My Favorite One Night Stand
People always ask me why I moved to Australia. “For a man,” I smile, flashing the sapphire on my wedding finger. What I don’t say is that my husband wasn’t the first man I followed 10,000 miles across the world because my pussy couldn’t contain herself.
He had a generic name. The kind of name you google with no hope of finding the person you’re looking for because there are about a million other men who share it, first and last. I know because I looked him up after he wrote his name in the notes app of my phone at the end of our one night stand.
I never planned to sleep with him. In fact, I’d sworn off sex with strangers during my trip to Mexico, given the fact that two out of three of my regular fuck buddies were staying at the same beachside resort. I could laze in the sun with my girlfriends all day, sipping tequila sunrises until we felt gooey inside, spend hours bobbing in the calm salty waves, and call upon one of my suitors each night, depending on what my pussy craved – one’s slow worship of my body from head to toe, or the other’s fast, freaky fucking that often left me feeling like I’d just run a marathon.
So when I stood at the bar one night – clad in my tight black mini skirt, denim vest, and bare feet, the humidity causing my long sun-bleached hair to stick to the back of my neck, waiting for the bartender to pour my vodka lime soda – and saw him staring at me, my immediate reaction was to roll my eyes. He held my gaze from across the bar as he whispered to his friend, his lips curving up in one corner, and I quickly looked away, taking my drink from the bartender.
I wasn’t in the mood to make small talk with a stranger, to have him spout the same cliched pickup lines I’d heard all week. I wasn’t in the mood for a tipsy, sweaty groping that was the highlight of his night and totally gave me the ick. I wasn’t in the mood for mediocre sex with a man who didn’t yet know my body.
He and his friend weaved their way through the crowd that buzzed around us, moving towards me. When he wedged himself into the space at the bar next to me, I turned away from him, sipping my too-weak vodka lime soda through its tiny paper straw that seemed to disintegrate with each swallow, scanning the crowd for my friends to rescue me.
And yet, when I heard him whisper-shout to his friend in a subtle Aussie drawl, “She looks exactly like Maddie…” my curiosity twitched its ears awake.
“Who do I look like?” I turned and asked, hand on my hip. And to my surprise, his cheeks stained pink. He leaned in, brushing his fingers through his sandy blonde crew cut, his forearms flexing, and told me I was the doppelganger of the only girl who’d ever broken his heart.
“You’re gonna laugh, but you look exactly like my ex,” he confessed. “I thought I was going to marry her… but she left me when she fell in love with a woman.” He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
I raised my eyebrow at him, surprised by his confession. “And now you’re hitting on her lookalike in a sweaty beach bar in Mexico?”
He shrugged with a sheepish smile that gave me a glimpse of his perfect teeth. “Stranger things have happened.”
The rest of the night blurred in shades of lime and vodka and heat. Each time he leaned in to whisper in my ear, his breath made my spine tingle, his accent wrapped around every word like honey, and his laugh cracked through me, sending heat between my legs.
“Where are you from?” I asked as we wandered away from the bar to the outskirts of the crowd, his tanned arm grazing mine, making my hairs raise, despite the heat.
“Brisbane,” he said, expecting me not to know where it was.
“Is that the part with all the dangerous animals or just the ridiculously hot accents?” I joked.
He laughed. “Bit of both, honestly.”
We continued talking and couldn’t stop, falling into rapid-fire questions.
Books or movies? Books, always.
Top travel destination? Italy, 100%.
Go-to karaoke song? Backstreet Boys – I Want It That Way.
Plans after Mexico? Travel – he was backpacking across the country and up through the western states of the US before heading home, and I was mapping out my plans to see the world as soon as I graduated from college in a couple months.
Nearly every one of our answers matched or complemented the other. I narrowed my eyes at him and said, “Okay, seriously. Are you just agreeing with me to get laid?”
He grinned. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
We moved through conversation like we already knew each other. Like the world had just forgotten to introduce us until now.
“You should meet me in Vegas,” he suggested, the corner of his lip curving up in amusement. “We could hit a chapel. I’ve heard the line’s shorter if you’re drunk.”
I laughed and nudged his elbow with mine. “You don’t even know my last name.”
“We’ve got time,” he shrugged.
He dropped to one knee, reached for my left hand hanging at my side, held it tightly in both of his, and looked up at me. “Marry me?” he winked.
As his eyes darkened beneath his long lashes and that cheeky curve appeared at the corner of his lips, I imagined him looking up at me with his tongue worshipping the heat between my thighs, and my pussy fluttered.
A laugh bubbled up and out of me. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe, but admit it – you’re tempted.”
He stood and reached towards me – grinning, half-drunk – brushing my fallen bangs out of my eyes, tucking a strand of my sun-bleached hair behind my ear as I bit my lower lip. The air between us changed. Charged.
“I’d totally marry you,” I laughed, and honestly, I kind of meant it. Even if it was stupid. Even if it was vodka-induced. Even if the only reason was because I couldn’t shake the idea of those icy blue eyes looking up at me as he ate his heart out.
I raised up on my tip toes and his strong hands gripped the denim of my vest, pulling me in closer, our mouths barely touching before I felt a tug on my arm and my friend pulling me away, finally coming to my rescue when I no longer wanted it.
~~~
I didn’t see him the next day. I didn’t look for him either. The fleeting connection faded as I spent my final day on holiday laying in the sand in between dips in the turquoise ocean, letting the hot Mexican sun bake me, freckles scattering across my nose and cheeks, the salt water tightening my skin and crisping my hair over and over again.
That night, I showered and put on the only clean clothes I had left – faded jean shorts that hugged my ass perfectly, a white tank top that I could only pull off with sun-kissed skin after a week spent on the beach, and my favorite gold gladiator sandals laced up my tanned legs. I took the elevator down to the lobby of my hotel to meet my friends for our final night out, not yet ready to go home.
When I stepped out of the lobby into the balmy evening air…
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