Yesterday, I could’ve made things easier on myself by getting it closer to finished, but all I’d really done was sit at my desk and stare into space.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. A few minutes after my interaction with Dean, he texted me a picture of himself winking and smiling. That alone had been enough to make me wish I’d bought those flame resistant panties I saw as a gag gift once and considered getting for my little sister. But the caption took things to another level. He’d written, “Thinking of you, too. I know we can’t see each other for a while so I’ll be thinking about you a lot tonight. Especially in the shower.” He followed that with a winky face and several water drop emojis.

I interpreted that to mean he was going to please himself to the thought of me in the shower. And of course, I had no way of knowing if he was only sending something so dirty because he wanted to have evidence on his phone that we were legit, or if he really meant it. Either way, the possibility that Dean Slater had seriously touched himself while thinking of me that night pretty much fried my brain, my panties, and then the battery to my trusty vibrator.

But I had to remember the plan. No more men. Men were all like Eric Fisher in some way or another. Maybe they didn’t cheat, but they let you down, eventually. Even if it was thirty years later when they were mowing the lawn in their jorts with a white and red headband on while sweat glistened through their thinning hairlines. One way or another, relationships could never live up to the hype. It just wasn’t possible, and I was tired of buying into the lie.

So I was right there with Dean. I just wished I could be in such platonically perfect agreement about this sort of thing with a different man. Maybe a man who didn’t make me immediately question my resolve to stay celibate.

I discreetly pulled out my phone and looked at his picture. There he was, standing in the elevator with his long arm held out so I could get a clear view of all six feet plus and plenty of change he was packing. His t-shirt was pulled tight over a broad, muscular chest and I could even see the outline of ab muscles pressing through the thin gray fabric if I looked close enough–yes, I zoomed the shit out of the photo and I’m not going to apologize for it.

His body alone was enough that I would’ve been a nervous mess even if he had a face like Mona Lisa–no offense to her, because I’m sure she was a great beauty for her time, but you get the point. But he had this sort of mesmerizing blend of boyish good looks with ruggedly handsome features that were all held together by a pair of absolutely dazzling blue eyes. He looked like he’d take you on a sweet, romantic date to go ice skating and then finger blast you in the equipment shed right after while whispering something dirty in your ear, like, “Yeah, you like that you little bitch, don’t you?”