“There you go with the astrology again.”

“Like you said – it’s fate.”

She sighs.

“If you feel uncomfortable at any moment,” I say, “you have my permission to kick me in the balls and run away. Just don’t steal any of my stuff, please.”

I wait for what feels like years until she answers again.

“Ok. But I don’t even know what you look like.”

“Believe me, you won’t be disappointed.”

I give her directions to my house, and we break the call. I toss the phone onto the table and lie there for a few moments, staring up at the ceiling. Her voice is still echoing in my mind, that colorful laugh, and the stuttering gasps. I’ve been called a superficial bastard many times in my life, but if those people could see how turned on I am right now by nothing but a disembodied voice and a snappy wit they’d retract their statements. Ok, maybe it’s still true, and maybe I’m still hoping she’ll be a knockout, but frankly, even if she isn’t, I’m ready to put in a prize-winning bedroom performance on her.

I get up and shake my limbs like a prize fighter getting ready for the fight of his life. My balls are aching from how fucking hard she got me, and it’s all I can do to save myself for when Miss Mysterious shows up.

“Shit,” I mutter to myself, as I take out a bottle of nice wine and some glasses, “what if she doesn’t even show up?”

I stamp the thought all the way into the back of my mind – like I do most things these days – and jog on up to the second floor to change.

I get dressed and go back downstairs. I put a little music on in the den, something slow, but edgy – none of that sugary shit. I like a little dirt in my music. Then I proceed to walk around the room, checking my watch as I pace like I’m scared of getting stood up in my own home.

I stop as soon as I hear a sound, not sure if it’s real, and too involved in my own imagination to hear it properly. Was that a car door slamming? I hear footsteps on my porch.

And there goes the fucking doorbell.

Continue reading Bootycall by JD Hawkins

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