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I keep from sucking my teeth at the unwanted intrusion.
This bitch…
“Nah, I’m good,” I say, not looking up at her, scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, hoping she gets the hint.
That I’m not beat for chitchat.
“You wanna watch this Zane movie with me. It just came out on DVD.”
Now this makes me look up at her. Look at her. Standing here with her broad-shouldered-linebacker-looking ass. She used to have a sexy-ass body, thick in all the right places. Now she’s all stomach and back fat, just sloppy with it. And I’m supposed to wanna be with something looking like this. Fuck outta here.
I blink. She’s gotten her hair done. She’s cut that raggedy weave out and has her hair cut in a short style and has it highlighted. And, I won’t front. It looks nice on her. She even has on lipstick. A burgundy color, I think. I have to be straight up. She might have let her body go, but she’s still pretty in the face. Still, I keep from frowning at her offer. Why the hell would I want to sit through some shit with a bunch of sex scenes in it with her?
I give her a blank stare, trying like hell to keep from saying what I’m really thinking. Then to sweeten the deal, she adds, “I bought two bottles of Moscato, and a bag of weed, if you want some.”
Drinks. Smoke. Sex flick. Oh, she thinks she’s slick. But I’m not even about to fall for the trap. Tomorrow, she’ll be right back on her extra shit.
Man, relax. Just keep shit light.
She’s standing here, running a hand over her hair, waiting. She wants me to acknowledge her new look.
“Nah, I’m good on the drinks and flick,” I say. “But I might light up with you.”
And maybe give you some dick if I get horny enough.
“Oh, okay. I’m gonna take a shower, first.”
I give her a head nod. “Aiight.”
“You want the door closed?”
“Yeah.”
I wait for the door to shut, then reach for my cell, sliding my bluetooth back over my ear. I redial 1-900-SexHeat. A chat line for cats like me not looking to actually go out and cheat, but are looking for a quick way to get off without a bunch of bullshit.
I rub my dick over my sweats, feeling it harden at the thought of another round of some hot, dirty phone sex.
I hear the shower running upstairs. Yeah, wash that ass, I think as I light another blunt. And clip them pussy hairs. I inhale the smoke deep into my lungs, holding it in as I punch through all the recorded greetings from hundreds of thousands of horny women wanting to talk to unhappy, sexually frustrated men like me, perhaps even like them.
Some might consider it cheating. I don’t. It’s only cheating if I go out and fuck. All this is is heavy breathing, low moaning, and whispering. I call it a great escape.
Fantasy.
An illusion.
Role-playing.
A seductive break from reality, that’s it. There’s no intent on fucking any of my phone bone encounters. Hell, most of the women I speak to live hundreds of miles away. So it’s safe. No temptation to seek any of them out. It’s simply something to take my mind off the bullshit here, while getting a good nut.
There’s nothing wrong with that, right?
Right.
It’s innocent, clean, healthy fun.
A stress reliever.
Damn, just thinking about some fantasy sex got me wanting to bust another load bad as fuck. It’s something I do twice, maybe three times a week. Phone bone.
