Porchlight Hunger

I love sitting on my porch, listening to the boards rock beneath. Every sound reminds me of how many times pleasure has found me here.

I’ve met boyfriends, one-night stands, one husband, and one man I needed a restraining order from on this porch. Tonight, I’m hoping for someone decent enough to leave quietly.

I smirk, thinking of the men, their stamina, and wild appetites. My sister’s warning swims in my head: stop dating what she calls porch dudes. It’s a loaded warning.

This was our childhood home. Didn’t she meet her teenage sweetheart when he followed her home from school and sat with her on this very porch? Decades later, their love is still going strong.

I met my first love here, too. He introduced me to the joys of these boards.

I hear my sister’s caution, but my desires run differently. How else am I supposed to date? I don’t do apps. Don’t go to bars.

The dress I slipped into after work is doing exactly what I intended. I bought it when I was heavier, wanting to shed inches. Mission accomplished.

I believe in speaking my desires into reality. Tonight, I want to have fun. Freaky fun.

Blunt in my right hand, sangria in my left, I braced myself as a car cruised down the block.

I smiled.

The car shifted into reverse and into a parking spot.

A man hopped out. He was tall and clean-cut. Handsome like an Instagram influencer or TV personality.

He was smiling, looking marvelous.

As he walked toward my porch, butterflies TikTok’d in my stomach.

Didn’t I manifest this?

I know, he said, smooth as a late-night DJ, strolling up the steps. You're trying to figure out where you know me from.

My heart skipped beats. He reminded me of someone famous, but who?

You look familiar, I said, arching my body for his view.

He leaned against the railing.

He smiled.

What’s a beautiful woman doing out here alone on a Friday night? You look like you’re waiting on trouble or dinner.

I swirled what was left in my glass into my mouth.

Both.

He laughed, took the blunt from my fingers, and inhaled like he was testing it.

Where’s this from? Your guy? He backed up, ready to leave if he didn’t like my answer.

The dispensary. I don’t have a guy.

He nodded, passing it back and looking me up and down.

Who you live with?

No one. This is my house.

I usually lie for safety, but he put me at ease. I let it slip.

He whispered low.

Is it paid off?

You can pay it off, I teased, matching his energy.

He rubbed his jaw, amused.

You're bold and beautiful.

He stepped closer, eyes sweeping over me like he wanted a taste.

I could get in trouble with you.

Could?

I put my hands on my hips.

Trouble looks delicious on you.

I blushed.

He took my hand, turning me slowly as if memorizing me. My head spun long after he let go.

The wind lifted my dress as if to invite him. He looked away, letting out a low, wanting whistle.

I gotta handle something really quick, he said, backing down the steps.

I stuffed my dress between my legs and could feel its wetness. I held it tight inside my quivering knees.

He turned smoothly, not wanting me to see his excitement.

I’m coming back.

I know.

I raced up the steps, spilling wine on my dress, dropping the glass.

Whatever. I peeled it off on the stairs. I wasn’t wearing panties or a bra.

I jumped in the shower. In and out in two minutes. Slipped into another sexy summer dress.

My phone rang. I answered, putting in an earring.

Hold a minute, sis.

Where are you going?

On a date.

Silence.

Not another porch dude.

This one's a killer.

You never know.

I laugh.

Freudian slip. This one's a keeper.

I hung up and dabbed on lip gloss.

Out of habit, I dropped my 9-Glock into my purse.

I rushed back to the porch, flung the door open, and gasped! The Sexy-Tall man was gone.

I plunked down in the chair and read a text from my sister. It never works out with the porch dudes. Sis, be careful.

Her text ended with a bunch of heart emojis. I hearted it back, frowning.

I didn't catch the dude’s name. But he and my blunt were gone. I rolled my eyes.

I poured more wine and started doom-scrolling.

My phone rang. I usually ignore private numbers. Usually.

Hello, I said in my sweetest voice.

I went and changed, a smooth voice said. I couldn’t have my date looking amazing, and I didn’t.

You still up for dinner? I hung up, knowing he would take it as a yes.

This time, I’m getting his number and his contact info. I crinkled my face.

I’d never given him my number. Did I?

The sound of a dropped wine glass shook me out of sleep. I braced myself on the doorknob as the guy pulled up, yelling through the passenger window.

Girl, let’s go!

Sweating, he peeled out fast.

You okay?

Yeah! He snapped.

He was breathing harder than before. I cracked the window and rolled my neck.

How did you get my number?

I got it out of your phone when you went inside.

I raised an eyebrow.

Actually, I found it online.

His foot stayed heavy on the gas.

You don't believe me?!

I didn't answer.

He slammed on the brakes and mean-mugged me.

You better answer me.

My eyes twitched; the rest of me was frozen.

I believe you.

He turned back to the road. From the corner of my eye, I noticed he hadn’t changed. The clothes he'd worn earlier looked disheveled.

He smiled wide. His mood switched back on like a light switch.

Sorry, babe. I had an emergency, and I’m still on edge.

He playfully slapped my leg.

Where do you wanna go to dinner?

I sat trembling, wondering why he was calling me “babe” when he didn’t even know me.

My phone rang. I texted instead of answering.

Hey sis. I’m with somebody I thought was that influencer from TikTok. License plate JEF1234. Salt. Going to Mahogany’s.

Salt was our emergency code.

Who are you texting?

My sister.

He looked furious.

When he turned, I noticed a teardrop tattoo under his eye, something I hadn’t seen earlier.

She can’t believe I’m on a date. It’s been so long.

You told her you were on a date? His voice cracked.

I nodded slowly, remembering my sister calling while I was getting dressed.

He didn’t get my number from my phone.

Put your phone down. He demanded.

I slid it into my purse, behind my Glock.

I counted his lies:

He said he changed clothes.

He didn’t.

He said he took my number from my phone.

Impossible.

He said he found it online.

Liar.

He presented himself as someone important.

He's insane.

My knees shook uncontrollably; I calmed them by keeping my hand in my purse.

Thunder rolled as rain began to fall in heavy plops.

Why you so quiet now? he said, gripping the wheel. You were loud on the porch.

I’m sick. Can you pull over so I can puke?

He laughed coldly.

Bitches always blame it on the alcohol.

I put my hand over my mouth and gagged.

Throw up in my car, and I’ll punch you.

My chest tightened. Leya?

My name is Lisa, I whispered.

He pounded the steering wheel.

You don’t get to change your name to escape me.

Escape him? WTF was he talking about?

Streetlights whipped across his face, revealing one eye larger than the other, and his jaw twitching.

Rain blew in through the cracked window, merging with tears.

Softly, I said, I’ve always cared about you.

His mood softened.

You did.

Why’d you stop calling? He asked, whimpering.

You changed your number.

The perfume you are wearing today smells good.

I leaned closer, pretending to be whomever he needed to believe I am.

With every smile, I was plotting.

If he slowed down, I was jumping.

If he stopped, I was running.

If he turned down a dark street, I was shooting.

He was breathing hard. I put my hand on the top of his crotch.

If you pull over, I’ll make it worth your while.

He smiled-frowned, reaching for something under his seat.

A car in front of us stopped without warning. He slammed on the brakes.

I jumped out and dove into the car we’d almost hit. Thank goodness the doors were unlocked.

I locked them immediately.

A woman in her early twenties, with long braids, stared at me wide-eyed.

Please drive to the nearest police station as fast as you can.

Who are you?

Please! I’m not dangerous. I raised my hands. Rainwater streaked down my arms. I’m running for my life. I need to get to the police station.

The hard stop had stalled his car. I saw him in the rearview mirror, looking under the hood.

There’s a station on Martin Luther King, Dr.

I know where it is. She whipped the car through traffic.

More words spilled out. I met this guy; I thought he was an influencer. Turns out he’s crazy. He knows where I live.

I’ll get you there.

When we arrive, I’ll hop out. You lock your doors and peel off.

You on social? I blurted — the most random question in the middle of a crisis.

It’s @21pretty.

I’m @Lisalove2030.

I bolted toward the door.