Jon

On Saturday afternoon, after forty-eight hours without India at work, I text her and offer to pick her up and drive her to the party. Her place is on the way to Marina's. I thought it would be easier than if we both took our cars.

She refuses, insisting on taking her own vehicle.

INDIA: I better not. I may need to make a quick exit tonight.

JON: How so?

INDIA: Marina's got me matched with some new guy. He's going to be there. If he's as good as her last match, I'll be glad to have my own vehicle so I can escape.

I frown. Another date so soon? Marina seems desperate to match India up with someone. That, or she just really wants to test her app.

JON: Another guy? She's really trying to push someone onto you.

There's a pause.

INDIA: She wants me to have a life, I guess.

JON: You have a life. A pretty great life, if you sit down and really think about it. You have one of the best educations money can buy. You're a partner in a business that’s doing exceptionally well. You live in a great house overlooking the fucking San Francisco Bay, India. Your life is great.

INDIA: According to Marina, I'm practically an old maid…

JON: HA! As if. You could get any man you wanted if you wanted. Just go to a classy bar where the billionaires hang out and you could pick one up, if that's what you want.

INDIA: That isn’t what I want. I want something meaningful. Something real.

I read her text over, imagining what kind of man India deserves. She deserves someone real. Someone rich, successful, handsome, strong. Someone who realizes what a gem she is. Because she is a real gem. There aren't many women like India. Probably not very many men who can compete with her in terms of brains and work ethics and looks.

JON: You'll find someone when the time is right. When you're ready, you'll look up and realize that someone you're with is perfect for you.

INDIA: What happened? Has someone mugged you and taken your cell and is texting me crazy stuff? That sounds so romantic and so totally unlike the Jon I know.

JON: What do you mean? You think I don't know anything about love?

INDIA: You’re the king of hookups. The prince of fuck buddies. The duke of a good time, not a long time. I just didn’t expect something so romantic coming from you.

I laugh, even though she means it as an insult.

Then I feel slightly insulted – like I don't know what a good relationship is, don't know what real love is.

I do. I thought I had it.

I'm just not ready to settle down and become a stuffed grey suit.

JON: You don't want to settle down and get married, do you?

There's a long pause and I wonder whether she put her cell down or is busy doing something else – or doesn't like my question.

INDIA: No, but the truth is that I want a man in my bed, Jon. Is that so wrong?

JON: You could have that any time you want, India. All you need to do is signal your interest and you could have practically any man you want, seriously. You should already know that. God, you're smoking hot and smart and successful. A man would have to be a total moron not to want to be in your bed.

She doesn't reply and so I wait, knowing that she's also not promiscuous. She doesn't sleep around, even though she honestly could get any man she wanted in her bed.

INDIA: I want someone who loves me in my bed, not just any man with a dick. I know damn well I could get that any time I want. I don't want that.

JON: Well, I can't help you find someone who loves you. But you could sure find someone to spend time in your bed.

INDIA: SIGH.

INDIA: Gotta go. Later.

I don't hear back from her for the rest of the afternoon.

Instead, I sit at my desk at the office and fume. My good mood has vanished and I feel a vague sense of anger at the world, which I can't explain.

At six, I decide to leave the office and go home, take a quick shower, and change for Marina's party. I don't really feel like going, but India will be there and if I don't go, she'll never let me hear the end of it.

So, I do exactly that, my mind still on the contracts I've been looking over all day, wondering if they're solid or whether we need to work on them some more before signing.

After my shower, I change into something casual, and then take my car to Marina's house. It's a pretty sweet house on the beach not too far from India's and has all the amenities – an outdoor bar, beach umbrellas and chairs, plus a great patio where the party will take place.

When I arrive, there are already a dozen cars parked in the driveway and on the streets. Marina's parties are notoriously filled with people from the tech industry and from Stanford, including faculty and grad students. The people are smart and geeky and mostly rich or student-poor. The music is good – Marina always hires a DJ who plays a good mix of hits and oldies.

I'm a bit late, so I end up parking down the street and walking the rest of the way to the house. It sits on a rise on the edge of a hill, affording a great view of the bay and beach below. I walk around the side of the house to the back and see a couple dozen people standing around or sitting on beach chairs, drinks in hand. I don't see anyone I know – neither Marina or India – so I go inside. That's when I see them – India and some tall dark-haired guy.

With a man bun.

And a curly moustache.

He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt, shorts and sandals, and is leaning against the wall beside her, smiling as he listens to her talk. The two of them laugh over some private joke and an emotion runs through me that I don't recognize at first.

A man bun?

Marina appears out of nowhere at my elbow, her green eyes bright behind her dark-rimmed glasses, her hair in a ponytail. She looks like the total geek-girl that she is.

"Leave them alone," she whispers. "They're hitting it off so I don’t want anything to ruin it."

"Who the fuck is he?"

"That's Evan Moran."

"He has a man bun." I grab a beer out of a bucket of ice. "What the fuck, Marina? A man bun? What is he? A doofus?"

"He's a PhD student in political science at Stanford."

I shake my head and take a long pull on my beer. "His moustache curls up at the ends like he thinks he's a fucking Musketeer."

India seems to be enjoying their discussion. She doesn't look bored or irritated. Does she like men with man buns? I run a hand through my hair, and take another drink of beer.

"Do you have something harder?" I ask Marina, who's watching India and Evan with delight.

"You know where the bar is. They're hitting it off."

"You already said that."

Then she turns to me. "Don't get drunk. I have someone I want you to meet."

"What? Don't tell me you've matched me with someone, too. I just filled out the questionnaire again—"

"I have and she'll be here soon, so stay sober, okay? I don't want you too wild."

"Who is it?" I ask, curious but, at the same time, unable to take my eyes off Evan, who's leaning closer to India. She's not backing away, so that means she actually likes him.

"Her name is Heather, and she's a former bathing suit model. You'll love her."

I frown. Bathing suit model? This is the match Marina's app has picked for me?

"What does she do now?"

Marina smiles up at me. "She's a beautician. She specializes in color. You know, the new trend in rainbow hair color. She works miracles, or so her client testimonials say."

"And you think I'd be interested in a beautician?"

Marina laughs. "I think you'll be interested when you see her. She's tall and hot. Any man would be glad to be matched with her."

To change subjects, I ask about India's date.

"Who's this man-bun musketeer you matched India with?"

"He's a vegan," Marian says, like that's something great.

"Vegan? India loves meat."

"He's omnivore-tolerant.

"What's his dissertation topic?" I ask, although I really don't give a shit.

"I think it's the political economy of capitalist imperialism or something."

"Ha!" I shake my head. "India's a capitalist. Another totally wrong pick for her, Marina. I think you better give up on the matchmaking app if this is what it comes up with."

"Opposites attract," she replies, smiling widely. "A little friction gets the blood pumping. Speaking of getting blood pumping, he does Bikram yoga. That's hot yoga, in case you didn't know. It gets people all sweaty."

"India runs. She doesn't do yoga."

"She always wanted to start. Can't you see him helping her with her poses?" Marina says, wagging her eyebrows in a most disgusting way. "She'll get a great workout with him."

That almost makes me crazy. I can't help but imagine Man Bun bending India over a desk at the university and fucking her from behind, with pictures of Lenin on the wall behind them.

Just when I'm going to lambaste Marina over her choice for India, her face lights up and she points to the entry.

"Oh, look who's here. Heather!"

Marina goes over to the front door where a tall bleached-blonde woman stands, looking lost. I swear she looks like Daryl Hannah from Splash! with hair that is practically down to her waist and all crimped. She's wearing something tight and short and flowery, exposing legs that go on and on, and strappy sandals on her feet. Two half-cantaloupe breasts peek out from under a scoop neckline.

She smiles when she sees Marina and waves, then brightens up even more when she sees me. Her eyes move up and down over my body like she wants to eat me.

In truth, all I want to do is make a break for it, because I'm already bored imagining having to talk to her.

Make no mistake, if we were at a bar and I was a little drunk and she was a little interested, I'd be all over her. We'd be in the bathroom and she'd be sucking me off with those plumped-up lips, or we'd go home together and I'd fuck her brains out, but for some reason, I don't feel it tonight. She looks like cake frosting or cotton candy, with the streaks of pink and blue in her hair. Like if you fucked her, you'd need to eat something meaty to get the cloying sweetness out of your mouth.

I paste on a smile when Marina takes Heather's hand and pulls her over in my direction. I take in a deep breath and glance over to where Man Bun and India are busy talking, their heads together. India looks amused and is all smiles, but she glances over in my direction and raises her eyebrows meaningfully.

She thinks he's a jerk and is being nice, for Marina's sake. I'm certain of it. How could she think anything different?

India has often made fun of hipsters when we've seen them wearing their thick beards, their fancy moustaches, their man buns, their lumberjack shirts and prayer beads. She scoffs at all pretense, preferring honesty over artifice. Realism over idealism.

Man Bun is another bust on the old dating-app score sheet.

Marina brings Heather over and introduces us, then leaves the two of us alone. I shake her hand; she's impeccably manicured, her nails long and lacquered. Her hair is something else. It looks like she just stepped out of a steam room, all crimped and fluffy. Like unraveled yarn. Rainbow yarn. That's what it looks like to me.

"So nice to meet you," she says in a heavy Valley Girl accent, her words rising at the end. It grates on my nerves. "Marina says you're a perfect match for me." She looks me up and down, her eyes widening like she approves. "She's right in the looks department. Has anyone ever told you that you look like a younger Ragnar? She says you surf, too. I don't surf, but I love the beach. Maybe we could go some time. She says you have a place down south. Maybe you could teach me to surf. I spend all day in a beauty salon, breathing in hair color. I could use the fresh air. Marina said…"

The rest of the next hour is spent with me nodding and offering one-word answers to Heather as she breathlessly opines on everything from the latest blockbuster superhero movie to the election and the price of apartment rentals in the city. I encourage her, not really wanting to talk about myself, and she only seems interested in what kind of car I drive, where my apartment is located, and what kind of investments I have.

She's not bad, as people go. She's not the brightest star in the heavens, but she's not mean or rude. She's just really enthusiastic about everything. And none of it interests me in the least.

I honestly don't care about one word that comes out of her perfectly painted mouth. I can't even muster up the interest in what those lips might do when around my cock. Instead, I glance at India while Heather's talking about hair color and how intricate it is. I see that Man Bun is leaning in close to her and now he's pulling on a strand of her hair. She looks all coy, like she's eating this up.

She likes him?

What the fuck?

I turn back to Heather, who's telling me about semi-permanent and permanent dyes and how colors have to be developed, and a bunch of other stuff I should be paying attention to if I want to seduce her.

But I don't.

At that moment, I don't want to fuck her. Her melon breasts are far too perfect. I suspect that if she jumped up and down, they wouldn't move an inch. They're so obviously false and as a result, totally unappealing to me. Other men may like falsies. There's no accounting for taste. Only the very best augmentations are appealing. I've seen and felt a number in my time. I prefer a real breast, even if it isn't large.

Heather takes a break from telling me about the market for beauticians, and begins to ask me questions.

"Marina tells me you own a satellite company. Do you do communications satellites? Like AT&T?"

"No," I reply, wondering if there's anything upstairs in that bubble head of hers. "Military."

"Oh," she says, her eyes wide. "Like spy satellites?"

I smile to myself. "Something like that."

"Cool," she says. "Marina says you're a Ranger.”

"Former Ranger," I say with a nod and mumble something about my time in the Army and my work as a Ranger. She seems even more appreciative as I regale her with a story about my last deployment, how we survived an IED and were held down in an ambush by a group of ISIS insurgents.

She rubs my arm appreciatively, really laying on the admiration. She moves closer to me, and although I could easily take her home with me tonight because she's clearly into it, and into me, I want to escape and go home, have a shower, and watch the news before hitting the rack for some solid shuteye.

"Excuse me," I say, and make an excuse about using the men's room. In reality, I want to make a quick escape. I glance around but can't find India – she's gone somewhere and I hope to hell it isn’t home with Man Bun, because I would think a whole lot less of her if so. The main floor bathroom is taken, so I take the stairs to the second floor. It's in use as well so I wait in the hallway.

When the door opens, it's India. She's surprised to see me and stops short.

"Oh, it's you."

"Yep," I reply. "Feast your eyes on me."

She laughs lightly, her eyes crinkling in that way that I love. "You're a sight for sore eyes, that's for sure."

"No man bun to be found," I quip, grinning. "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

She laughs out loud at that and holds her hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry," she says, barely able to talk. "He actually invited me back to his place for a full-body coconut oil massage and hot rock experience."

"No way," I reply, amazed at the man's tin ear. "You turned him down?"

She play-punches my shoulder, grinning like a crazy person. "I said thanks for the offer but I couldn’t be out too late because I had to go into the office early in the morning. In other words, I lied."

"I was almost bored to tears by my date, Heather. She was telling me the intricacies of hair dye."

"I don't get it. It's like Marina's app is totally broken."

"You said it. She better go back to the drawing board on that one."

We stand there for a moment, and stop laughing when someone walks by. I glance down into her eyes and see a gleam in them. I know she's relieved she can talk to me and escape Man Bun. I lean in closer and somehow, we kiss.

As I kiss her, I wonder how Man Bun could ever imagine that India was the type to be into that airy-fairy stuff. More likely she'd want an ice-cold beer, a thick juicy steak, and a baseball game to watch for relaxation.

It's then I realize I'm kissing her for real now.

And she's kissing me back.

It's not just a friendly peck or even a sympathy kiss like the other night. It's a kiss kiss.

I feel her tongue against mine and it sends a shock of lust through my body right to my dick.

I'm kissing India and she's kissing me back…

What the fuck am I? A teenage boy?

All of a sudden we pull apart, and I feel like a total idiot. Here I am, kissing her again after the very awkward kiss the other night. I kick myself mentally.

We cannot go there.

"We can't do this, Jon," she says, her voice a little breathless like she's as surprised and aroused as I am.

"I know," I say, a surge of something rushing through my body. I know we can't do this, but my body and mind say fuck it.

I want her. I think of Man Bun wanting to rub coconut oil all over her body. Right now, that sounds exactly like what I want to be doing with India.

"Marina will kill me if she knows I kissed you instead of Man Bun, even if it was a mistake."

"I know. And me kissing you instead of Mermaid Lady."

"That's right," India says, her eyes widening. "She does look like that actress in Splash!, doesn't she? I always envied her all that blonde hair."

I shake my head. "She has nothing on you."

I say it in complete truth, meaning every word. I say it solemnly because it’s true and India should know it. At that moment, I want to lean closer to her and kiss her again, but I hold back.

India sighs audibly. I know she's thinking the same thing as I am.

We can't do this.

It would be so easy, but it would fuck things up completely.

"Do you want to blow this popsicle stand? I'll give you a ride home."

She shakes her head. "Thanks, but I brought my car."

I nod and take in a deep breath. "I think I'll take the back exit so I don’t have to see Marina."

"You’re really going to skip out?"

"Yeah. I guess I'll see you at work Monday."

She smiles softly, and I can almost imagine I see regret in them. "Okay. See you then."

I turn and walk away, taking the stairs to the main floor. I get to the landing and see Mermaid standing talking to Marina. I cringe and hope I can escape Marina's wrath unscathed. I hope neither of them see me. My plan is to take the back door and leave without saying anything, even though it's rude.

All I want is to hop in my car and drive off into the night, try to put the kiss out of my mind before it's time to go to bed, but from the way my body feels, a deep ache in my balls and a slight thickening of my dick, I won't get to sleep without yet another bout of masturbation to images of India lying on my bed, her body slick with coconut oil, her eyes closed in pleasure as I lick it off her hard little clit.

Marina's got to either fix that app or go into another line of work.