Picking my phone up, I take a slow breath. If we’re going to venture into the non-internet-related territory, the best tactic is to keep things casual.
Yes, the one and only.
That comes across as a little cheesy, but it’s preferable to the messages I was tempted to send. My gaze can’t stop returning to her picture, and I find myself wondering what she’s wearing now.
It could be anything, and I’d still want her. She could be enveloped in layers of bubble wrap, and I’d tear it loose to get to the voluptuousness beneath.
She’s everything I want and need, forever.
Slow. Down.
I repeat the words in my mind, over and over, to make sure they stick. That’s going to be my constant mantra when talking with my Rachel.
My Rachel.
I can’t help but think of her that way.
Oh, wow, that’s awesome, she responds.
I smirk, imagining she’s here. You’re a boxing fan, are you?
No, she admits. But I’ve never met a celebrity before.
Well… we haven’t really met, have we?
When she writes LOL, I imagine her laughing, wondering what it sounds like. I want to learn every single thing about her. I want there to be no space between us, physically or emotionally.
I hadn’t felt like this since my last boxing match when I defended my title for the thirteenth time and then retired.
But no… even then, there wasn’t this much emotion, this much hunger, this much of anything.
Rachel is one of a kind.
We can change that, I type, then stare at the message.
How would that come across to her? Especially in this day and age where celebrities are called out or canceled for their behavior, often with their fans? I’ve never been into that sort of thing.
When I’ve dated – which is rare – it’s always been awkward and unnatural. I’ve never wanted groupies or casual hookups.
I’ve been waiting…
I didn’t know what for, but now I do.
I was waiting for Rachel.
I was waiting for that look in her innocent eyes, the look that tells me she’s ready to be with me forever, to carry my babies in that curvy body of hers.
Deleting the message, I drum my fingers against the arm of the chair.
In a way, it’s good we’re talking through this messenger app. If I were face to face with her, I know I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.
I’d grab her, greedily sink my hands into her hips and pull her right up against me.
She’d be able to feel how badly I want her, my cock bulging out of my pants, pushing hungrily against her belly.
Thanks for the help with the tethering, I write. I appreciate it. Sometimes technology can confuse an old man like me.
Is that fishing, subtly checking if she cares about our age gap? I’ve got no clue how old she is, but I’d guess in her early twenties, judging from her picture.
I’ve never had a fetish for younger women the way some men do. I’ve never had an obsession with any particular kind of woman, assuming there was something fractured within me, something busted, that made it impossible.
But now I’m glad my woman appears younger. It means she’s the right age to bring me three, four, or even five children to fill our home with laughter and love and —
Slow. Down.
How many times am I going to have to tell myself that before I get the point?
Forty-two, right? That’s not old.
I grin. Did you just google me, Rachel?
Um… yeah, busted. Sorry.
As though she’s here, I chuckle, more caught up in the online exchange than I’ve ever been with a real-life conversation. I don’t even give a damn if that’s sad.
Don’t apologize. But since I’ve shown you mine….
What, you want to know my age?
I do.
After sending the message, I study those two words.
They’re the same ones we’ll say at the altar when we exchange rings, the same ones that will start the best chapter of our lives together.
I make a rumbling noise, teeth clenched, causing Rusty’s head to snap up and his eyes to stare at me in worry.
“Sorry, boy,” I mutter. “I just keep forgetting myself. This woman’s a stranger but….”
I’m twenty-one, she replies.
And yet you don’t think I’m an old man.
You’re NOT old, Ryland.
This is a good sign, the fact she’s using my name and her lack of concern about my age.
I’m about to send thanks again for the help when the unthinkable happens.
The chat has ended.
I stare at the screen, at her photo.
Would you like to leave feedback?
No, I wouldn’t. I want to keep talking to my woman.
We were finally getting somewhere.
“God damn it.”
I close the chat and then click the help button again, waiting fifteen minutes, praying it’s her. As I wait, I pace around my apartment, Rusty whining as he walks at my side.
He can sense something’s up. I never behave this way around him… or anyone, for that matter.