Who doesn't like a handyman, especially one with an Irish accent?
I don't know what I was thinking. I really don't. I had told myself after the sex filled day with Dave, I needed to stop. I had to stop having sex with men just because I felt like it. I thought it was wrong of me to treat men like objects. The only thing is, they didn't seem to mind it. Go figure.
Jack is a handyman living within walking distance to my home. We have known each other for years. For a small fee and a few beers he would be my Mr. Fixit. I liked Jack's sense of humor and ease with life. Nothing seemed to bother him.
As he said to me, "Life is grand, what is there to complain about." His thick brogue matching his wide smile.
He reminded me of Gerard Butler with his manly unshaven appearance, but always with a hint of cologne I found very appealing and at times seductive.
It had been a long while since I had sex - with a woman. Too long. I was feeling overly horny without an outlet. Jack was convenient and it seemed his long glances and "I will have another beer," during our many post work day chats were signs he was interested in some kind of relationship.
One night, while I was out of town I receive a text from Jack, "Hey Liz, when will you be back in town?"
"Not sure," I replied, "Why?"
"We should get to together for a drink, it's been awhile."
It really hasn't been awhile, so I wasn't sure why he said that...
"Ok, sure. Have you had a few drinks already?" I decided to check if it was the alcohol talking.
"Stopped off at the local and had a few. Home now, feet up."
"Ahhh, hope you had a good time."
"Yes, but better if you were here."
And then came the surprise text.
"You really like pussy Liz?"
I didn't respond right away. I was a bit annoyed and a little tired of this question from men in general.
After about an hour, I responded.
"Yes."
"I do to!" He replied quickly.
I hate texting in these situations. What was he doing - playing with me?
"I assumed you did."
"Send me a pic?"
"Of what?"
"Your pussy."
Exasperated, I replied, "Clearly, you have been drinking."
"Are you sending one?"
Ok - yes, I am probably not right in the head. I shouldn't play these silly and reckless games. But there I was, lying in bed, bored and horny with an invitation to play. I found myself reaching down under my panties feeling my bush which needed major trimming. I parted my lips, my fingers feeling my wetness. I needed to get laid.
"I'm not camera ready," I texted.
"What does that mean?"
"It's a jungle down there."
"I love that!"
"Really?"
"I love a full bush."
I stared at my phone. Should I?
I pulled my panties off and kicked them with my foot. I have never been a fan of selfies. What angle is best? Flash on or off?
I spread my legs and parted my lips for a clit shot, holding my phone steady trying to hit the red button with a steady hand.
I looked at my pic - yikes! Pussy shots are ugly. So what do I do? I sent it to Jack.
No response. I guess he thought it was unattractive as well.
"I'm so hard Liz."
"From that awful pic?"
"That was lovely." As only an Irishman can say.
"Clearly, you need to get laid as much as I do if you think that was a good pic." Jesus, I was actually getting turned on with this interaction.
I waited for a response, staring at my iphone. After a few minutes he responds.
"See you soon?"
"Sure." I surmised Jack jacked off and was ready for nighty night.
A Few Weeks Later
My phone pings, "What are you up to?"
"Nothing much."
"I'm across the street at the local, come over."
I sat with that text. Don't over think it Liz, I told myself. But just in case I decide to take it to the level, I needed to do some grooming. You would think I was rescued from the wilderness with the pubic jungle making a run for it from between my legs.
Thank you Bliss shaver! A fully charged shave on high with a thin comb and 10 minutes later I felt fuck worthy again. You would think there was a sheep sheared after I was finished, or a German tourist.
I walked into our local bar, quickly finding Jack situated at the end of the bar, watching soccer on the TV above the bar.
"I wasn't sure if you would be sitting at the outside bar or not."
"Too cold out with the wind. What will you have to drink?"
"Just a Chardonnay. No, I change my mind, I will have a vodka martini with extra olives." I moved the stool closer to him and pulled myself up into the swivel Old Bavaria style bar stool.
That's my serious drink. I have come to think of it as my no turning back drink. When I drink a martini, I feel deliciously filthy without inhibitions.
Colleen the bartender brought over my martini, filled to the brim. I had to take a sip before I could lift it. I wish they would invest in decent olives. It should be a crime serving martinis with pathetic little olives but I persevered with my olive challenged cocktail. I'm a trooper.
Halfway through my martini I started thinking about what jack would be like in bed. He was talking to me but I wasn't listening. I could care less about soccer and I suspected that wasn't top of mind for him by the way he kept glancing at my cleavage.
I rested my sad olives, skewered on the red plastic sword on the side napkin while I swallowed the remainder of my drink.