Man Seeking Woman

A rainbow-colored-orb spun on screen... Sam reached down into his sweaty boxers and scratched his balls. Somewhere a computer was finding the nearest women on Fuckr...someone just as horny and indiscriminate as Sam himself. He had no idea how long it would take to match him up...or how long it would take her to get here...and as the seconds stretched out he looked around the master bedroom of his two-bedroom house.

It was, he had to admit, a basic bachelor pad. Not a swanky one, either. Queen-sized bed, a bureau, two bookcases. The furniture was from estate sales and garage sale; if the light was dim it would pass for "vintage"—more solid than the particleboard crap and aluminum tube stuff sold by IKEA and Walmart, but nothing that spoke of either wealth or taste. Most of it was older than Sam himself, except for the flatscreen bolted to the wall that had been streaming porn until a moment ago.

Half-heartedly, Sam peeled himself off the sticky sheets. He stripped the bed bare, policed up the dirty clothes, and shoved them all in the laundry room. Door closed, the mess would be out of sight. A quick tour of the house policed up all the usual bachelor debris: odd beer bottles, pizza boxes and Amazon packaging, flyers for escort services he never dared use...and was half-way through clearing out the dishes in the sink when the smartphone buzzed.

Sam leaped back into the bedroom. The globe had stopped spinning, flashed pink...and words appeared on the screen.

MATCH MADE.
35 MINUTES.

Time enough for a quick shower and to throw some sheets on the bed. He thought. Not necessarily in that order.

Once the bed was made, Sam sprinted into the hot water. He took stock of himself as he scrubbed his lanky form. 26 years old, what was supposed to be the prime of his life, and the body that looked back at him was shorter and softer than the toned, musclebound jocks on the packaging of his boxer briefs. But his stomach was still relatively flat and there was hair on his chest, visible muscles on his shoulders and biceps. His palm rasped over a five o'clock shadow and he ran the safety razor over it quickly, then massaged shampoo into the short fuzz of his hair, which he kept buzzed close to his head.

Down between his legs, a soapy hand lathered his cock and balls. Six inches when hard, or at least it had been when he had last taken a ruler to it. Sam ran his soapy hand down over his hairy taint and debated a quick enema...not because his ass was dirty, as much as he wanted to make sure he wasn't interrupted by a call of nature when he was in the middle of pounding whatever chick came to his door.

"I don't care," Sam muttered to himself. "If she's in a wheelchair, I'll wheel her right to the goddamn bed. I don't care if she can't even feel it."

Sam had just toweled off and thrown a bathrobe on when the doorbell rang...and he practically sprinted and pulled open the door to see who he was fucking tonight.