1
The List - Part 2
You know how it is when your friend mentions a song she likes that you don't know and suddenly you hear it everywhere? That's how it is for you now with guys. You've barely let Cub into your life and - almost immediately - it's raining men. Men under 30.
That barista at your favorite coffee shop? Did he always smile at you like that?
Since when do they let guys work at Victoria's Secret? And are they all THAT helpful?
You walk your dog past the park and you can practically feel the softball fly your way propelled purely by testosterone.
Was this interest always there? Could it be that Cub peeled back the veil - made the unthinkable not just conceivable but doable? Certainly, when you're shopping now, your hand lingers on pieces you'd have passed over last year. Too clingy, too low cut, too short - nothing is TOO anymore. And it feels GOOD. So very good.
Except for one thing.
I'm going to have to find a stand-in for you, you text him.
Oh yeah?
You did not hookup with the proverbial twenty-something slacker who's teaching snowboarding - part-time, of course - or the actor who's primarily a waiter (cliche but he's currently renting the basement apartment next door so...) or even the sweet, serious guy who's eagerly processing your insurance claim. No - YOU hooked up with ...
Boy Wonder
- who not only believes he's going to revolutionize the industry he's in but also thinks he can cure the human race of the need to eat. And sleep.
Oh and time zones.
Well, if you're never there...
Which he isn't. His appetite for work appears to be as voracious as his appetite for you. When he's in your neck of the woods. Which he is less and less.
He can work ANYWHERE. Whereas he can only fuck you in California.
He texts you photos of the sunrise over an airplane wing.
Where are you?
Belgium.
What's in Belgium? you text him.
A company I am going to annihilate.
He sounds ruthless beyond his years. Having seen (and felt!) him put his mind to something, you immediately feel bad for the unnamed Belgian company.
More texted pics. Skylines.
Where are you? You text it over and over.
Germany.
Tokyo.
Toronto
Fill in the blank. The only blank that's not getting filled is the one between your legs.
So you do it. You find a Stand-In.
The next Saturday, when you pass the weekly softball game, you linger. You play with your handsome pup. He's cute enough to attract attention. 'Must love dogs' crosses your mind and you smirk just a little.
Just you wait, Cub, you think. You're not the only late model piece of ass out there. And I know how to drive stick.
His name is Sam. He likes dogs. (Of course, he does.). He likes you. He seems likable all around. Tall - taller than Cub. Sandy-haired, blue-eyed. Freckled. All American. In other words, the opposite of Boy Wonder. Right now, he smells strongly of sweat and faintly of grass.
He tells you he's noticed you walking the dog before. (Duh.) Do you live around here?
(Double duh.) You catch yourself being too hard on him. You remind yourself: He's not Boy Wonder. That's not his fault. For a split second, your conscience reproaches you.
You're doing this for the wrong reason.
Just as quickly, the little devil on the other shoulder pokes you. ARE YOU KIDDING? HE'S A TWENTY SOMETHING GUY. YOU WANT TO FUCK HIM. HOW CAN THAT BE BAD?
Devil wins. You spontaneously decide Sam is the perfect Stand-In.
Unsurprisingly, he cleans up quite well. Later, at your local watering hole, he appears at the appointed hour - smelling of soap (Irish Spring?) and some strong deodorant. He's wearing a button down shirt (Score one, Stand In!), Converse and jeans. All in all, he's dressed better than Boy Wonder. No hoodie even.
You drink beer, eat burgers. He tells you about the softball team and you feign interest.
You complain about your boss and he's appropriately sympathetic. The conversation shifts to Saturday Night Live. Surprisingly (or maybe not), he turns out to be funny.
At some point, you mention the "Last Fuckable Day" skit.
"That's bullshit", he says. You nod and feel yourself flushing (just a bit) as his gaze sweeps over you.
"Look at you. You're hot as fuck."
You smile and say: "Glad you think so." And reach across the table to touch his hand. It's not the time for great subtlety, seeing as it's been weeks since you've gotten laid. (Goddamn you, Boy Wonder!)
Now he's the one smiling.
It occurs to you that you may run into a difficulty: You don't like bringing people back to your place. If you go their place, you choose when the evening's over. You aren't responsible for shifting them towards the door. You'd think this would be easier than it actually is. A startling number of men are sentimental about sex; they want to stay and snuggle. They want you to cook them breakfast the next day. A hotel is such a nice, neutral place. You screw, you leave some money for the maid, you leave.
You size Sam up. Does he or doesn't he have roommates? He's probably expecting you to host.
"So, Sam....," you begin.
"Yes?" he answers.
We've eaten, we've had a few beers, we've talked...
His smile gets wider.
"What now?" you ask. You lean forward a bit so he can get a better look down your blouse. I'm 50, you think, but my tits are definitely not.
Maybe he's shy. Maybe he needs a nudge. Suddenly, you're acutely aware - you have no frigging clue how this generation does this. Supposedly, they're all about hookup culture. If that's true, it should be easy. You should just ask him straight out, right?
It's on the tip of your tongue.
Are you down to fuck? (God, that sounds ludicrous. NOBODY says that.)
"Look, Sam...," you begin again.
"Yeah, baby?"
That's better.
"Ever been with an older woman?" There. You asked.
"No," he replies but you can see in his eyes he'd like that to change.
"Well, then," you say, "today's your lucky day." (Fuck! Was that over the top? Hopefully not. )
"Looks like it," he replies as he gets up and comes around to your side of the table. "Should we go?" His hands are on your shoulders, just under your hair, before he pulls
out your chair. They're warm. And not at all sweaty.
Oh yes - we should ABSOLUTELY go.
But where? You make a mental calculation - five weeks. No - more. At least 2 months. It's such a sexual drought it makes your mouth feel dry.
Fuck it, you decide, and ask him: "Nightcap at my place?"
This is where you learn just why the stand-ins are not famous.
There is a certain amount of twenty something that simply goes without saying. He's in good shape - none of that paunch you see on men your age. His erection is like the speedometer in a Ferrari - zero to 200 in seconds flat. Correction - more like if a Tesla were a Ferrari because you don't even have to touch him.
You're barely inside the door when he grabs you. 'Guess we won't be needing that nightcap,' you think.
Alexa, find me a hard cock.
He's not a bad kisser. Eager - but, hey! He's nervous. You are, too - a little. You fumble unbuttoning his shirt; he's too tall for you to slide it off his shoulders without him bending towards you. He does and you awkwardly clonk heads - not hard, just enough to make your both laugh and break the ice.
His chest is pleasantly furred with curling dark blond hair. Yum! You slide your hand through this new pelt while he kisses your neck. You feel like a trapper who's bagged a rare, new species. This is the guy you didn't have in high school.
"Oh baby," he croons.
The sound of his voice jolts you out of your reverie. OMG, this is a live human man. A NEW human man. A YOUNG human man. Not a memory. Or a phantasy.
While you've been spacing out, he's taken off his clothes. Pants, belt and briefs have joined the shirt in a pile on your living room floor. You take in the sight of him - standing in front of you - naked except for his socks. A low growl forms in your throat.
Nice. Very nice.
Little does he know, this is a scene you love: Naked Man, Clothed Woman. It's a moment of sheer power and you feel it like charge up your spine. The cod piece went out in the 1700s and men (at least straight men) now rarely dress for display but this is one instance when you're obviously invited to LOOK. Appraise. There he is - Golden Boy Sam - in all his shining, erect glory. Just waiting.
For you.
It's out of your lips before you know it: " WOW!"
His joy is so genuine, for a moment, you forget he's supposed to be a stand - in. Right now, he's the main event and you are insanely grateful for that gorgeous 7" cut masterpiece jutting out in front of you, all you can do is get on your knees in front of it.
"Oh baby," he says again, when you close your lips around the head. "Oh baby."
He's manscaped for you and you're touched. He wanted this to be inviting, wanted it to be easy for you. FINALLY - the ice cream man has come back around to your neighborhood and you have got just enough spare change to have that creamsicle you've been craving....
And he is creamy - soft and hard at the same time. You lick up and down his shaft, linger at the top and bury the tip of your tongue in the little notch right under the head - just long enough to hear him make some sexy little groaning noise before taking him all the way down.
This is your superpower. The back of your throat is like a hall of mirrors; it seems to extend endlessly. He couldn't escape if he wanted to.
But he doesn't want to. He wants to punch all his tickets for this one ride. Especially now that you've begun to lick his balls, draw them gently into your mouth - then a little harder until you get the gasp you want. Then you release them and let your tongue probe deeper between his legs, approaching his asshole, where he finally stops tasting just like soap and skin and more like himself.
"Oh, God, CeCe - please...."
You look up and see he's got that look between pain and pleasure that signals a struggle. He wants to come and he doesn't want to come because he wants desperately to please you.
Part of you wants to see how well he can control himself. Experience and skill should triumph over youth and athleticism. And yet...
That cock. That glorious cock. Your cunt clenches as your eyes sweep over it, so you extend your hand and let him pull you to your feet.
Let's see what you can do, rookie...
Just as you're thinking that, he scoops you up and carries you into — the hallway, because he has no idea where the bedroom is.
"Which one —?" he grunts.
"On the left."
He kicks the door open and tosses you - and I mean tosses - on to the bed, making you so so grateful you replaced the mattress last year. The thump of the headboard against the wall makes you giggle and, once again, the look of unadulterated happiness on his face charms you. So what if all he can say is 'oh baby'? You're not here to talk...
You're here to —
OH FUCKING JESUS
He's settled between your parted legs.
It's true. Still true. This generation is So. Fucking. Oral.
His tongue is making circles around your clit - not on it exactly - but getting closer and closer, like those rings on your gps as your approach your destination.
