Lila is posting her "Personal Ad" story and has turned it into an every Friday post, I agreed to do one too. Last Friday began "Personal Ads" this is a continuation from where it stopped...
Personal Ads by Roxy Harte
Pt 1
Pt 2 starts here.
I am still reading personal ads an hour later. One hundred and twenty-two ads to be exact, although only fifty-four were straight men not part of a couple in any way, shape, or form. I cringe over the twenty two married men sneaking around and shiver over the twelve couples seeking a playmate. Of the fifty-four straight men ads half are repulsive, leaving twenty seven maybes, not that I will ever dare date one of them…I couldn’t—that would definitely be dangerous. However, for fantasy fodder, yeah…I circle them.
When my phone rings, I see it as a much needed break from my obvious new addiction and answer on the second ring not realizing that it is my ex-husband until it is too late.
Eddie.
I sigh, covering the phone, and try to remember how to breathe as my heart tries to make a run for it through my sternum. My brain yells, hang up! My mouth demands, “What do you want?”
“A truce.”
“A truce?”
“I miss you baby. The last time I saw you, we agreed to remain friends. Friends talk to each other, share a laugh, hang out together.”
“Edward Bucchanan, I am not hanging out with you. It is all I can do to remain civil and not hang up on your ass.”
“Sweetie, I get it, you’re still mad about that whole lapse of judgment.”
“You fucked a strange woman in our bed! That is not a lapse in judgment…that was pure evil. My god, you could have at least gotten a hotel room! Go to hell, Eddie!”
I slam the phone back into the receiver and thank God for my vibrator. Clutching my chest, I let it hurt. I dredge up all the anger and pain and betrayal, embracing it because it makes me remember why I am never getting involved with another man again. I shoot the Personal Ads a hateful glance, telling myself that even Rhett is probably cheating on someone.
A quick glance at the clock reminds me that it’s not too late to join the blue-haired old ladies separating hosta. The phone rings again. I ignore it, knowing it is Eddie. Part of me wants to hear his voice, ask him if he’s okay…the other part of me wants to take a ball bat to his knee caps and a steak knife to his lying, cheating dick. Damn it, it was such a great dick too. Long, thick, heavy veined…oh my God, I am not thinking about his penis! Yes, yes I am. I miss Eddie’s penis. “Fuck you, Eddie, and your damned penis, too!”
The phone keeps ringing. I answer on the fifteenth ring, “What?!”
“I need to see you, baby. Have dinner with me? Just dinner. I want to have a conversation with you.”
“This is such a bad idea, Eddie. I’m really mad at you.”
“I know, baby. You should be mad at me. You should hate my stinking guts. I just really hope you’ll agree to meet me for dinner.”
* * * * *
I blame it as a moment of weakness. I blame it on the vision of his beautiful, perfect penis, dancing in my head…that and the fact that I hadn’t had really good sex since leaving Eddie. Our marriage wasn’t the best, but the one thing we did do well together was fuck. Maybe that’s why I agree to dinner…as a plan to get even with him for taking away the best fuck of my life.
I have a fool-proof plan, my only concern is which one of us is the fool. I am going to go out to dinner with him dressed to entice. I get giddy preparing for my evening, preparing to hit every single one of his hot spots and then some.
Knowing how much he used to love my perfume, Rapture by Victoria Secret, I bathe in it, literally…shower gel, lotion, perfume—it will drive him insane. I pull on a low cut, tight fitting knit top with just an edge of lace sticking above the neckline to both shadow and emphasize my girls, D-cup and nicely tanned. Eddie really likes my breasts. He is really going to like this top, just enough cleavage to make him crazy with the need to touch but I’m not stopping there. He’s also a leg and foot fetish kind of guy, so short skirt, bare legs, and four inch sandals should really get his motor running.
Hearing the door bell, I take a final glance in the mirror. Flash of cleavage, long tan legs, French Pedicure peeking out from the leather straps of my sandals. I blow myself a kiss, wishing me luck, and lift my face with glowing confidence. “Eddie Buchannan, you don’t have a chance against this.”
Personal Ads by Roxy Harte
Pt 1
Pt 2 starts here.
I am still reading personal ads an hour later. One hundred and twenty-two ads to be exact, although only fifty-four were straight men not part of a couple in any way, shape, or form. I cringe over the twenty two married men sneaking around and shiver over the twelve couples seeking a playmate. Of the fifty-four straight men ads half are repulsive, leaving twenty seven maybes, not that I will ever dare date one of them…I couldn’t—that would definitely be dangerous. However, for fantasy fodder, yeah…I circle them.
When my phone rings, I see it as a much needed break from my obvious new addiction and answer on the second ring not realizing that it is my ex-husband until it is too late.
Eddie.
I sigh, covering the phone, and try to remember how to breathe as my heart tries to make a run for it through my sternum. My brain yells, hang up! My mouth demands, “What do you want?”
“A truce.”
“A truce?”
“I miss you baby. The last time I saw you, we agreed to remain friends. Friends talk to each other, share a laugh, hang out together.”
“Edward Bucchanan, I am not hanging out with you. It is all I can do to remain civil and not hang up on your ass.”
“Sweetie, I get it, you’re still mad about that whole lapse of judgment.”
“You fucked a strange woman in our bed! That is not a lapse in judgment…that was pure evil. My god, you could have at least gotten a hotel room! Go to hell, Eddie!”
I slam the phone back into the receiver and thank God for my vibrator. Clutching my chest, I let it hurt. I dredge up all the anger and pain and betrayal, embracing it because it makes me remember why I am never getting involved with another man again. I shoot the Personal Ads a hateful glance, telling myself that even Rhett is probably cheating on someone.
A quick glance at the clock reminds me that it’s not too late to join the blue-haired old ladies separating hosta. The phone rings again. I ignore it, knowing it is Eddie. Part of me wants to hear his voice, ask him if he’s okay…the other part of me wants to take a ball bat to his knee caps and a steak knife to his lying, cheating dick. Damn it, it was such a great dick too. Long, thick, heavy veined…oh my God, I am not thinking about his penis! Yes, yes I am. I miss Eddie’s penis. “Fuck you, Eddie, and your damned penis, too!”
The phone keeps ringing. I answer on the fifteenth ring, “What?!”
“I need to see you, baby. Have dinner with me? Just dinner. I want to have a conversation with you.”
“This is such a bad idea, Eddie. I’m really mad at you.”
“I know, baby. You should be mad at me. You should hate my stinking guts. I just really hope you’ll agree to meet me for dinner.”
* * * * *
I blame it as a moment of weakness. I blame it on the vision of his beautiful, perfect penis, dancing in my head…that and the fact that I hadn’t had really good sex since leaving Eddie. Our marriage wasn’t the best, but the one thing we did do well together was fuck. Maybe that’s why I agree to dinner…as a plan to get even with him for taking away the best fuck of my life.
I have a fool-proof plan, my only concern is which one of us is the fool. I am going to go out to dinner with him dressed to entice. I get giddy preparing for my evening, preparing to hit every single one of his hot spots and then some.
Knowing how much he used to love my perfume, Rapture by Victoria Secret, I bathe in it, literally…shower gel, lotion, perfume—it will drive him insane. I pull on a low cut, tight fitting knit top with just an edge of lace sticking above the neckline to both shadow and emphasize my girls, D-cup and nicely tanned. Eddie really likes my breasts. He is really going to like this top, just enough cleavage to make him crazy with the need to touch but I’m not stopping there. He’s also a leg and foot fetish kind of guy, so short skirt, bare legs, and four inch sandals should really get his motor running.
Hearing the door bell, I take a final glance in the mirror. Flash of cleavage, long tan legs, French Pedicure peeking out from the leather straps of my sandals. I blow myself a kiss, wishing me luck, and lift my face with glowing confidence. “Eddie Buchannan, you don’t have a chance against this.”
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