3. October 14 - Wilder

Iwant to motorboat those tits. Sure, she likes books, but she'll do for the contract term. In fact, she'll do nicely.

She's also a little too independent for my usual taste. So was 2017. She wasn't as bad as 2019, though, who kicked me out after two weeks after I started that small kitchen fire. You'd think a woman would like having a man around and be willing to overlook a few things, especially if said man is wearing an apron and cooking them a grilled cheese sandwich. Then again, I'd take 2019 over 2020 any day. That entire year was an experience I think we all want to put behind us.

This one will do well for 2023. I think she said her name is Savannah, but it's not like I need to remember it. In a couple of years, I'll remember her by the year we ended the contract. Her name will simply be 2023.

I hold the bar door open for her, and the bouncer nods to me, a silent bro code indicating a good pull. As soon as the cool October air fills our lungs, she pulls her jacket tighter around her chest, and I put my arm around her, trying to appear chivalrous and like I want to keep her warm.

Everything about her is intoxicating. Looking at her hair, my fingers ache to run my hands through it. Last year's woman, 2022, had a pixie cut, and I miss long hair on my skin in the morning. This one smells like soap and something like laundry detergent or a soft perfume that would have a silly name about linen or violet.

Her lips are glossy and supple, and I burn to feel them on me. But I have to play this cool like I've done before. I'll go back to the tent and get in the sleeping bag tonight. Then, I take her to dinner tomorrow. After coffee and a dinner, they're usually more than amenable to letting me sleep over. Once I sleep over once and show them my excellent dick game, I bust out the contract that gives me a full roof over my head, getting me through the winter months.

It"s not that I enjoy breaking up with them the day after Valentine's Day. It's just that I like living in nature and doing my own thing during the spring, summer, and early fall. I only need them for the winter.

Gus, my best friend, teases me that I need to settle down and at least get an apartment. Personally, that sounds like absolute hell. I like riding from town to town throughout the region on my motorcycle, living in the woods that I've known since childhood, and only showering at whatever YMCA is local to that area. I like sleeping under the stars at night and feeling dew in my hair in the morning.

"Where would you like to get coffee?" I ask, smiling the smile I know works on any woman that sees it.

"There's a place up the road. I know the owner. She has other things besides pumpkin spice. You can get a peppermint latte or something equally unpleasant."

I wrinkle my nose. "Do you like pumpkin spice? Have I offended you with my hatred of all things pumpkin?"

She smiles a gorgeous smile, and I tilt my head to admire it. I could stand and look at it like some people stand in front of paintings at art museums. Her entire face opens up, and her eyes crinkle. It isn't a polite smile. It's a smile that's warm and real, something I don't see often.

"Is it a deal breaker if I like it?" she asks.

I smile and shake my head. "I guess we can work around it."

The coffee shop bell tinkles when I hold the door open for her. The shop is old-fashioned, with all wooden tables and chairs and a wooden coffee bar that stretches the length of an entire wall. Stools are under the bar, giving the place a malt shop vibe.

We walk to the ordering station, and a woman smiles at 2023. "Hi, Savannah. The usual?"

"Yep. Give me some extra whipped cream on that pumpkin spice."

I roll my eyes when neither woman is looking. Great. Another pumpkin spice afficionado. All of them are, so I should have known. I roll up my sleeves and inwardly sigh. It's not too bad, I guess. There are worse things they could like. For example, 2018 liked classical music, and wouldn't even consider listening to my Metallica playlist.

"And for you?" the woman asks. Savannah, and I need to start thinking of her as her real name, turns her head to me with a curious look, like my coffee order is the most interesting part of the night.

"Coffee. Black. The kind that could cut glass."

I pay, and we wait for our cups in silence except for Savannah's feet tapping against the floor in her boots. I take the time to look at her legs. I've always been a leg man, and I'm not disappointed with hers. They're long, and I'm glad she's tall since 2021 was only four eleven. It was hard to lean down and kiss a woman who was more than a foot shorter than me. With me being a smidge over six feet tall, she didn't even have to kneel when she blew me. It was kind of fun, but we looked awkward together in public.

The heels on Savannah's boots lengthen her legs so that they look hard and strong, perfect for wrapping around me as I push into her. Heat moves up my back at the thought of it. Sure, I've enjoyed a few women this summer, mostly at the outdoor concerts and festivals I love, but this woman oozes warmth, tender caresses, and loving kisses all over my body. It'll be nice to have a regular shag for a few months again.

I walk behind her on the way to the table, and I admire her walk, the swing of her hips, and the way she flicks her long hair back and looks over her shoulder at me. That look is so sexy that I could take her jacket off right here, kiss my way up her back, and bend her over the table.

But that would be wrong. I just can't believe my luck that she was at this event, and it'll be so easy this year. After all, it was a cuffing season event. Most of the time, I have to sweet talk the women into signing the contract and deal with them crying the day after Valentine's Day as I wave the signed document in front of their faces and pack my meager duffle bag. It's always an ugly sight.

When I saw the cuffing season speed dating event, I knew this would be a way to get a woman that wanted the same kind of relationship. Nice, cozy, and done in just a few months. No scenes. No crying.

"So, why were you at the cuffing season event, Savannah?" I ask. I need to know if she's serious about limiting our arrangement to only a few months.

"Do you want the truth or what most men probably want to hear?"

"Uh, go with truth," I laugh.

She takes a drink of her pumpkin spice abomination and swallows. "I'm trying to finish school, and I wanted my mom off my back about not dating anyone. If I have a partner for cuffing season, she promised to never give me a hard time about a lack of relationship again."

Jackpot.

"That's honest. It's also awfully tempting to not be harassed, I guess," I reply with a smile, trying to appear sympathetic. I blow on my own coffee and take a tentative drink.

"What about you?" she asks.

"I move around a lot. I'm not sure if I'm long-term boyfriend material, either."

"Are you from around here?"

"I'm from Olgaton," I say, referencing a town in the next county. "I move around the state a lot. Do you like camping?"

She shrugs. "Not really. Do you camp a lot? Is that a deal breaker?"

Nasty coffee and not a camper? I guess I can do anything for a few months in return for a warm bed to sleep in and the possibility of warm pussy.

"Not a deal breaker," I smile. I can behave.

The next hour passes quickly, and I'm surprised at how easy it is to talk to her. We talk about people we may know in common, even though I'm four years older than her. Our high schools played sports against each other, but the only person we knew in common was a teacher that taught at both high schools at some point.

How is she only twenty-three? Most women I know that are a few years older are still trying to find a job and move out of their parents' houses or stop living with roommates. This woman has an apartment, functional transportation, and a clear career path.

I peel the cardboard around my coffee drink and feel bad about myself as I listen to her tell me about her coworkers, her degree program, and her mother. She's obviously smart and close to her mom. Is that going to backfire on me? Is she used to a level of loyalty that I just don't understand?

"What about yourself, Wilder? Do you have family nearby?" she asks, shocking me out of my thoughts about her maturity.

I silently shake my head. "I grew up in foster care. Bounced around. I was nine when I went in, so I guess I wasn't cute enough for a family to adopt me."

I say it just like that whenever anyone asks. Blunt. If I dance around it, people usually find out anyway. Sometimes, they find out when I don't have a family to go to for Christmas. Sometimes, they just figure it out. Some women learn about it and suck me off a few minutes later like they can dull the pain of my childhood with their mouths.

She looks concerned with the standard creased brow and pity face they all give me. God, I can't fucking stand their pity.

"It's really fine. My dad is in prison, and I have no idea why. Never knew him anyway, and I don't speak to him. Mom had a boyfriend that liked to knock me around as a kid. A teacher reported it, and the child protective people showed up. Mom didn't even answer their questions or try to protect me. She put a few of my clothes in a garbage bag and basically handed me to them and slammed the door."

Savannah puts her hand over her chest. "That's horrible. I'm so sorry," she says, reaching for my hand.

I hate pity, but I like the warmth of her fingers. Her thumb strokes the top of my hand, and I stare at her fingernails. They're pretty and polished a neutral shade. They're cut short, unlike the cat-like nails that are in style. God, I can't stand those, especially when they accidentally scratch my balls during a good rub and tug.

I shrug and sip my coffee. "Where's your dad? You talk about your mom."

"He died."

"I'm sorry," I mumble. Tears glisten in the corners of her eyes, and I want to bang on the table at the unfairness of this woman losing a dad that actually loved her. I got stuck with a mom who's alive and well somewhere in the world but couldn't give a shit about me. It's simply unjust.

But when is there ever really justice? When I was little, I thought the world was full of it. In the past few years, there's been none. Not for people like me, at least.

"Let's talk about happier things."

We talk about TV shows, our favorite colors, and our favorite music. At least we both like the color green, but I chant to myself that this is only for a few months.

I can't deny that I'm attracted to her. She's obviously attracted to me, if the way she runs her hand up my arm is any indication. She scratches my forearm with light movement, and it's all I can do to not get an erection right here in public. By the time Savannah's friend comes to tell us she has to close the coffee shop, I'm ready to get back to my tent and jerk off at the thought of this woman's warm hands moving all over my body.

"Can I see you again tomorrow?" I ask, getting up from the chair and adjusting myself behind my jacket as subtly as possible. "Maybe dinner?"

She smiles at me, and my stomach drops. "That would be nice. Do you like Middle Eastern food?" she asks.

I fucking hate Middle Eastern food. "Do you like Italian?"

She grimaces. "Chinese?"

I smile. At least we have Chinese food and the color green. "How does seven sound? Do you know Chinese Pagoda on Randolph Street?"

She nods, and we walk back to the bar, the speed dating crowd long gone. She walks to a sedan, and I straddle my motorcycle as her eyebrows crinkle. I make a mental note to get her on the back of my bike before our contract is up.

Tomorrow night is the night to spring the contract on her and kick off this cuffing season.

I have this gorgeous fish on the hook, and since we don't have a lick in common, I'll have no problem throwing her back in the pond on February fifteenth.