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She threw a pen at me and burst into a fit of giggles.
“You look like you could use a home-cooked meal. How about my place next Friday night? I’m outta town this weekend.”
An invitation to her place means one thing—she needs a good fuck and right now. I might be just the right person to give her what she needs.
Looking into her eyes, I see the lust and pleasure rolled into one. “Shall I bring dessert?”
Her eyes trace my body and make their way down to my cock. “That’ll be great. No one wants to come empty-handed…”
The stir startles me. It’s been a while and boy do I need to get fucking laid.
***
Losing my regular job feels so insignificant. I sit on a park bench thinking about my next move. Remembering the days of Harvard, there was so much drive, ambition, and aspiration in me to be a journalist. I reported on stories needing to be told, trying to change lives and make people see through my writing that we all need to reach out and help one another. We aren’t all born with silver spoons in our mouths, and how the smallest act of humanity makes a difference.
Here, in California, I report stories about crime, celebrity fallouts, and other meaningless topics. This isn’t who I want to be, and this is not satisfying my desire to be a better person.
As I walk back home, still no closer to what I want to do, I see a sign on my door.
I’ve been evicted.
The notice says all my belongings have been sent to a storage facility not too far from here. Just fucking great.
Officially, I’m now homeless.
***
I follow the directions to Hazel’s home, surprised to find her house is, in fact, that farm I had stumbled upon that day I was lost. The serenity and peaceful surroundings ease the mounting pressure I feel over losing my apartment. It’s a breath of fresh air, and I look above toward the clouds, thanking whoever blessed me with this amazing woman, a friendship, and support system I can’t live without.
Hazel is sitting on the porch as I drive up the dirt road. It’s small and quaint, surrounded by roses and carnations. She stands and greets me as I walk up the porch steps.
She calls my name and gently places her hands on my face. I feel her love, the motherly love I desperately missed from my mother. She takes me through her home. It’s warm and inviting, filled with memorabilia of Richard and George. As we make our way back to the porch, she asks me to sit at the small table where she has fresh lemonade and homemade blueberry muffins. The view is amazing.
“I enjoy having company. Often when Miles is out of town, I head out to meet some old acquaintances for bridge night.”
“Does Miles live here?”
I’m devouring these muffins, and they are practically melting in my mouth.
“Oh, no, dear. He has a home just around the corner. It’s such a beautiful home, and his daughter and grandson live with him.”
“Is he out of town for work?”
“Mission work. Miles is a nurse. He volunteered down south when those awful tornadoes hit. He’ll be back next week, and we’ll be taking a vacation to the Netherlands,” she adds.
“Netherlands?”
“Yes. My sister lives there, and I miss her dearly.” Hazel talks with peace. She’s content. How I yearn to be in her headspace right now.
“What do you do with the group when you’re away?”
“Fred understands and chooses the time to vacation himself. Jerry… well, he sometimes takes a step back. I’m glad you took me up on my offer.” She smiles.
“I feel weak asking for help.”
“My dear boy…” she places her hand on mine, “… asking for help isn’t a weakness, it’s a strength. I have your room all ready for you.”
She smiles, and I say no more.
