I am standing barefoot in my kitchen at 5:47 p.m. on a random Tuesday, staring at the empty Sub-Zero fridge like it personally betrayed me. The house is too quiet. 35 years old, eight figure exit from the tech company I built from my bedroom, and somehow I still cannot manage to feed myself properly.
The marble counters gleam under the recessed lights. Floor to ceiling windows look out over the hills. I have a home gym that cost more than most people’s cars and a pantry full of protein powder I barely touch. Discipline used to be easy. Now it feels like a chore.
I tell myself I am not lonely. I am just busy. Or maybe I am just bad at being single again.
Six months ago, the divorce with Lauren was finalized. No screaming matches, no lawyers throwing dirt, just two people who had slowly turned into roommates who still had decent sex on schedule. We fell out of love somewhere between her climbing the corporate ladder and me selling my company. The spark that kept us going for ten years simply ran out. We both agreed it was better to end it clean.
But being alone in this big house has done strange things to my head.
I have known I was bisexual since my freshman year of college. It is not some big dramatic secret. It just never went anywhere real.
Back then, I was a member of a fraternity. One night in the basement after too many beers, a group of us ended up playing truth or dare. Things got stupid fast. One of the older guys dared two of us to jerk each other off. “It’s not gay if you are both doing it, bro,” he said. We were nineteen and dumb and horny, so we did it.
His name was Ryan. Tall, cocky lacrosse player with a big dick and zero shame. I still remember the weight of his big dick in my hand, the way he breathed heavy when I stroked him. I might have stared at his cock a little longer than necessary. Might have wondered what the tip feel like in my mouth. Might have come harder than I ever had with a girl up until that point.
We did it a few more times that semester. Never kissed. Never talked about it in daylight. Just drunk, late night, “bro” stuff in the dark. Every time it happened, I told myself it did not mean anything. I had just started dating Lauren anyway. She was beautiful, funny, safe. Being with her felt right. The frat stuff was just experimentation. Nothing more.
I buried it deep after that. Lauren and I got serious fast. We got engaged junior year, married right after graduation. Ten years of marriage. Good years. Really good sex for most of it. I loved her. I still do in a lot of ways. But somewhere along the line, the fire turned into comfortable warmth, then into something closer to friendship. We stopped touching unless it was scheduled. We stopped talking about anything real.
When we finally decided to separate, it felt like both relief and failure at the same time.
Now I am here. Single. Rich. Restless. And those old college memories have started creeping back louder than ever. Especially at night when the house is quiet and my hand finds its way into my pants.
I grab my phone from the counter and open Instagram before I can talk myself out of it. I already know exactly where I am going.
His name is Julien Duval.
I found his profile two weeks ago while searching for private chefs who could handle high protein meal prep. His account popped up immediately. French guy. 32. Specializes in custom dining experiences for busy professionals. His bio says he creates “sensual dining experiences” and the moment I read that line my thumb froze on the screen.
The pictures are ridiculous.
There he is in his own kitchen, shirtless under a simple black apron tied low on his hips. Tattoos snake up both forearms, one looks like a sharp chef’s knife wrapped in vines. His chest is thick and defined, pink nipples peeking out against smooth skin that glistens slightly from the heat of the stove. Abs carved like they were made for licking. That deep V line disappearing under the apron makes my mouth go dry every single time.
One photo in particular destroys me. He is drizzling warm olive oil over roasted vegetables, forearm flexed hard, that confident half smile on his face. The caption reads: “Sensual dining is not just about the food. It is about how it feels on your tongue.”
I have jerked off to that picture more times than I care to admit.
Right now I am rock hard again just scrolling. I zoom in on his nipples, wondering how they would feel under my tongue. I stare at the heavy bulge the apron is barely hiding and wonder how big his cock actually is. I imagine him standing in my kitchen, that same calm smile on his face while he watches me fall apart.
Part of me keeps telling myself I am only hiring him because he knows his shit. Healthy recipes. Perfect macros. Professional meal prep. That’s all.
But the other part, the part that is currently throbbing in my sweatpants, knows I am full of shit.
I have been telling myself the same lie for two weeks. Every night I scroll. Every night I get harder. Every night I come thinking about a man I have never even met.
Tonight I finally stop lying to myself.
I tap the message button and type before I can chicken out.
“Hey Julien, saw your profile. Need someone for weekly meal prep. High protein, clean ingredients, nothing too fancy. You available?”
I hit send and immediately feel my stomach flip.
His reply comes faster than I expect.
“Hey Connor! Yes, I am free to meet this Thursday. I specialize in exactly that kind of thing. Send me your macros and any allergies? Happy to make your life easier, man.”
The casual “man” at the end makes something warm curl in my chest. He sounds chill. Friendly. Not flirty, just easygoing. I like that.
I send him my macros sheet that I keep saved in notes.
He replies almost immediately.
“Looks good. Clean and disciplined. I like that. Also I saw you liked the sensual dining experience in my profile. Want to try the full package or keep it simple meal-prep?”
I stare at the screen for a long moment. My cock twitches.
I type back.
“Yeah, let’s do the full thing. Sounds interesting.”
His next message comes with a wink emoji.
“Perfect. Can’t wait to cook for you, Connor. You are going to eat well. ;)”
That wink emoji should not affect me the way it does. It’s just friendly. He is French. They probably do that. Still, I am half hard again just from texting him.
We go back and forth a little more. He asks about my favorite flavors, what turns me on to certain textures, then corrects it quickly to “what excites your palate.” I laugh out loud in my empty kitchen. He replies with a laughing emoji and says he is looking forward to meeting me in person.
By the time we finish the conversation I have a session booked for this Thursday at 6 p.m.
Two days away.
I spend the next 48 hours in a weird state of nervous anticipation. I work out harder than usual. I change my sheets. I clean the kitchen twice even though the cleaning lady already did it. I tell myself it’s because I want to make a good impression on the guy I am paying to cook for me.
Deep down I know the truth. I want to look good for him.
Thursday finally arrives.
I have changed shirts twice already. First a plain white tee, then a fitted black one that shows off my arms and chest a little better. I am wearing my favorite gray sweatpants, the ones that make my ass look decent and do nothing to hide anything if I get hard. I tell myself I am not trying to look hot. I am just comfortable.
At 5:58 p.m. I am standing in my own kitchen, heart pounding harder than it has any right to. The marble island is spotless. The lights are dimmed just enough to feel warm instead of clinical. I have already jerked off once today in the shower so I would not pop a boner the second he walks in, but I can already feel myself getting half hard again from pure nerves.
The doorbell rings.
I take one deep breath, run a hand through my hair, and walk to the front door.
Here we go.
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