I sat back down on the bed.
Just text her.
“It’s the middle of the night.”
Besides, if one wanted to date a woman, he shouldn’t lead with a thirsty text at two a.m.
Wait, dating? Who said anything about dating?I didn’t even like Amy. Well, maybe I liked her a little.
I probably only felt like this because I wanted to sleep with her.
I needed to fuck her once or twice or like ten times, and then she would be out of my system, and I could go back to my normal life.
I opened my notepad again.
Fuck Amy from behind.
I crossed it out then tore out the page for good measure.
I needed to be up in three hours.
I turned off the light, lay on my bed, and turned on a meditation app on my phone.
“You are floating along on a sea of silver,” the soft app voice crooned, “when—”
Beep! Beep!my phone chimed noisily.
I cursed as my tenuous grasp on sleep dissipated. Then I cursed again when I saw the message. Then my dick grew uncomfortably hard when I watched the video.
That was Amy.
“Fuck, her pussy looks amazing.” I could practically feel her hot cunt riding my cock. She was so fucking wet, and she was barely touching herself.
My brain served up mental image after erection-inducing mental image: me fucking Amy’s perfect, slick pussy from behind and her moaning as I pounded into her; her riding my cock, playing with her tits while she lifted herself up and down on my shaft; Amy perched on the couch in my office, one leg on the floor while I fucked her, hitting that perfect spot inside of her and making her scream.
I went into the bathroom, filled the sink with cold water, and dunked my head in it.
Then I gave up on sleep and went for a run while I tried to figure out how to respond.
* * *
Unfortunately,a good answer had not materialized. As I ran around the property, I weighed the pros and cons of sending an emoji versus sending a dick pic versus sending a text. After several hours and a weight-lifting session, I had more points in the text category, but that meant I needed to figure out what exactly to write, and all my brainstorming ideas ended up being some variation of “I want to fuck you right now.”
I was irritable and grouchy when I walked into the next wedding planning meeting.
“That’s not the face of someone who gets to eat as much cake as he wants,” Meg quipped when she saw me.
“I don’t like cake.”
“Of course you don’t like cake.”
Ah, shit.
Amy was irate.
I should have just replied with an emoji. Can’t go wrong with an emoji.
But should I have used a peach, an eggplant, or some other fruit or vegetable?
