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“You’ll nail it next time,” I say.
I wait until his parents get to the beach to pick him up to tell them about the situation. Before they got there, Ben had begged me not to, but I can’t lie to them. So I give them a version of the truth. I tell them he wiped out pretty hard instead of telling them he almost drowned.
On my way back to my truck, people clap me on the back and call me a hero. I smile. What do you say to something like that? I don’t feel like a hero. It’s part of surfing. I’m just glad the kid is okay. Right now, all I’m concerned about is washing the salt off my skin and going home.
I put my board in the bed of the truck. When I peel off my wetsuit, my phone falls out. Picking it up, the backlight comes on and I see that I have several notifications on Instagram from the picture of Ben and me. Thirty thousand, to be exact. Mostly from women, and none of the comments are about Ben.
I get home and shower, feeling better once I rinse the ocean off me. After the adrenaline rush of Ben’s near-drowning, I need to get laid. I’m not fully horny yet, but there’s a needling somewhere in my groin that I know will eventually turn into an inferno. I’m debating on calling one of the regular chicks I hook up with or trying out some of the new offers I see in the comments on Instagram. So many options. What’s a horny guy to do?
I’m scrolling through the comments. These girls are shameless, going into full detail about the things they would do to me if they had me naked and alone. I wonder if they know the comment section is public. I laugh, my dick getting harder as I keep reading. In any other situation, that kind of blatant come-on would be a turn off—I like my women more subtle and flirty, but when my cock is hard enough to cut diamonds, blatant is good.
I’m still scrolling when I get a text from a number I’m not familiar with. I open it.
Cum ovr nd fuk me.
I let out a breath of laughter. It’s a bold text and I’m not mad about it. Consider me intrigued.
I text back: Who is this?
I get a reply a short time later with pictures. Nothing too revealing. A below the neck shot of a woman with an incredible body. She’s wearing a sheer robe, open just wide enough to see a pink lace bra and panties beneath, delicious cleavage, tan skin, and a flat stomach. The longer I look at the photo, the harder my dick gets until it’s bordering on painful.
Looks like we’ve found a winner.
I text back: Address?
She sends it and I stop at the liquor store to grab a bottle of wine before heading over to her place. It’s only a ten-minute drive. I’m digging deep into my memory to see if I can remember who she is, but I come up with nothing. I’d remember a body like that. I’m sure of it. It’s not like I’ve been with so many women that I can’t distinguish one from another—that would be an asshole move, and I’d like to think I’m not that guy. But I have to admit, the idea of not knowing her identity is exciting and keeps me turned on.
I get to my destination. It’s a nice neighborhood in a complex of high-end townhomes. Can’t say I’ve ever been here before. Nothing’s familiar about it. Once I get out of the car, I grab the bottle of wine I brought and head for the row of townhouses. Hers is #9. I knock on the door. There’s a sound coming from within. Sounds like glass breaking. What the hell was that? I knock again. A dog barks and I take a step back. It’s not some little Chihuahua either. Sounds big, whatever it is.
The door opens and a big black and white spotted, long-legged mass of muscle and slobber attacks me with tongue kisses—not the woman, of course, but a mammoth of a Great Dane.
“Whoa, hey buddy,” I say, patting the dog on the rump when he turns his back to me.
The woman comes out from behind the door. She has the most incredible body I’ve ever seen. Better than her pictures. She’s tall with perfectly sculpted legs, dark wavy hair down to the middle of her back, dewy pale skin … but that mug. I make a face that I know is a cringe, and force myself to reel it back before she notices. I’m sure her face is probably beautiful, too. Hard to tell under the mess of the lipstick and mascara smeared across it. The girl is hammered. I can tell by the drooping eyelids and the hollow stare that she’s had way too much to drink.
“Hey sexty,” she says. Not sure where the ‘T’ came from in that word, but that’s how she says it. She takes me by the collar of my shirt and pulls me into her home. There’s an empty wine bottle on the table, but no glasses. She must have just gone for it, straight from the bottle. This girl set out to get drunk. Next to it is a crystal candlestick holder that shattered on the laminate floor. That must’ve been the sound of breaking glass I heard. Either she knocked it over while getting up off the couch or her dog’s whip of a tail did it. Either way, she’s lucky there was no flame considering the candle itself is lying right under the edge of the couch. That thing would light up like a Christmas tree.
