The Next Hunt

That weekend, screams erupted beneath my second story perch, conveniently located in the back of the lake house facing the dock and the fire pit which was glowing the help of paper and lighter fluid.

Stupid teenage boys, don't even know how to make a proper fire.

I got up from the couch and went straight to the window that looked out over the backyard towards the dock. Jealousy flared as I looked to and from all of my competition scattered across the lawn, drinking out of Solo cups as they flirted and touched and got closer to the equally as horny girls.

A chuckle blew out of my mouth. Why was I jealous? I knew none of them had my skill, my experience, my knowledge of the female anatomy. They could try all night and not get the same results as me. But as soon as I reassured myself, I realized that wasn't where the jealousy was flaring.

Was I OK with being the only one that didn't get laid tonight?

A fist flew into the windowpane, knuckles searing soon after with sharp pain. I ran the hand through my hair to distract myself from the hurt, both physically and emotionally but it didn't help. My eyes caught on the side table and instantly, my ex-wife's number flashed in my head.

I could call her, muster up some emotional sob story that I would later deny, let it all charge out of me and plead for her to come over. God knows it's happened before. Too many mixers at the Girls' Night Out, picking her swaying body up in front of the bar, driving her home only to be asked to make sure she brushes her teeth, changes her underwear, and takes out all of the bobby pins.

We never got to the third task. As soon as the panties came off and I saw that sculpted landing strip below her beautiful birthing scar, it was game over. I kissed it with purpose, licked her until she tasted only of me, and fucked her until she begged me to stop.

Once, twice, five times. The night never seemed to end. But the morning after, when she woke up to the smell of my breakfast and the coffee pot gurgling, something always changed. She didn't want the commitment anymore. She just wanted the lay.

And that wasn't like the woman I used to know.

I gulped back the lump in my throat. No, Matt, not worth it. Not worth it at all.

I grabbed my glass of scotch and reclaimed my spot on the couch. I was just about to bring the glass to my lips when the phone rang. A chill plummeted down my veins as I read the caller ID. Her.

Were we on the same wavelength or was this coincidence? We'd always been able to finish each other's sentences, think of the same inside jokes before they became inside jokes. She'd felt me thinking of her, and decided to make the first move. That or my drunken thoughts were delving too far into fantasy yet again.

On the last ring, I picked up.

"Hello," I said, feeling the emotion creeping back up my throat.

"Matt?" Diane said. "What's going on? Why did it take you so long to pick up?"

"I ugh," I gulped. Pull it together, she would hear my desperation. It was like lighter fluid to her ego. My thoughts swirled back to the campfire, and spanking Sarah, her lips around my cock. I spoke fast so the thoughts would scatter. "I was just far away from the phone."

"Is everything OK?" Her voice was clipped.

"Yeah," I said, breathless now. I couldn't bear to speak. Her voice, I hadn't heard it in so long. I felt her defenses crumble on the other end of the line. "I just... I was in the bathroom but I didn't want to get graphic."

I imagined her gripping the phone with both hands, pushing my voice deeper into her ear.

"Everything's fine, Dee-Diane," I said, correcting myself. No nicknames, Matt. That's over now. "Christy's downstairs with her friends. It looks like they made a fire in the pit and are all sitting around talking."

"Oh that's, that's great to hear," Diane said, her voice defying her as well. A soft whisper, as if she was hiding under blankets talking to me late into the night like we used to do. High school sweethearts, hiding from our parents. The creaks of a mattress emanated through the phone, sitting me up alert. Then, she finally asked the question I wanted her to. "How are you?"