3

Chloe

The hot stranger leads me into the bedroom, and our passionate kissing continues. Damn, this guy is attractive. He has a chiseled six-pack, impressive shoulders, sexy arms and legs, and a nice ass. It's as if God took His time to create him. He looks absolutely perfect.

He skilfully tears open a condom packet he had in the pocket of his sweatpants. I wonder if he carries it around all the time. How many girls has he been with? Perhaps I'm jumping to conclusions, and he hasn't slept with anyone yet.

I don't think he's a virgin either, as a virgin wouldn't be this good at it. Even if you watch endless amounts of porn as a virgin, you can't become a pro at sex on your first try.

He enters me with his perfectly sized member, and I immediately start moaning in pleasure.

"Am I hurting you?" he asks, showing concern. I shake my head. Even if it was painful, I would still want to experience it. The last time I had sex was with my downstairs neighbour's twenty-one-year-old son who was visiting from college. He was terrible in bed, constantly pulling my hair and using his teeth inappropriately. I didn't want to have sex after him.

But this guy has changed my perspective on sex. I don't even desire anyone else but him. While he showers me with kisses, I don't mind if he removes the condom. I want to be the mother of his children. I want to be with him forever.

I've never moaned this much before. The last time I moaned so loudly was when I had sex with my roommate's boyfriend. Yes, I know it's wrong, and we're all bound for hell. It takes two to tango.

I don't want him to stop anything: the kisses, the sex—nothing. I want him here with me, forever.

I wake up to the sound of my phone ringing. I immediately grab it, hoping it's Mr. Moe accepting my work. A girl can dream, right?

As my blurry vision clears, I see who's calling and roll my eyes. Ugh, it's my mother. What does she want? I hope this guy doesn't think I'm a little girl who always needs her mommy, and I also hope he won't perceive me as rude for rolling my eyes.

I turn to the side, hoping to find a hot naked guy lying beside me, but he's not there. I glance around the room, and he's nowhere to be found.

Maybe he's in the kitchen. I'm going to check, but first, I have to answer my mother's call.

"Yes, Mom," I say, though I have to admit it sounds rude.

"Good morning to you too, Chloe," she replies. I roll my eyes again and put her on loudspeaker as I put on my robe. I must admit, I did sound a little rude. I already know why she's calling. My cousin Rene is probably going to call me too and ask the same question my mom is asking.

"No, Mom," I respond while scanning the living room for him. He's not here, so I move to the kitchen, but he's not there either. "I got rejected for the eighth time now. I'm just not that good of a writer."

"Oh, honey, don't say that. You are good; you just need moments like these. I bet once you become a best-selling author, you'll look back at every rejection and see how it pushed you to become the best." Marjorie Fint might be annoying, but she's still my mom, and like most supportive moms, she always knows what to

 say. She's been there for me since I came into this world.

When my dad died, it felt like the whole world crumbled. I was fourteen, in my freshman year of high school. I had participated in my high school's talent show at Sherman Lawn High, performing a poetry piece. I came in second, but that was nothing compared to the news I heard afterwards. My dad had died of a heart attack. I couldn't understand what the doctor was saying; all I knew was that my dad was gone forever.

Rest in peace, Andrew Fint.

My dad was always supportive of me. I remember when he got me my first book, "The Wizard of Oz," when I was seven years old. From that moment, I knew I wanted to be a writer. I got so lost in their world that when I finished reading the book, I almost forgot I lived in the real world. A world where witches don't melt, and where hot guys have sex with you and then vanish once they realize you're not successful.

I don't know if that's why he left, but I'm sure he had an inkling that I struggle as a writer. Well, I'm not a bad writer; my work just isn't good enough, or in Mr. Moe's words, it's bland.

"And why are you still in Dallas? I thought your dream was always to go to New York," my mom asks. I roll my eyes a lot when it comes to my mom. I rolled my eyes when she said that too. But she's right; I've always wanted to go to New York. Yet, I don't know what's keeping me here. "If you're not ready, that's fine, but don't be afraid to chase your dreams, okay?"

"Yeah, Mom, I know." Could it be fear? Am I scared of New York? How can I be afraid of the place I've wanted to escape to since I was ten? There's nothing special about Dallas, so I don't know why I'm still here.

"You know, maybe—"

"Mom, you know what, I have work. I'll talk to you later." If I let her continue, she won't stop, so I have to be the one to end the conversation. My mom tends to talk a lot, honestly.

"Okay, honey. I'll talk to you later. Make sure you—" I hang up. I sigh, walk into my bedroom, and jump onto my bed. I can't help but think about the incredible sex I had with that stranger. I don't even know his name, and I didn't get his number. It's almost as if we never met, as if it were all a figment of my imagination. But I know I wasn't that drunk. 

I shouldn't be fixating on a guy I met last night; instead, I should focus on improving my work and making it less "bland."

I just need to get out of bed and do it.