Page 6 of The Charlie Method

How on earth is anyone supposed to get aroused by that?

Clearly, it’s time to find a new chat buddy.

I spend the next ten minutes on a swiping journey that brings a few potentials, but we’re not matches. At least not right now. I’d probably match a lot more often if I uploaded a photo with my face on it. Faith says most guys think the cute-body-no-face pics are bot accounts.

But there’s no way I’m advertising my face on a hookup app. My profile features two photos: a headless bikini shot from last summer’s family vacation to the Bahamas and me lying on my bed in a purple lace camisole and skimpy matching panties.

The latter photo is risqué, but I ensured there was nothing identifiable about it before uploading. If it does wind up online, it’s just a faceless girl on a nondescript bed. Very minimal risk of someone tracing it back to me. Or at least that was the ultimate conclusion determined by the Method, and I trust my method explicitly.

Faith makes fun of me for it, but she honestly shouldn’t knock it till she tries it. The Method has never failed me. And yes, there’s an entire document on my laptop full of Method write-ups, including whether to post sexy pictures of my body on a dating app.

I am and will forever be an obsessive nerd.

Yet I also hook up with football players in parking lots.

I’m a hot onion, as Faith once said. Layers upon layers.

I swipe through more profiles. I’m inundated with several tempting bare chests, but none of the faces are doing it for me. I’m swiping on autopilot until the app throws me a curveball: not one buttwobare chests in the same photo.

The name on the profile readsLARS & B.

Okay. Color me intrigued.

I click to read more, though truthfully, it’s less reading and more drooling. Those are two extremely hard bodies. I can count the individual abdominal muscles.

One of the guys has a tan and scarcely any body hair save for a faint dusting on his arms and legs. He’s blond—I can tell because his hair comes down to his chin, which is right where the photo cuts off. I envision a Thor type, based on the size, coloring, and muscles.

The other one is also fair-skinned, with a bit of chest hair between his defined pecs and a dark, appetizing treasure trail leading to swim trunks that ride low enough to show off his man vee.

Thor has a man vee too.

We’re drowning in man vees here.

I can’t stop staring. These are literally the sexiest bodies I’ve ever seen, which means their faces probably suck. Nobody can be genetically blessed with that much hotness.

Holding my breath, I swipe to the next picture, prepared to find two grinning ogres.

Nope. Just another headless shot. This one shows the blond solo. He’s in gray sweatpants. More oblique goodness entices my eyes.

The third photo is of the other guy, wearing ripped jeans and a snug polo shirt that shows off his sculpted arms.

Their bio is equally intriguing.

Two guys, one profile. Twice the charm, double the trouble. Looking for one girl who can handle twice the fun ;) So if you’re the kinky type, let’s chat.

Let’s chat, huh?

I mean, I guess I am the kinky type. But…

But nothing. It’s not like I’m signing a blood oath to meet these guys. There’s no obligation here other than to chat with them on the app and delete them if I don’t want to keep chatting. We’re not entering into a digital marriage contract.

My finger hovers over the heart icon. I lick my lips and…tap.

Nothing happens.

All that buildup, and we’re not even a match.

CHAPTER TWO

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