“Describe the right candidate,” I reply.
“Well, I don’t necessarily want a relationship. But I’m open to it if one develops naturally. Whether or not it is a one-night stand, the guy doesn’t have to be perfect. I don't care about washboard abs—I mean, I’m not exactly a petite girl myself. But I do want him to be kind and patient, and confident enough to do me this favor. Plus, well, he should be fun to talk to, you know, before and after.”
I can practically hear her blushing when she says “before and after.” It’s so freaking adorable.
These feelings in my chest, my stomach, and now in my pants, keep sending the same irrational thought to my brain. That thought is: me. It needs to be me. I can already picture this amazing woman in my head, I understand completely what she wants, and there can be nobody else—nobody but me—to help her navigate her first time. I’m the only one who can treat her right. I know exactly how to make her feel sexy. How to build her up, get her ready, please her, and blow her mind. How to usher her to a fucking incredible orgasm, and then take excellent care of her afterward.
It absolutely has to be me.
No other choice exists. She’s mine.
“Has anybody tried?”
“Well, there is a guy where I work that sometimes asks me out, but I’m really not interested,” she says.
If she could see the way my nostrils flare with jealously and rage, it might scare the hell out of her.
“And you haven’t given that guy the boot yet? What’s his name?”
She laughs. “Honestly, I call him Pretzel Guy in my head because I can’t remember his name. He manages the soft pretzel kiosk at the mall where I work.”
“Wait,” I say, my alarm bells going off in my head. “You said you work the overnight shift. What the hell is Pretzel Guy still doing there while you’re at work?”
Millie attempts to explain the situation, clearly feeling bad about mentioning Pretzel Guy on the air. “Oh, well, he works late, I guess. He says he has to stay late to knead the dough and get things ready for the morning. I think. He’s usually on his way out when I’m on my way in, but he always has to stop and say hi to me. I mean, maybe I’m wrong and he’s just trying to be friendly—”
“No. Nope,” I interject. “Trust your gut on this one, Millie. That guy is bad news. I want you to stop being nice to him immediately. That’s the only language guys like that understand. The next time you see him, tell him you have a boyfriend and he doesn’t like other guys sniffing around his girl.”
“But I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“You will soon enough,” I say. What am I saying? I can’t promise this woman something like that.
Oh, my conscience tells me, but can’t you?
“Shouldn’t a simple rejection be enough for a guy to back off? Why should I have to lie about having a boyfriend?”
“You’re absolutely right. Sorry, my testosterone took over. You keep having this effect on me, Millie.”
Reagan’s mouth drops open and she’s fanning herself and giving me the thumbs up. My producer seems to think this whole thing I’m doing with Millie is a bit. It isn’t. But Reagan doesn’t need to know that, yet.
This might indeed be good radio but the truth is, I’m thinking of this lonely, sweet, sexy virgin alone in a shopping mall at night, as she describes some guy who can’t take no for an answer, and all sorts of things are happening to my body. I’m hot. My muscles are tight like I’m ready to street fight, and…yep, there it is…my cock is jerking awake.
In all my years of doing this radio gig and flirting with countless women—all of whom I truly cared about and did my best to help—never have any of them evoked a physical reaction like this from me.
Millie’s laughter sends a tingle down my back. “OK, it’s not like he’s going to kidnap me or something.”
“Trust me, Millie. He’s already lied to you. That ain’t a French patisserie he’s running. They get that cheap-ass dough out of the freezer in the morning and boom. Done.”
“What’s a patisserie?”
I seem to be on a roll with blurting out the first thing that pops into my head, so here comes another one. “A type of French bakery. Someday we’ll go to Paris together and eat croissants until we’re ready to burst.”
Millie goes quiet for a moment. My eyes snap up to Reagan, who is holding up her hands and mouthing the words, “What the fuck?” I can read her face; she thinks the bit is going too far.
My Millie saves the day by playing off what I’ve said like it’s superficial flirting. “Sure, let’s go right now,” she replies with the cutest, sexiest laugh I’ve ever heard.
I give her my deepest signature Doctor Dave sexy chuckle. “Just you and me, baby.”
Millie makes a noise that almost sounds dismissive. “You know what I think?”