You originally hit the dating scene in the age of OkCupid, so tinder is obviously different, but one thing remains the same: men are cheap sluts. It's like a nympho's paradise out there so long as you have no standards. Of course you have standards, but it's confusing because you're not looking for anything serious, and you have no idea where to set the bar besides, "tolerable to look at." Though, you suppose that's where men as a collective seem to have set their own bar, so you can't be too hard on yourself.
Your ex asked you once if you had an entire day to kill someone and get away with it, could you pull it off? You had immediately said yes. You didn't go into any details, of course, because you didn't want him to think you're the kind of girl who imagines having sex with other people. But it would be so easy to kill a man. They routinely beg complete strangers to come over to their houses, give out their phone numbers and addresses and bodies like candy, and the most that ever crosses their mind is that someone might try to steal their wallet. You're pretty sure the majority would even let you tie them down on a first date as long as you're naked when you do it. The idiots are practically volunteering to be serial-killed.
But normal people don't think about those kinds of things, so you never said it out loud. You never expected to ever again be in a position to seek out casual sex, never really had an opportunity to experiment even before your marriage. And now your one, solitary taste of the stuff burned you, but you're hoping to wash it down, swiping through profiles like a fucking dick connoisseur.
Worst case scenario, they're a carbon copy of Tyler, with an average sized dick and about two minutes of go time. You can work with that, just enjoy the fucking and rub one out when you get back home. It's really the feeling of another body that you want, that skin on skin and the way they're paying full attention to you, because they're horny and it's the only way they're going to get off. Your bar is low, you're good with it.
Still, you're selective just for the sake of not wasting inventory. You pick a guy who has a house and no roommates, and seems like someone who understands the definition of consent. You throw on a black thong and bra, nothing lacy or special because you don't want the occasion to be memorable. It's just a meaningless fuck, and you think if you force yourself to remember that, everything will just go down easier.
Though it's full summer you still grab your favorite hoodie because, on the off chance you're not comfortable and want to leave before things get started, it makes a convenient sack to hide your body. And if things do go well, you can still hide in it afterwards.
It's strange the way you're not particularly horny when you ring his doorbell. Like you haven't bothered to get in the right headspace to make this a turn on. This should be hot, you acting all unaffected and using someone for sex. But he's opening the door, and you don't have time now, so you just settle into the incredibly awkward stage before kissing.
It's fine. He has an okay house and makes sure you have something to drink, and you end up kissing, and it's fine. He's an adequate kisser. He knows how to casually lead you to the bed, and how long to kiss you before he takes your clothes off, and how to grab your ass so you know he likes your body. He knows how to rub your clit a little too hard before you get started, and put on a condom, and pretend you're wet enough when he puts his dick inside you. It's totally average and fine and nothing more than you expected. Yeah, you're zoned out and not present in your body. Yeah, he's already making the warning grunts of being at the end of his rope, but you're prepared for this. It's fine. It's fine.
It's not fine. As soon as he cums and his weird-smelling stranger body collapses down onto you, the ick grabs hold with its icy fingers. Nearly painful tingles of repulsion prickle across your skin and it's all you can do to not shove him off with all your might. You clamp down on your self control and manage to just nudge his shoulder until he takes the hint.
Numbly you go to that stranger's bathroom, clean up, and put your clothes back on. It's not you mumbling a goodbye and grabbing your keys and driving home, it's just your body doing those things automatically. Your body goes home and feeds William and starts the water running for a bubble bath.
And you lay there, naked in the water, rubbing yourself between the legs but somehow not getting an ounce of pleasure from it, until you finally give up. The hookup didn't feel like you thought it would. It didn't feel like power or independence or moving on. It felt like self harm.
You cry. You finally let yourself go, sobbing it all out so deep that you're glad William is behind two closed doors and can't hear the full extent of it. You finally admit to yourself how much you miss Victor, how he made you feel and how life seemed so much more exciting when he was your Plain House Guy.
And you realize it wasn't ever about him, it was about you. The way you had always relied on other people to make you feel like life was worth living, like excitement was a resource you couldn't generate on your own and had to suck it out of everyone else. You're a little tick, going through life on the lookout for the next bit of blood you can find, and you hold onto it until someone picks you off.
You have to change. You have to figure out how to meet your own needs in your life, and not wait around for crumbs of whatever drops in your lap. You need to, you're going to invest in yourself. You're going to give yourself time to mourn the person you used to be, and all the things that she thought she wanted, and then you're going to work to build a life where you never need a savior ever again. A life where you never need Victor to come back.
It's been a week since your awful hookup. You're sitting in Victor's rocking chair on your back deck, coughing and wheezing because, frustrated that you were doing it wrong, you took a really deep drag of your first cigarette and it hurt. Your coughing fit is not helping the fact that it's July and humid as hell. Red faced, you swipe your suffocatingly hot hair off your neck with your free hand and try to catch your breath. Surely there's an acclimation process to smoking. You see people all the time being so casual with it and not even struggling to breathe. Is there some kind of trick to suck it down the right way?
"My fucking chair? Really?"
Every piece of your body freezes in shock, and you look up to see Victor leaning against your railing. How the fuck did he get here without you hearing him? You look down at your still-smoking cigarette and remember the embarrassing fit that probably covered any noise he could have made.
Red faced and unthinking, you quickly snub out your cigarette on the railing, and then stare down in dismay at the scorched wood. Slowly what he said, and the fact that he's here, worms its way into your scattered brain. Why the fuck is he here?
"Your realtor said all the furniture was going with the house. Didn't think anyone would miss this beat-up old thing."
You still can't bring yourself to look up from the bent cigarette in your hand because you just don't know what your face will betray when you let yourself look at him.
"Didn't know you were so attached to it. I would have asked her to give it to you if I'd known." He moves across the railing to stand in front of you, like he's daring you to look at him.
"Asked her, like, by telegram?" You reply, finally finding that spark of anger that you need to get through this, and looking him right in the eye. "Or do you own a phone?"
His eyes narrow and he slides his hands in his pockets, like he's bracing for something. Good. He should be scared.
But of course the movement makes you look at what he's wearing, and fuck, it's like your wet dream. Black everything, with boots laced up all high and tactical pants with pockets on the sides, and a long sleeved shirt, fucking snug, that seems so inappropriate for the current weather. Your eyes rise up to his face, and you're suddenly very worried your inner drooling is coming through because one side of his cheek is twitching up.
"Did you miss me?" he asks.
You adjust yourself, putting your knee up and trying to look as comfortable as possible when you reply, "At first."
"Missed you."
First of all, fuck him and the way he knows how to take your carefully built steel wall and push it down with one finger. You close your eyes in frustration and breathe deep, trying to work up that inner calm you need in order to get through this. All you have to do is tell him to go away. Easy peasy. Y. Open your mouth and utter three syllables. Fucking do it.
You open your eyes and suddenly feel so tired, like the weeks of exhausting emotions are just coming back up to slap you all at once. Flatly, making sure they should like statements instead of questions, you say, "What do you want, Victor. Why are you here."
"I meant to come back sooner. Fuck, like weeks sooner. But I got caught up in stuff and arranging things for a new venture I'm thinking about starting."
You drum your fingers on the arm of the chair and with your head leaned back, blink your eyes slowly and disrespectfully back at him, waiting for him to take the hint and leave.
Ignoring your body language, he continues, "See, I've been running into this trouble with work, where I'm awfully conspicuous. I have this one neighbor who picked up on it right away, the first day she ever saw me. Makes it hard to do surveillance or even just hide away the times I need to. And I'm sitting there in a park one day, trying to watch a mark and my buddy says to me, 'You know what we need? Women and dogs. We stand out like a sore thumb, just two scary blokes sitting on a bench doing nothing.'"
You can't help it, a smile pulls your mouth upwards at the mental image.
Victor smiles back and says, "And so I thought to myself, where could I find a woman and a dog, and a house that doesn't have people wondering who lives there?"
The absolute presumption of it. You lean forward with flashing eyes. "And so you thought you could just come here and pick me up whenever you need to, and drop me back at Mommy's house when you're done with me?"
"Nah. I thought I should hire you."
That actually catches you off guard. "For… what?"
"You keep this house looking normal with your normal life, and I get to use it when I'm in the area, to get ready and reset from jobs. And I take you with me sometimes, when I need your help. You bring the dog and help me with surveillance and whatever else I need, but you don't come close to the actual job. Low danger."
You're trying to stay numb and unphased, but a rush of excitement is gripping your spine against your will. There has to be a catch, some kind of horrible cleanup job or free sex attached to this offer.
"So that's why you bought my house? You thought it would make me say yes?"
He tilts his head. "I consider… that… an investment in our working relationship. And proof that I can pay you what I say I can. Your current salary, plus ten percent of any job you help with. You travel for it, you get ten percent."
"And if I say no?" You don't want to say no. You're internally screaming at yourself to take it quickly before he rescinds his offer.
He shrugs. "No hard feelings. I can make other arrangements."
You're not stupid enough to believe it would go as smoothly as that, but why would you say no? The job is, completely, everything you ever wanted. Travel and excitement and… illegal activities. It sounds fucking amazing. You're sitting there, practically vibrating with how bad you want this, but something compels you not to betray that.
"Twenty percent," you counter. It seems stupid as soon as you say it, as if he hasn't already handed you half a million dollars, but it feels like the right thing to say.
He smiles, a wide, delighted smile. "Fifteen."
"I want distance," you counter. "Between me and what… you do. I never actually see … it."
"Alright."
"Alright." You stand up and take a minute to smooth imaginary wrinkles out of your shorts before taking a step toward him.
Victor's looking down at you in an assessing kind of way, and you're suddenly quite sure he thinks you're about to do something entirely unprofessional.
You stick out your hand and say, "Nice to join your company, Mr. Victor."
"It's Creed," he says, shaking your hand firmly with his enormous one.
"Alright, boss." You raise your chin and smile clinically at him before removing your hand from his and taking a step back.
You think he can tell, in that moment, the way things have changed between you, because he tilts his head, and one side of his mouth flashes a fang.
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