That I can want, and be wanted, without attachment.
Without love.
Without pain.
I climb into my van and start the engine. Nineties rock pours from the speakers as I unlock my phone. Muscle memory has my thumb opening Tinder; my search set only to the surrounding towns at least thirty minutes away.
Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.
Their faces blur. None of their smiles speak to me.
I stop on a half-naked woman reflected in a bathroom mirror, the caption;Down for fun, no strings. HMU.
That's all I want.
No mess. Just the weight of another body to fill the hole for tonight.
We match and I type out;you free now?
Within a minute I get my reply—Don't I get a, hi Gemma, you’re pretty, or similar generic small talk first?
A soft smile widens my lips at her response.
Me:You took the picture. You already know you’re pretty.
Her:Still, a little small talk would have been appreciated.
Me:You were desperate to respond.
Her:Was I?
Me:Might be a record.
Her:I’d tell you you’re lucky you’re hot, but you took the picture.
Me:So are you free?
Her:I can be for you.
Me:Do you have any boundaries?
Her:Don't spit on me. And protection is a must. HBU?
Me:I don't kiss on the lips.
Her:But you do elsewhere?
Me:I’ll make you come with my tongue as many times as you want, if that’s what you’re asking.
Her:How soon can you get here?
Me:What’s your address?
Her:I’ll meet you at the Fred Meyer in North Daintree. There's a bench at the entrance. There's cameras and always a security guy there. If I don’t get serial killer vibes, we can come back to mine.
Smart girl.
Me:I've got a bed in the back of my van if you can't wait that long.
