Letting Go (Letting Go Series #1) (2 page)

Smoke free and drug free are good.
And an ongoing relationship is much better than a one-nighter, for sure.

Whoa
, I tell myself. I’m starting to think like I’m actually going to respond to this guy and meet him, which is totally ridiculous. Who cares what kind of relationship he’s looking for, or if he smokes or does drugs? He’s just some anonymous guy who wrote a compelling ad, that’s all. He’s a good writer—so what? Besides, he’s obviously looking for someone who knows what they’re doing with this stuff.

So why am I still reading?
And why are my panties soaking wet now? 

You can be experienced or
merely curious. Curious is better, though.

Well, scratch the notion
that he wants someone experienced. He prefers someone curious—someone like me.

This type of relationship is not easy to find, when it happens, it can be amazing.

Hmmmm… a girl would be a fool to say no to “amazing,” wouldn’t she?

If you are ready to take the next step, tell me a bit about yourself and your desires. No one line replies. If you can't take the time to write at least a paragraph
or two, then you are not truly interested. Put "Pleasing" in your subject line so I know you can follow directions.

Am I ready? That’s a big, resounding “no,” thank you very much. But if I
was
ready, I’d put “Pleasing” in the subject line, for sure, because I’m very good at following directions. Instead, I click the X in the upper right hand corner and the ad disappears, taking craigslist with it. I let out a big sigh. Whether it’s a sigh of relief or resignation—or something else, even—I’m not entirely sure.

An hour later, I’m back at my computer. I tried reading for distraction but had difficulty concentrating. I switched to the television since that’s so much more mindless, but my thoughts kept straying back to that damn ad.

So here I am. I clear my email and then play on
facebook for a while, but now I’m all caught up with everyone and everything. It’s either shut down my computer for the night or return to craigslist. Maybe if I’m lucky, his ad will be gone—taken down because he’s already found the naughty girl of his dreams. I guess, I should check, right? Just out of curiosity, to see if he’s found happiness? Even if the ad is still there, I don’t have to open it. And I most certainly don’t have to respond to it.

See?
No problem. I have all kinds of choices. Nothing to worry about.

I go to my list of favorite places and open craigslist.

The ad will be easy to find. Any ads I opened earlier will be highlighted purple, making them easy to spot. Since his was the last one I looked at, it will be the first purple one I’ll come across.

I scroll down the first page, one hundred ads in all. No purple
, just lines of light blue letters. Maybe I’m in luck and he’s pulled his ad. Or maybe there are just so many horny guys on craigslist that an hour is enough to push his ad to the second page or even further back. If I had to bet, I’d bet on horny guys over him having pulled his ad.

I click on the 2 at the bottom and am taken to the second page. Once again, I scroll down. This time, I see it, near the bottom. My relief at finding it still here is palpable.

I stare at the darkened headline for a few moments. I begin to feel the familiar heat growing between my legs. As my best friend Amanda would say, it’s time to crap or get off the pot. I open the ad.

“Come to the edge,”
are the first words I see. Part of me wants to, desperately, but another part of me is shouting “no way.”

“It’s too high.”
Yes, it’s definitely too high—way, way too high.
“I might fall.”
That’s right, I could fall—and break something inside me. The danger is real, in more ways than one.

He pushed. I flew!

I want to fly!
I really do. But flying can be even more dangerous than standing near the edge. What’s a girl supposed to do?

I know what a smart, sensible girl would do.
She would leave the fire alone. Playing with fire can get you burned. But then a line from an old song pops into my head…something about good girls going to heaven but bad girls getting to go everywhere. Going everywhere sounds fun.

I can’t decide.

I get up from my chair and grab a quarter from my dresser. Since I can’t make a decision, I’ll leave it up to fate. Heads I respond, tails I don’t. What could be fairer, right?

Using my thumb, I flip the coin into the air and watch it bounce on my bed.
Tails. I’m safe. I don’t have to respond. Phew.

Two out of three
, a voice whispers inside my head. Before I know it, I’m flipping the coin again. It’s heads this time.

This is ridiculous. I’m a smart, attractive, moderately successful woman. I certainly don’t need a
stupid coin to tell me what to do. I leave the quarter atop the bed and sit back down at my desk. The ad is still there, taunting me, tempting me. The fingers of my left hand drum lightly on the desktop. I look down. My right hand is rubbing myself again. I yank my hand away from my pants and grab the mouse. This has got to stop. I need to close this ad now.

Instead,
I click on “reply.”

A blank email opens up. The white space is less tempting than the ad, but in some ways feels even more dangerous. I hesitate for a moment, then type “Pleasing” in the subject line.
I told you I’m good at following directions. But what now?

I stare at the screen, fumbling with my thoughts. I type “Hi,” but after that, I’m coming up blank.

I try several opening lines, but discard them all.

“I liked your ad”…boring!

“Your ad spoke to me,”…cheesy!

“What’s a nice girl like me doing answering an ad like yours?”…Oh, god, that’s the worst one yet!

I decide on simplicity…and honesty. “I’m very curious,” I write. “I’m also terribly nervous and wonderfully excited. I trust you’ll understand.”

I proceed to tell him everything I’ve been thinking and feeling since I discovered his
ad. I give him my age and my height, and then briefly describe myself in very general terms—fit and reasonably attractive, with long brown hair and green eyes. I finish by saying I’m completely new to all this and that I hope to hear back from him.

I don’
t reread any of it. I know if I do, I’ll agonize over every sentence, every word, probably. I take a deep breath and click “send.”

As soon as I do, I want to take it back. But there’s no “
unsend” button for email. For better or worse, my reply is out there in the electronic ether, wending its way to his mailbox.

Oh god! What have I done?

CHAPTER 3

In the two hours before I go to bed, I check my email at least four times, alternately praying for a response and hoping not to find one.

Just before midnight, I finally
give up and crawl beneath the covers. He hasn’t replied, and I’m mildly surprised to discover that I’m more disappointed than relieved. There are lots of possible reasons I haven’t heard back from him, I tell myself. First, it’s only been two hours—he may not be as obsessively checking his email as I am. Maybe he’s already found someone and just didn’t bother pulling his ad, maybe he’s winnowing through a huge pile of replies, or maybe he just didn’t like my response. Whatever the reason, there’s nothing I can do about it now—unless I write him another letter! Yeah, that’s the ticket! I’m halfway out of bed before I stop myself.
Get a grip, girl.
I scooch back under the covers, berating myself for my impatience. I feel like I’m sixteen again, waiting to get asked to the prom. Geesh.

If I don’t hear from him, I’m no worse off than I was before I saw his
ad. If I do hear back, who knows? I could be
much
worse off. It’s probably better if he doesn’t reply. I spend at least half an hour tossing and turning while I flip-flop back and forth on whether I really want to hear from him. Finally, I escape into sleep. The last thought I remember before drifting off is this: if it’s meant to be, then it will be.

I awaken early, even though it’s Saturday and I can stay in bed as long as I want. But I don’t want, not today. So I pop out of bed and head for my desk. I wake up my computer and go right to my email. As usual, they’ve piled up overnight, mostly junk mail. This morning, I have twenty-six unread messages waiting for me. Anxiously, I scan down the list.

There it is, near the bottom.
The subject line is what catches my eye first: “Re: Pleasing.” He must have sent it soon after I went to bed. I mentally berate myself for not staying up at least a little bit later. The address is a generic bunch of letters and numbers at craigslist.com. I frown—there’s no information to be gleaned from his choice of a name for his email address.

Now
that he has replied, what do I do? Do I open it, or do I delete it and put all this behind me? There’s no real harm in reading his message, but I have the feeling that if I do, I’m crossing some invisible point of no return. I move the cursor to “open,” but my finger hesitates above the mouse. My heart is pounding like a drum inside my chest. I take a deep breath and then plunge ahead, clicking the mouse.

His email contains only two words: “Good girl.”

What the fuck? I pour my soul out to him—well, give him a little peek at it anyhow—and all he replies with are two fucking words? I don’t get it. What does “Good girl” even mean? Is he praising me for the quality of my response to his ad? Or is he saying I’m a good girl, but he needs a naughty one? Maybe he’s testing me somehow. I don’t have a fucking clue.

If he’s praising me, why hasn’t he written anything else? He could share some details about himself, or at least give me
some instructions on what to do next. If he’s letting me down easy, couldn’t he at least be a little more clear about it?

Even if I want to reply, h
ow the heck am I supposed to respond to “Good girl?” The whole thing is maddening. I keep staring at the email as if something else might magically appear, some hidden addition to the message. Of course, nothing does. There’s only those two words, teasing me, tormenting me.

Finally, I shut off my monitor,
push my chair away from my desk, and head to the kitchen for some breakfast.

Usually on Saturd
ay I take the time to whip up a veggie omelet or some blueberry pancakes and bacon, or some other special treat, but with my mind in a whirl, I’m not sure I can handle anything that complicated. Instead, I pour myself a bowl of bran flakes, topping them with fresh blueberries.

While I eat, barely tasting my cereal and berries, I keep thinking about how I should respond to the message. I’m totally at a loss here, completely inexperienced in these matters. Having read Fifty Shades is no help—Anastasia met her guy out in the real world, with barely a hint of his dominant nature. Not until she’s seen him several times did she begin to fall under his spell.

Maybe that’s what I need to do—write him back and ask him to meet me for coffee, or something equally normal and mundane. Somehow, though—maybe from the way he wrote and worded his ad—I instinctively know that’s not how he would want me to play it. I wrack my brain for some other response.

I wonder if any of my girlfriends have any experience at all in this realm. We’ve discussed the Fifty Shades books—what group of girlfriends hasn’t?—but none of them has ever volunteered that they’ve actually taken part in something of this nature.

“Good girl.” How can something so simple be causing me so much turmoil?

A sudden thought strikes me. Fight fire with fire. Follow simplicity with simp
licity. I need a response that’s as simple as his, yet still filled with meaning. I wrack my brain, discarding at least a dozen possibilities. Finally, I have it.

No longer interested in my breakfast, I dump the remainder of my cereal into the disposal and hurry to my computer. When I turn on the monitor, his opened email is
sitting there waiting for me. I click on “reply” and a new message window opens. I type in a simple, “Thank you, Sir.” It looks and feels right, so I hit “send” with only the briefest hesitation.

A
nxious and on edge now that my message is sent, I get up from my chair, leaving my computer and monitor turned on so I can see it from anywhere in the room, just in case. I can’t sit here doing nothing, waiting for his reply. It might not come for hours. It might not come at all. I could go crazy. Crazier, I remind myself, since getting involved in this thing is already kind of crazy.

I need
to be busy, to be distracted. I turn on my iPod, which is nestled in its dock. Pink’s “Try” erupts from the speaker. Not a good song for my iPod to decide to start with. I love the song, but I really don’t need to hear about desire leading to getting burned right now. I wonder if maybe the universe is sending me a message. I quickly switch to another song, Kesha singing about partying. I bounce to the punchy beat for a few moments. This song is much better—there’s no message for me in it—but it’s still not enough distraction. I decide to dust. Dusting is a nice, mindless distraction, and it’s something that needs to be done, besides.