“Well, Mr. Butthole, or maybe I’ll call you Black, because your eyes are black, and it’s quite possible your soul matches, but at any rate, so does your suit-”
“Technically they’re just a really deep brown. My eyes. Not my suit. If you look closely, you can see the lighter flecks in them. Also, my soul is just stained around the edges. A few black spots here and there. Maybe a couple tatters. I wouldn’t say that it’s wholly black or anything.”
“Nice trick.” I angle away on purpose. “I’m not going to get that close, but thanks for the offer. I mean no thanks. Brown then?”
“How about you call me John. As in John Smith. If we’re not doing names.”
“Well, John, that’s perfect. Because Johns are also toilets, which seems like the perfect match for a butthole.”
I nearly cringe. Way to act immature. But I’m still trying to keep up a defense here and it’s crumbling badly. Like super super badly.
His lips arch into a grin and his eyes definitely aren’t ticking the way mine are. Oh wait. I think they stopped doing that. Which means I’m not actually annoyed. No, I might actually be having fun with this.
“Then John it is.”
“Well, John, let me tell you. Dreamy, swoon worthy guys are best avoided. They’re like knights in shining armor, all sleek and worthy of heroic adoration, but it doesn’t take long for the clouds to seep through that armor and the minute life’s metaphorical dragons rear their fire breathing heads, the real douchebaggary makes itself known.”
“Douchebaggary,” John (not actually John) echoes, rolling the word over his tongue so that it comes out sounding all dark and sexy.
I snort, but then I inhale, and I get a breath of him. Sweet potatoes, of course he has to smell as good as he looks. He doesn’t smell like all other men who bathe in cologne or lather on the pine and spice. He’s masculine, but he’s also fresh and crisp with just the barest hints and notes of something more exotic underneath.
“So, Jane Doe, if I may be so bold, will you let this butthole get you a drink? That drink doesn’t have to come with strings. Or attachments. That drink could just come with a nice bit of conversation, just like the one we are having right here.”
“You know, I’m pretty much at the point in my life where no strings are a good thing.” I level him with a scathing look, letting him know that I do hold him (unjustly) accountable for the sins of all past males in the known freaking universe. With his looks, he probably did his fair share of heartbreaking too. “If you’re talking about a one night stand and this is your way of leading up to it- the drinks and the dark flirting and the playing it cool until you think I’m ready to leave, then you can save it.”
“Because you’re not interested.” His voice might be flat, but he’s still vaguely amused.
Damn it, I’m very interested. Too interested. I’m rapidly thinking myself into this as the seconds tick by. “I’m flying single and proudly solo from now on. Men are a complication I don’t need in my life.”
“Even for a night?”
A one-night stand. Jeepers. I’ve never even been asked for something like that. I’m all about being careful and going on dates and taking things slow. I’m cautious. Even when I was actively trying to find my soulmate to take charge of the curse instead of letting it rule my fate for me, I was still all about going slow.
Yeah. Because that worked out so well.
Of course, it didn’t.
So then, what’s one night with a man made for sin? One. Night. Treat yourself. You’re an adult. It could be fun. He’s the most handsome man on the planet. It wouldn’t be so bad. Just one night and then you could swear off men for good. One night in heaven with a guy as tempting as the devil…
My inner voice, which might actually be my va-jay in disguise isn’t taunting me. It’s tempting me. It’s tempting me into making bad decisions, because, you know, I am intrigued. I’m a young, responsible, professional person who has never let my hair down before. And if I’m going to do this with anyone, why not a devilishly handsome stranger? I can’t remember the last time, if ever, I actually had a positive, fulfilling sexual experience.
That could all change. It would change. Look at him. He probably gives insanely amazing orgasms. No, no probably about it. It’s just one night. Could it really hurt? No emotional involvement. No bullshit excuses. No shitty dates, no getting dumped, no cheating, no lead ups, no wasting so much freaking time investing it into someone who betrays trust or is just an all-round disappointment. One. Night. It’s just. One. Night.