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Eight and half inches.
Not as big as Eoghan, but still…
My womb squeezes, remembering his stiff and very long length sliding in and out of me. He said he was ten inches. Is that how men are built these days?
Considering all I want is hot sex, I’ll look past the no discernable photo of his features above the waist to see what else Mr. B. Goode is about.
Hobbies: Movies. Travel. Gambling.
Hmmm. I can say the same about me. I’ve always wanted to see Hawaii.
Horseback Riding?
I crack up into my wine glass.
6’2” and 250 pounds. Sounds impressive, I assume that type of height and bulk comes with a lightning rod between the legs.
And that’s when I realize it’s all fake.
Figuring this is a scam artist carpet-bombing the app, I go to delete his profile when a message pops in.
Johnny B. Goode: You viewed my profile.
I drop my phone.
Shit!
Seeing as I don’t want Johnny to start stalking me, I type back to be polite.
Me: Hi. Yeah, I did.
Johnny: I bet you get a lot of responses.
I pause.
Me: Dozens every day.
Johnny: Dozens, huh?
My eyebrows pinch together. Does he know I’m lying?
Me: Of course. Anyway, I just got a work thingy assigned to me and can’t really meet anyone right now. But thanks.
Johnny: Work thingy? What do you do?
His question tenses my shoulders. It’s a hook-up app. He’s not supposed to be interested in my life. Unless he thinks I’m a prostitute.
Me: I’d rather not say. This is a hook-up app for people who just want to have some fun.
Johnny: And have you had fun with other men from this app?
These are rather personal questions.
Me: Maybe. (smile emoji)
Johnny: I haven’t.
That confession halts my fingers from deleting this thread. He sounds…lonely. Poor guy.
