Swimsuit man

July 19, 2021

Dear Diary,

Today started rough—woke up groggy, still in that black swimsuit, crusty and damp from yesterday’s marathon. Bed a mess, laptop dead, my head spinning from all that porn. Felt a little guilty—blew off work, ignored my phone, let everything slide. Was peeling the swimsuit off, sticky and ****, when it buzzed. A text from Nick. Just: “Hey. What are you wearing?” Oh, Diary, my heart jumped. That guy from the pool, the Speedo guy, popping up right when I’m neck-deep in this… whatever this is. Perfect timing, or terrible—I can’t decide.

Stared at the screen, swimsuit half-down my hips, and grinned. Typed back, “Guess.” Waited, pulse racing. He hit me with, “Something tight, I bet.” Cocky bastard. I laughed, yanked the swimsuit back up—still sweaty, still smelling like me—and snapped a quick mirror pic. Just the top half, spandex clinging, nipples poking through, my face flushed and smirky. Sent it. “Close enough,” I added. His reply was instant: “Fuck. You’re killing me.” Made me squirm, right there in my room, that wet spot from yesterday blooming again.

Didn’t stop there. Told him I’d been “busy” all day yesterday, left it vague but flirty. He asked what I was up to now, and I said, “Still in this. Thinking about the pool.” Kept it going—teasing, dirty, letting him pull it out of me. “Wear it for me next time,” he texted, and I could feel that tent in his Speedo through the screen. Promised I would. Kept the swimsuit on all morning after that, texting him between chores I barely did—dishes half-washed, laundry forgotten. Every time I moved, it rubbed me, kept me on edge, kept him in my head.

Work called, pissed about yesterday, but I sweet-talked my way out of it—said I was sick, promised to cover a shift later. Didn’t care. Nick’s texts were better—hotter. Ended the day sprawled on my bed, swimsuit still on, rereading his messages, fingers tracing the spandex where it’s tightest. Didn’t go full rabbit hole again—too wiped—but I’m buzzing, Diary. He’s in on it now, even if he doesn’t know the half of it. Next time I see him, this swimsuit’s coming with me. Night.