IN WHICH I LEARN THAT MEN FORGOING UNDERWEAR IS A COMMANDON’T.
After virtual sex, the real deal was on both of our minds, with the bridge between sexting and meeting in person, Facetime on our iPhones. Dave kept pestering me to turn on Facetime and I couldn’t succeed; my lust propelled me to the Apple store where, problem solved, I promptly called him.
My heart beat fast as I dialed Dave’s number, I was going to face him at last; I was so thrilled I almost shook with a combination of terror and extreme excitement. Then, all of a sudden, there he was, wearing a skater’s cap, his brown curls below it framing a devastatingly hot, in fact, devilishly handsome face, his gorgeous hazel eyes twinkling with pleased surprise. A cigarette dangled roguishly from the side of his perfectly sculpted lips, surrounded by heart-stoppingly sexy stubble.
I had to stop myself from gushing “OMG look at YOU!!!!!!!” even as I felt my lady bits simply yawning with yearning desire — wonder if any of the tourists guessed I was having an iRapture. Instead, I stammered that I was at the Apple store, they’d adjusted my phone and now we were connected — let’s talk later.
That night we Facetimed while in bed. Up close and personal, I found it much harder to voice the erotica we’d been sexting; it had already been a leap for me to even write that stuff. Anyway, the blue balls our superficial encounters were giving me had become insufferable: I was frustrated and fed up with the virtual contact we were having. To me, the increased intimacy of connecting on Facetime now stressed the need for us to actually meet, at last. We planned a date at my place the coming weekend.
Then the next day, an incredibly random thing happened: Dave texted me that he had caught his dick in his pants zipper, one of the risks of going commando. He sent me a photo and yes, just under that conical pope’s hat, there was a quarter inch red wound.
This bizarre situation, one which Dave had only encountered once before in years of flapping — blithely untethered — in the breeze, stopped me dead in my tracks. Long a believer that there are no coincidences, I was blown away by the fact that just as my years-long stint of celibacy was about to come to a glorious finish, a wrench had been thrown into it, a malevolent tool effectively disabling Dave’s tool! I’d have to wait weeks, it seemed clear, for the wound to heal.
Yet another cold shower for Mrs. Hot.
Yours truly,
