sites to me simply after I’d spent an afternoon with Charles?
You’re all wasting your money, I think to myself, swiping past the image of a hot man advertising E-Volve, the dating company everyone seems to know about these days. I swipe back to the image, considering the model used in the ad. He is pretty hot. So pretty and so hot, in fact, that if I had a rub hub, I’d definitely add him to it.
A rub hub. A spank bank. A collection of images and clips of attractive men to thoroughly objectify during my ‘special alone time’. I snigger because if I had such a collection, I would sneakily label it on this iPad as my to-do list. Because it would be full of men I’d do.
Virtually, at least.
Because that’s what my sex life is these days; virtual. Or rather, non-existent. And though it’s that way by choice, I really don’t know how any single parent could make time for dating and sex between waking and feeding and playtime, fitting a love life around work and study, school drop-offs, pick-ups, homework, ballet, swimming, and piano lessons and . . . and . . . the never-ending list that goes on. And on. Most single parents don’t have the energy to brush their teeth at the end of the day, let alone prepare for a date.
I guess collating a collection of hot men for said rub hub would also be pointless because there’s only one direction my mind travels to when I’m getting busy. With myself. And that’s straight to Saint Odile and the man who gave me the hottest night of my existence. It’s his face I see when I close my eyes and slip my hand between my legs. It’s the weight of his body over mine that I imagine, and his husky tones I hear in my ear. No one else, real or imagined, does it for me.
It almost makes me wish I knew his name. That we’d conducted that night on a first-name basis, or that I’d snuck a look at his driving licence before sneaking out the door.
Or not. Because then my rub hub would be perving over his social media posts; analysing if the girl in his latest post is his friend or girlfriend.
After overthinking the matter for a few more minutes, it becomes clear I’m not in the mood to reminisce this evening. Instead, I soak, and I soak, topping up the hot water a few times until my skin is ridiculously prune-y and my scotch is but a drop in the bottom of the glass tumbler.
The combination of wine, whisky, and heat makes my limbs deliciously loose and my mind pleasantly carefree. I’m not drunk; not on one glass of wine and a nip of whisky. Okay, one large glass of wine and a decent pour of whisky, but I’m only a little squiffy. But it’s not like it’s a school night, and I am over eighteen. Plus, the front door is locked, and my child is sweetly sleeping. No one is about to stick a fork in the toaster, a teddy bear in the blender, or experience the sudden urge to become the next Picasso using a family-sized tub of bum cream as their medium. All is as it should be, so if mama wants to get a little . . . relaxed, this is totally a safe space.
Until I hear footsteps.
Not the pitter-patter of tiny bare feet but the heavy, manly kind of footsteps.
Footsteps with a direction and a purpose.
Footsteps coming this way.
Oh, shit!
The hairs on my arms stand pin straight despite the steam in room as I go from slightly sozzled to immediately panicked, sobering in more ways than one.
The water sloshes over the rim of the tub as I pull myself up quickly, my hands gripping the side of the tub. My heart misses a beat at the sound of a voice, and though I can’t make out the words, it’s definitely masculine. He also seems to be on the phone. Or talking to himself.
My fingers slide on the slippery surface of the tub as I try to climb out, and I end up half-submerged and spluttering. Then I realise this, whoever this is, is now in the master bedroom. My first fleeting thought is intruder, but he isn’t exactly being quiet as the door to the bedroom closes. Closes definitely.