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“Goddamn,” I groan as heat surges toward my dick, my eyes feasting on his body.

He’s everything I need right now, but also everything I shouldn’t want.

The temptation to tell him that I was home alone when he asked earlier was strong.

But it’s a bad idea.

I have no idea if I can trust him. And until I figure that out, there’s no way I can even consider meeting. The risk is too high.

Reaching down, I stroke myself through my boxers, wishing that things could be different and I could pick up guys whenever the need hit like the others do with women.

I’ve dabbled with bunnies over the years. Who would say no to a more-than-willing woman throwing themselves at you and offering up whatever you want? But as beautiful and as sexy as a woman can be, they’re not my ultimate choice.

I don’t ever see myself finding a woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t expect to ever meet a woman who will wholly fulfill me. I’ll always be craving more, something different.

I never feel that way when I’m with a man. When I’m with a guy, I feel…whole, I guess.

It took me a lot of years to figure that out. But now, at the ripe age of almost thirty, I’m pretty sure I’ve got myself worked out. All I’ve got to do now is pray that one day society won’t see my desires as something they disapprove of, or use them as a reason to mock me and tear me down.

Forcing those depressing thoughts aside, I focus on the present, on the hot man at the other end of these messages who’s willing to entertain me despite the fact that I’m on a hook-up site and clearly not interested in instantly hooking up.

I always feel bad, stringing guys along. But what else can I do?

Agree to meet the wrong guy and wake up the next morning to discover I’m hockey’s hottest story? To find that everyone looks at me and treats me differently just because my desires don’t align with theirs?

Fucking hell, there I go again.

One-way ticket to Pityville, please.

Opening my camera, I try to decide what to send back. He sent me a chest shot, so should I send the same back?

Or…

I angle the camera lower, so the image doesn’t cut off at the waistband like his did.

I’m playing with fire, I’m well aware of that. But right now, I really want to get fucking burned.

I adjust myself slightly, making the length of my already semi-hard cock more prominent, and without overthinking, I snap the photo and hit send.

RoughingTheModel: Enjoying your picture. Has anyone told you how hot you are today?

HotScore: Hot damn, now that’s what I’m talking about. You are looking fine.

HotScore: Is that a paintbrush in your pants, or are you just pleased to see me?

I can’t help but snort a laugh at his cheesy line.

RoughingTheModel: There are no paintbrushes in my bed tonight, muse…

HotScore: Muse?

RoughingTheModel: Yeah, looking at your photos inspires me.

HotScore: Do you want to draw me like one of your French girls?

I roll my eyes at his cheesiness.

RoughingTheModel: I’m not overly interested in French girls. You, on the other hand, I could draw all night long.