August

Ron flips between TV stations, trying to catch both the hockey and football games at once. He's always been really into sports. I try to fake interest, but I'm not sure I'm entirely convincing. Luckily, he doesn't expect a lot from me except to sit next to him and pretend to be interested. He just needs somebody to make it seem like he's not doing this by himself.

Finishing my beer, I scowl at the bottom of the dark brown bottle. Somehow, this is not doing it for me. The beers are going down too fast, and having no effect. I feel insatiably thirsty. Despite my better instincts, I think the Instagram messages are getting to me. It’s probably just some phony plot, but still I’m on edge. My stomach growls.

“Hey… got anything stronger?”

Ron thumbs the remote, aiming it high above his head. He quirks one eyebrow at me. “Stronger?” he repeats.

I shrug. “Still got that bottle of scotch?”

“Scotch… no, that's gone. I think there’s some tequila and maybe a bottle of vodka in the freezer. Maybe ask Dahlia to make you something when she gets back?”

I shift on the sofa, uncomfortable and edgy. I feel like I'm definitely going to try to stay away from Dahlia today. This thirst probably extends beyond just finding things to drink.

“No… never mind. It was just a thought.”

“It’s no trouble,” he says vaguely, squinting at the TV directory, rolling down through the listings to find whatever it is he's looking for. “She should be back with Bunny any minute now anyway. I think they're picking up Chinese.”

“Yeah… okay, maybe later,” I answer, just so I don't seem like I'm avoiding the question. He's not really paying any attention to me anyway, just trying to get the game he wants to watch.

I should probably go home. I keep imagining that my phone is going off in my pocket, but when I check it, there's nothing. Or sometimes there's something. But I'm all on high alert over this thing. Ron is bound to pick up on it sooner or later.

All day long, I have been getting intermittent texts. First thing this morning, she sent a snap of her panties, apparently photographed just seconds earlier. If it's Trina, she has expanded her ideas about lingerie. She always had strong thoughts about cotton in panties, and the evils of the clothing industry with regard to feminine health. That meant she always wore cotton panties. She never wore polyester, nylon, silk, not even lace which I would assume would be about as ‘breathable’ as you could get. She said that having something cute to look at wasn't worth bottling up her lady bits all day, risking a yeast infection or whatever.

These panties are definitely different. I want to look at them again, but I don't need to, I can still see them clearly in my mind. Shiny and blue, creased down the center so I could just see the hint of the separation of her lips. Just enough to imagine that she was wet, that she was actually slippery and ready for me already. A brilliant tease, considering how much time she spent convincing me that wanting to touch her lingerie was something of an abnormal fetish on my part.

Then I didn't hear from her for a few hours, until later in the day. She asked if I liked her story from earlier in the morning. The one where she talked about undressing me, getting her hands on me. I told her right away that I did like it. Then I wondered if maybe I should've been more calculating in my response.

What am I supposed to do? I don’t really understand what kind of game this is. If it's Trina, maybe she's testing me to see if I'll pay more attention to her this time? Showing me her panties to show that maybe she's willing to compromise as well?

But if it's not Trina… then I don't even know. What's the game? Just randomly sending texts back and forth with a stranger? For what purpose?

Almost on cue, my phone buzzes. I'm sure I'm really feeling it this time, so I slide it nonchalantly out of my pocket, noticing that Ron is completely enthralled by the football game on TV.

Now you send me a picture, it says.

I squirm slightly.

Why should I do that?

…

Because we are having fun, she says. Fun is good. Right?

I cut my eyes at Ron, making sure that he's not paying any attention to this.

Yes, I admit. Fun is good.

So send me a picture.

But I'm not wearing panties, I joke.

Even better.

Ron coughs into his hand, and I tuck the phone back into my pocket, semi-certain that she'll text me back fairly soon. A picture? I don't know. But then, what's the harm?

“So, hey, I wanted to ask you,” Ron begins, his eyes fixed on the television as though he doesn't want to look at me. His stiffness and discomfort make me instantly wary.

“Shoot,” I tell him.

“Yeah… not really sure how to say this. Do you remember Kelly? From my office?”

I reach back in my memory, trying to place a face with the name Kelly. Any face. Young face? Old face? Somebody with wavy hair, I think. I get a mental image of frizzy, thick hair, held back by a comb with a pink plastic flower in it. A pretty face, sort of doll like and pale, with freckles across the nose. Plump and appealing. Friendly and kind.

“From the block party?” I ask, fairly certain I've got the right woman. “She made a pie?”

“Yeah, she's the office pastry chef,” Ron chuckles. “Nice girl. She was asking about you.”

I shake my head, wondering if there's something I’m supposed to remember about her. “She needs a bodyguard? Private investigator or something?”

“No, dude,” Ron sniffs irritably. “Like, asking about you. You should take her out.”

“Oh!” I bark out. The volume of my voice takes me by surprise. “Kelly! You want me to ask Kelly out?”

He holds his hand out in midair, then lets it fall palm-down on his thigh.

“She thinks you're cute.”

For just a second, I try to imagine it. Sweet, freckled Kelly. She reminds me most of a baby seal, the kind you see in videos lying on their back, floating playfully downstream.

“Yeah, I don't think she's my type,” I mumble.

Just to try it out, I try to imagine bending Kelly over the arm of the sofa and slapping her ass until she squeals. Nope. Kelly is not that kind of girl.

Then, just for grins, I try to imagine her sending me a picture of her panties via text. Probably full coverage, utility panties. Strike two.

“Well, what is your type? Trina? I don't think that's happening.”

“Never say never,” I quip. “There might still be something there.”

He raises his beer to his lips again and then glances at me over the top of the bottle. “Oh yeah? You serious?”

I shrug. “There might still be… you know, a chance. Maybe. There've been… some signs.”

Ron sighs through his nose. “If you say so,” he says noncommittally. I hear the caution in his voice. He never really liked Trina all that much. “I thought that ship had sailed. You didn't seem too broken up about it, what changed your mind?”

Send me a picture, the words pop back into my head. That kind of playfulness would definitely change my mind. I'm intrigued, I have to admit. It's so unlike her, I want to follow the thread and see where it leads.

“Just keeping an open mind I guess,” I sniff, but as I tell him he's already cast his attention somewhere else.

My attention is somewhere else too. Dahlia and Bunny will be back soon, so I need to act pretty quick. A picture… of what? Of my junk? I don’t want to do something effeminate and strange like sending her a shot of my nipple or anything like that. That sounds kind of stupid.

Grumbling some excuse, I get up from the sofa and head to the back hallway. Just thinking about those blue panties already has my dick halfway hard and I figure why not? If she is serious, let's see where this goes. She initiated this whole thing, so it's time to get real.

I duck into the bathroom, flipping on the lights and looking around. As soon as my fingers snap open my jeans my cock is out, thick and hard, bouncing in the palm of my hand. I snap a quick photo and look at it, scowling. It looks huge, veiny, pretty impressive if I do say so myself. I have never taken a picture of my own dick before, and there is something sort of awesome about it.

But I also remember that women joke that men are always taking pictures of themselves in bathrooms. I read some dumb article somewhere about how many men have no imagination. They spend time naked in the bathroom, so they're constantly snapping pictures of themselves in the bathroom. Half the photos on Tinder is guys taking a picture of themselves in their bathroom mirror, apparently because it's only mirror they own. The other half are pictures are taken inside their cars with mirrored sunglasses and seatbelts on and everything.

Scowling, I decide to abandon the bathroom. The least I could do is appear even slightly more creative than the average jackass who's sending dick pics across the Internet, right? I zip myself back up and step out into the hallway, listening for half a second to make sure Ron is still watching the game. Then I try the first door and enter, closing it quietly behind me.

To my surprise, this is Dahlia's room. I must've gotten turned around. Here I am, in her space.

The first thing I notice is the smell. A dizzying combination of maybe hairspray, maybe perfume, maybe just her natural scent. It's light and soft on the air, bathing me instantly.

The thrill of being in her personal space, where I definitely should not be, makes my dick even harder. I unbuckle my pants, shuffling over to the window to get the last streams of daylight. Holding the phone away from me, I snap a few pictures as my hand closes around my throbbing cock, afraid to touch myself too much or I will explode all over Dahlia's pretty floral bedspread.

It's almost too much for me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from stroking myself to completion. It's so tantalizingly close, I know I could come right now, just sitting on the edge of her bed, feeling her presence all around me. This room is saturated with her. Her panties are in a neat stack somewhere in those drawers. Her long, smooth body has been between these sheets. Her fingers have stroked every object in this room.

And I can't help it. I can’t hold back. I fist myself brutally, tugging my cock almost too hard, biting my lips together to keep from moaning. Half blind, I yank a few Kleenex from the box next to her bed and come into them almost instantly, groaning too loud in this sacred space.

Panting, half spent, I know I've got to get out of here. I can't just jack off in Dahlia's room with her coming home any second. I stuff the gooey Kleenex into my pocket and pull myself together, zipping up my pants and looking around to make sure I didn't dislodge anything else in her room.

Dizzy and breathless, I reach for the door, eager to get back to the living room as soon as possible. Half a second after her door is closed behind me she suddenly appears, almost crashing right into me. I step to the side and past her, narrowly avoiding ending up with her in my arms.

“Just looking for the head,” I mutter, humiliated and trying to escape as quickly as possible. “Excuse me, sorry.”

I rush out of the hallway, red-faced and still far too turned on. The smell of Chinese food is thick in the air as I duck into the kitchen, opening the freezer and yanking out the bottle of vodka. It’s so cold that the outside of the tumbler frosts instantly when I pour myself a shot, but I down it in one gulp anyway, then immediately pour myself another.