It was a ridiculously gorgeous day at Venice Beach. Palm trees fringed a cloudless sky, tattooed skateboarders glistened with sweat as seagulls cried and swooped overhead, and standing next to me was a man who, until about 10 minutes ago, I had only ever seen on television.
In person, Austin* looked pretty much the same. He had tousled black hair, dark brooding eyes, and smooth skin the color of amber honey. I fantasized about brushing my fingertips along the place where his T-shirt met his collarbone, dragging them down to trace the contours of his muscled chest.
Instead, I began shifting toward him. Delicately, casually, I maneuvered until my arm rested against his. Would he accept the contact? He didn’t seem to notice.
I had arrived here, on a first date with an aloof TV star, thanks to a major breakup and my subsequent decision to make an upcoming cross-country move. While emotionally taxing, it had all been pretty liberating for my sex life. In the months counting down to my departure, I’d been pursuing gloriously noncommittal sexual encounters in what I coined my “fuck it era.”
Which is why, exactly one week before I found myself literally rubbing elbows with the semi rich and famous in Venice Beach, I decided to slide into Austin’s Instagram DMs.
“Hi Austin! You’re super cute and talented and I would love to go out with you sometime,” I wrote. “But before you say no, here are some relevant details about me.” (Insert: my age, occupation, interests, and the convenient fact that I was about to move across the country and, to quote myself, wouldn’t “be expecting a proposal.”)
I pressed Send on the message and quickly shoved my phone away, vowing not to care what happened.
Fifteen minutes later, it buzzed.
“That’s quite a pitch,” he wrote. “How can I say no?”
And now here we were, standing side by side at the skate park as I waited to see if he would accept my arm touching his. (So far, nothing—but he hadn’t moved it away either!)
Suffice it to say Austin wasn’t the easiest person to talk to (although he made up for it by being incredibly easy on the eyes). Impassive, deadpan, barely emotive—he was nothing like the bubbly character that had caught my attention on TV.
“Are you surprised by the real me?” he asked, a half-smile curving up the corner of his soft-looking lips.
“Honestly, I am,” I laughed, half-relieved and half-turned-on to see some amusement finally dance through those moody eyes.
Hours passed as our date continued and he had still yet to touch me—really touch me in a way that felt intentional. At one point, I was so flooded with attraction that I impulsively grabbed his bulging bicep just to feel his skin beneath mine. He grinned, dimples creasing his cheeks. I wanted to take a bite of him.
After a casual lunch at an overpriced bowl spot where I teased him about his seemingly arbitrary dietary choices (yes to gluten, no to fruit, yes to dairy milk, no to red meat—you get the idea), Austin offered to drive me back to his place so I could call my Uber from there. I was thrilled…and confused. Would he invite me inside? Would we even kiss? Or did he get off on simply tantalizing me?
On the drive, I found myself trying not to swoon over the way he palmed the steering wheel and bit his lip when he concentrated. I distracted myself by asking him about his wellness routine, figuring it was a natural enough segue from our lunch chat about dietary restrictions. (Listen, I told you it was hard to make conversation with this guy, okay?) We talked personal training, acupuncture, massage—and finally, I happened to mention chiropractic.
And that’s when things got interesting.
“I can do that,” he said matter-of-factly when I told him I’d never been adjusted.
Quick disclaimer: I’ve since been scolded by friends who said that I should not have let a man I hardly know twist and crack my precious bones without asking for some kind of license. So, you know, be warned. But at the time, all I could think was, Great, he’ll crack my back, and I’ll get some physical contact.
Inside, he instructed me to stand still and cross my arms as he stepped close behind me. He smelled like the ocean, like salt—all earthy, luminous masculinity. I basked in the sensation as he wrapped his arms around me, warm hands firmly gripping my arms, pelvis cupping my butt. He cracked my back and then told me to walk around.
“You’re already standing taller,” he said approvingly. “Now lie down.”
I did, stomach-down, and he pressed something (a knee?) into my back. “Breathe out,” he said. I felt something shift layers-deep within me. Licensed or not, this man did know a thing or two about how the body works.
And then he did something unexpected.
“We’ll finish upstairs,” he said, so businesslike, I almost wondered if he’d be seeking payment for services rendered. But there was nothing this man could say that I wouldn’t immediately have obeyed. So I followed him up the stairs to his bedroom, quietly eyeing the way his muscles slid under his T-shirt as he moved.
What the actual fuck is happening? I thought, lying on the edge of his bed. Austin gripped my thigh—not quite my butt, not not my butt—and twisted me toward him while holding down my shoulder. I loved the way the pressure of his hands felt on my body as I sank into the bed.
“May I?” he murmured, his fingers playing with the button on my jeans. I nodded, trying not to look overly eager. His hands slipped beneath my waistline and gripped my hip bones, thumbs digging into my pelvis. He pressed hard—so hard I let out an involuntary groan of release.
At this point, I calculated that if this man was comfortable putting his hands quite literally inside my pants, he’d be open to some sexual exploration. And frankly, I couldn’t wait any longer. When he finished the adjustment, he sat on the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Something was shining in his eyes.
He was challenging me. I made my move, his expression teased. Now make yours.
So I did. I stepped between his legs and, cupping that handsome face in my hands, I kissed him. He kissed me back. Slowly at first and then more intensely, insistently—his hands sliding over my butt and waist, drawing me up and onto him.
We fell back onto the bed. I was sucking on his neck, running my fingers through those black curls, swirling my tongue in and out of his mouth. We both shed our clothes and I reveled in the sight of his body, all tan tautness. I felt him shudder in pleasure as I made my way south toward an erection more gorgeous than I’d allowed myself to imagine.
I could have stayed there for hours, drinking in his moans as my mouth slid up and down his shaft. But after several minutes, he motioned for me to stop. I had barely taken my lips off his cock when he rose up on his elbows and seamlessly hooked an arm behind my waist, flipping me onto my back and landing on top of me in one smooth motion.
Gently yet firmly, he spread my thighs and started fingering me, staring deep into my eyes. Finally, he was giving me the eye contact I’d been yearning for all day. His eyes drilled into me as his fingers worked back and forth inside me, moving in perfect tandem with my bucking hips as sweat dripped from his curls. Our eyes were locked for what felt like a lifetime as he edged me closer and closer to a finish.
Tempted as I was to give in to the shuddering orgasm building inside me, I refused to cum without feeling him inside me first. Pinning his wrists, I pushed him onto his back and climbed on top, sliding down onto him and grinding my hips into his. I loved the way he was panting, still looking straight at me, those strong hands gripping my waist. He guided me back and forth, rubbing me in circles over him. And as the climax began to build between my legs, something…happened.
It was a release—a physical release, like something had rushed out of me in a great wave. Because something did, physically, rush out of me.
I panicked for a moment. Did I just pee on this semi-famous actor’s bed? It didn’t feel like pee, but it wasn’t my normal wetness and it was everywhere—glistening on his stomach, flowing off the sides of his abs.
Seeing my confusion, he cracked a smile. “It’s fine,” he assured me, not pausing his rhythmic thrusts. And despite my offer, he didn’t want to stop to get a towel. He was happy where he was.
And so was I as it dawned on me that, for the first time ever, I had squirted. Credit the adjustment (particularly that punishing hip massage) or the intense fingering or the immense attraction that had been building all day, but something in me clearly needed that sweet, gloriously sopping release.
Afterward, he stripped the bed and I felt a twinge of guilt laced with a little bit of pride. I watched as he pulled off the comforter, the throw blanket, the weighted blanket, and both layers of sheets, tossing them in the wash. For a random Instagram hookup, I’d certainly left my mark.
Before I left, I joked that I’d never be able to get a real chiropractic adjustment.
“Why not?” he asked, grinning.
“Because if they don’t make me squirt,” I said, “It simply won’t compare.”
*Name has been changed.
