Page 1 of The Other Guy

JACK

Unknown: Last night was amazing.

Me: It was.

Unknown: You warned me of your size but I really had no idea.

Me: **sends smirk emoji

Unknown: When can we do it again?

Me: Anytime, babe. Anytime.

I tip the bottle of beer to my lips and take a long swig, relaxing against the back of my plush chocolate brown suede couch. Head leaned back, eyes trained on the game that’s playing on the TV hanging above my stone fireplace. Legs spread wide, hand resting on the inside of my leg right next to the area that Unknown just mentioned, even if it isn’t me she’s talking about. And just in case anyone was wondering, I have no doubt that whatever size she’s discussing, I’m bigger. Well, unless we’re talking one of those freakishly long and misshapen dicks that only belong in pornos.

The fact that I’m replying to some random chick simply because I’m bored is pathetic. It’s not the first and probably not the last time it’ll happen, though. Ever since people started texting neighbors became a stupid fucking thing, I’ve been dealing with this shit on a nightly basis. And apparently the dude who is my phone number neighbor is a freak in bed and gets it on with a different chick every. Fucking. Night. And then gives these chicks my number. It was right after the Text Your Number Neighbor thing was all over social media so it didn’t take me long to figure out that’s what was happening.

At first, I wasn’t really bothered because it was kind of entertaining. Now, though, I’m getting annoyed. Some of the texts wreak of desperation. A few call him out on being an asshole while others must have ended their night a bit more… positively… and have nothing but praise and accolades.

What a jerk he must be. I’ve considered telling whoever this guy is to stop using my number, but I figure he’ll just find another number to use and who knows if that person will be even remotely kind in letting them know that whoever they had sex with the night before just completely ghosted them. Plus, I don’t know exactly which number is his. I tried both “neighbors” to me, up one and down one, but both people claimed not to have a clue what I was talking about. So either one of them is lying, or I’ll have to just keep randomly texting until I find him. And that isn’t going to happen.

My phone chimes again and I groan.

Unknown: Care for round 2 tomorrow?

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

This is the worst part. When I have to keep brushing them off until they get the point.

Me: Unfortunately I have plans for tomorrow. Rain check?

Unknown: Oh, bummer. I was hoping to show you something.

Unknown: **Download attachment

As soon as I click on the picture my phone fumbles from my grip. Who the ever-loving fuck is this guy? Freaking Spartacus or something? This definitely isn’t the first nude I’ve — he’s — been sent. But holy shit. Every single one is a ten. No. A twelve. The women are Sports Illustrated Swimsuit cover material. They’re the secrets Victoria’s always bragging about. Sure, some of them know exactly how to lay so their breasts are pressed together showing as much cleavage as possible, stretching their upper bodies so I don’t see the inevitable rolls in their stomach. Spoiler alert: everyone has them. I know. I’m the owner of a boxing gym and see incredible bodies every day. I also have plenty of packs in my abs and my body is fit.

Back to these women. Better question is, where is he finding them? If he has a number similar to mine, I would think that means he lives in the same area and nothing against the women here but they’re not… this beautiful. Fuck, that makes me sound like an asshole but it’s really not the way I mean it.

Regardless, this woman is gorgeous. But now I’ve spoken to or seen… I count it out in my head: fifteen. That’s right. Let this settle a little bit. Fifteen women he’s slept with and have texted me. This doesn’t count the women who chose not to contact him. Which, I hate to break it to the guy, but I’m sure it’s happened. Probably. Maybe.

And how many days? Oh. Twenty-two. The guy’s obviously a master at picking up women and has great fucking stamina. I should probably contact him and see if he belongs to a gym. He’d probably be great in the boxing ring.

After I recover and adjust my already hardening dick, I grab my phone, take another look because I’m not dead, and reply.

Me: You have my attention.

I should probably stop it now but I can’t help myself. I haven’t been with a woman in a while. Mainly because I’m too focused on building my business to care enough about building a relationship. That, and I grew up in a small town not far from here and everyone within thirty square miles knows my life story already and I already know theirs. There’s no mystery. No one new to discover their pasts. It’s impossible to walk into a store or restaurant without knowing and being greeted by several people. And I love it.

Unknown: Enough to have you change your plans for tomorrow?

I hate being the asshole but…

Me: Sorry. No can do.

Unknown: Another time then.

---