by Roxy Harte
I hate Saturday mornings. Never one to sleep in, waking at six-thirty in the morning to have absolutely nothing to do seems ridiculous, but then that is only part of it. I hate Saturday mornings because I wake up by myself, and lonely, the sunrise a cruel reminder that I spent yet another Friday night alone with my vibrator.
Sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee, I flip through the Entertainment section of yesterday’s paper, trying to find something to fill my day. My bright, cheery tablecloth printed with sprays of red cherries mocks me. Single. The matching café curtains join the fun. Thirty-four. I glance benignly at the bright red toaster, sitting across from me on the counter top, daring it to say a word. Thankfully, it remains silent.
I turn the page to Saturday Happenings and find a list of all the things I don’t want to do today…Pretzel Festival in the neighboring small town of Hamburg, Kite-flying contest at the Metro Park, and a meeting of The Botanical Society at the Harding Mansion…I do however weigh each option with two seconds serious thought. The festival will be wall to wall giggling couples, the contest will be a chaotic frenzy of smiling families which is slightly worse than giggling couples because small children and the occasional barking dog will be involved, and the meeting of blue haired ladies to discuss the best separation techniques of hostas barely even registered a raised eyebrow until I realized that there would be: a.) no happy couples, b.) no children, and c.) I will be the youngest single woman there and if that doesn’t make me feel better, nothing will.
I am swallowing the last of my coffee, ready to face an exciting day uptown with the little old ladies of Belleville when my eyes land on a classified ad: 6’4”, blond hair, blue eyes, incredible physique. If you have dreamed of being whisked up the staircase like Scarlett O’Hara, then I’m the Rhett you’ve been looking for.
Snorting, I promptly choke myself on that last swallow but I’m hooked, thinking for a moment, is there really a guy out there who would still actually carry a girl up a staircase? Shaking my head, I realize I’m smiling. Crazy. I’m curious about this six foot four, blond-haired, blue-eyed, Rhett Butler wannabe. I’m not calling the advertised phone number but I’m curious, and yeah, starting to feel the teasing edge of arousal starting between my legs. Boy, I really need sex, real sex, not vibrator sex...
Curiousity and horniness leads me to the next ad…
SM seeks SF to spend quality time and fulfill fantasies with. If you’re looking for a spine-tingling, toe-curling rendezvous with no strings attached, I’m your man. Since I'm married and I don't care if you are married or not, secret meetings are required.
Okay, so far Rhett is winning by a landslide. I keep reading…
BDSM Couple seeks SF for light play, mutual friendship, and some housework.
I blink twice over the word housework and three times over the word couple, but the entire ad sends me to my laptop to google BDSM. Clicking the first search result my head tilts, realizing the B is for bondage, and D, I assume, for dominance, not because the bound, gagged, very naked girl on my screen told me but because the flashing button that reads CLICK HERE TO BE DOMINATED didn’t force me to be a brain surgeon to figure it out.
Fearing spy-ware that will leave my computer puking porn-ads if I stay on the site too long, I can’t turn my computer off fast enough. God, I hope my firewall is working.
Vowing to have my computer geek neighbor check it out later, I go back to the table to seek safer entertainment in the personals, hoping to find more Rhett’s and fewer couples wanting to trade spankings for maid services. I pity the one who answers that ad and wonder how many already answered Rhett's ad... blond, and blue eyes, and six feet four inches of man. Does height equate to length in other areas?
So this is the beginning of a short story that I had planned to join together with my cohort in crime...