Rachel Klein teaches 9th-grade social studies and I teach 9th-grade math at a high school on the outskirts of Seattle. It’s an interdisciplinary program, so we need to connect the curriculum—have the students calculate the dimensions of an Egyptian pyramid and map its footprint onto the Space Needle, shit like that. 

Now, before you get any big ideas about the two of us, just forget it. We only messed around that one time.

It was during the staff holiday party last year. Really, the staff Christmas party, with token references to Kwanzaa and Hanukkah, but they couldn’t admit that in the announcement. Rachel was representing her people, sporting a silver antenna headband with two bopping disco balls and a blue t-shirt featuring a dreidel and the phrase Gimel Gimel Gimel A Man After Midnight. I obliged her, although it was only around ten o’clock when we stumbled into the half bath under the stairs; teacher parties tend to wind down pretty early.

She challenged me to give her eight mini-orgasms with only one squirt of oil, and I was happy to perform this minor miracle. “There’s a book about the history of boogie-woogie piano called A Left Hand Like God,” she panted, leaning back against the sink for support, her legs still shaking. “They oughta put you in the next edition, Mr. Horton.”

Rachel likes being stretched out by a big dick, and I’m not packing a lot down there, so we agreed to call it a one-time thing and move along. Better for her to date guys her own age, anyway; she’s still looking for her happily ever after. She started seeing Jonathan pretty soon afterwards, and I figured that was that.

Since my divorce last fall, Rachel’s been my closest friend. Hell, she’s pretty much my only friend at this point. We spend our free periods planning lessons together but also shooting the breeze. The students know we’re friends, but thankfully they’re too self-absorbed to recognize how close we really are. None of that “Ooh, Mr. H, I think Ms. K has the hots for you!” bullshit.

“So, Chad,” she asked me on a Monday morning in early April, “What’d you do this weekend? Meet any hot cougars?”

“Hang on,” I stopped her. “Can I call them cougars if they’re the same age as me?”

“Well, I don’t wanna call ‘em MILFs. They’re my mother’s age. Gross.” She wrinkled her nose like Devin Randall had just walked in the room. That kid wore his winter jacket all day for six months straight without washing it.

“I watched the Kraken-Blackhawks game at the Angry Beaver on Saturday.” The AB is a hockey bar, not a lesbian bar, in case you were wondering. Best poutine in town. “Not a great place to pick up hot cougars. Everybody wears team jerseys, which are not flattering,” I added as I tilted back in my chair. 

“Hey, four on the floor, buddy.”

“Maybe I won’t ever fall in love again,” I sighed as I leaned forward again. “Maybe I’ll never have sex with a woman again. Maybe I’m done with all that. I’ll just watch porn and jerk it.”

“Aw, don’t say that. You’re a good-looking guy. You just gotta get back out there.”

“Get back out there? I haven’t dated since the Bush administration!”

“So, like, 2008?” Rachel ventured. “That’s not so bad.”

“The first Bush administration, knucklehead. Try 1992.”

“Before my time,” she snickered. “I was born during the Clinton administration—”

“Ah, back when the Anaheim Ducks were still called the Mighty Ducks of Anaheim—”

“And I sure as hell wish I was calling that the first Clinton administration.”

“You and me both,” I muttered as I opened my laptop. “Argh, this frickin’ multi-factor authentication! Does this happen to you? I have to scan a QR code with my phone every time I want to check my school email.”

“Can’t you click the box that says to remember you for 90 days?”

“Oh, I click it every single time, but it never takes.” I scanned the code and then left my phone on the table while I scrolled through my inbox. “Ah, crap, I got the short straw. I’m the regular ed teacher for Jake Lanphere’s IEP meeting. At 3 PM on Friday.”

“It beats 7 AM on a Monday,” Rachel offered from across the table, her nose buried in her phone.

Wait, that’s my phone.

“Hey, what are you doing with my phone?”

“Here, I downloaded an app for you,” she laughed, then tossed me my phone, which displayed a big pink splash with 4N1K8R in the center.

“4-N-1-K-8-R? What is this, a Canadian postal code?”

“It’s pronounced Fornicator, you nitwit.”

“Fornicator? What the hell is that?”

“That app, my friend,” she pointed at my phone significantly, “is your ticket to getting laid.”

I just stared.

“It’s a dating app. More accurately, a hookup app,” Rachel explained as gently as she could. You may have noticed, she’s kind of a lot. “You set an age range and a distance, write a quick bio, and start matching up with hot cougars.”

“You downloaded a hookup app onto my phone, using the school wifi? That is definitely a violation of district policy.”

“Chad, come on. I can be your wingwoman and help you get some dates. Dates with no strings attached. Unless you want strings, of course. You can filter for shibari.”

I relented. “All right, it’s worth a shot. I’m not looking to groom another ex-wife, but I wouldn’t mind getting some action.”

“Perfect! I can help you set up your profile this afternoon. The weather’s supposed to be nice. Happy hour at Taquito’s?”

“Sure, let’s say 5 o’clock. I sold my washer and dryer to Devin Randall’s folks, and they’re picking them up from my storage unit after school today.”

“Thank God! Make sure to show them the wash setting for bulky items. Devin’s jacket is ripe.” 

—

I snagged a corner table on the patio so nobody could snoop over our shoulders. Rachel flounced in a few minutes later, decked out in a floppy hat, oversized sunglasses, and a chunky knee-length cardigan.

“Hey, Ms. K,” I smiled. “I already ordered for both of us.”

“Did you remember to get Tajín on the rim?” she asked suspiciously, unbuttoning her sweater to reveal a bedazzled t-shirt that said Oy Vey All Day.

“Yes, I’ve learned my lesson. What’s with the hat and glasses? Don’t want your parents to see you eating pork?”

“It’s just the first sunny day in forever,” she huffed as she flopped into her seat. “Jesus!”

“Are you allowed to take his name in vain?”

“I can do what I want; he’s just another Jewish boy who disappointed his family.”

“Okay, but it kinda seems like you’re hyping him up. Giving him extra publicity with the name drop.”

“Come to think of it, it is Passover. Never mind the pork; my parents would flip if they saw me eating flour tortillas.”

The margaritas and street tacos arrived, interrupting our witty repartee.

“All right,” she began with a mouthful of al pastor. “Have you filled in any details yet?”

“Nah, I didn’t want to fuck anything up. Should I use my name or my initials?”

“You’d probably have to be more discreet if we taught at a Catholic school, but I think you’re safe using your first name.”

“Women aren’t going to eyeroll at the name Chad on a dating app?”

“Not as much as they would if you used Chadwick, Chadwick.”

“Okay,” I muttered as I entered the basic info into 4N1K8R. “Chad, 53, cis male, seeking females…”

Rachel cocked an eyebrow as I trailed off. “Thinking about the age range, zaddy?” Watching my mental wheels spin in the mud, she prodded, “Or perhaps overthinking the age range?”

“How about 43 to 63?” I finally decided, applying the absolute value inequality | A − 53 | ≤ 10 to my new love life.

“Sounds great!” Rachel agreed. “I always set my own range to plus or minus five years. No little boys, no old men.”

I briefly analyzed | A − 31 | ≤ 5 before proceeding. “Next up, search radius.”

“Your apartment’s in a pretty good spot,” Rachel pointed out as she reached for the Cholula hot sauce. “It’s centrally located.”

“Nobody’s ever called it a good location before, but I see your point.” My studio apartment overlooked King Street Station, and I’d grown accustomed to the noisy ebb and flow of buses and trains, as well as the intermittent hordes of pedestrians wearing Seahawks gear in the fall and Sounders gear in the spring.

“Maybe start with a tight radius so you don’t accidentally overlap with the school district. How far is your place from school, about fifteen miles?”

“Yeah, but my phone’s in metric. I’ll do ten kilometers to be safe; that’s only six miles.”

“Smart move. I saw Madison Clark’s mother making eyes at you during parent-teacher conferences; you do not want her showing up in your feed.”

“Ew, not my type. Bottle blonde and built like a praying mantis.”

By the time we’d finished our drinks and four tacos apiece, we’d hashed out a decent bio for my profile.

Likes: Coffee, Cocktails, Carnitas, Crosswords, Canucks, Cougars, Cup sizes C to K.

That last one was Rachel’s idea, I swear.

“C’mon, Chad,” she teased me, lowering her voice. “You were pushing rope at the holiday party until you stuck your dick between my tits. Then you got excited.”

“Oh my God.”

“Or was it when I joked you’d have to clean up your own jizz because there wasn’t any toilet paper? At least, I thought I was joking, until you started licking my tits like an ice cream cone melting on the 4th of July.”

“Could you—”

“D’you think we should add Cumswapping to your list?” Rachel paused for a second before deciding against it. “Nah, probably better not to lead with that. Reel ‘em in first, then let ‘em find out later how freaky you are.”

“I’ve got a prescription for Viagra now,” I sighed before moving along. “What do you think about this? In body type and temperament, I’m attracted to honeybees and bumblebees, not hornets and wasps.”

“Hey, that’s not bad!” Rachel beamed. “Let the skinny bitches self-select out.” Rolling her eyes, she added, “Hopefully the skinny bitches have some self-awareness.”

Recently divorced, STI negative, vasectomy. I can host.

Just the facts, ma’am.

—

The next day, we didn’t get a chance to talk until lunchtime.

“Hey stud, get any boops last night?” Rachel asked as she waltzed into my empty classroom with her lunch tray in hand.

“Just one.”

“Yeah? How’d it go?”

“Here, you can read the chat,” I sighed, sliding my phone across the table.

Kandi has booped you!
Kandi: Hi Chad
Chad: Hi!
Kandi: Tell me a dirty joke
Chad: Do you know the square root of 69?
Kandi: No
Chad: It’s “ate” something
Kandi: Srsly bro
Kandi has dumped you.

Rachel almost snorted chocolate milk out her nose. “Jesus, Chad!” she laughed, wiping her eyes with a paper napkin. “That’s your go-to dirty joke?”

I took my phone back and closed the app. “Well, it’s funny because it’s true. The square root of sixty-nine is around eight point three.”

“I’m guessing Kandi isn’t an intellectual,” Rachel philosophized. “Probably not a great match for you. But don’t get discouraged. Think of every failed match as an opportunity to practice getting better at this whole thing.”

“You’re applying growth mindset theory to chatting with cougars on 4N1K8R?”

“Sure, why not? It helps take the pressure off,” she declared while pointing at me with a carrot stick. “Chat with some bimbos who aren’t perfect matches for you. Treat each interaction as preparation for when you meet the babe who is your perfect match. Screw it up with them so you don’t screw it up with her.”

I chewed my sandwich thoughtfully. “Screw it up with the ladies? Now that I can do.”

“That’s the spirit!”

“Hang on, I just got a notification. Somebody else booped me.”

“Rude. Doesn’t she know you’re supposed to be at work right now, Mr. H?”

I opened the app again, saw Shauna’s profile, and swiped sideways.

“Why’d you swipe left?” Rachel demanded as Shauna and her kayak vaporized.

“I didn’t swipe left! I scrolled right. Right?”

Rachel thought for a second. “Okay, I can see how it looks that way,” she began slowly. “When you swipe to the left, it looks like you’re advancing to the right. But you just dumped her, Chad. You swiped left. Shaun-zo is gone-zo.”

“Shit. Can I undo it?”

“Only if you’ve already paid for Super Booper status, which you unfortunately have not.” Rachel tapped my phone with a piece of celery. “Don’t worry; the algorithm kinda sucks. She’ll show up in your feed again in about a month.”

“A month?” I sighed to the drop-tile ceiling above. “God damn it.”

—

Xtina has booped you!
Xtina: So your a math teacher?
Chad: Yup!
Xtina: Try to seduce me using math
Chad: I want to square root of 16Q²
Xtina: Huh?
Chad: I want to 4Q
Xtina: Fail
Xtina has dumped you.

Lounging in bed that night after my spicy chat with Xtina, I found a 27-minute porn scene starring George Uhl and this Czech chick named Marille. Black hair, black corset, beautiful face, big fuckin’ tits. Maybe it was supposed to be Valentine’s Day? There was a banner of pink hearts strung across the headboard of their IKEA bedframe, and he gave her a bracelet as a gift. Anyway, after they got the dialogue out of the way—“Vhere vere you? I’ve been vaiting all day!”—she pulled her enormous tits out of her corset and I shifted my phone to my left hand, shucked off my underwear, and drooled some spit into my right hand. George licked her flappy labia for a couple of minutes while she writhed around in apparent ecstasy. Then he moved up and slid his pecker between her massive milk jugs while I stroked my slick dick in rhythm with his thrusts.

George somehow found the will to stop fucking her gigantic tits and moved down to her pussy. He fucked her for a while, then nine minutes into the scene, he pulled out and dripped some cum on her twat. Okay, cool, but what the hell were they planning to do for the next eighteen minutes? Well, I decided to keep on beating my dick and find out.

My man stayed hard and fucked her for another minute before pulling out and cumming on her pussy again! The camera caught a glimpse of her making a face, like “Vhat the fuck is happening?” But guess vhat? Ol’ George vas still rock hard!

Marille sucked his cummy boner for a few minutes, and I have to admit I was a little jealous of her. I licked my salty, spitty hand, tasting my own dick before she climbed on top of him and did some theatrical reverse cowgirl. They cycled through a few more positions, and I fast-forwarded a bit until I noticed some wet drips shining on her ass while she was on her hands and knees. I rewound thirty seconds, and I’ll be damned! George pulled out of her pussy and dropped a third spurt of cum on her ass before slamming it back in again. I beat my dick faster, again matching his pace.

He fingered her and fucked her for a couple more minutes, with her huge knockers swaying and bouncing below her, until he finally told her to turn around and lie on her back. He pounded his cock into her for one more furious minute before pulling out and dropping his fourth load onto her fat, fabulous, floppy funbags.

George then kissed her slippery tits while presenting her with the bracelet she’d earned, and I was definitely jealous this time. I pounded my cock without mercy and finally let loose my own load, which shot up onto my shoulders, chest, and stomach. (I snapped a photo; I’ll post it to my media folder.) Reaching over to my kitchen table without leaving my bed—one of the benefits of a studio apartment—I wiped up all the hot, messy cum with a cloth napkin, then pulled on a t-shirt before staggering over to the fridge and grabbing a can of beer. Placing the napkin over the mouth of a pint glass I’d stolen from the Angry Beaver, I slowly poured out the beer, filtering it through the soggy napkin and creating my own cum-clouded concoction.

I stood shirtcocking in front of my window and, under the gimlet eye of a cartoon beaver gnawing on a maplewood hockey stick, raised the glass in a silent toast and chugged the contents. Looking down at the streetlights below and the industrial district stretched out before me, I wasn’t sure what the future would bring.

But for the first time in a long time, I was eager to find out.