Sitting alone at a bar waiting for a man who should have arrived thirty minutes ago leads me to do one thing: pull out my cell phone to keep me company. Texting on an empty stomach with a couple of glasses of wine under my belt is probably not a good idea. Who knows what I might find myself agreeing to? Besides, I’ve recently placed a “Casual Encounter” advertisement on Craigslist that generated a bit of a stir (attractive women looking for “no strings attached” sex will do that), and I haven’t had a chance to scan all of the email responses yet.
Scrolling through the plethora of cock shots and stupid (“Wazzup?”) email salutations only make those Craigslist nuggets of gold that much more precious. Like yesterday. Wasn’t it only twenty four hours ago that I had the pleasure of a handsome stranger in my bed? Mmmmm, I relish being a slut.
The post I wrote a few nights ago includes a topless photo of me wearing a sexy red wig. It’s right around Halloween, and I flirtatiously asked my potential suitors to guess what my costume will be this year. This is after I’ve made sure that the only things they can see are a few tendrils of the wig along with my ample, perky breasts. I’ve never understood people who advertise on the Internet and expose their faces to complete strangers. I prefer to showcase my girls.
It pays to have a system for weeding out the riff raff when having so many men hoping you will choose them for a night or two of seduction. Before having my post flagged and removed (which is a common occurrence for women in Casual Encounters, I’m afraid), I receive over 85 responses. Chances are only two or three men out of the dozens make the final cut. It’s not great odds, I’m well aware, but I enjoy the attention, and you never know who may be out there. After all, that’s how I met Clay last February.
As I sit at the bar only somewhat aware that my date is now almost an hour late, my plan is to just pick and choose who I want to contact later. After all, I’m much too buzzed to start typing emails to horny strangers. The ones who clearly hold no promise get filed away into tidy little folders:
I smile to myself: Who do I think I am, anyway? The X-rated version of Goldilocks? Scanning these emails proves to be quite a diversion, keeping me occupied while slowing down my intake of wine. I’ve stopped worrying about my date—who is definitely MIA—and try to get the bartender’s attention: “I think I will go ahead and order after all. Apparently I’m on my own tonight.” I look back down at my phone, look at the email, and take a deep breath. I do everything I can to muster some semblance of calm. There he is. Clayton Stephens. That’s him.