by Penny Wylder
I’ve never told her that. I probably should’ve kept it to myself. The longer I sit with the thought, the more I start to regret telling her.
I wait for her to say something about it—freak out, more like it. It’s not the type of confession Stephanie will just let go.
One minute goes by, then two, and still nothing. Maybe she’s too busy rolling around on the floor, laughing.
Fuck. Now I’m really regretting it. Stephanie and I tell each other some personal shit, but this might be over the line. This has potential to become an anvil she’ll hold over my head for the rest of my life. A pointed weapon she can jab me with whenever she feels the need to entertain herself.
While I wait for her to reply, I turn up the music on my iPod and go through my Christmas list, checking off the gifts I’ve already bought and the ones I still need to buy. Stephanie has been taken care of. She’s the easiest to shop for. Sex toys all the way now that she’s living the single life again—and perhaps, after my admission, a ball gag. The list seems to go on forever. I need to get something for my boss. The Christmas party is coming up soon and I haven’t gotten anything for anyone at work yet. I’m such a procrastinator. If I wait any longer, I’ll be fighting the Christmas Eve crowds in stores I would never shop at otherwise.
My eyelids grow heavy and I catch myself starting to doze off. I can’t nap right now. There’s too much to do, so I get up off my bed in my PJs and thick socks, and go into the kitchen for some caffeine. Once I’ve made my coffee and get something to eat, I look out the window.
Such a beautiful winter evening. The sun is starting to set, casting everything in a gray-blue shadow. A perfect layer of fresh snow on the ground, unmarred by the scurry of busy feet. Winter is my favorite time of year for pumpkin and chestnut flavored things, for reading beside the fireplace, and wearing all my cute scarves and boots. I’d love to just sit around the apartment all day, every day, doing nothing—like I did today.
I take my coffee and go back to my room where my fluffy feather comforter is in a ball on my mattress and last night’s clothes lay scattered across the floor. I never bother to clean on my days off.
The light on my phone is flashing on my bedside table. Picking it up and swiping to reveal my home screen, I see that there are several texts from Stephanie and an equal amount of missed calls. What the hell? I was gone fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. She never calls me unless there’s a dire emergency.
Suddenly I’m thinking car wreck. Please tell me she wasn’t messaging and driving. Especially in the evening when the temperature begins to dip and streets ice up. I worry about that girl sometimes and her bad decisions, but I don’t think she would be that thick-headed.
She didn’t leave a voice mail, so I check my texts. There are five of them and they all say the same thing: Check your freakin computer, damn it!
I frown at the screen. If she were hurt, she would’ve said so. My relief is subdued by the annoyance pricking my nerves. This is too needy, even for her.
I glance at my computer where my Instant Messenger is closed. Weird. I don’t remember closing it. I just sent her a message before I got up. I open the app and see her frantic words in all caps.
HOLY SHIT. LOOK AT TWITTER.
Really? Is whatever’s happening on Twitter worth scaring the shit out of me with all those phone calls? Figuring she’s following the same story I was, I go to Twitter—which I thought I closed along with the pop-ups, but apparently didn’t—and see that I have over three hundred ‘likes’ and one thousand shares.
Shares? I haven’t posted anything recently, not since announcing the coming snow storm in the local forum, which, obviously has already happened. Not exactly a post newsworthy enough for likes, and definitely not for shares. All you’d have to do was turn on the news for that kind of info anyways.
I look at my previous posts to see what’s going on and my stomach lurches. Suddenly the room is too hot. My feet are burning inside my comfy socks, socks that aren’t feeling so comfy at the moment.
Instead of sending the message about my orgasm—or lack thereof—to Stephanie on Instant Messenger, I sent it to my Twitter feed. A very public Twitter feed. To my five thousand followers—three thousand who live in my very town. I guess I’m no longer invisible to them after all. My omission is displayed like some lewd flasher in the mall, exposing myself.
What. The fuck.
My phone rings. I pick it up. Stephanie’s voice on the other end, high and frantic: “You are punk as fuck,” she says in her high, brassy excited voice. “I can’t believe you just told the entire Twitterverse about your bedroom tragedy after you swore me to secrecy. I thought you didn’t want anyone to know. Doesn’t everyone we went to high school with follow you in the local forum?” She doesn’t stop talking long enough for me to reply. “You’re seriously my hero.”
At first I just stare at the computer screen, my mind spinning in circles. Finally, I find my voice. It comes out meek, scared. “I didn’t mean to.” I clear my throat, and when I speak again it’s less pathetic. “That was meant to be a private message to you! I can just delete it, right? Pretend it didn’t happen.”
Stephanie can’t hold back her laughter, even though I know she hears the distress in my voice. She’s probably thinking, ‘better you than me.’ Actually, I doubt she would care if it were her. Most likely she’d find her own admission funny too. She would love all the attention. Sometimes I wish I were more like her.
“Deleting it would be a little obvious, don’t you think?” she says. “Leave it. That way, if people think you did it on purpose, you’ll seem like some kind of rebel. You know, fuck the world. Like some brave bloggeress who’s confident enough to tell the world about her sad vagina.”
Jesus Christ. I’m so fucked.
The shares and ‘likes’ just keep multiplying until one thousand becomes two and I’m thinking of different haircuts and disguises I can use to change my identity. I will be Callista no more. Maybe I’ll change my name to something more timeless, more old Hollywood, like Maude, or Betty. Or how about something exotic? Angelica, or Mariana.
“How the hell am I getting so many shares?” I demand. It’s not like I’m some celebrity or something. I’m just nobody trying to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to buy my friends and family for Christmas.
“People have no lives,” Stephanie says. “It’s cold as shit outside and everyone is sitting around their computers like zombies, shopping online and checking out the WhatTheFuckery happening on Twitter. Like us.”
My computer chimes.
“Oh, God, here we go,” I say, my heart seizing. “I just got a private message on Twitter.”
Her laughter rings in my ears. “Read it.”
I don’t want to read it. I want to delete it without even opening it. People are bold on the internet. They say hurtful, horrible things and don’t care who it’s aimed at. They don’t stop to think that there’s a living, breathing human being on the other side of their insults. I don’t want my Christmas to be ruined by hateful trolls.
I stare at the little envelope icon with the red dot next to it, wondering what to do next. If I delete it, I’ll always be wondering what it said. Whatever it says, I can handle it. I’m sure I’m not the only girl in the world who’s never had a guy give her an orgasm before, right? I mean, that’s not my fault.
Or maybe it is.
Doubt starts to wriggle its way inside my head until I’m wondering if maybe it’s me. Maybe there is something wrong with my body and it was never the fault of the guys I’ve been with—even if most of them seemed to be fumbling idiots in the sack with no clue as to the workings of female anatomy.
I’ve had plenty of men brag about their sexual prowess before having sex with me, only to give it their all and come out defeated. My vagina is oh-for-none. Men come to play, and leave with their tails tucked forlornly between their legs. I used to fake orgasms to give them a boost of confidence, like a participation trophy. The olde
r I get the less patience I have. You either play to win or get the fuck off my field.
Ugh. Okay, enough of the sports analogies.
I look at the envelope icon again and decide, fuck it. Whatever it says, I can handle it. Can’t be worse than it already is. I’m far too curious not to read it anyways.
I open it. The message is from a user named Heath ‘O-Maker’ James.
An amused laugh rises up in my throat. Is this guy for real? This is going to be weird, and I’m not sure if I’m up for it right now.
“Did you open it yet?” Stephanie says. I’d forgotten we were still on the phone.
“Not yet,” I say, trying to figure out how to turn on the speaker, but unable to find the right button. We rarely ever talk on the phone. It’s always text or Instant Messenger, and on rare occasions, Skype. “Switch to messenger.”
“Yeah, because that had great results last time,” she says. “I think you’ve forgotten how to internet.”
“I don’t want to juggle my phone on my shoulder while I’m trying to read my messages.”
She grumbles. “Fine. But try not to embarrass yourself again.”
I hang up. The moment I do, she’s messaging me. Moving the messenger icon onto my toolbar, I go back to Twitter and into my private messages.
I hesitate a moment longer, then open it.
Heath O-Maker James: Never had a man give you an orgasm before, huh?
Oh God. Who is this guy?
My Instant Messenger frantically dings. I can practically feel Stephanie’s anxiety coming through my computer. Ignoring it, I stare at the Twitter message from Mr. O-Maker, my hands hovering over the glowing keys.
I contemplate telling him it was just a joke, something my friend and I did to get attention, but for whatever reason I just don’t want to. I’m not sure why, but I feel compelled to tell the truth. Confess to some faceless person I’ll never meet in real life. Tell him that no, I’ve never had a man give me an orgasm before. Not for lack of trying, of course. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends give it their all, but for some reason they just never got me there.
My fingers tingle, ready to type. I don’t know this guy. What if he’s some creep and I’m playing into his sick fantasy? Then again, what do I have to lose?
Taking a deep breath, I type. No, I haven’t.
I chew on my bottom lip while waiting for him to reply.
Heath O-Maker James: I could help you with that.
I cough out a laugh.
Me: You don’t even know what I look like. For all you know I could be some hairy middle aged truck driver, scratching my balls in my elderly mother’s basement while trying to pick up young guys.
My profile picture is of my feet in the sand from Stephanie’s and my trip to the Oregon coast over the summer. I’ve never posted my face on Twitter before.
Heath O-Maker James: As fun as that all sounds, I know what you look like. Your Instagram account is posted in your profile. You’re very beautiful.
I pinch my eyes closed. Damn it. I forgot about that.
Me: Oh. Thank you. Even if I did make a habit of sleeping with randos I meet over the internet—which I don’t—we probably don’t live anywhere near each other.
Heath O-Maker James: You live in Brettsville. I’m in San Pedro County.
My breath catches and I scoot away from my computer like it might bite me. How does he know that? Fear curdles in my stomach, making me feel sick.
As if reading my mind, he writes back: Your location shows up next to your name every time you type me a message. You really should utilize your privacy options.
I’m still stunned and don’t reply right away. I should’ve known better since I can see other people’s locations too once in a while.
My Instant Messenger goes off again and again until it’s too annoying to ignore. Finally, I click on it.
Stephanie: Who is the message from? What are they saying? I swear to God, if you keep ignoring me, I’ll come to your apartment and never leave.
I sigh. She’ll do it. And once she does, she’s impossible to get rid of.
Me: It’s some guy by the name of Heath O-Maker James. He wants to help me with my little problem.
Several minutes pass and she hasn’t replied. In the meantime, I get another message from Heath. I hesitate, then open it.
Heath O-Maker James: I know what you’re thinking, but I promise I’m not some pervert lurking in the shadows, trying to lure insecure girls into my dungeon. I’m just offering to make you feel good. No strings attached.
Insecure? He thinks I’m insecure? He’s not wrong, but where the hell does he get off saying things like that? As if I’m some sad case who can’t get laid? Trust me; I can get laid. That’s never been the problem. The problem is what happens after the clothes come off.
My fingers punch at the keys, irate: Oh, well, since you promise, then, um, no. And, by the way, I’m not insecure. I’m a very secure person, thank you.
A second later he responds with: Ha! Is someone a little touchy? Did I strike a nerve?
He’s bating me. He’s using words like “insecure” to get under my skin. It works, but I’m not going to tell him that.
My Instant Messenger dings again. I’m having a hard time juggling both conversations. Maybe Stephanie was right. Maybe I don’t know how to internet and should try my hand at old fashioned phone conversations.
I bring Instant Messenger up onto my main screen.
Stephanie: Oh My God. You have to say yes to him.
Me: Are you insane? I don’t know this guy. What if he’s a serial killer?
She responds with a link.
Stephanie: I looked up his name and was searching through his feed and found these.
I click on the highlighted link she sent. It’s a list of comments from women to Heath O-Maker James on Twitter. Not from just one or two, but from lots of women. I read them aloud to myself. “Thank you for last night,” I say. It’s from user @JasmineFontana. “You were incredible last night.” From @BrendaQua. “I’ve never had a man touch me like that before.” This one is from @LadyBella, who is a certified Twitter user with a check next to her name. I thought only celebrities got those. The last one says, ‘You made me cum so hard.’ I read that one several more times in my head.
I can’t help but feel intrigued. I’m not going to say that to Stephanie though, or she’ll push me even harder to sleep with this guy. Especially if I tell her we live less than an hour apart.
Me: He’s disgusting.
Stephanie: You’re kidding, right? He sounds exquisite.
Me: Look how many women he’s had sex with. It’s ridiculous.
Stephanie: Look how happy they are.
That’s undeniable. But I can’t even fathom having sex with a stranger. Chances are, even if I were crazy enough to give it a go, I’d be too nervous to even get turned on.
Me: I’m not doing it.
I’ve made up my mind. This is too insane. This is something Stephanie would do on a whim. Not me. I’m not that brave—or crazy.
Stephanie: You haven’t even seen what he looks like!
Me: I don’t care what he looks like.
Stephanie: For shits and giggles, let’s just see what he looks like first before you shut him down completely.
Me: It doesn’t matter.
Stephanie: Please. For me.
I grumble. She always pulls that “for me” bullshit. As if our entire friendship hasn’t always been for her.
Me: Fine.
I give in like I always do.
I send a message to Heath: Since you already know what I look like, it’s only fair if you send me a picture of yourself.
A few seconds later a message shows up in my box. I click on it and see that it’s an Instagram account for Heath James. No “O-Maker” in between the names. Just him.
I lean closer to the screen. Hand shaking, heart pounding in my chest, I reach for my mouse. I don’t know why I’m so nervous about seeing what he loo
ks like. It’s not like anything will ever come of this. We won’t text or talk on the phone. We won’t ever meet—no matter what he looks like. I’m just curious, I guess.
I don’t know what I was picturing, but it’s not the man in the photos. He’s in his mid-late twenties, he looks tall, though I guess it’s kind of hard to tell from a picture. He’s drop-dead gorgeous, has scruffy stubble on a strong jaw, soft-looking full lips, and the most amazing icy-blue eyes lined with long dark lashes that make them stand out even more. I would kill to have those eyes. How is it fair for one person to have so many perfect attributes? I bet he’s a real asshole. That, or a complete idiot. Someone who looks that good can’t possibly have a great personality too.
In nearly all of his pictures, he’s with a dog. A husky with one blue eye, almost the same color as Heath’s, and one brown. They aren’t selfies. Just of Heath and his dog in different places. Mostly in country settings, hiking near a river, kayaking on a lake. An outdoors, rugged kind of guy. He looks like the type. I wonder who’s taking all of these photos. Probably the women who seem to worship him in bed.
I stumble across a picture of him without a shirt, standing knee-deep in the ocean in a pair of swimming shorts. His chest is smooth and hairless—unlike his face—and chiseled with muscle as if he’d just stepped out of the gym. His smile shines bright white, squinting his eyes as his dog leaps out of the water to grab the stick he’s holding in his hand.
Are you fucking kidding me? He even has perfect teeth. Even if I were contemplating sleeping with him, there’s no way I could be with a guy who’s better looking than me. On a good day, with the right makeup and decent lighting, I might be an eight. Heath is a hard ten. Easy. I’ve only seen men like him in magazines. He looks airbrushed, beautiful. Nothing like the men I’ve had in my bed.
Suddenly, without realizing it at first, I’m picturing him lying on top of me, those beautiful blue eyes staring into mine. I’m actually picturing what it would be like to be naked in bed with a perfect stranger.
My Instant Messenger chimes, and I open it.
Stephanie: Well, did you find out what he looks like?
