Best Laid Plans

That’s why I run this morning alongside my cousin. I meet up with Tom, who recently moved to the neighboring town with his new woman, Finley. Tom’s a brainiac and a roller-coaster designer, so I ask him to tell me about his new projects.

Listening to him talk about engineering feats of daring keeps me in the right zone.

The no-thinking-about-sex zone.

The conversation is solely on work, and it helps. After a few miles, he’s done. “I’ll catch you next time,” he says. “And I promise I’ll regale you with exciting details on how to make a ride go upside down.”

I give him a quick tip of the cap. “The regaling is on the calendar.”

I continue without him, because my mission requires extra.

Extra running.

Extra focus.

A lot of extra miles to get out of the sex-centric zone I’ve been living in. It’s a proven medical fact that men require at least a half dozen miles of hard running or several hours on the StairMaster before the constant thought of sex vacates the brain for even a few minutes.

Over the river and through the woods I go, putting distance between the swirl of dirty thoughts and my stark reality. I pass seven miles, then hit eight, adding a long workout at the gym with weights. As I lower the barbell on my final set, I’ve slipped into a blissful, blank mind-set.

There’s one more thing I need to seal the deal and live in this state a little longer.

Seeing my parents.

There is no bigger sex buzzkill than a visit with Mom and Dad, so I pop by for a little breakfast. My mom whips up some spectacular scrambled eggs with provolone cheese and mushrooms, and my father’s coffee ought to be worshipped by baristas the world over.

As I chew, Mom chats about how my sister, Kim, is doing with her third pregnancy, how big her belly is, and how awful she’s feeling trying to move.

Yup.

All the details of Kim waddling around are adding up to a blank sex slate upstairs, and I couldn’t be happier.

By the time I return home, tired from the run, stuffed from breakfast, and filled with images of my basketball-belly sister, I can’t escape the no-sex zone.

This is not an easy state for a man to achieve. We can only successfully reach this sexual tabula rasa, say, 1 percent of the day.

Wait. That’s far too generous.

More like 0.2 percent.

But when you’re there, you feel like you can master string theory and write a symphony.

I hum a few notes from Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” since that’s about the only classical music I know, and damn, that shit is good. Beethoven could write some badass melodies.

Since I’m all about expanding my mind for the precious few minutes that it’s uncluttered by sex thoughts, I decide I ought to try to learn quantum physics. I down a huge glass of water, grab my phone, and find a podcast on the topic. I sync my phone to my speaker and head into the bathroom, strip out of my clothes, and turn on the hot water.

I close the shower door, stepping under the stream, zoning in on the podcaster as he talks of atoms and electrons. I run the soap over my body, letting my brain be a sponge soaking up all this new information.

“. . . added wave crests result in brighter light,” the voice says, and my mind hiccups on that word—crest.

It reminds me of something else. Something a woman’s pleasure might do.

Stop.

Stay focused.

I square my shoulders and train my ears on the podcast host as I run shampoo through my hair.

“. . . objects exist in a haze of probability.”

Haze.

Like how Arden would look in a sex-drenched—

No. Don’t go there.

As he drones on about the size and speed of moving objects, I’m not sure I can hold onto this rarefied state. I’m slipping, falling, flailing back to the 99 percent land.

All these words make me think of her.

Of toys.

Of shopping.

Of orgasms cresting. Of the hazy look in her eyes. And her list. Dear God, her fucking list. All the things on that list I don’t want to mime.

I want to do.

As I run the soap over my body, my hand strays down my stomach, lower still, and I take my dick in my palm.

I give in to the material world of pleasure and sex, back where I, evidently, belong.

Gripping my shaft, I run through Arden’s wish list, item by item, as if I’m considering every dish at a rich and scrumptious buffet. My fist shuttles up and down my cock, the soap slicking its path.

She wants me to ring the doorbell so she can answer it in an apron and nothing else.

I suck in a harsh breath imagining where that moment might lead. Undoing the strap, exposing her tits, letting the fabric fall to the floor.

A shudder slams into my body, and my cock hardens even more, doing a most excellent impression of an iron spike. My fist grips it tighter, racing up and down my length.

My mind becomes a flip book of images. Her practicing a striptease. Pushing me down on the couch, grinding against me, rubbing what I bet is a fantastic ass into my lap.

My balls tighten as I picture how good that ass would feel.

Then I switch the scene to her bedroom. She’s stripped to nothing but her own raw desire. Lights dimmed. Legs spread. Fingers flying furiously.

What is she picturing?

Pleasure rattles through me, rolls down my spine as I try to imagine what she’s getting off to.

I want it to be me.

I want her wild with pleasure, riding the edge.

I want to discover her like that, put her on all fours, slide into her and send her soaring.

I want to make her come so fucking hard. Just like she’s doing to me right now. My orgasm barrels through me, rushing under my skin until I shoot.

I breathe out roughly, cursing.

It’s not the first time I’ve pictured her, but it’s the first time I’ve let myself finish to her.

As I rinse off, I learn that if an object is heated sufficiently, it starts to emit light at the red end of the spectrum as it becomes red-hot.

Red-hot. Sounds about right.

Maybe I did learn something after all.

I turn off the podcast and head to meet Arden.





19





Arden