Hannah Forever Single

Hannah Forever Single -- Chapter 1

It was weeks before Hannah finally told me about her work. She had been vague about it during our conversations, always pivoting to other subjects, and I didn't want to press her. I just assumed she was an influencer, like so many twenty-year-olds. I'd dated a few younger women (I'm thirty), but typically broke things off early because they were so shallow. Hannah was different, right from the jump.

Ironically, I was at a bar when I first met her. I had was feeling free having decided never to date again, and celebrating a new tattoo.

"I like your ink," Hannah said. She had just squeezed in next to me to order her drink -- a vesper, very retro -- and she'd noticed the new tattoo on my forearm. "Is that a Phoenix?"

"Yeah, rising from the ashes," I said. I looked at it and sipped my drink. I hadn't even looked at her yet, that's how over women I was at the moment.

"I have one too," she said, laying her wrist next to my arm on the counter. I looked down. It was a golden dragon emerging from an egg. That's when I finally looked back at her. I met her eyes, and my heart skipped a beat. I thought it was a trope, but it literally happened. She had those shiny doe eyes, almond-shaped and light brown. They crinkled at the corners as she smiled -- no Botox for this girl. She wore her dark hair in a pixie cut. I could tell she was young, but she had an air of sophistication that I hadn't come across in a long while.

She got her drink and raised it to me. "Here's to new beginnings."

I raised mine and tapped my glass to hers.

She smiled. Her lips were full and the bow shape I adored. I was so used to seeing fake lip fillers that I was actually shocked. I had the urge to kiss her, which was the furthest thing from my mind when I walked into the bar that night.

We sipped our drinks, and she glanced back to the dance floor, where I assumed she had friends, but instead of walking away, she narrowed her eyes at me slightly. I felt her appraising me and I couldn't help but sit up a little taller in my seat.

She said, "What has you starting over?"

I laughed, "I've given up on ever finding the right person."

She laughed and raised her glass again. "Smart man. It's a mess out here."

"You too?" I said.

"Absolutely. I'm over it."

I nodded and said, "Want to

not

go on a date with me tomorrow?" The words were out before I was conscious of saying them.

She appraised me carefully. I felt like she froze time for me as she evaluated her next move. She looked down at my tattoo again and back to my eyes.

"I'm not free to

not

date you until next Friday," she said.

She held out her hand, palm up. I unlocked my phone and gave it to her. She entered her number into my contacts.

"I'm John," I said.

She winked at me as she handed my phone back and turned. I watched her walk away. I hadn't even clocked her body yet. She was tall, like a dancer. She wore a gold minidress that shimmered as she moved. The dress had an open back that ended just above her round, high ass. I saw two dimples, which I imagined myself kissing as I worked my way down to her long, athletic legs. She didn't look back until just before she blended into the crowd. She caught me gawking, turned halfway to me. Her breasts swayed and threatened to come out of the slinky top. They were firm and full, but not too big. A perfect handful. Having confirmed my interest, she waved with her fingertips and disappeared.

I turned back to my drink to ease my breathing as I stared at the contact in my phone. I laughed as I read the name she entered, "Hannah Forever Single."

I texted her that night and we started a long chain as we set up our first

not

date, which was at a bookstore & coffee shop. I arrived early, and she was right on time. I watched her enter. She spotted me and walked over. She was wearing dark leggings and a soft gray sweatshirt. It had a wide neck, exposing one shoulder. Her makeup was subdued. Her whole appearance was casual but put-together. Not a lot of effort, but also not

no

effort.

I stood up as she got to the table, and she opened her arms for a hug. I tried not to linger too long, but I couldn't help enjoy the aroma of her perfume. Sweet, but not cloying -- a hint of citrus.

"How's that healing?" she said as she sat down.

I looked at the tattoo showing below my rolled up sleeve. I was wearing a dress shirt and jeans. Also trying not to make

not

no effort.

"Great," I said. "I'm really happy with it."

After she got her drink (tea) and we dispensed with some chit-chat about where we lived and the weather, she was the first to strike with the more personal questions.

"So, the Phoenix. Was it a major flame out, or a slow burn?"

I smiled. I never like small talk, anyway.

"A bit of both, really. First my marriage ended in flames. She cheated on me."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"With my best friend."

"Ouch!"

"We were young," I said, then I realized I was talking to a woman who was about my wife's age when we married. I added, "I mean, extremely naïve. We kind of played house for a while, and we both seemed to think there should be a stronger fire there. I loved her deeply, but I could never figure out what she needed. The courtship was passionate, but we waited for marriage."

Hannah nodded, knowingly.

"I tried everything. But in the end..."

Hannah smiled. She sensed my discomfort. She said, "You know. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but, since neither of us is ever dating again, what do we have to lose by being honest with each other? This," she waved her hand between us, "Is an experiment."

"Fair enough," I said. "Well, I talked to her about her needs and I read books and watched videos and everything to ignite the passion for her. But I think that was the problem. She didn't want me to problem solve or even to try new things. She wanted, in the end, to be taken away. Which is what my best friend did."

Hannah shook her head. "That sucks. I get it though. Some women -- especially raised in patriarchal structures -- they want someone to tell them what to do, to make them do what they want to do."

I sighed, the pain of discovery came up for me. I pictured the night I came home early, and they were on the couch "talking" but I could see the flush in their faces, the shine on their lips. I saw her eyes sparkling in the too dim light.

"And then when I had suspicions," I said, "I made it worse by not confronting them. I let them lie to me."

"That's so painful," she said. "I get it. Betrayal."

I dropped my gaze. Yep, that was the word. Betrayed my the two people I loved most and then, as I relived those days repeatedly in the years after our divorce, a feeling that I'd betrayed myself. My nature betrayed me.

"

You

think you could have saved your marriage." Hannah said.

I looked at her. Her eyes were full of compassion. I said, "Yeah. If I had been--"

She cut me off. "No, John. I don't think so. Sure, you could have pretended to be what she wanted for a while, but that would have been a lie. And marriages based on lies never work. Or they're never fulfilling."

I was taken aback. Now it was my turn to appraise her. How was this twenty-year-old so astute?

She reached over and gently touched my tattoo. She rubbed her thumb lightly over it, saying, "Not all women need or want a man like that. Some women want communication, empathy, and... patience."

I looked at her lips and once again felt the urge to kiss her.

"

I

started too young," she said. "I had sex before I should have. My first time wasn't my choice, even."

My heart broke for her. Maybe it was the age gap, but I felt the need to protect her well up.

"I'm so sorry," I said.

"I've worked through it. That's my tattoo. Rebirth, right? I'm not a victim. I can't change the past, I can't erase the scars, but I can integrate them, put them in a new context." Then she laughed. "That's the plan, anyway. I'm still a work in progress."

I threw up my hands. "I guess that's why we've both given up on dating."

She smiled at me and said, "Yep, 'Forever Single.'"

The silence hung between us as we stared into each other's eyes over the rising steam of our mugs.

Our conversations were wide ranging. We talked about the bad dates, of course, but also politics, religion and sex. All the taboo topics. She set the tone and so I felt I had nothing to lose by being honest and open.

I told her everything. Not only the story of my wife and best friend (They're still together actually.) But also, she knew my body count was low because I couldn't connect with these girls emotionally. I didn't trust them not to break my heart.

"You're a softy," she texted me.

"Not that soft," I replied.

She sent a skull emoji -- dead.

We talked about everything, in fact, except our careers. Looking back, because she was careful not to talk about her work, she avoided asking about mine. But maybe it just didn't matter that much to either of us. We weren't dating after all, merely talking every day, having meals together several days a week, watching movies, and going to concerts.

I felt like I was the only one who could see her as not just an object, but a whole person.

It's strange because I had run into so many girls that only wanted an "older man" as a sugar daddy kind of thing. But while my business probably earned enough to keep them in fillers and Instagram outfits, I had no desire for arm candy. They actually made me feel creepy. I didn't like the idea of them seeing me as a dirty old man. I mean, I was only thirty.

Hannah never made me feel that way. Sure, we had different tastes, but she never made me feel bad for not knowing her favorite music; she just turned me on to it. And she was just as interested in my tastes for movies and books.

"I'm actually an introvert," she said one night over dinner.

"Not you."

"Oh, yeah, I'm a homebody. My idea of a good time is curled up on a couch with a good book and a cup of hot tea."

"Sounds like heaven."

"Did I mention naked in the arms of a good man?" she added.

"No, but that's a given, right?" I said.

"Absolutely."

I squirmed in my seat at the thought. She was a great flirt, even though we'd only kissed a few times, always on her terms.

"Is the good man naked also?" I said.

"Of course, silly. How else is she going to ride his cock while she enjoys her book?"

"Fuck me," I muttered under my breath.

"Maybe," she said, smiling. Then she looked at me and laughed. "You're blushing?"

I was. She laughed at my discomfort. "Sorry," she said, "Occupational hazard."

I cocked my head at the remark, but she preempted my question by reaching over and stroking my flushed cheek. She leaned in to kiss me. It was soft and inviting. For a moment, I forgot all my pretenses. I wasn't trying to lead the relationship. I wasn't pretending to be a tough guy, or a teacher, which is my tendency with younger women. I just lost myself in feeling her kiss. She slowly opened my lips with her tongue. She tasted like raw almonds. Her lips gently slid over mine as she found my tongue. She teased and danced hers around mine until at last she broke the kiss with a little nip on my bottom lip. As she pulled away, her eyes sparkled in the table's candlelight, and she closed her mouth as if savoring a delicious amuse bouche.

I was in love from that moment on. I had to stop myself from saying it, but I think she saw the words on my lips. She slowly blinked and her eyes crinkled as she looked away, blushing herself.

It was a couple of not dates later when I finally brought it up again.

"So... 'Occupational hazard'?" I said.

She winced and nodded, smiling with mouth closed.

"OK, you heard that," she said. "I could not avoid this forever and..." She sighed as she said this, "I normally don't get this far with a man. Or this close."

I nodded. I was reticent about discussing my work. Some young girls heard, "My own business," and got big eyes. (Dear, most small businesses don't last over four years. It's claw and scratch and you never feel safe.)

Hannah sat up and put her hands flat on the table. I tried not to let the slight swaying of her breasts distract my attention. I was prepared for anything -- exotic dancer, high-end call girl, gangster's moll.

"I don't tell men I'm

not

dating about my work because then they put me in a box. They diminish me or judge me. Or worse, they stop seeing me as a real person. I become a fantasy, a projection of their own... issues."

I shook my head. I wanted to believe that would never be me.

"I have an account where I appear on camera and I charge customers to talk to me... about whatever they want to talk about. And sometimes, I act out fantasies for them. I tell them stories. I talk dirty to them. I show them my body."

I waited for the other shoe to drop, but she just stopped talking and held my gaze.

I shook my head. I smiled.

"That's it?" I said.

She narrowed her eyes. That was a mistake. I knew it.

"I mean," I jumped in, "Thanks for trusting me enough to tell me." I took a deep breath. "It sounds like you've had bad reactions in the past, but I--"

I reached over and put my hand over hers. "Whatever you want to do with your body and your time is your own damn business. And I think that's a smart business model."

I looked into her eyes and waited. It was only then I could tell how hard this was for her. I could see that this was a threshold she'd crossed before and been rejected or, worse, objectified. Her eyes were wet, and for the first time I could remember, she looked vulnerable.

Finally, she put her other hand on top of mine, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Need help with your web security?" I said.

She laughed and reached up to wipe the tear that had started down her cheek. She let out a sigh.

That's how we ended up as business partners. I helped update her online presence, making it easier for her to manage her channels and lead pipeline. I set up tools for her to better manage her photos and other content. I worked with her on AI chat bots trained on her actual texts to keep people engaged, letting her focus her time on the best paying customers.

We still insisted we were

not dating

, even when we rented a house together. "This is just business, right?" We each had our own bedrooms, and we set up the formal dining room we never ate in as a studio with professional lighting and cameras and a series of fantasy set pieces we could easily swap out. It was strange to set up a sex toy cabinet when we hadn't even fucked yet, but that's business. (I stared at the range of dildos in front of me. They seemed so impossibly large.)

Most importantly, I was careful to scrub her entire digital history to protect her anonymity. She'd had stalkers in the past and some even doxed her, which created a real financial hardship on her.

We each worked in our own offices. She didn't ask about mine. I didn't ask about hers. We knew enough from working together, but we stayed out of each other's way. I knew she spent much of her day half-naked in front of a camera talking about or simulating sex. She knew I consulted on internet security. For all we knew, we probably shared a few clients.

One time, though, I made the mistake of walking by her door, which wasn't fully shut, and lingering. She caught me looking, and the tiniest flash of her eyes was enough for me to politely close the door.

Later, when I saw her in the kitchen. She stopped me with a hand on my chest. She said, "I don't think you want me to think of you like a client."

That was clear enough. "No, ma'am."

Her expression turned quickly from scolding to a little smirk. "That said, you found your manners so..." She unbuttoned her blouse and let it part. The fabric stopped only by her erect nipples under the silky cloth.

I caught my breath. She looked down at my waist. My sweatpants were fully tented.

She smiled, and that was that. From then on, there was the show -- costumes, lights, dialogue, and audience -- and there was Hannah. She was my partner, my confident, and my friend. And sometimes there were rewards.

I think it was only then, when she saw I could respect her boundaries, that she took our relationship to the next level.

The first time we had sex -- well, the

second

time because it was twice the first night -- was after a movie. We came home and just fell into each other and fucked on the floor in the living room, half undressed. We had been teasing each other all week, and it was the culmination of all of our pent-up needs bubbling out.

But we calmed down as I explored her body and finished taking off her clothes. I was in awe as she was finally naked with me. Her skin was smooth and tan. Her breasts were, as I imagined, a perfect (for me) teardrop and a puckered pink nipple at the point of the curve. Her stomach was flat and I could see all the work she put in on her body for the camera. She had strong abs, but wasn't so thin that she had no softness to her. She had a lovely curve to her hips and that smooth bowl on the inside curve that led to the mound of her pussy. She kept a little patch of hair, closely cropped, but her pussy lips were smooth. Her labia were pink with blood and puffing up. They were slick with my cum. It caught the light. I licked my lips.

Next, she finished undressing me. She slid my shirt back all the way from where she had literally torn it open. She ran her fingers over my chest.

"I like you smooth like this," she said. Normally, I was self-conscious I wasn't hairy. But she eased my concerns immediately, planting kisses across my chest and even biting my nipples, which sent shivers through me.

She tugged my pants and boxer briefs off my ankles where they had ended up during our heated first coupling. She reached down and cupped my cock.

"Did you shave for me?" she said.

"I heard women liked that," I stammered.

"I love that you thought of me," she said and she slid down to lick my cock. I couldn't believe she had no qualms that it was wet and sticky from fucking.

"Mm," she said, as my cock regained its thickness. "Someone's a grower."

"Is that OK?"

She nodded her head. "I don't need a swinging dick. I need a

hard

one."

Again, she put me at ease. In a locker room, I always felt embarrassed that my cock didn't hang.

She rolled me onto my back and straddled me. She slid her pussy onto my cock. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she sighed.

"Your dick is perfect," she said.

Then she slowly squeezed it with her vagina for the first time and I nearly came.

"Careful, boy. I need you to wait for me."

"Yes, yes," I whispered, calming my breath.

She slowly worked herself up and down my shaft.

She said, "I need you to know that you're perfect for me. You're going to see sides of me that no man has. This is our chance not to repeat past mistakes. I have to trust you. And you have to trust me. Never lie to me."

"Never," I said.

She said, "This isn't the way I usually approach relationships, but I feel if we say it out loud, maybe we can start this right. I'll give you anything you want

if

you're honest with me. If I ask you a question, you can't hide from me. You can't think it's too dirty. You can't downplay something because you're embarrassed. I can only be myself with you if you're fully yourself with me. And I'll never judge you. And I... promise to do the same."

I nodded. I was doing anything I could not to come at that moment.

"Promise me," she said.

"I... I promise, Hannah."

"Never lie. Never hesitate."

"Yes, yes. Never."

"First test then."

I shook my head.

She said, "I'm going to ask you a question."