Swiping temptation
It was a Tuesday. Quiet. The kind of quiet that creeps in once the emails stop, once the house settles, once the sun dips behind the sea and you're left with nothing but a half-drunk glass of wine and your own thoughts.
I was lounging on my sofa in a loose vest, no bra, because who was I trying to impress, and a silky pair of knickers that had seen more action in the past than they had recently. The house smelled like citrus and salt air. The ocean was a faint hush beyond the windows.
I was restless. Horny, maybe, but not just that. It was something else. A dull ache. Like a hunger with no name.
Men my age bored me lately. They came with their divorces, their polite dinner invites, their anxiety about my money or my past. I wasn't looking for another safe, comfortable man who asked permission before kissing me and folded his socks. I wanted someone different. Someone who'd stop me in my tracks.
And so, glass in hand, I picked up my phone.
I'd downloaded the app weeks ago on a whim. Hidden it in a folder on the third screen, like that made it any less desperate. Tonight, I opened it.
The setup was easy enough. I used my real name because why not? I wasn't ashamed. Forty-three, divorced, successful. A body that turned heads even when I wasn't trying. I picked photos that were honest: a selfie in my beach kaftan, legs stretched, cleavage teasing; a candid one laughing at a friend's party, tan glowing, eyes bright. One where I was in jeans and a tight top, curves unapologetic.
Age range? I hesitated. The default was 40 to 55.
Ugh.
I slid the lower limit down. 21. There was a thrill in that. What was I doing? But my finger didn't move it back. I kept the upper limit at 50, just to balance it. But I knew exactly what I was hoping for.
As the app loaded profiles, I scrolled. A few nice enough faces, but bland. One guy holding a fish. Another grinning in an office chair. Then came the first young one.
Tatted arms. Brown skin. Cocky smile. Twenty-four. I swiped right.
And just like that, I was hunting. Quietly. Privately. Me, in my posh house by the sea, with my wine and my wandering fingers, flirting with the idea of giving in to something I hadn't tried before.
Then he popped up. Anton, 21. 6'4". Personal Trainer.
No shirt in one pic. Sweat-slicked dark brown skin and abs like a statue. In another, he was leaning against gym equipment, looking off to the side like he couldn't care less. The third, his eyes, dark and focused, staring straight into the lens like he could see right through me.
I stared.
He wasn't the kind of guy I dated. Or even chatted with. But that was the whole point, wasn't it? I tapped his profile. Heart pounding.
Swipe right.
And waited.
~~~
I didn't hear anything from him that night. Part of me was relieved. Another part of me was checking the app every fifteen minutes like some giddy teenager hoping to get noticed. I hated that. Or at least, I pretended to. But the truth was, I liked the feeling. That flutter in my belly. That mix of curiosity and danger.
I went to bed late, body buzzing but untouched. I let the need simmer instead of satisfying it. There was something delicious about denying myself. Letting the craving grow.
The next morning came with soft light streaming through my windows. My house always felt too quiet in the mornings. I padded barefoot across the cool wooden floor to make coffee, shrugging on one of my loose white shirts, barely buttoned, oversized, but still clinging to the right places.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror above the sink. Bed hair, sleepy eyes, the swell of my breasts pushing against the fabric in the breeze from the open window. Still got it.
Breakfast was half a grapefruit, some granola, and black coffee. I wasn't hungry for food. I was distracted. Kept picking up my phone, checking emails that didn't matter, scrolling news I didn't care about. Nothing from the app.
I had errands to run, some supplies for the house, a stop at the local deli, a walk along the sea wall to clear my head. I dressed casually but with intention. Faded jeans that hugged my ass just right, and a cropped top that rode up when I reached for things. No bra. Let them stare. Let someone say something.
They didn't. Not really. Just a few lingering glances, a smile from the man at the counter. Harmless. Polite. Boring.
My phone buzzed once in the early afternoon. I nearly dropped my iced coffee pulling it out of my bag. Not the app. Just a delivery alert.
I sighed, heading back home, feeling silly. I wasn't chasing some 21-year-old, was I? But I was. I felt it. Felt how alive I was just thinking about what it might feel like to be looked at differently. Not with politeness or admiration, but hunger. Control. Possession.
I wasn't meant to admit that. Women like me were supposed to have moved past all that. Supposed to want something real, respectful, equal. But I didn't want equal. I didn't want polite. I wanted someone who could pull the leash I'd always pretended not to wear.
By late afternoon, I was stretched out on the lounger by the back doors, legs bare, another glass of wine in hand, sun on my skin. I had a book open on my lap but I wasn't reading.
The app sat silent on my phone screen beside me. Still no message. Maybe he wasn't interested. I took a slow sip of wine. Or maybe, I thought, smirking just a little, he knows exactly what he's doing.
~~~
The day slipped by in fragments, emails I half-answered, a phone call I barely listened to, another glass of wine I didn't need. But it wasn't boredom that kept tugging at me, it was him. Or the idea of him.
Anton.
Even the name had weight. Something sharp and solid about it. Young, yes, but that didn't mean inexperienced. Not in the way that mattered.
By early evening, I gave up pretending to be productive and let myself lie back on the sofa, one hand resting absently on my bare thigh. I'd changed into something soft and thin, just a pale grey tank and nothing underneath. I let the sea breeze lick at my skin through the open patio doors.
Still no message.
So what would he say, if he did? I closed my eyes and let my mind wander. Maybe it would be short. Direct.
Anton: You've been on my mind since I saw your pictures. You look like you taste expensive.
That one made me smile. I imagined the way his voice might sound, low, teasing, like he didn't need to try hard to impress me because he already knew I'd be intrigued.
Or maybe he'd be bolder.
Anton: Bet you're wet already just thinking about me. Don't lie. Women like you don't hide it well.
My thighs shifted.
Or maybe, just maybe, he'd play it differently. Not crude. Confident in a quieter way.
Anton: I like older women. The ones who know what they want. The ones who stop pretending they don't want to be told what to do.
That one lingered.
Because he'd be right. I did want to be told. To be led. Not because I was weak, but because I was tired of pretending to be in charge of everything all the time. I wanted someone to see that in me. To peel it back.
To pull it out of me.
My hand slid up over my stomach, just under the curve of my breast. I wasn't going to touch myself. Not yet. I wanted the tension to build. Let it smolder. I wanted his words to come first, to give me permission.
I imagined another message.
Anton: Take a picture of what you're wearing. Now. Don't make me ask twice.
God. The idea of obeying. Of performing for him, just through a screen, before we even met. It was already getting under my skin.
He hadn't said a word. But my body was already listening.
~~~
It came just after sunset.
I was curled up on the sofa again, legs tucked beneath me, the soft glow of the lamps warming the room. I wasn't even looking at my phone when it buzzed. Just a low, subtle vibration on the coffee table beside my wine glass.
I glanced over lazily.
