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– A single man
– A single female
– A couple
– A group of men
– A group of women
I clicked on the checkbox next to a single man. I paused before continuing on, studying each of the other options. Prior to meeting with Aaron, I would have said that I was vehemently against doing anything with Easton and another woman. But I had a different view of it now. I wouldn’t say that I was ready for it yet, but I was more accepting of a threesome with a girl as an eventual possibility. For now, I skipped over the single female option and scanned over the rest of the bullet points, dismissing them all as something too advanced for us at this point.
My phone rang, Easton’s name on the display. “Hey.”
“Straight,” he said without preamble. “One hundred percent.”
“You don’t have to say that,” I offered. “I mean, there are a lot of steps on that scale. In case—”
“I’m not anywhere else on that scale. And if I ever thought I was, that was diminished when I saw Aaron pull out his dick. I can say with absolute certainty that I had no interest in touching anything in that bedroom other than you.”
“Okayyy,” I drawled. “I’m clicking on extremely straight. Happy?”
He paused. “What did you click for you?”
“Ummm…” I was suddenly embarrassed with my choice. “The pale yellow area in between straight and bi-curious.”
“Really? Have you ever done anything with a girl?”
“No.”
“No drunk kisses in a bar?”
I laughed. “No.”
“Boring Elle.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval and I was instantly transported back to high school English, and the ravenous crush I’d had on Mr. Boles.
“You can’t really talk,” I countered. “I’m a bar and a half more adventurous than you.”
“Good point. And speaking of my boring self, I’ve got to get on a call. Keep filling out your sex questionnaire and I’ll try to concentrate on quarterly projections without thinking about you scrolling through cock profiles.”
“I know you’re joking, but for real, there are a lot of penis pictures,” I informed him. “Like everywhere. For like, ninety-five percent of guys, it’s their main profile pic.”
He laughed. “Just don’t get too impressed. The angle can make a huge difference in how big it looks.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said dryly. “Now, get to your call. I love you.”
He returned the sentiment and I ended the connection, scrolling down to the bottom of the application, where there was a large MAKE PROFILE ACTIVE green button.
Taking a deep breath, I clicked on the button.
Done. Submitted into cyberspace without a profile pic and with a fairly scant description that wouldn’t stand out for any reason whatsoever. We might not get a single message, but the act still felt powerful. What might this trigger? Who might we find, and how would they affect our relationship?
I closed the browser window and stood, stretching my back until it popped. Tomorrow, I could start to search through profiles. I’d look through my camera roll and see if I could find a profile pic for us, something that would give a hint as to our looks without exposing our identity.
For now, this baby step felt massive enough. I drained the rest of my water and chucked the bottle into the trash. Glancing at the clock, I grabbed my laptop and hurriedly stuck it in my bag. Donuts didn’t last long in the break room and with my shiny new OLT listing, I actually had something to shut up any teasing from the senior agents. Opening the door, I paused as a painful cramp rolled through my midsection, then pushed on.
Donuts. Donuts could solve anything and I deserved a keto-cheat day.
16
As Easton settled into a first-class seat next to Nicole Fagnani, my email inbox filled with notifications from the sex site. Our non-photo profile generated over fifty messages by the time I got home from work the following day. I changed into pajamas and settled into Easton’s recliner, clicking through the messages with increasing frequency. Fifty-odd messages, but all surprisingly similar. It appeared that online sex partners fell into one of three categories.
The first was an overly sweet, drown you in compliments, unattractive older man. Pass.
The second, an I’ll bang you till your tits fall off misogynistic who liked to attach dick pics like it was an Olympic sport. Gag me now. Not literally, of course.
The third was more bearable, but still unsettling. A cautiously friendly and respectful intro that had clearly been cut and pasted who knew how many times. Thanks, but no thanks.
I lasted a half-hour of reading messages and then logged out of the site, prepared to never ever have a threesome again. As if to combat the move, my phone dinged.
I clicked on the email notification on my way to the fridge. It was another message, this one from OrlandoC11.
