I have to resist the urge to actually type: No, I’m hitting on you.
Truthfully, I’m shocked the thought even entered my head. Since the divorce, I’ve barely thought about women. Okay, not entirely true. I’m a man—I’ve jerked off a bunch, watched some porn. But I haven’t made any attempts to hook up with a real-life chick. I turn down women left and right when I’m at the bar with my teammates. I’m in a weird place. I feel like I’m too old for one-night stands, but too jaded for anything more serious. That leaves only one other option: celibacy.
Sniper87: Just pointing out how cute my new dog-walker is, that’s all.
HTE: I’ll be sure to pass that along (sarcasm).
Sniper87: She a hockey fan?
HTE: Why do you ask?
Sniper87: Just curious.
HTE: I think she might be. Are YOU a hockey fan?
I snort to myself.
Sniper87: I prefer chess. Hockey’s all right. A bit too violent for my gentle soul.
HTE: Uh-huh. I’m sure.
I narrow my eyes. Okay, I feel like she’s goading me now. Actually, she must be, because this woman must know exactly who I am. When I first started using Fetch, there were several different sets of initials popping up to fulfill my requests. But lately it’s always HTE, and her signature says “co-owner, manager.” Sure, I asked to remain anonymous, but I figured that only made me anonymous to the Fetchers. As the owner, HTE must have access to all the client profiles. Which means she is well aware that I’m Matt Eriksson, Toronto forward.
Sniper87: JK. Hockey’s the best. What are you doing up so late?
A long, long pause. I can almost hear the grudging note in her reply.
HTE: I stayed up to watch the Chicago game, and now I’m too keyed up to sleep.
A huge grin splits my face. Fuck, why am I having so much fun right now? And my exhaustion seems to have dissipated like a puff of smoke. Chatting with Hottie always lightens my mood.
Sniper87: Hope the loss didn’t devastate you too badly.
HTE: It did, actually. I’m inconsolable.
My fingers itch to reply: I’d be happy to come over and console you… I would, too. My libido has suddenly woken up and shaken itself off. My dick’s actually getting hard—and we’re not even talking about anything sexual.
Sniper87: Make sure you send the same dog-walker tomorrow morning at ten. There might be something for her on the kitchen counter.
HTE: What the heck does that mean?
Sniper87: Don’t worry about it.
Though…crap. Now I have to find a way to leave my little gift at the apartment when I’m still in Chicago. I search my brain until an idea forms. Katie Hewitt, I think in triumph. My teammate’s wife has a spare key to my new place, and she’d totally be able to make this happen for me. Katie is a superwoman.
HTE: What do you mean, there’ll be something on the kitchen counter??
Still grinning, I ignore the question and type three short words.
Sniper87: Good night, HTE.
HTE: Answer the question, Sniper!
HTE: We here at Fetch don’t like surprises.
HTE: Sniper? You there?
HTE: Sniper??
Three
Shoulder Fetish
Hailey
I toss and turn all night after that chat with Sniper. When my alarm goes off at six thirty the next morning, I groan loudly at the ceiling.
He called me cute. He said it more than once!
Maybe I’m the most pathetic girl in the world, but I read over that chat conversation about a hundred times before I shut off the light and tried to sleep.
I shouldn’t have flirted with him. But, hell, it was fun.
When I eventually haul my tired butt into the office, the morning creeps by. I meet with our programmer to discuss some new functionality for the mobile app, but I’m watching the clock the whole time.
I’m desperate to walk a dog. That’s what my life has come to. A nice dog. But still.
As ten o’clock approaches, I wrap up the meeting and shoo the programmer out of my office. I don’t want to be late to walk Rufus. And, damn it, there’s a flagged request waiting in the queue for me—a gig for Mr. Dick.
I text Jenny, who appears in my office a moment later. “What’s he done this time?” she asks eagerly “Didn’t open it yet, because I know you enjoy being in on it.”
“You’re the best kind of friend,” Jenny says, dancing around my desk to stand behind me. “Want to go out for drinks tomorrow night? I can’t do tonight because I have roller-derby practice.”
“Sure.” Jenny likes to drag me out to bars in the hopes that we’ll meet some decent men. It never works out the way she plans, but it’s more fun than sitting around in my apartment like a loser. “Pick a place with a TV, though? We’re playing Buffalo at home. And I think we can win this one. I’m looking forward to it.”
My friend groans. “Not a sports bar. I want glamour, not beer funk and peanut shells.”
“But plenty of men will be there,” I point out.
Her frown is contemplative. “I’ll meditate on it.”
“You do that.” I click on Mr. Dick’s request. It reads: MrEightInches requires: one silk Kimono.
“Oh God!” Jenny snorts. “This could be a good one.”
And Mr. Dick does not disappoint. He requires a kimono in men’s size medium. At least forty-eight inches long, he’s supplied. 100% silk. Color unimportant.
Naturally there’s a photo. He’s cropped off his face, which is a shame because Jenny and I have been curious about him for ages. But a man’s body is shown—naked except for a stretchy pair of bright blue briefs, barely covering his erection, which lays angled in the briefs, straining the fabric.
Jenny giggles, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.
In the shot, a tape measure dangles from his shoulder, hanging down his body. The tape passes his unit, ending at about his knee. I zoom in on the end to see that it’s fifty inches at that length.
“Do you think you can find a kimono?” I ask. “Use my computer if you want. There’s something I need to run out and do.” A glance at the clock tells me it’s almost time to walk Rufus.
“Wait. Zoom in! We can finally verify whether MrEightInches is telling the truth! The angle of the tape isn’t quite right, though. So we’ll have to do a little trigonometry to discern whether his hypotenuse is eight inches. We can use the Pythagorean theorem...”
“Gotta run,” I say, getting out of the chair. “I’ll text you in twenty, okay? If the kimono proves hard to find, we’ll brainstorm.”
Jenny slides into the desk chair I’ve vacated, but her eyes are following me as I grab my jacket and shove my arms inside. “You’re acting a little weird right now.”
“Just late. Bye!” I escape, leaving Jenny to wonder, and hopefully to buy a kimono for a rich guy with a long dong.
Is my business fun, or what?
Sniper’s apartment is just a couple blocks from my office, so it only takes me a few minutes at a slow jog. I wore very sensible shoes today for my romp with Rufus. The building is the kind with a shiny-buttoned doorman waiting to usher me inside.
“I’m here to walk Rufus in 303,” I tell him.