My Alexander

"Count on it." I nodded. "You take care, now. And remember: anytime. For anything."

"I'll remember." He took his giftcard and nodded back. "Until next time, Miss Sophia Flack."

"Enjoy your day, Mr Alexander Collins." A buzz in my head told me I was onto something amazing, something incredible, something daring as I watched him leave. He crossed the parking lot and swung up into a nice silver pickup truck, the kind with the extended cab. Fuck me! I marveled, I did it!

Greg, I knew, would have been proud of me. And also very jealous. And it surprised me that both those thoughts excited me.

* * *

So, once you've baited your hook and caught your fish, how long do you let the thing keep swimming before you crank the reel?

I was clueless. I am no angler. So, whether literally or metaphorically, I had no idea just how long I should wait to text Alex. I come from a generation that has no problem courting digitally; I was more than happy to send all sorts of incriminating pics, texts, sexts, or whatever. All he had to do was ask. And I didn't know the etiquette here: how long does a hot-blooded twenty-year-old wait before she trawls for contact with the married DILF she's already gotten a nibble from?

I had no friends I could ask for advice about such a thing. And the internet was not overly helpful. I tried to take the edge off by picking up a guy at the beach, but all that happened was an awkward breakfast on Friday morning and some lingering vaginal soreness, in exchange for some unsatisfactory cunnilingus and a ride back to my car. The dude was nice enough, I guess, but there was nothing all that special about him. He'd been nice-looking and sturdy, filling two condoms, but that wasn't enough now. Alex Collins was reinforcing something Greg had awoken:

I was tired of more of the same.

Specifically, I was tired of young, affable guys with the clear, sincere goal of getting off. I wanted something better now. I wanted a man. A man who'd have other needs, more challenging needs. Needs I wanted to stretch myself to fill, both literally and figuratively.

I sensed Alex had those needs. And fulfilling them was just a phone call away, if he realized I was more than just a flirt.

Three days was, in the end, all I could stand before I reached out to him. I was crafty, though. I wanted to text him without texting him. So on Saturday, from the office at Silly PUTTy's, I sent out Hey, Melanie? can't meet up this afternoon. Sry! And then I sat back and waited. Everything mattered in this kind of thing, from the crafting of the text to the time between sending and replying. And he wrote back at once, which told me a lot: he'd been waiting for me.

Good.

Sophia? Did you mean to send that to me?

I grinned the way I'd grinned that Wednesday over the ice cream counter, easily, naturally, without even thinking about it. Fuck. Sry, I tapped back. I meant to send that to my friend Mel. We had plans 2day, but I cant make it.

He waited a few moments this time before replying. That's too bad. I'm sure she'll be disappointed. I sighed happily. Everything about this man intrigued me, from the glimmer of his eyes to the grammar of his texts. I was about to send something back when I saw he was adding more. What were you going to do?

The answer came to me immediately. Pick up boys. But Id rather pick up men, I think. I smiled slowly to myself. Let him chew on that. I waited until it said he was replying before hastily tapping out, Well not men. Just one man.

The little dots that told me he was typing winked out at once, and stayed out for a long time while I leaned back in the office chair and yawned. This was fucking awesome. I let the silence stretch, thinking about what he was thinking about. He'd been dressed like a professional; he was no idiot, even if he'd married a bitch. He'd be analyzing my words now. And thinking about what kind of response he should give. And, probably, getting hard.

The thought immediately drenched me.

Out in the lobby, Kenny and Brittani were slinging ice cream and handing out putters, the Ball Buster hissing every few seconds as it tossed out souvenir golf balls. The place was busy. It occurred to me that I should head out there and help, but now my screen showed Alexander Collins' little texty dots and that was all I could think about. The words, when they finally materialized, quickened my pulse.

Hard to believe you're not taken yet, he said.

A half-dozen replies sprang to my mind then, requiring careful sorting and thought. How aggressive did I want to be? Should I come off as coquettish, or sluttish? How soon did I want to get him to bed me? And what if (heavens forbid!) I scared him off? So I pondered, listening to the orderly cash-register sounds from out front, and then typed in, There's actually someone I'm interested in being taken by. It took effort to actually type out "someone" instead of sum1, and adding the apostrophes felt like a foreign language. But I somehow felt an urge to converse on his level. I met him just recently, in fact. Here at work.

"Sophie!" The shout belonged to Brittani. "We need more fives and singles!" I tossed my phone on the desk and bustled off to actually be a good employee for a few minutes, and when I hurried back to the office and scooped up my phone his reply made me smile.

Maybe you should go after him.

"Fuck yes!" I actually hissed it to myself out loud. This guy was perfect. Good-looking, sexy, intelligent, and apparently a decent flirt as well. I chuckled as I sent the obvious response: Maybe that's exactly what I'm doing.

And then? The coup-de-grace. I added a heart emoji.

I pocketed my phone in triumph, knowing I'd earned a victory here. He'd type something back, but it would take him awhile. I was content with what I'd already done for now, and besides? It was time to inspect the bathrooms. The first goal here was to normalize him communicating with me, and that ice was broken now.

Next up was to get my Alexander somewhere where we could be together. In person. Text was fine, but I wanted this guy to rail me. And that's difficult to do over the phone.

* * *

I woke up late that night to a Greg Dream. This was not unusual: he often returned to me as I slept. We'd hadn't even dated a couple months, only some fifty days, and then no more. But the things he'd done to me in that eyeblink of a lifetime had changed me forever, and I was only fully realizing it now. Now, as I tired of the world's Carls and Chinese Mikes, I was finally understanding that I'd outgrown them.

The dream did not begin. It was already fully realized as soon as I became aware of it, a delirious rapture of limbs and bodies tangling in every way they could. My dream-lover did all the things I'd learned to love during those fifty days and nights, always, like a checklist in my pussy. He drove into me, thick and vital, his thrusts firm and powerful. And he didn't ask whether I needed more or less; he just knew.

Check.

He let his tongue wander my body, everywhere, the dream making the body positions meaningless: he was simultaneously fucking and tonguing me, lips, even teeth moving in perfect harmony.

Check.

He touched me with confidence, even authority, but his hands also sent me strong signals of selflessness. Mutual respect. Even love, sometimes, as incongruous as that sounds with the solid, meaty feel of his hands smacking my pussy, my tits. For Greg had been a smacker, though not a spanker. Many times, I'd left his apartment with scarlet handprints proudly displayed all around my cunt, each one a tally of that night's orgasms. I wondered whether I'd find the courage to tell Alex to smack me.

Check.

He took me as he wanted, moving me effortlessly on the bed. Prone. Missionary. Doggy. Standing. Upside-down. Sideways. Cowgirl. And he took me in every way: oral. Anal. Digital. Vaginal. Facials. Whatever he wanted worked for me, because it worked for him and what I wanted was to make him feel good.

Check.

Because that was all I wanted, since Greg; that was what the Mike Chois only let me dance on the edges of: he wanted my joy, and I wanted his. And that was enough.

And that was why I woke up gasping, my body on fire with the eager whisper of sex in my vagina. That had happened many times. But this Greg Dream was different. Always before, the man making me cry with ethereal ecstasy was Professor Greg Hollis. This time, my dream-lover was Mr Alexander Collins.

* * *

Are your wife's friends assholes? the ones u bought the giftcard for?

I sent it from my bed, the next morning, lying around. It was Sunday, my other day off, and I lay there in the early sun with my fingers ringing my nipple. The dream was still blazing in my mind, and I was curious how long it would take him to answer. It was still early, but something told me he was an early riser. Or maybe he went to church or some shit.

I laid the phone on the mattress beside me and gave out one of those full-body yawns, the kind where every muscle clenches up in a tight, bowstring tension before easing slowly, my body sagging back into the mattress. I was thinking about coffee, and about how great it would be to have some kind of servant bring me that shit in bed, when the phone chirped at me all of a sudden. I glanced at the clock: he'd written me back in under two minutes! Not bad. "Sweet," I whispered to myself, sweeping my thumb across the phone to see what he had to say.

Sometimes? They're okay, but I don't like hanging out with them.

I was swift in reply. He was telling me there was no point in playing coy. Tell them to go play golf today. Because Im not working. Im off allllll day long. I smiled, jumping over to Pixboox to check on the latest antics of my friends, the other hand slipping back up to my boob. I'd always liked touching my own nipples. The text system chirped once more.

Got any plans? he asked.

A crafty grin quirked my lips. I want to keep going after that guy, I mused, but I'm kinda tired of doing it one text at a time. yknow? I was humming a song as I waited for his reply, ecstatic at how this was going. Hell. Pretty soon now, I might have a reason to move my hand off my tit and into my underwear.

He took longer typing back; my mind's eye saw him composing a reply, then considering it, tweaking it. Messing with it. Wanting to play his cards right. Barely believing this was happening, that I was offering myself on a silver platter. And that thought, the idea of me being served for him, lying naked for him to enjoy, make my nip stiffen under my nails...

His message popped up at last. If you're going after him? Actually GO after him.

My eyes popped open. My first thought was that he didn't realize I was talking about him, but that flew in the face of everything I'd been telling myself for days. So? I jumped on the opportunity I thought he might be offering. Great idea, I tapped out. So u r saying I should like offer to meet up with him?

I wasn't flipping across to Pixboox anymore. Things were moving fast now, and he felt the same sense of urgency. Because there was no wait before he replied. You definitely should.

My hand dived into my panties as though it had a mind of its own, past the hair, cupping a mound gone suddenly swollen. OK. So then where do u want to meet, Mr Alexander Collins? I did hesitate a moment before sending it off, debating about going back to proper spelling or punctuation, but fuck that. This was me. And he was obviously interested. So I yeeted the text off into the ether, sailing it out toward his wide eyes as I slipped a well-practiced pair of fingers past the sudden sloppy mess my pussy had become. "Oh god," I moaned slightly, grateful my roommate spent her weekends with her man. "Yeah." It was a low chant, a prayer to myself, my body responding to the tension I always felt when a flirtation turns the corner and becomes Something More.

It was several minutes before the phone showed he was typing again, minutes during which I dug fully into my slit, thumb firm on my clit with my fingers twirling inside. I didn't usually get so wet so fast, but then this was not a usual kind of event, this sensation of throwing myself out there for this man like bait on a trap, yearning for him to come and devour me.

I'd never done that before, on my own. It carried a strong surge of arousal, similar to but not exactly like the kind I'd felt when I'd lost my virginity or when Greg had been especially into it. And now I had it myself, literally at my fingertips, a feeling of blunt sexual power that blanked out my mind almost severely enough that I let the phone fall, only dimly aware that the text app had come back to life.

My Alexander was writing me back. He was thinking of me.

And just like that, I bucked my hips up hard against my dancing fingers and let out a hoarse, agonizing moan as I brought myself off with a speed and ease I couldn't remember ever feeling before. Ever. The orgasm was a guillotine blade snapping down with a heavy, unstoppable suddenness that there was no hope of resisting, stopping... or prolonging. It wrung through me, my legs in spasm, wiping me out the way a huge wave spills a surfer into the curl and then just leaves her there to live or die. Part of me was aware I was screaming, that the neighbors would be nodding knowingly, but most of me didn't care about anything at all except the shaky rattle of my legs and the strong impression of the man who'd brought me there.

He'd texted me back. The message was there on my phone, right there waiting to be read, the little text bubble swimming in my teary eyes. Because I was still blissfully mid-orgasm, on the downside now, my whole body melting into my mattress. I'd have to wash the sheets again, it seemed.

So I didn't want to make my Alexander wait, but there was no real option not to. I was not really functional for a few minutes there, and when I finally blinked myself back to the present and licked myself off my fingers, I took up the phone and focused with a big, catlike grin on my face. His message burned up at me: Me? Meet you? Say, for coffee?

Still getting my breath back under control, I let my giddy thumb waltz across the letters on my phone. I was back to instinct, sexual instinct, orgasmic instinct, in no mood anymore to hold back with him... though, I was back to paying attention to my grammar. You. Meet me. Say, for sitting in Crescent Ridge Park, watching the moon tonight. You can bring coffee if you wanna. 9:00, lower lot. The moon might not be up by then, but the sun would certainly be down. The rest would take care of itself, I hoped.

I flung my phone back onto my bedside table, knowing with a strange sense of certainty that I'd be waiting awhile for his reply. And that it would be a yes, eventually. I sat blearily up in nothing but my panties. The apartment was a mess. I felt vaguely like I should clean, even though the furniture it had come with always seemed way past the point of spiffing up. But I knew I should try. After all, there might be a point where I'd be bringing someone over here.

Soon.

* * *

Whether Alexander Collins would actually show up or not was a question that dominated my mind all day long. It was an important question to me, but I sensed it was a way more important question to him. So I left him alone most of the day, letting him work it all through in his brain. If he came out to see me, it was life-changing for him. It was a threat to his family, a risk.

As far as I knew, anyway; it was just as likely he roamed the earth, bedding young nymphs everywhere he went, his marriage a sham. But something told me that wasn't how it worked.

He texted three times that day. Only three. The first two, I recognized as probes to figure out whether I was serious. I didn't bother responding, but he got the message because the third asked me how I liked my coffee. I was on the beach at the time, feeling the stare of one of the lifeguards, and I bit back a self-satisfied smile as I sent him my reply:

You pick.

Then, very deliberately, I silenced my notifications and leaned my head back into the golden summer sunlight. More daydreams. But now they had an edge of reality to them.

* * *

I'm not normally early for things, but again, this wasn't a normal thing. So I swung into the lower parking lot at Crescent Ridge Park at 8:48, swinging past three other cars under the buzzing lights as I passed the gazebo. And I had to keep myself from stomping on the brakes with a blossom of a grin on my face, for one of the other cars was a nice silver pickup with an extended cab. He'd backed into the space, as though for a quick getaway. "Well, I'll be damned," I marveled to myself, in near-disbelief that this had actually worked.

Well. This changed a few things.

The park was nearly deserted, which was why I'd picked this one: far from the beach, well outside town, summer night, lower lot. The upper lot was where my friends and I had gone to smoke in high school, but never the lower. Down here was a gazebo, a pavilion, a small playground, and a ring of trees and benches off in the shadows. It was the part of the park meant for kids and families, meaning daytime. I'd intended to show up before Alexander, park myself on one of those benches, and wave as he pulled up.

I'd had no idea whether he'd be able to see my wave, and now I was about to find out from the receiving end. If he knew my car. Otherwise, I could foresee an awkward chain of texts, all of the "where the fuck are you?" variety, and I didn't want that.

So I pulled in with a mind humming with indecision, but the happy and excited kind of indecision. I was still here, and he was too. So the rest would work itself out. I took a deep breath and scanned the night, knowing I'd be able to see the benches a lot better once I got out of the car and walked past the big buzzing lights. I winked at myself in the mirror, gathered up my excitement, and shot from the car like a Tom Brady pass.

I'd thought about what to wear, mindful that he'd only seen me in a work polo and a pair of shorts, or leggings that first time. Eventually I'd gone with yoga bottoms and a t-shirt small enough to show me off but not so tight that I looked like a whore. I'd debated about a bra: I have to wear them at work, but I'd usually rather not, and in the end I'd decided the shirt was tight enough to give the girls whatever support they'd need.

We were going to be sitting on a bench, anyway. Not like they'd be bobbing around. So I'd decided to match down below, too. It's not like I'd have been able to put on a whole lot under the yoga pants anyway.

I stepped up onto the curb and then paused where the little sidewalk met the park's lush summer grass, my eyes straining into the shadows until I heard a voice off to the right. "Over here, Sophia."

It's not quite accurate to say a chorus of angels opened up in my head at the sound of his voice. It was more like two choruses, plus an instrumental section. I felt my lips curve into that grin I'd gotten when he'd come to see me at work, then turned and called out into the dark. "Is that a strange man, trying to lure me into the night?"

A pause, then, "Strange? Hopefully not. But I guess the rest is accurate." So I was laughing as I took off in the direction of his voice, through the big block of shadow at the back of the bandshell and over the swishy grass. "Didn't know you'd be early," he went on, and if there was any trace of nervousness in his voice, I couldn't hear it.