Woman Seeking Man

One pink nail tapped the side of the screen as the rainbow-colored-orb spun. Sam reached down into her panties and scratched at her labia, feeling a week's worth of stubble. Somewhere a computer was finding the nearest men on Fuckr...someone just as horny and indiscriminate as Sam herself. She had no idea how long it would take to find a match...or how long it would take him to get here...and as the seconds stretched out she looked around the master bedroom of her two-bedroom house.

Better Homes and Gardens it was not. Queen-sized bed, a bureau, two bookcases. The furniture was picked from estate sales and garage sale; she liked real wood, stripped and refinished. A little more expensive, but nicer and so much more real 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 herself, except for the flatscreen bolted to the wall that had been streaming porn until a moment ago

Sam heaved herself off of the pink sheets. In her socks and panties, she stripped and changed the bed, policed up rogue bras and socks and dumped them in the hamper, and took the vacuum to the carpet. She was debating whether to bother dusting when the smartphone buzzed.

Eager as a puppy, Sam grabbed the phone. The globe had stopped spinning, flashed pink...and words appeared on the screen.

MATCH MADE.
75 MINUTES.

Shit, I hope I have time for a shower, she thought.

Steam filled the bathroom as Sam shaved in the shower. At 26 years old, Sam felt far from the musclebound athletes and stick-thin models that were supposed to be her role models. Regular trips to the gym couldn't bring her abs, much less do away with the tiny muffin-tops that showed up when she wore her tightest jeans. Feminine standards of beauty were bullshit, and Sam had long ago come to peace with the fact that she was shorter than average, a bit bottom-heavy, and with a face a little too broad to be classically beautiful.

At least I have decent tits, she thought as she rinsed off her girls, giving the 32C's a squeeze.

Sam dried and brushed her mousy brown hair, that fell to the base of her neck. A few spritzes of perfume, and then she was sitting in a bathrobe, staring into her dresser mirror as she plucked eyebrows, packed on a bit of filler to hide childhood acne scars, applied lipstick and eyeliner...all the million and one little things that women do.

Not that it matters. I could show up to the door unwashed and they'd still fuck me, Sam thought to herself. But a part of her wanted to make a good impression. It was habit.

The doorbell rang...and Sam calmly put her makeup away and strode over to the door. Just for safety, she looked through the peephole before opening it...eager to get a first look at her sex guest.