Or, at least, not hate me.
If I let on that I’m thinking about her sexually, all that will go out the window. I can almost hear her recriminations.
That’s how you think of me, Matthais Bristow?
Not if you were the last person on earth, and there aren’t any goats…are there goats?
Eat shit and die.
Granted, the last one is more old Delia and less so the newer Delia who can actually have a full conversation without sniping at me.
But if I let on that I was thinking about her naked, that I’d jacked off thinking about her? She’d blow a gasket.
Ihaveto put her out of my mind.
* * *
A week later,and the struggle is real. I’ve managed to avoid using Delia as jerk-off imagery, but only barely. It’s required a lot of visual stimulation by way of the internet.
I know what I need, I’ve just been too busy to do it: a hookup.
I don’t know that I can bring myself to troll for a hookup locally—anyone my age is almost guaranteed to be someone I know and very likely have already hooked up with. Anyone younger will be the younger sister or cousin of someone I know. Anyone older, the divorced mother of someone I know.
No, I need to go farther afield to find someone to distract me.
So, finally, I take a weekend off and head to San Fransisco. Rent a penthouse for the weekend and hit a nearby bar.
I know some guys in town, so we meet up and play some pool, shoot some shit. Keep an eye for someone to take my mind off of…
My current problem. Leave it at that.
Finally, late in the evening on Saturday, in walks Distraction.
She’s five-seven, bottle-blond hair, with expensive breasts on full display. Little red dress, fuck-me heels. Smoky eye makeup. Little white clutch purse that costs as much as my truck, most likely.
Not that I drove my truck—oh no. When you’re trolling for a hookup, you go McLaren. Even girls who say they’re not impressed by expensive cars can’t help but be impressed with the McLaren.
This chick, Distraction, clocked my car out front, and pegged me as the owner within seconds of walking in.
Beeline for me.
And that’s the night.
That easy.
Ricardo, one of the guys I’m playing pool with, sees all this and just laughs. “Man, you don’t even have to snap your fingers. The girls literally come to you, man. Not even fuckin’ right, bro.”
“You know, I tried snapping my fingers, once,” I say with a laugh.
“And? Did it work?”
“Hell no. She slapped me silly.”
“Good to know.” Ricardo is being coy, though. The man has more game than I do. Tall, dark, and handsome, plus he’s got the Latin thing going for him.
“Hey.” Her voice is low, husky. Fake, but it works. “I’m Violet.”
“Hi there, Violet.” I give her a grin, the one that works every time. “I’m Thai.”
