In the distance, somewhere out in the dark reaches of the spring night, he hears the train whistle. Such a sad sound, really. Something like longing, wistfulness.
And he is lonely, all right. Lonelier than he has ever felt in his miserable, lonely life.
“Please,” he says to the Inbox in his account. “Please . . .”
But there is no new message, nothing there to comfort him. Only the cold, bright glare of the computer screen.
The train whistle grows closer now, louder. Does she hear a train whistle, too, on her end of town? Or maybe she’s a neighbor of his and he doesn’t even know. So many people in the city. It is possible. People could get lost. They could avoid each other, live within a mile of each other and never know it.
He sits there, continually clicking on the Refresh icon, hoping for a reply. Hoping to hear from her.
Just like he did that first day, a month ago . . .
“Will you be my Sugar Daddy?” her message had said. That was all, except for the photo she had attached. It showed a blue-eyed blonde, sexy, gorgeous, looking out through the monitor seductively, posing in a come-hither way, with plenty of cleavage on display.
His first impression was that the email, the pic, were fakes, likely sent from a spambot. But for the hell of it, he clicked on the Reply icon.
He wasn’t at all confident that joining this adult site was a good idea to begin with. But he was in a slump, and he wasn’t getting any younger. He’d turned forty-three last week, and was in a pathetic state of mind. Pining over his youth. Wishing he could go back and do things over. Yearning to be twenty-five again.
It wasn’t like it was all bad. He had a great job, made over 100K per year, had invested well. He had money to offer someone. But when he looked in the mirror, he figured that was about all he had to offer. His hair, which he had worn long and curly in his younger days, was cut short, not so much because he liked it that way, but because he had a severely receding hairline and a big, fat, unsightly bald spot on the top of his head. He had tried hair vitamins, Rogaine—no luck. He had thought about taking Propecia, but feared the potential sexual side effects. So one day, a couple of years ago, he had capitulated. Bye-bye, hair—buzz-cut time. It was nice knowing you while you lasted. But on to other things now—middle age, a paunch at the midsection that hadn’t been there ten years earlier. Lines forming on the face seemingly at breakneck speed, as if a murder of crows were stomping on him each night while he slept.
It was hell getting old.
But he wasn’t OLD. Just older. He could still get it up. And his libido was as strong as ever—it was too bad his confidence couldn’t match. So he’d joined a sugar-daddy site. He didn’t even have the self-belief to join a regular dating site. He figured, he had the money some women would find attractive, even if they didn’t find him attractive.
Part of the trouble was—he wanted to find someone young, preferably in her twenties. Call it a midlife crisis. Call it idiotic. But he wanted a young hottie. And he knew he wouldn’t attract one straight up. Well, okay, then. There were worse things than being a sugar daddy.
“I’d love to be your sugar daddy,” he had responded to her first message. “If you’re for real . . .”
He was surprised when, not ten minutes later, a reply came back: “Oh, I’m for real, all right. Want me to prove it?”
Hmm. She certainly didn’t waste words. He wrote back: “You bet! But how? Are you willing to meet somewhere? Public place?”
He thought for sure this would scare her away, or make her reveal that she wasn’t what she seemed. But again she surprised him.
“Can you meet tomorrow? Meet me at Bigelow’s on Clover Street, okay? You know where that is? Noon. Oh, but before any of that. Send me a pic of yourself.”
He cringed. Maybe he should send one from fifteen years ago, complete with his head full of raven-black hair. But no. He had to be honest. Why mislead her online and then meet her tomorrow? She would realize immediately that he’d sent an old pic.
He groaned and sent a hideous photo from his birthday party, last week. Damn, he thought he looked fifty in the thing. He attached it, and wrote: “I know I’m not much to look at. But very willing to be your sugar daddy, like I said. Hope you’re still interested.”
Ugh. He sounded desperate. Fuck it. He was desperate! Here he was, a forty-three-year-old divorcee with two kids who lived with their mom. And money to burn, despite the child support payments. Well—it was time to burn that money on a young, sexy blonde.
A minute later she responded: “Not bad! You’re kinda cute. What’s your name?”
“Jim,” he wrote back. “And thanks.” Liar, he thought. Only wants my money. That was good enough for him.
“I’m Beth,” she responded a moment later. “See you tomorrow!”
The train whistle is nearly upon him now, as he continues to stare at his Inbox. Nothing. She will not write back! He thinks of running outside, onto the tracks that run behind his house. Maybe he could make it in time. Maybe it would be painless. . . .
The whole damn thing is so fucked up. He never intended to get in so deep with her. It was supposed to be fun. He provided her with some cash, some gifts, and she provided him with the best sex of his life. How did everything get so fucking involved?
And how could she be so cold?
He clicks on her profile. It indicates she is online right now, probably chatting with some other bastard. The bitch. Couldn’t she at least have the decency to send him a courtesy email? She’s acting like they hadn’t shared anything. Like he meant absolutely nothing to her. How could that be? After the month they had together . . .
He wishes he could go back in time, start over . . .
She sat opposite him, the fragrance of her perfume wafting across the table, making his head spin.
“So,” she said as she sipped on the wine he had bought, “what exactly are you looking for, Jim? Because I need to be right up front with you. I’m single, and I intend to stay that way. I’m busy, and I intend to stay that way, too. I’m horny, and, well, you get the picture.” She smiled, took another sip. The blue in her eyes looked like ice, liquefied, made malleable, but cold just the same. Maybe he should have paid more heed to his gut at that moment. There was something about her. . . . But it was his dick he was listening to. And with her sitting across from him, in a form-fitting, low-cut cocktail dress, it was standing at full attention, straining against his zipper.
“I’m not looking for a relationship, Jim,” she went on. “I don’t intend to ever give you my last name, my address, my number. You will know me only as Beth. We will communicate only on the site where we met. And we will get together when I have free time and can fit you in. And if you make it worth my while, I’ll make it worth yours. Are we clear?”
He nodded. Wasn’t that what he wanted too? Casual sex with a gorgeous young blonde—and by the looks of her, Beth (he doubted that was her real name) appeared to be around twenty-seven, twenty-eight, tops. And gorgeous? He’d rarely seen a more beautiful woman, anywhere.
Yeah. That’s what he wanted. Sure. Having some fun. Tit for tat. Quid pro quo. At least, that’s what he thought at the time . . .
“Can you get a hotel room for tonight, Jim?” she asked.
He coughed. “Uh, sure.” It was Wednesday. He’d need to leave at 6:00 a.m. the next morning for work. He had a nice salary, so a lot was expected of him, including early mornings and long hours. That reminded him. He glanced at his watch. A quarter to one. Fifteen more minutes, and then he’d need to head back to the office.
“Good,” she said. “Book a room, in a nice place. I won’t tell you where. You decide. It’ll give me an idea about you, Jim. You can tell a lot about a man from the hotel he picks.” Another smile. He looked for warmth in it, but found none. “My only condition—make it downtown, okay? I don’t want to travel out to the suburbs. Email me this evening, tell me where.”
“Okay,” he managed to say. “But how much, um, how much . . .?”
“That will be your decision, Jim,” she said, finishing her wine. “That, too, will tell me a lot about you. I will tell you this—I don’t come cheap. Plan accordingly.”
He rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand, a nervous gesture he wished he could overcome. Then he glanced at his watch again. “Would you like any dessert, Beth?”
“Later,” she said, and winked. “Tonight . . .”
There was a knock at the door. He knew it must be her. He’d emailed her the hotel and room number an hour ago.
“Good choice!” she’d replied back. “You have class, Jim. See you at eight!”
And now here she was, a vision in the same cocktail dress she had worn earlier, the tight-fitting fabric hugging her breasts, making love to her to midsection, seeming as if it, too, wanted a piece of her.
“Thank you for coming,” he stammered. Suddenly, confronted by her in his hotel room, seeing here there, her blue eyes burning coldly, her lips pouting, then smiling, he had second thoughts. Was he really up for this woman? This incredible beauty at least fifteen years his junior? Was his cock up to the task? “I really—”
She interrupted him with a kiss. It was hungry, full of passion and desire, the kind of kiss that promised more, that assured you this was only the beginning, the hors d’oeuvres before the feast.
“Are you ready for me? Jim?” she asked then, as if seeing right through his nervousness.
He swallowed, nodded. She was so beautiful. Too beautiful.
“Then show me. How much did you bring?”
He wondered. Is this the way it would be with a paid escort? He’d never called one, though he’d been tempted a time or two. How could this really be any different?
He pulled out his wallet, took out five one-hundred dollar bills, set them on the bureau.
“That the best you can do?” she asked, taking a step back. “I intend to spend the night, Jim. This isn’t just for an hour or two, you know.”
He pulled out three more C notes. “That’s all I have,” he said. Then added, when she glared at him, “in cash.”
She picked up the bills, put them in her handbag. “Good, because, honestly, Jim, eight hundred dollars is not enough. Like I said, I don’t come cheap. When you said you could be my sugar daddy, I thought you meant it. What else can you offer me?”
He thought about it. How much did she want? What if she wanted two grand? Or three? Was she worth that much for one night? Was anyone? But then he looked her over. The long, coltish legs, encased within the folds and softness of her cocktail dress. The C-cup breasts that pushed hard and firm against the thin fabric, and which, clearly, were bra-less. The thin, pointy nose, sharp, as if it might cut him if he tried to kiss it. The eyes, so blue, so full of sex appeal and lust. The hair, so blonde and long, falling behind her like a stream of gold. Yes. She was worth it. God help him, she was.
“I can take you shopping,” he said, lamely. “Or maybe give you a gift card on Amazon or something.” Jesus. What the hell was he doing? He sounded like such a fucking loser.
Amazingly, she brightened at this. “I love Amazon. Tell you what. Give me a gift card on there, for a thousand, and we’ll call it even, okay?”
A thousand? Now?
“Sure. This place has Wi-Fi. And that is your laptop on the table over there, isn’t it?”
Shit. He had brought it along just in case she stood him up. In that event, he figured he should do some stuff for his job, do something constructive.
They went to the table, sat down together. She had changed perfume from earlier. Whatever she was wearing now reminded him of dusky woods, panthers on the prowl, creatures of the night hunting for their prey.
“Set it up for me, Jim,” she said. The tone of her voice, the way she said it. It wasn’t a request. It was an order, a directive.
And he followed it. But there were a couple of snags.
“Uh, the maximum amount for a gift card is $500,” he said.
“Then send me two of them,” she said.
“It asks for an email address,” he said, knowing she had told him he would not be getting hers.
“Make one up, then,” she said. “Log off Amazon for a second and create a Gmail account or something. Write the name and password for me on a slip, and then I can access it and get the gift cards that way.”
She had a solution to everything.
He set up the new Gmail account, purchased the gift cards. “Okay,” he said. “All set now, right?” He hated the way his voice sounded, like a child asking for permission. She must have thought him a total prick. He sure as hell did.
In response, she stood up, and slipped the cocktail dress off of her shoulders.
He begins to write to her—again. He’s already sent her a dozen messages since the last time he saw her.
“Can’t you even write back?” he keys in. “Can’t you give me a minute of your time?”
He deletes the message. Too pathetic, even for him. He’s already sent emails like that to her. She doesn’t answer. She won’t answer. The bitch. The cold, gold-digging bitch. It’s like he no longer lives, no longer breathes or exists. She is acting like he’s dead.
“Maybe I am.”
The train whistle is growing softer now, as it rushes off toward the west. He has missed his chance. Too late to jump in front of it. But there is always tomorrow night, and the next night, and the night after that . . .
Why is he so down? So fucking devastated? He obviously meant nothing to her. Why should she mean anything to him?
It sounds good. But it’s useless. She does mean something to him. At some point, during their long, sensual lovemaking sessions, he fell for her. Maybe it was a shallow love. Maybe it was based on her beauty. Who could know? Who could understand the strange workings and caprices of love? He just knows that he misses her, wants her, yearns for her, for the soft canvas of her skin, the tender moistness of her lips, the long, golden fall of her hair. The thrill he felt when he was with her. There were times she made him feel young again, alive, like a teenager, on the cusp of a better tomorrow, a future rich with possibilities.
Now what is he? Just a lonely old bastard again. Just a divorced dad with two kids in junior high. He feels so alone, he almost considers calling his ex. Maybe they can work things out, give it another try. But no. Sherrie would never go for it. And does he really want to? Does he really want to go through all of it again? The fights? The accusations? The yelling and screaming and poison-tipped words, aimed at the heart, with the intent to hurt and main and scald?
He doesn’t. He doesn’t know what he wants. Not anymore.
But that’s not true, is it? He knows.
He wants what he can’t have.
Beth . . .
She was a goddess, standing there, naked, before him. He was drooling, literally, as she walked up to him, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him. He stood there, stock-still, for a moment, unsure if this were real, if this remarkable creature were really there, hugging him, kissing him.
But then he touched her midriff, caressed her, and kissed her back.
“Mmmmm,” she purred, as their tongues danced and parried and weaved, as their bodies drew closer, closer, her breasts collapsing into his chest, still modestly covered by his polo shirt.
But not for long. She broke the kiss, told him to raise his arms above his head. Off went the polo shirt. He was embarrassed. He’d put on some weight since turning forty. He wasn’t fat, but he was far from in shape. He looked like the dad next door with the increasingly balding head. Just a guy, perhaps an accountant or a banker or a store manager, nondescript, blending in with the rush and dash of the city.
He didn’t feel worthy of her.
But she didn’t seem to share the feeling. She touched his chest, fiddled with his chest hair—he had always been hairy. Some women liked it, some didn’t. If she didn’t, she was a good actress.
She glanced down at his belt. There was a noticeable tent in his dress pants.
“Aw, looks like someone wants to come out and play.” She smiled, winked, licked her lips. “Mind if I do the honors?” He shook his head. Mind? Hell, he had just paid $1800 for the privilege!
She surprised him. Rather than unzipping him with her fingers, she got down on her hands and knees, grabbed the zipper between her teeth, and pulled it down that way. She even pried his pants button loose with her teeth and then used them to pull his pants down. He kicked them off. She did the same with his briefs—pulling them down with her teeth. And as soon as he kicked those off, her lips were on his rock-hard cock.
His cock was one thing he felt okay about. A solid seven inches—just the right size. Not too small, not too gargantuan. Sherrie used to really go to town on his dick, back during the days when they got along. But nothing she did could compare with the machinations this blonde goddess was performing now.
Up and down his shaft her lips traveled, exerting pressure, then feather-light, then pressure again. She kissed his tip, sucked the ridge at the base of his cock-head, licked his balls, and even gently used her teeth when she returned to his shaft.
He threw his head back, but not for long. He didn’t want to miss the view of this sexy blonde on her knees, sucking him, pleasuring him, taking him to the brink.
She purred as she sucked, seemingly enjoying it as much as he did. But before he could come, she stopped, stood up.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We have all night.” She went into the bathroom, and he wondered if she was a tease. Was that all she’d put out for the $1800?
But then she returned. “Sorry, had to pee.”
Somehow this baffled him. She seemed too beautiful for piss. She seemed above it.
Jesus, he thought. I’m acting like a fucking fifteen-year-old. Maybe. But was there anything wrong with that? He worked hard. Too hard, really. Didn’t he deserve to cut loose every now and then?
“Lie down on the bed, Jim,” she said. He had no intention of denying her. “I love a good sixty-nine, how about you?”
“Yes,” he croaked. It was hard to talk. All he could do was anticipate the feel of her lips on his cock again, while, simultaneously, munching away at her clean-shaven pussy.
He realized immediately she hadn’t gone to the bathroom just to take a leak. Her vagina smelled of wild strawberries. The kinky vixen. She had scented herself for him with some sort of gel. Well, who was he to complain? Especially with her sucking him like a dynamo again.
He loved the view of her tight ass right in front of his face. Taking a chance, he raised a hand, and smack! She looked back at him, smiled, wiggled her ass. He slapped her again, and she moaned. He slapped her again. “Yes!” she said, her mouth stuffed with cock. Slap! “Oooh!” Smack! “Oh fuck, yes!”
He was close now, very close, and he told her so.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I love cum. Mmmm. My favorite food.”
She was as good as her word. When he erupted a minute later, she took in every drop.
Then she hopped up, turned around, and lay beside him. And kissed him. He thought their kisses before were sexy. They were nothing compared to this. Tasting herself on his lips, she nibbled on them, thrust her tongue into his mouth, and kissed him hard. It felt like she was trying to suck out all his breath, then leave him there, naked, in his hotel bed, and depart before his body grew stiff and cold with rigor mortis.
“Mmmmm,” she purred as they kissed. “Mmmmmm.”
He caressed her back, ran his fingers through her hair, reached back and kneaded the cheeks of her ass.
“You like that?” she asked him.
“What do you think?” he said, and her answer was another long, passionate kiss. And to think—the party was only just getting started. . . .