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I threw out the idea one evening: “Hop on Tinder, find a guy, go on a date and ’ll just watch.” Anna was stunning, short, Asian, straight black hair. She thought I was nuts but did it anyway. She matched with Matt (average build, dark brown hair, beard) and they picked a Tavern on a busy Saturday.
I grabbed a seat inside with a book and a pint but barely read a word. Every few pages I’d peek out the window: Anna cracking up at something Matt said, him scooting his chair a little closer, slipping his hand under her skirt to rest on her thigh. My heart was pounding. I needed that IPA like air.
After an hour of nothing more than sly smiles and thigh-brushes, I bailed. Then my phone buzzed: Anna asking if she could go back to Matt’s place…and if they could have sex. She even asked if he could cum inside her. I told her she was a “good girl” and, hell yeah, go for it.
I wandered to my usual bar to calm down. Ordered bourbon after bourbon, but my thumb was glued to my phone. I kept picturing her laughing, his hand riding up her leg, wondering what position they were in, how big he was…anything to distract myself from the silence.
Late that night she called…breathless, giggling, saying it was amazing. I joked about next time she’d send selfies. Sitting there with my glass half-empty, I realized that mix of jealousy and pride is exactly why I love being the guy who watches.
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