing becomes ragged as my muscles tense, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls. The water masks the soft, broken sounds I make as the heat coils low and tight—until it snaps.
I groan, pressing my forehead to the cool tile, letting my cum spill from me in a silent, shuddering release. The kind that doesn’t fix the longing—just quiets it for a little while. Once my body recovers, my hand lingers for a second before falling away, the water washing everything clean. Almost everything. The ache still remains, softened but still there.
The realization of being lonely, of wanting someone to fill that empty void, is ever present. Someone who can understand what I do, and why, and not judge me for it. But I know the chance of finding that rare unicorn is out of the fucking question.
Now that a little of the tension is relieved, I quickly wash my hair and turn off the water. I reach out for the towel and dry myself off before wrapping it around my waist and securing it.
My stomach chooses that moment to growl with the ferocity of a lion. I haven’t eaten anything since my omelet this morning and now it’s catching up to me. I know there will be food tonight, but suddenly all I can see is me attacking the food like Cookie Monster going after his favorite delicious treat. Not exactly the actions that will get me another date with this guy, not to mention the potential bad review he’ll leave on the Foxy site.A small snack, or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich wouldn’t kill my appetite for tonight, just quell the hunger burning deep inside me. Decision made, I head to the kitchen.
It doesn’t take long, leaving me enough time to style my hair, get ready, and drive to the meeting spot. Not wanting to leave a mess for when I get home, I quickly wash the knife and glass I used, placing them in the strainer, then wipe the crumbs from the counter and table.
The suit. I need to handle the issue of the grandma smell that lingers lightly on it. Spraying some of my Banana Republic cologne on it, I take another sniff, happy with the results. I begin to put some on myself, but not wanting to overdo it, I opt not to.
I step into my boxers and a white cotton shirt before putting on the suit. Stepping back, I take a look in the mirror and whistle at myself. “Fuck, you’re handsome as hell. I’d fuck you.” My fingers go up and shoot finger guns at my reflection. Why am I so weird? It’s probably why I’m still single as hell.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I put on my socks and shoes, slip my phone in my pocket and pick up my keys from the dresser. Time to get the night started so I can come back and pack for this weekend.
