I’m a basic bitch. I drink pumpkin spice lattes from Peet’s coffee in autumn. I wear Lululemon to the gym. You’ll find seasonally appropriate decorative hand towels and scented candles from TJ Maxx in the bathrooms of my house. Basically, I live my life enjoying the widely-derided, mass-produced luxuries marketed to single women of a certain age.

When I was sixteen, I lied to the DMV and told them I was five-foot-three. As we all know, an inch can make a big difference. I’m five-two in stacked heels and have a full head of gray, undyed hair. I don’t botox (yet), but I do take care of my skin, and my gym routine keeps me slim. I don’t want you to think it’s a “perfect” body. I have, as a drunk Caltech student yelled out to me once while I was walking home, “nice tits to ass ratio,” but instead of sculpted abs I have a pooch belly. I’m in my mid-forties, and I’m happy with my body as it is.

You, Jason Ahn, you’re an inch short of six feet, about 145 pounds, and, if my trig is correct, a dick about eleven inches. You are perfection incarnate. We are early risers, and for the past two years, we’ve both found ourselves pedaling away at the five o’clock HIIT class at the Green Street gym. We don’t speak much. Sometimes you help me adjust my bike and sometimes you lean over and whisper, “Hey, you got your shirt on backwards again.”

I don’t know if you think of me at all, but at night, I masturbate myself to sleep thinking of you. Most nights, I imagine you are lying in my bed, cock erect. I sit next to you. I stare at your beautiful face looking up at me, and then I kiss your cheekbones and slowly work my way down to your lips, your Adam's apple, and then the hollow of your collarbone. I swing my legs over you and move my hips up and down. I grind my pussy against your cock, but don’t let you enter. Your cock quivers as I tease you. You thrust your hips towards me, and I bear down. Both of us groan as my wetness envelopes your cock. And then, we ride each other until we come.

At least once a week I dream of you and wake wet and horny. This week, I dreamt we were at the Hollywood Bowl and Pink Martini was on stage. We were both dancing. You knew how to dance well, and your body moved in perfect rhythm to the music. As the song ended, your hands slid across my waist and then you grabbed my arm and twirled me around. You pulled me towards you, and your arms wrapped around me. I could feel your heart beating as I pressed my face against your chest, enveloped in you. It was silly and it was bliss. It was musical foreplay. When the concert ended, we made love in the car before we drove home.

At times, I feel blue and list 100 grateful things in my life. Your gorgeous, sexy body is the first on my list. But now that we’ve talked, I’m adding your generosity, your sense of humor, your intelligence to the list.

I based my penis calculations on the picture we took at Griffith Park. Annalise, the lead fitness coach at our gym, organized a charity walk, and I signed up without even asking what the charity was because you always volunteer for these types of things. I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure Annalise was the one that made you my walking partner.

You’re fascinating. Ten minutes into the walkathon I knew you were single and over your ex. By mid-course, you had told me (at my request) a condensed version of your life story, your work at CalTech, and the house you just bought. By the walk’s end, I wanted you as much for your you-ness as for your sculpted, perfect abs.

In the picture, I’m standing to your right, looking straight at the camera, overjoyed. You are looking to the side, and the angle shows off the sculptural nature of your face—your full pouty lips, your thick arched eyebrows, the perfect V-shape of your face is on clear display.

That day at Griffith Park, I finally got it together and invited you to dinner at my house. I am sure that we both understood that tonight’s invitation was cenam et bonom cex and not just cena. (The week after you came back from vacation, I overheard you discussing the graffiti at Pompeii and laughing at how graphic some of the murals were. I’m assuming you know Latin, but in case you don’t, it’s dinner and good sex, and not just dinner. )

I have a 40/10 schedule, and so I’ve invited you to my home on my off day. Climate change has come to California and it has been raining all week. I open the door so you can come in rather than having you wait outside and get soaked. Your jeans are fitted, and you are slightly tented. You’re wearing a black sweater. I don’t bother to look at the shoes, because you step in and hug me and are about to give me the wine bottle you are holding when I ask, “Sex or dinner first?”

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