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Of course, the good thing about my brief interaction with the woman from hell is the fact I’m not sporting wood anymore. Nothing makes my dick and balls shrivel up faster than that woman. Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard to me, and her fake triple D’s a huge turn-off.
Yeah, there may have been a time back when we were in high school—long before she stuck her claws in my best friend—when I thought she was hot. Hell, everyone did. She was beautiful, smart, and was driven to become the next big model. She was going places most people only dreamed about in our small town. Sure, she was quick to spread her legs, which a few of my then-friends took full advantage of, but I never did. She may have been gorgeous, but there was still something I felt like she was hiding from the world.
Turns out it was devil horns.
I prefer my women real. Soft skin and natural curves. The way my fingers dig into that skin as I hold her against me. Hair that slips my grip as I tighten my fist around those long strands. Plump lips ripe for kissing.
Why do I always picture one woman when I get to this point of the fantasy?
I reach my block, smiling as I glance to where my best friend’s house sits. I can see into his backyard and notice his kitchen light is on. I shake my head, finding it funny—and not in a humorous way—that Shay bought a house with her divorce settlement only a few houses down from the ex-husband she’s determined to torture for the rest of his life.
At least her place is in the opposite direction than mine.
When I reach my back door, I pull my key out of my pocket and slip it into the knob. The air-conditioning hits me in the face, a welcome reprieve from the warm August night outside. I secure the house and move straight to the bedroom. After a short run, that ended when I found Brody and Matt playing basketball at the park, I spent another hour shooting hoops with Ellie’s boy when Matt had to leave for dinner before walking him back to the diner for a meal. Now, I’m desperate for a shower and a little…release.
Stripping out of my clothes, I turn on the shower and step inside the moment the water is hot. My cock is hard again in anticipation, but I choose to ignore it for a few minutes. Instead, I focus on washing my hair and my body, careful of the appendage protruding from my groin, begging for attention.
With a sigh, I close my eyes and will my erection into submission. Even after all these years, I feel guilty getting aroused when I think about my friend. Ellie thinks of me as a good guy, an upstanding friend. Little does she know I jack off to images of her and have since I was in high school.
But that doesn’t stop me from taking my cock in my hand, knowing the only way to get it to go away is release. My balls instantly tighten as my cock thickens. I can feel precum oozing from the tip, the familiar tingles racing up my spine. This’ll be embarrassingly quick, but I have no time to dwell on it.
I start to stroke, the pleasure racing through my veins at lightning speed. I gasp for air, letting the water lubricate my hand as I lean against the wall. My strokes pick up pace, my body gearing for the looming release, and all it takes is for me to imagine that sweet little moan she made while I was massaging her shoulders. That one noise, combined with the feel of her body beneath my fingers as I rubbed her down, has me blowing my load all over the shower tiles. I come hard, my legs wobbling as I press my back against the wall and suck in greedy breaths of air.
“Jesus, this is sad,” I mutter at myself.
Grabbing the soap, I rewash my body before getting out of the shower. I grab a towel and run it over my body before wrapping it around my waist. Approaching the mirror, I place my hands on the vanity and lean forward. This is exactly how my life will go, isn’t it? I’m thirty-five years old and rarely date. I’m a decent-looking guy, and I know there are women who would jump at the opportunity to go out with me for my uniform alone. I’ve been told it’s a chick magnet, and while I guess I get the appeal, I’m just not interested in women like that.
How sad am I?
Single, mid-thirties guy not interested in women who want to bang me just because of the badge and uniform.
Instead, I’m pining after a woman who has me safely tucked in the friend zone, but sadly, I realize I’d rather be there than have nothing at all. I’ve always wanted Ellie Daniels, and I don’t see that ebbing anytime soon.
So I’ll continue to hide my attraction to her so I don’t risk losing her.
Because a life without Ellie isn’t a life at all.
“He told me he’d come back with the cash,” Jeb, the old man who owns the small gas station on the edge of town, says. “He left me his ID as collateral.” He holds up a State of Wisconsin driver’s license, and as soon as I see the name, I have to fight a smile.
“I’m pretty sure you were scammed again, Jeb,” I tell him, setting the license down on the counter and grabbing my notebook.
“You think?”
I nod, pulling my pen from my breast pocket. “Unfortunately. See the name? Sylvester Stallone is an actor, but the photo is Jason Statham, another actor.”
The old man grabs the license and scans over the photo. “Really? His friend even called him Sly when they were in here.”
“I’m positive. Sylvester Stallone doesn’t live in Wisconsin, I’m sure. I’m going to assume this license number and the address are fake too, but I’ll run them just to be certain.” I give the man my full attention. “You know, you really should do pay-at-the-pump.”
Before I even have the suggestion out, he’s waving his hand. “Boy, that technology is past me. I’d have to update the pumps, and these babies have been working just fine. Had them installed myself back in the mid-seventies, and they still get the job done.”
“But if someone had to use a credit card to turn on the pump, you’d have less gas-and-dash and are less likely someone will produce a fake ID with the promise of coming back with cash,” I tell him, even though I know it’s no use. Jeb Wilson is one of the most trusting fellas I’ve ever met. If a local doesn’t have cash for gas, he’ll pin a note on his bulletin board with an IOU. For those out of town, unfortunately, he’ll take their driver’s license as collateral, along with the promise they’ll come right back with cash after visiting and ATM—something else he refuses to put in. Most of the time, his good faith bites him in the ass, like now.
“How much gas did they take?” I ask, making my notes.
“Uhh, a little over twenty gallons in a pick-em up truck and another couple in that fancy dune buggy they was pulling,” he informs me, toying with the long, gray beard he’s sported since I was a boy.
“Dune buggy? Or, like, a four-wheeler or side by side?”
