Six Night Stand (The Lexingtons Book 3)

by Kevin Sean

  Fuck it, why do I even feel the need to justify my using this hookup app?

  Who gives a damn if every once in a while I find myself digitally connected to a fellow faceless profile looking for casual fun with no pesky strings attached? Who needs all that shit like commitment and “emotional vulnerability” (an immensely overrated concept, if you ask me) impeding the important stuff in my life: app development and predicting smartphone usage trends for the upcoming quarter?

  Who says it’s so wrong to want to focus on my career?

  Because that’s what my perennial lack of a life partner comes down to. I haven’t had a boyfriend in all my years as CEO, let alone a dedicated friend with benefits. At least, not one who stays a friend for very long. In all the years since me and Aaron split, I’ve only had one night stands.

  I stick to strangers, because it’s easier that way. I prefer saying goodbye while they’re still asleep. Slipping out of hotel rooms before sunrise. Without names, without backstories, without emotional attachments… no one gets hurt.

  Well, I certainly don’t, anyway.

  I log in to Grindr and, like someone getting on a bike and falling easily into the familiar motion of foot on pedal, I swipe through the grid of profiles. It’s time to scope out tonight’s playtime partner.

  It’s more of the usual. It always is on Grindr. I don’t mind the sameness of these hookups. The anonymity. It’s all I’ve ever known. I appreciate the low stakes and the uninhibited fucking which accompanies the absence of commitment.

  I’m looking for a man who just wants to release steam. Like me. I’m not looking for any serious relationship bullshit, just pure physical chemistry. My body making your body feel good. Why complicate something beautiful with emotions? Those cans get so unnecessarily ugly. That much has always been true for me in the tech and business world, at least.

  My phone screen is a cornucopia of washboard abs, thick asses in gym shorts, and cute twinks with tattoos inspired by bands I’ve never heard of. I tap from one to another, not seeing anyone who particularly catches my eye. I wouldn’t say I’m picky… I prefer selective.

  I’m swiping to the next profile, swiping to the next profile, swiping to the next profile, until suddenly—it’s him. The bakery boy. I’m sure of it.

  This profile isn’t as anonymous as the others. I recognize the face in the profile picture immediately. This Grindr user, ARTPOPLUVR, is the same person who eye fucked me in the bakery. It’s also the same guy who rolled his eyed with reproach when I complained about a stain earlier today.

  He seemed pretty interested in me when he first walked into my line of sight. Would he be interested in a one night stand?

  Even if he thought I was an asshole, I think he was horny for me. I could be imagining our attraction, but somehow I doubt it. Regardless of how tensely our brief interaction ended, it began with him ogling me. I remember. I was there. I liked it.

  But now I pause. Is this a good idea? I always keep my hookups anonymous. Short and sweet. No strings attached. I can’t help but feel like initiating a conversation with this sassy young man with a bubble butt from the bakery will be… different from interacting with faceless torsos (my long-time tried-and-true method of finding a friend with benefits for the night).

  Don’t be silly, Logan. What could go wrong? You don’t even know his name. Worse comes to worst, he ignores you and you find some other sexy young man to get off with.

  It’s true. I might as well shoot my shot. So I do just that, quickly typing out a message and hitting send before there’s time to doubt my decision.

  ME: Hey.

  ARTPOPLUVR: Hey there :)

  ME: What’s up?

  ARTPOPLUVR: Nothing remarkable or exciting, just finishing a day on the town. Yourself?

  ME: Busy day at work. Looking for something to help me unwind and destress…

  ARTPOPLUVR: I didn’t know they sold those stress squeeze balls on this app!

  His lame joke makes me smile—and think about other balls I want to get my hands on. The beginning of our conversation seems impersonal and basic, sure, but we’re just going through the rituals of the Grindr equivalent of small talk before we amp up the heat level. Kind of like a first date, but with less Italian food and more anonymous sex. As I’m looking on the pleasantries we’ve exchanged, it strikes me that my conversation partner almost definitely doesn’t realize that I’m the same person he slammed a cupcake into two hours ago.

  I’m scrolling through an encrypted folder of nudes and revealing photos which I’ve hidden deep within my smartphone, deciding which to send to my new friend when our conversation heats up. An incoming call from my secretary, Sue, interrupts my search. I’m surprised—Sue is so on it, so organized, so ahead of everything, that she almost never needs to call my personal cell for consultation or information.

  It must be something important for her to be communicating with me this way—usually, if there’s a mishap, Sue just works her magic behind the scenes and makes everything better without me having to intervene.

  She’s a lot like me that way: proactive and forward-thinking. That’s why I’ve doubled her salary since she started. I can’t have any other CEO in San Francisco poaching the best damn secretary in the bay area out from under me.

  I answer the call. “What’s the issue, Sue?”

  “My apologies for disturbing you, Mr. Lexington. We just… well, the graphic design office is waiting to hear from you regarding the mock-up they sent you of the app interface. They wanted your final approval on the color scheme.”

  Fuck! I’d completely forgotten about that. I told the design team I’d get back to them within the hour, and that was over three hours ago.

  “I’m so sorry, Sue. I was so busy fielding calls from investors that it slipped my mind. Tell the graphics guys that we’ll be sticking to the silver interface design with pink and cerulean accents, okay?”

  “Roger that,” Sue confirms. I can hear her inhale, pause, breathe out on the other end of the line. “There’s one more thing, Mr. Lexington.”

  “What is it?” I’m worried. I’ve never heard Sue sound… nervous before.

  “Well, Photogram just announced that… they’ll be releasing a new dating feature on their app in the coming months.”

  “Fuck!” I exclaim, resisting the urge to punch something. I’m not a violent type, but this is outrageous—Photogram is blatantly stealing my idea for ConnectMe’s biggest business move in years.

  I remember Sue is still in the line. “Sorry for the outburst. Listen, Sue… we’ll figure out how to deal with this Photogram fiasco tomorrow in the office, okay?”

  “Yessir. Have a good night, Mr. Lexington. Take care of yourself. See you tomorrow.”

  “You too, Sue.” I end the call and breathe in, breathe out.

  Dammit. I’m so pissed off—primarily at myself. I should have dealt with the leak to Photogram before it snowballed into them being able to fuck over my dating app launch. And sure, me forgetting to communicate with the design team wasn’t a big deal… but it’s very unusual for me to forget about important work tasks. I’m sure Sue is asking herself what the hell is happening to me to make me act in such an erratic, unfocused manner.

  I never make mistakes. Never, ever. Except when I’m so distracted by a cute guy that my cock is hogging all the blood and oxygen my brain needs to perform the most basic tasks required for my job.

  This forgetful mistake is a perfect example of why I refuse to put myself through the ordeal of being in a relationship. Why the hell would I give someone the power to discombobulate me like this, to distract me from my real priorities?

  Between work responsibilities, promoting ConnectMe, and attending an endless stream of app launches, I’m already happily committed—to my corporation.

  If some random cute guy whose name I don’t even know is screwing my focus up like this, imagine how much less motivated I’d be in a full-blown, fully committed relationship. I shudder at the thought.


  No, today’s near fuck-up is an example which proves why I stick to one night stands. When I know too much information about a guy, too much emotion get’s invested… and I lose focus on what’s important. My company. My employees. My next move.

  Since high school, when I was a lanky nerdy teen obsessed with computer programming and reading profiles of tech industry superstars like Bill Gates, I’ve been planning the exact trajectory to get me to the top of the food chain of the future.

  True love, happily ever after—these concepts don’t fit into the reality of being a silicon valley CEO. I learned that the hard way with Aaron when I was a teenager.

  A true shark is too busy sniffing for blood in the water to have time for anything more than a one-and-done quick fuck. That’s why I’ve stuck to nameless naked bodies and hookups since… well, forever. That’s why I’ve never slept with a man I met on an app more than one time.

  How would the investors feel if they heard that fun fact about Logan Lexington? I wonder to myself. I imagine that Mrs. Montgomery might look down on my rather high body count and near-zero rate of retention.

  Fuck what other people might think. I know myself well and I know that I do things this way for a reason. It may not sound romantic, but I’ve always kept my emotions out of sex because avoiding attachment allows me to be the best boss I can be. Point blank.

  And I’m a pretty fucking great boss. I plan on staying that way.

  But just one night with this boy from the bakery…. One night can’t hurt, right? It won’t devastate me, break my heart and send my empire crashing down when I kiss him goodbye forever tomorrow morning. It will be easy to end things between us after just one night.

  It always is.

  With that in mind, I type out a phrase which, in the language of Grindr, is the traditional way of asking if someone is in the mood for some guy-on-guy action.

  ME: What are you looking for on here?

  ARTPOPLUVR: Not sure

  ME: What about you, do you have anything specific you hope to get from this app?

  ME: I’m looking for fun… but I’m not looking for anything serious.

  ARTPOPLUVR: I don’t know what exactly I’m looking for, but it’s definitely not anything serious…

  ARTPOPLUVR: So no worries.

  ME: Perfect. Looks like we’re on the same page ;)

  ARTPOPLUVR: What kind of fun do you have in mind?

  ME: That depends on whatever floats your boat.

  ME: My priority is pleasing you—and having a marvelous time doing it.

  ARTPOPLUVR: Well, I can’t argue with that!

  I don’t think he’s bullshitting me—he’s interested. I’m trying my best not to flat out ask the boy from the bakery if he wants to sleep with me tonight in so explicit of terms, but as a businessman, it’s hard for me to beat around the bush. I’m contemplating how to best phrase my request for casual sex when I see Ben has sent me another message.

  There’s no text, just a picture: in the image he is taking a selfie in a bathroom mirror with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. The towel is so loosely hung that it seems ready to make a run for it and jump off of him. The way it’s draped shows off his toned physique and reveals the v-like lines of his pelvis. These muscular, contoured lines of his body seem to mark a path right to his covered manhood.

  I’d pay anything for a picture without that towel in the way.

  I hesitate now as I consider how to respond to this sexy snap. I feel strange pretending that I don’t know who he is. It’s borderline catfishing, no? I wonder if I ought to send a more clear picture of myself and reveal that this young man and I have already met.

  I’ll test the waters before I reveal exactly who I am to him, I decide.

  I dig back in to my encrypted folder of nudes and sexy selfies. After scrolling for a few seconds, I find a picture I took a few months ago in my private home gym when I was feeling particularly… worked up. In the mirror selfie, I’m wearing nothing but a jockstrap and sneakers. You can’t see my face, but I’ve positioned my body so you can see both my bare ass and my bulging package.

  Credit where credit’s due: I look hot as hell in this photo.

  Before I have time to doubt myself further, I click send. I refresh the front page of the app again and again, all the while telling myself that I don’t care whether the sassy, cute guy from the bakery responds. I don’t care at all—if he doesn’t want to hook up with me, I’ll find another nameless twink who is interested.

  I do a good job convincing myself that I don’t care that much about meeting up with my nameless acquaintance… until he answers me with a devil grinning emoji and a one of the sexiest photos I’ve ever seen.

  He’s attached a snapshot of of himself lying naked on the bed. Presumably he’s using a ceiling mirror to capture the beauty of his smooth, oh so squeezable ass. I can already see myself spanking and pounding that beautiful thing.

  God, it’s so fucking perfect. I want to sick my teeth into his cheeks. I’m so turned on, I almost lick my phone screen.

  My cock is rock hard… and all bets are off. I want this boy from the bakery to be mine. And he will be mine—but only for tonight.

  5

  BEN

  This could be exactly what i need.

  It’ll be one night of casual sex. I just need one quick fuck to knock me out of this rut and jumpstart whatever part of my brain delivers inspiration—because it is malfunctioning at the moment.

  I’ve been racking my mental records and trying to think of the last time I had casual sex with no strings attached. Nothing comes to mind. The closest instance I can summon is a memory of begrudgingly kissing a mousy girl whose name I didn’t know while playing spin the bottle at a party my junior year of high school. Beyond that, I’ve been downright saintly.

  The reason for my lack of experience in the world of one night stands is simple: I met my now-ex, Zach, on my second day of living in the city and for years I didn’t look back. I fell in love with him much in the same way I fell in love with San Francisco: with the naivety and enthusiasm of a hopeful teenager who listened to too much Taylor Swift and wanted nothing more than to fall in love and to be loved back. I was all too happy to fit Zach into my little pre-imagined fantasy.

  And for a while there, he played the part with ease.

  For 8 years I was so happy in the Zach and Ben bubble of date nights on the town and late nights cooped up together in our apartment, fondling and fucking one another in every square foot of the house. Painting and reading poetry and eating pasta and passing silly post-it love notes back and forth. Zach did an outstanding job keeping up the act of a boyfriend who was content with our relationship until that morning 369 days ago.

  When he woke up extra early, made two beautiful thick slices of my favorite breakfast—French toast—and sat me down, still groggy and out of it, to tell me he was very sorry but he’d fallen out of love with me.

  He said this devastating sentence with the same level of eloquence and emotion you might use to tell the mailman he’s delivered a letter to the wrong door.

  I don’t know what I said in response to Zach’s bombshell—if I said anything at all. The only thing I remember is Zach asking me, as I attempted to contribute coherently to this surprise breakup, if we could please still be friends? I nearly choked on coffee as I forced myself to croak out, “Of course we can still be friends.”

  I remember how Zach smiled when he put his hand over mine. It was both familiar and clinical, equally kind of sweet and slightly condescending. He seemed to really, truly, think this dismal breakup brunch could somehow be the start of a new platonic chapter of Zach and Ben… but he popped the bubble. You can’t just un-pop a bubble.

  Even I—the science-avoidant, logic-eschewing artist—am well aware of this basic law of physics.

  I haven’t eaten French Toast since.

  Nowadays I feel like a fool because I kept up my puppy love act without needing to act. Because
I loved Zach to the very end. So, so much. Who could blame me? I was all of 18 when we met and he was beautiful, sweet, charismatic… still is, I’m sure. Whatever he’s doing. I haven’t let curiosity kill the cat yet. I’ve held off on looking through his social media or asking mutual friends how he’s holding up.

  My heart splinters just imagining Zach, out there in the world holding hands with the shadowy figure of a new lover, unable to pick me out in a lineup. He’s fine, I just know he is. Zach was always the one cheering me up, picking me back up, holding me strong and being my rock. Being the muse for so many of my very best paintings.

  Maybe he tired of being my muse. Maybe the paintings were part of why he fell out of love with me.

  Snap out of it, Ben. Now isn’t the time for a pity party… you need something more like a fuck fiesta. Entertained by my own alliteration, I return my attention to the flirtatious messages this particularly turned-on man is sending me on Grindr. I downloaded the hookup app for the first time in my life this evening to look for opportunities to put myself out there, like Montana did on her skydiving date. So far, I’d call it a success: this many is horny as hell and not afraid to show it, judging by his liberal use of the eggplant emoji and the sexy pictures he’s sending.

  Not that I can judge—I just sent him a bare photo myself. Which he still hasn’t responded to. I bite my lip, and wonder if I scared this stranger off by flashing my ass cheeks. Do I even care if I scare him off? If things get awkward, I’ll just block him and we’ll never speak again. That’s the beauty of 21st century dating.

  A new message from the sexy stranger pops up, as if he’s read my mind.

  BUSINESSCASUAL: Holy fuck, you’re gorgeous.

  BUSINESSCASUAL: I love your ass…

  ME: Thank you!

  BUSINESSCASUAL: I’d love to see you. Tonight.

  BUSINESSCASUAL: We can have fun together—clothing optional.