♥ Excerpt ♥
2013 © Lauren Blakely
I start the Craiglist search with the Personals section and type “trophy husband” into the search bar. I tap open the first entry.
“Extreme satisfacktion for the rite woman. Hansome male seek to belong to the woman who need to have nothing but the finest at her cummand. If your fantasy is to be in the company of a beeuutiful, intelligent and discrete, sexy man than you is getting warmer.”
Our public education system is much worse than I thought. After all, is it really that much to ask for one’s potential next mate to be able to make a noun and verb agree? The answer, evidently, is yes. I try the next entry.
“Let me be your boy toy. I will obey your every order and serve your every wish.”
At least his grammar is correct. And his writing has a nice rhythm to it, so I click through to his photo.
I am just going to pretend I didn’t see that.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I remind myself that I am not a prude. I am not a priss. I am not weirded out by sex, or sexy people, or public displays of affection. But I am pretty sure – and I wouldn’t have known this before because I have never seen one – that I am not into penis piercings.
So I move on to the next entry, trying my best to un-see what I just saw.
“I have a job, my own place in the city and am clean and well-kept,” the next one writes.
What, like a lawn?
I hit the home button on the browser, returning to the safe haven of Google, then lay my cheek on the edge of my desk, wondering yet again if I am out of my mind? Because clearly I am not cut out for a Craigslist match. As much as I’d love to end my streak, I also wouldn’t mind a bit more than a fling. I’m almost embarrassed to admit this because I’m supposed to be an independent woman – hear me roar – but I would really like to have a boyfriend.
The word sounds so high school, but I don’t care. I don’t want to be alone any longer. I want to be in love and carefree and have someone to talk to, laugh with, make fun of other crazy people in San Francisco with. Someone who would never even think of leaving me with two mixers and a vintage white dress.
I can picture it perfectly – a night out on the town, then we’d come home, turn on some torch music, he’d take me in his arms for a slow dance. Touch my hair in a way that sends sparks through me. Then a hand on the back of my neck, bringing me closer, lips meshing with mine. He’d slide his hand down to the small of my back, while laying a smoldering path of kisses down to the hollow of my throat.
We’d slow dance and sway, the kind of dance that’s not for anyone else to see. The kind that’s a delicious tease of foreplay, where every subtle move, every brush of the fingers, and dusting of the lips on shoulders, is the promise of what’s to come. That dress straps will be pushed down, that zippers will come undone. Clothes will fall in the floor in a heap, tugged off quickly, as the dance moves to the couch and shifts into something horizontal. Slow and tender and tantalizing, each move, each touch turning me higher, sending me further into a dizzying state of longing.
My breath catches at the thought. Not only the prospect of kisses that ignite goosebumps all over me, but the possibility of someone who wants only me. Who only has eyes for me. Who wants to look at me, longing and lust in his perfect green eyes, and then throw me down on my couch, strip me naked, and bury his face between my legs.
Okay, so evidently, I both want a boyfriend and the kind of oral plundering that makes you quiver, and roll your eyes in the back of your head, and grab the guy’s soft, shaggy hair, and shout his name over and over into oblivion.
Then curl up in his arms, safe and warm, and know he’ll be there the next day and the next and even then some
Is that so much to ask for?
Love, and a talented mouth?