Wet

by Ruth Clampett

  “He calls her a slut and a whore.”

  “I see. And when you read that you thought it was hot?”

  “I did . . .”

  “But it’s a lot different when you’re the one being called a slut?”

  She nods and her eyes tear up again.

  I slide back against the cushion of the couch so that our shoulders are touching.

  “We’ve talked a lot in my group about watching porn vs. reality. It’s easy to get desensitized as to what is good for you and the woman you’re with and what isn’t.”

  She sighs. “Sex can be confusing.”

  “Mind-blowing and amazing, but yes, confusing too.” I flip through the rest of the pile. “Hey can I read one of these?”

  “Why would you want to?”

  “Maybe to understand what makes the female fantasy psyche work.”

  “Are you sure?” She sounds nervous.

  They must really be dirty. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  She grabs the pile and sorts through it. “Here, read this one.”

  “Torched?”

  “It’s so hot.”

  “Seriously? I mean with the flames in this picture it looks like his head’s on fire so I guess that’s hot.”

  “Well, I think the story is hot.” She gives me a demure smile.

  “Okay. That’s good enough for me.” I turn the book over in my hands a few times. “I better get going.”

  “Hey, Paul Junior?”

  “Yes, Ms. Jacoby?”

  “If you ever decide to be a man-whore again will you have sex with me?”

  I kiss the top of her head. “You’ll be first on my list.”

  This time, as I lift off the couch and say good-bye, her smile is genuine.

  That night I climb into bed and crack open Torched. I’m not even to the end of the first chapter when the main dude, Luke, is fucking this Lucia chick in the back of his parent’s tasting room at their vineyard.

  I shudder at the dialogue and descriptions—throbbing clits, massive cocks and all the wetness. It all starts with the guy ripping her panties off. Have you ever tried to rip off a pair of panties? It’s not like they just pull apart. Those things are sewn to stay together, and I gave a girl a skin burn once trying to yank off that lacey shit.

  But the best are the orgasms on command. “Come!” he commands. And she does.

  I roll my eyes. Right. If only . . .

  I close my eyes and imagine I’m hearing the buzz of Elle’s vibrator as she reads, dropping the book on her bed to circle her nipples while the vibrator gets her off. Now that’s my kind of erotica. I sigh as I grip my hard cock. It’s going to be a really long night.

  The next evening the phone rings just as I’m finishing off my second scotch and watching the game.

  I glance at the screen. Damn.

  It’s her. Elle, with a capital E.

  The girl that kept me up late last night jerking off. I’ve got a little buzz going from my couple of drinks and talking to her right now is risky.

  I clear my throat and try to push my dirty thoughts aside. “What’s up, Elle?”

  “Hi, Paul,” she says in that breathy voice.

  I’m already getting hard again. Damn.

  “I just wanted to let you know that thanks to you I’m feeling so much better today.”

  “That’s great,” I say, impressed with how much better she sounds. “And what brought that on?”

  “I was thinking about what we talked about . . .”

  I can’t resist the impulse to fill in all the blanks of what she wants to tell me . . . and the dirty book I gave you to read . . .

  “And it occurred to me,” she says earnestly.

  . . . how much I want you, Paul . . .

  But when she finishes her thoughts it’s nothing like what I thought she would say.

  “Why should I let one bad apple spoil the whole bunch?”

  I sit straight up. What the hell? Can we hit rewind?

  When I reply my voice is louder than intended. “Did you really just say that one bad apple shit? My mother used to tell me that. Have you ever considered that the whole bunch on Tinder could be bad apples?”

  “You’re so funny!”

  “I’m not joking,” I say.

  “Seriously Paul, I’ve decided to throw myself back into the game.”

  “But Tinder’s not really a game, Elle . . . it’s more like the mosh pit. What if you get head butted again?”

  “I’ve realized the mistake I made. This time I’m going to spell it out to the dude before we get to the sexing.”

  “Spell it out, huh?”

  “Yeah, no weird stuff like latex or furry suits. No demeaning talk or behavior. No bondage. No threesomes.”

  “Or foursomes?” I ask.

  “Ewww, no!” she says.

  “Are you trying to make me feel bad?”

  “What? No, why?”

  “I told you about my foursome.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot about that. That was when you were a man-whore.”

  “Yes, thanks, although I prefer the term ‘sex fiend’.”

  “Well . . . that’s still what you told me.”

  “I did. So see, I’m the very guy you wouldn’t want to sleep with.”

  “Ummm.”

  “Yet, you pretty much asked me to screw you when we met. Do you see how complicated this is?”

  “Can I ask you something, Paul?”

  “Sure, why not? You know so much about me already.”

  “Did you do men too back during your sex fiend days?”

  I almost drop the phone. “Sex with dudes? No! Why would you ask that?”

  “So your orgy was really just you and a bunch of women. Did you have a harem or something?”

  “I could have.”

  She huffs into the phone. “Oh really? A harem? What if you’re making all this stuff up? Why should I believe you and all your big talk?”

  “If you don’t believe me, I don’t care. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “What if you made up all those sexy stories . . . like that you were addicted to sex. What if you’re really more like your accountant brother?”

  I feel the vein pop out on my forehead. Why is she screwing with me?

  “I know what this is about,” I whisper in a dark voice.

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “You’re provoking me, trying to get me to come over there and fuck you and break my oath. Well, it’s not going to happen.”

  “Good!”

  “Yup, good.”

  “Because you know what, mister? You don’t fit into my profile anyway.”

  “Oh that’s rich. You must have one hell of a profile.”

  “Well look at you. You’re searching for a little complacent wifey who will roast your chicken and birth you a bevy of babies.”

  “Roast my chicken? What’s that a metaphor for?”

  “It’s not a metaphor, it’s dinner.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re pretty weird, you know.”

  “And you don’t want to fuck anymore and nothing’s weirder than that . . . so who’s calling the kettle black?”

  “Who says I don’t want to fuck? I never said that. I want it.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.” I want it bad. So bad it hurts, but I don’t tell her that.

  “So it’s that you just don’t want to fuck me?”

  “Oh, I want to fuck you. Right now I want to throw you on the bed and ride you so hard you won’t be able to walk the next day.”

  There’s a long silent pause. Maybe that was too much.

  “Ms. Jacoby, are you still there?”

  “I’m here, Paul Junior. I’m just distracted thinking about you throwing me on the bed.”

  “And mounting you?”

  “Yes.”

  I hear a soft moan.

  “And fucking you hard?”

  “God, yes.”

  “So you really want tha
t, do you?”

  “You’re cruel. Are you going to make me beg for it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Please . . . Paul, are you touching yourself? Because I am.”

  I pause.

  “Maybe.”

  “Mmm.”

  I feel myself unraveling from this conundrum of a woman with her dirty mouth. I’ve never known a female I couldn’t figure out at all until I met her. When I hear her moan again my mind goes to a visual of her with legs spread and her hand in her panties. I swallow hard.

  “Elle, what are you thinking about when you ride your vibrator?”

  “That I’d rather it was you.”

  Damn. “Yeah?”

  “Or more specifically, your anaconda.”

  “I bet you’d like that.” My fingers tighten over the phone, my other hand tightens over my cock.

  “You can teach me to be bad. Is that big-boy hard?”

  I tighten my grasp. “Does the sun shine?”

  “You’re killing me here, Paul. Please come fuck me.”

  Oh for God’s sake why am I being tested like this?

  My heart is pounding as I hear that little bastard speak up—the annoying voice that lives in my head.

  You fuck her Paul, and then what? How will you feel in the morning?

  My mouth is dry as I respond to her plea with unbearable regret.

  “No. I just can’t.”

  It’s another tortured night and it’s becoming apparent I’m on a slippery slope and losing more self-control by the day. No more drunken late night phone calls with Ms. Jacoby. That’s for sure. I can’t even believe the stuff I said to her. Ride your vibrator? What the hell am I doing?

  I go in late to work the next morning so I can go straight to a meeting. Jim studies me as I approach him.

  “Rough night?”

  “Yeah, and rough morning too.”

  He nods with a sympathetic gaze. “Well you came to the right place.”

  That afternoon at work I finish going over the plans for tomorrow’s meeting at the Taylor project when a thought occurs to me. I call my old hook-up buddy Gabriel. Thank God I’m so much calmer than I was earlier.

  “Hey, Gabe, you free after work to catch a beer?”

  “I’m free now. My day’s over already. You still at work?”

  I glance at my watch. It’s not that early before the time I usually take off. “I could head over there now.”

  “Brennigans?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there in about twenty.”

  Gabe’s already parked at the bar with a beer and watching the game when I walk past the studio techs and grips that are gathered around the pool tables. The wood paneling on the walls makes everything darker through the haze of smoke wafting in from the patio. I buy a beer and then nod to him for us to move to a booth. He’s changed out of his working gear. I almost didn’t recognize him all cleaned up.

  I still can’t believe that Gabe stayed in L.A. after high school to work for my dad while I went off to college.

  “What’s up, Paul? We haven’t done this in a while. You still watching your partying?”

  “Yeah . . . among other things.”

  “He gives me a knowing look. Well, your dad says you’re doing great, but if you don’t mind my saying so it doesn’t sound like you’re having much fun.”

  I hate admitting to myself that I miss when we used to go out looking to score.

  “How about you?”

  “No complaints. I’ve got season tickets for the Clippers and I have plenty of other fun too.”

  “Got a girlfriend yet?”

  “Hell no. Who needs the headache? I’m still playing the field . . . sampling all the flavors. Why settle for one, when there’s so many to choose from?”

  He holds up his beer in a toast and we clink bottles.

  I lean in toward him. “While we’re on the subject there’s something I want to ask you about.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tinder.”

  He chuckles. “So you’re telling me you’re ready to have fun. Are you going to start clubbing with me again?”

  “No, I’m helping a friend.”

  “Sure you are. That’s as good a bogus reason as any, my man.”

  I glance around our booth and make sure no one I know is nearby. “Can you show me how it works?”

  “Yeah, no problem. It’s a really easy way to get laid. I use it all the time.”

  He pulls out his phone and opens the app, flipping through the most recent women interested in connecting with him. He swipes the screen to the right when he’s interested, to the left when he isn’t.

  “So what happens to those girls?” I ask.

  “Poof. They’re gone.”

  “Whoa. Really?”

  “Yeah, see how easy it is. And only the ones you keep can contact you. That’s how you arrange the hook up.”

  “Can I see who you’ve kept?”

  He hands me his phone. “Be my guest.”

  I’m stunned as I scan through all of the women he’s saved. All of them are do- able, some actually hot. How out of control would I have been if I’d had this when I was on the prowl? “And all of these women live in close range?”

  “Close enough. I’ll drive farther if they really turn me on.”

  With the next sweep of my finger across the screen I freeze. Elle. She’s wearing a low cut shirt and posed provocatively. She looks like a girl who’d like a little trouble. My heart is pounding.

  I hold the phone out to Gabe. “Who’s this one?”

  He sighs. “Hot, right?”

  I nod. My mouth’s suddenly dry.

  He shrugs. “I can’t get her to respond to me. She hasn’t accepted me yet. According to her start date she’s pretty new to Tinder, so who knows what’s up with her. But believe me, the minute she does respond to me I’m going to nail her.”

  I let out the breath I’ve been holding. I’m surprised how relieved I am that she hasn’t accepted him. That feeling is followed by feeling like I’m going to have to kick his ass if he ever nails her.

  “So what can you do?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Nothing. I can’t send her a message or do anything unless she accepts me. Hey why don’t you get on? Maybe she’ll accept you.”

  I glance back down at her picture and become anxious, like I don’t want her on this site . . . other men looking at her, wanting her like I do right now.

  He shows me how to check out her other pictures and her statement. I almost knock my beer over as I read it.

  I’m a caged bird finally set free.

  I want to live big and try things I’ve never done.

  I’ve got an open mind, and a free spirit . . . are you ready for me?

  Let’s connect . . .

  The flush moves up my chest so fast I get dizzy. What the hell, Elle? Does she not understand that men are animals and she’s just asked to be fucked, drawn, and quartered?

  Gabe’s expression becomes suspicious. “What?”

  I rub my hand over my face before studying her pictures again. “Damn, Elle.”

  “Dude. Do you know this girl?”

  I nod.

  “Can you introduce me? She’s off the flipping charts.”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh I see how it is,” he grumbles. “I’m your hook-up pimp. Well screw you.”

  I throw a tip down on the table and grin. “Screw you too, buddy. I’ve gotta go.”

  When I get to her house, her car is parked in the driveway and the porch light is on. I have to ring her doorbell twice, and when she answers she has one sandal on, and the other one in her hand. Her eyes grow wide when she sees me.

  “Hey, Paul. What’s up?”

  She’s got that lipstick on again.

  I realize I didn’t think this out very well. I shouldn’t have just shown up impulsively.

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “Well, I’m on my way out . . . but I guess I’ve got a sec. Co
me on in, I’ve got to get my other shoe on.”

  I follow her into the living room where she sits on the edge of a chair and straps on a sandal that’s even higher-heeled than the last pair I saw on her.

  “What’s up?” she asks as finishes the buckle and runs her hand up her calf. I’m disappointed when she stops at her knees.

  “I want to talk to you about Tinder.” I jam my hands in the pocket of my jeans. She looks up at me with narrow eyes.

  “What about Tinder?”

  “I saw your profile.”

  She arches her brow. “You have to join Tinder to see my profile.”

  I shake my head. “My friend was showing me how it works and you were one of the girls in his line-up.”

  “Oh really?” Rising, she puts her hands on her hips. “What’s his name?”

  “Gabriel.”

  She nods. “I remember him. That guy is a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, we used to be really good friends. He also works for my dad.”

  “I wasn’t interested.”

  “So your instincts aren’t all bad. He’s one to stay away from for sure.”

  “Hmmm. Maybe I’ll check him out again. Gabriel you say?” She picks up a sparkly bracelet off the table and snaps it on.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “To a Tinder hook-up?”

  “Nosy aren’t you?”

  “Show me.”

  “Show you what?”

  “On your phone. I want to see who you’re meeting.”

  “Why do you want to see who I’m meeting? Jealous?”

  My stomach churns. What if she’s right? “No, I’m not jealous. I’m going to screen him for you.”

  “Oh really?” She steps out of the living room and returns with her phone. She sits next to me on the couch, close enough that I can smell her perfume. Damn, she smells good—like a rose that’s just opened in the garden.

  I watch her bring up the app.

  “His name is Stephan. He’s an architect.”

  “Impressive,” I say.

  “He designs buildings.”

  “So much better than a sprinkler guy.” I point to her phone. “Let me see Stephan the builder.” I study the screen and chuckle. “Look at that. His hairline is receding. He’ll be bald in five years.”

  She grabs the phone out my hand. “What are you talking about?”

  Leaning closer to her, I point to the screen. “This isn’t just a high forehead.”