A Messy Start

*Adult content advised*

Mikaela slips off her skirt, and there’s an understandable hitch in my breath as she exposes her long, smooth legs. I lift my eyes slowly, taking in her beauty as best as a mere mortal like me can. My eyes catch on her naked breasts. My god, she’s beautiful. I can’t believe I’m standing shirtless in front of an almost naked Mikaela, in her apartment. She’s left in nothing but her pink laced underwear that I want to rip off with my teeth, if only I dared to move. I’m so aroused, I’m like a bottle rocket of sexual energy capped off, waiting to erupt. I don’t know how we got here. I honestly can’t remember anything that’s happened in my life before this moment, and I don’t care.

As my vision reaches her cerulean eyes, I’m ready to pop my cap and launch myself at the mercy of her divinity, but she stops me with a bite of her lower lip. The tantalising pink flesh of her lips draws my attention to the movement of her hands. They glide slowly over her hips, her thumbs hooking under the lace, dragging the fabric down as she bends over, facing me. I can’t believe this is happening. Before I can even process the sheer sexiness of what’s just happened, she’s on her knees in front of me, unzipping me. I’m barely keeping it together. I’m already bursting out of my jeans, the denim struggling to contain the volume of my excitement. I can’t think clearly, the thickness of my want is clouding my perception of time, because before I know it, she’s freeing me from the fabric, and I’m in her mouth before I can mentally prepare for it. My hands are balled tight in a fist, fighting for my life. Trying to keep the cap on the bottle for as long as possible so not to blow the moment.

I’m surprised by how eager she is to consume me. I would have expected her to be more reserved, more intimate and sensual, but she’s all over me and I love it. She’s usually the quiet girl, but she’s showing me the wild side that I always knew she had. There is nothing holding her back. “I want you,” she says, and pushes me back on the sofa.

This is crazy, I don’t have time to finish my thought because she’s already on me, riding me. My bottle rocket is ready to combust. I’m a solid launchpad preparing for liftoff. I don’t think I can hold on much longer. She’s going to send me into orbit. I dig my hands into her ass, and she moans, spurring me to hold on a few seconds longer so we can fly together. She writhes back and forth, her head falling back as she pushes out her breasts. “I’m close,” she says. Thank God, because… “I…I’m gonna… Oh, I’m gonna…” My thrusters ignite, and my legs go stiff. My toes stretch skyward and I— “Arghhhuuughhhhhooooooo!”

I wake up. “What the…? Oh fuuuuuuuck.” I collapsed back into the disappointing realisation that I’ve just had a wet dream. I’m a thirty-year-old man who just splurted into his pants like a pubescent teenager. That’s embarrassing. I glance around the familiarity of my bland rented room for confirmation. I am indeed in my bedroom, in the same shared house I moved into six months ago. I’m definitely not in Mikaela’s apartment like I thought I was. But it felt so real.

I should have known I was dreaming; there’s no way that I could ever be that lucky. I’ve never even seen her building. Ugh, I stretch out my arm, trying not to spread my sticky embarrassment as I reach for my phone on the nightstand. I flip it over so I can see the digital display on the screen. Shit. I overslept. I toss the covers to the side and swing my legs over, spreading them wide to assess the size of my wet patch. Oh, man, that is a lot. Is that normal? Clearly, my body is trying to tell me something. I shake my head, slip out of my underwear and toss them in the wash basket for tomorrow’s problem.

I hop in the shower, and even the cold water can’t deter my thoughts from flashbacks. Maybe it’s my subconscious defence to the cold, heating up my body with memories of our almost kiss and our very naked dream encounter. I look down and wonder how that’s possible after what’s just happened, but I’m aroused again. I turned the water colder, but I’m looking like an Icebreaker in the Arctic. Hot sounds of Mikaela moaning my name prompt a further turn of the tap, and that’s when I snap out of it. I should have known it was fantasy when she called me “Davy.” I’m so embarrassed by the blandness of my name that I can’t even bring myself to imagine my fantasy version of Mikaela calling me, David, in the heat of passion. David is just the most unsexy name in the bedroom. It doesn’t belong between the sheets. Maybe someone like David Beckham can pull it off, but not me. I bet even Posh Spice is moaning, “Oh Golden Balls, yes, give it to me,” instead of “Yes, Dave. Yes!” It’s such a mood killer. Why couldn’t I be named Alejandro or something more suave? They never even gave me a chance. To be fair, I’d probably unsexify that name, too. It’s not that I don’t believe someone could find me sexy. I’m actually not a bad-looking dude, but it’s just been so long since I have felt sexy. I mean, do men even feel sexy? I’ve no idea anymore. I know you can feel confident, but sexy? How does a man even do sexy when he isn’t having any sexy time? I must give off something akin to awkward for most women, but cute and endearing to the elusive few.

Eventually, I make my way downstairs and creep past my housemate in the kitchen, trying not to get caught in a conversation, because I have the sinking feeling that I might have been moaning Mikaela’s name out loud last night. What makes it worse is that I was also impersonating Mikaela’s moans in my dream, and there’s an alarming chance that I could have been calling out my own name! I share a wall with Clara, and it’s thin enough for her to have heard me. That’s a humbling thought. I turn away from her as my whole body curdles at the thought. How would I even begin to explain it? We still don’t know each other that well, and she’s kind of cute, which makes it worse. I say hello, and she says it back without making eye contact like she’s also trying to avoid an awkward encounter. She is wearing her nightshirt and a pair of sleeping shorts like she’d forgotten what time I leave in the mornings, so perhaps it’s that. Either way, I grab a breakfast snack bar to go and hurtle out the door to save us both from any more awkwardness.

I make it to the underground and board a busy carriage. I shuffle my way inside to find a spot, standing between the seated passengers. I ready myself to assume the usual position, head straight ahead to stare at and read every detail of the posters advertising storage facilities or vitamin supplements like they’re the most fascinating thing ever. Or eyes to the floor to avoid any accidental eye contact. Normies like me hate interacting with strangers, especially in the mornings, but I’m caught by an unusual snare. I’m distracted by real-life people. Women people. There are more women on this tube than I’m used to, and they are all wearing the most beautiful, feminine dresses. So much vibrant colour and florals brightening up the usually drab blacks and greys of the commuter train. I’m not used to this. It’s much easier to keep my eyes from straying when there’s nothing to catch my attention, but this morning has my eyes buzzing like bees in spring. The issue is, I’m super self-conscious of the fact that I’ve just looked at the blonde girl, facing me with her back to the door that separates the carriages, because the window is open and her hair is blowing wildly. She looks like a free soul that belongs somewhere with rolling hills, frolicking in the wilds of nature, not here, one hundred feet underground in the dusty, hot tunnels of London. If it wasn’t for the wind, she’d probably think I was some sort of creep. I have to fight to pull my eyes away from how delightfully effervescent she looks, like the kind of joy my life is missing.

I love girls. It’s a silly and obvious statement, but I do. I’ve always enjoyed their company. There’s just something uplifting about making a girl smile or laugh that fills my lungs with helium. I’m still new to London and I don’t have many friends yet, especially not girls. My relationship with Mikaela is unique, and yet I don’t dare risk it. If one of these beautiful women on the tube said hello to me, I’d probably have a heart attack. I’d definitely have an internal panic attack. It doesn’t even have to be on the tube. The other day, while at a café, I was very shyly asking for a lemon tart at the till, and the girl behind me said, “Ooh, they look good.” When I saw how pretty she was, I swallowed my words and managed only a sound that could be best described as a sound effect on a cartoon show. The girl at the counter saved me, telling her how good it was, and I instantly faded into the background of their budding friendship. I paid and made my humble exit without them noticing, only to walk away from where I had intended to sit in the café. I kept walking out the door and down the street for a whole ten minutes until I found myself in the park. I then sat on a bench and thought about how awkward I was, instead of enjoying my treat in a public space like I’d intended.

Whenever a girl speaks to me unexpectedly, I discombobulate. I lose the ability to speak or act like an adult human being. Talking to strangers gives me anxiety, and it frustrates me because so few people get to know the real me. David, Dave, Davy, Big D, The D-Man—I don’t care what they call me; I just want to make a connection. The tube stops, and I follow the flow of bodies out of the carriage doors to the platform and find myself directly behind the yellow-dress girl on the escalator. I picture the two of us strolling through a farmer’s market on a Sunday morning, her arm locked through mine, her hair still blowing in the light breeze. A laugh on her lips that makes my heart sing. I’m so caught up in the fantasy that I don’t see the top of the escalator. The yellow-dress girl steps off, but I stumble and catch my feet, almost faceplanting at her heels. She makes a little squeal as she turns to see what’s happening, and I do my best to catch myself, only scuffing my knees before regaining my height. I’m too embarrassed to look at her, but I feel her eyes pointing as if she’s going to say something, and then a mush of bodies carries me away from her. My face is so hot I don’t dare look back at her or make eye contact with any of the unfazed commuters. Instead, I exit the station while considering the stark reminder of just how tragic my love life is. I can’t even enjoy a harmless fantasy without faceplanting into reality. I roll my eyes at the thought and have a sudden panic, remembering my messy start to the morning. I glance down and find temporary relief in the dryness of my crotch. I’m not sure I’m ready to see Mikaela today. The first time she looks at me, my whole body is going to have memory shivers. A phantom orgasm.

The walk along the busy road toward my office building is littered with tripping hazards. There are so many women out today; I swear the female population of London has tripled overnight. In the winter months, you hardly see so many. It’s like they are all in hibernation or something. My jealous heart likes to think that they couple up with their basic situationship to avoid being alone during the festive season, because who can enjoy Christmas and New Year as an adult unless you have a partner? Watching my brother and sister swap presents with their spouses is soul-crushing. If it wasn’t for the food, I’d boycott the whole event. Except, I do also love a good Christmas movie, but that’s because I’m a hopeless romantic. If anyone ever asks who watches those Hallmark movies, it’s me. I do. I keep the company going. I’m immediately distracted by a woman in a sundress and almost walk face-first into a lamppost. She gives me the side-eye, like there is something wrong with me. I have the sudden urge to tell her, “It’s not me, it’s you.” Women are dangerous. I might not survive the summer after all.

Somehow, I make it to the office in one piece, but I’m sweating. Summer is heating up, and the tall buildings and glass everywhere aren’t helping. I swear it’s hotter in London than in other places. Thankfully the office is deceptively cool, with the air conditioning in full swing. I can feel the sweat receding until I enter the floor. It’s just like the other day, the girls are dressed for summer, and I’m about as prepared for this much skin as a Victorian time traveller. Any man who dared travel this far in time would have died from spontaneous combustion. A wet dream would be the least of their concerns. Thankfully, starting the day with a big splurt seems to have cooled my jets a little. I might actually be able to ignore the fact that I share an office with so many attractive single women and get some work done. That’s when my sixth sense kicks in and I glance over my shoulder to catch sight of Mikaela in the central meeting room. I immediately curse the designer of the all-glass room. She’s standing at the front, presenting. She’s wearing a skirt, just like the one she wore in my dreams. I gulp, her legs… I can see her legs. Suddenly, I’m feeling hot under the collar, and I’m having to tug at the fabric of my jeans to make room for my thoughts. I think she senses it because she glances in my direction and throws me an inviting smile that almost has me repeating. I turn around and head straight for the bathroom. I splash some water on my face. Ooph, this is going to be a problem. Someone needs to take me out back and shoot me. I shake my head and try to pull myself together. I need to do something about this sexual frustration, or I’m totally fucked. I can’t have “David Stevens threw himself from a fourth-floor window because he couldn’t take the hotness of his boss” as my obituary. Mostly because I don’t think it’s high enough to kill me.

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