by Penny Wylder
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 looks 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?
I contemplate telling her no. If she sees how good-looking he is, she’ll never let it go. But I’ve never lied to my best friend and I’m not about to now. No matter how annoying she can be.
I send the link, then switch back over to Twitter and my conversation with Heath.
Me: I like your dog.
Heath O-Maker James: That’s it? You like my dog?
I’m sensing that he’s waiting for me to gush about how hot he is. I’m sure that’s what all the women who talk to him do. I’m not one of his groupies. He’s practically a god, yes, but I’m not about to feed his ego with cheap fluff.
Me: Yes, I like your dog. What’s his name?
Heath O-Maker James: Opie. He’s my best friend.
I fight the adorable thoughts running through my head. I swear, I’m a sucker for a guy and his dog. I’m sure it’s yet another way he lures women into his sex web.
Me: So, are you like a prostitute or something?
I guess it would be called a gigolo for a man, but that’s such a stupid word and I refuse to use it.
Heath O-Maker James: No, nothing like that. I just like sex and making women feel good. If you’ve never had a guy make you come before, chances are he’s doing something wrong. You need to be with someone who knows what they’re doing. I can make your pussy explode just by using my fingers, and I’m far better with my tongue. Do you like to have your pussy eaten?
I’m taken aback by how blunt and sexual he is. I don’t know this guy and I’m definitely not comfortable talking like that to someone I don’t know. Without responding, I click out of Twitter and bring up Instant Messenger again and see that there’s a string of messages from Stephanie. They mostly blather on and on about how hot he is.
Me: I gotta go, Steph. I’ll talk to you about it later.
Stephanie: Don’t hang up on me, Callista. We need to talk about this O-Maker some more.
Me: Later. I promise.
&nb
sp; Okay, so maybe I do lie to my best friend once in a while, because I have no plans on talking about it later with her.
2
The rest of the night is spent watching mindless TV, but my thoughts keep going back to my conversation with the O-Maker. I think about his words. In my head I can hear them. I imagine what his voice would sound like. Deep, confident, sexy, I bet.
Jesus, stop it, I tell myself. He probably sounds like Minnie Mouse and has a lisp. Probably some weirdo, trolling the internet for vulnerable girls so he can lure them back to his sewing room and make couture body suits out of their skin.
When I’m finally tired enough to where I think I can fall asleep, it’s past two in the morning. I lay in bed, but sleep doesn’t come. All I can think about are Heath’s words.
Do you like to have your pussy eaten?
It’s not an easy question to answer. In theory, yes I do. Something warm and soft and wet should feel amazing on sensitive body parts, but the few times I’ve had men go down on me, they’ve pointed their tongues and jabbed at me like my vagina was a keyboard and they were transcribing the event. Not exactly a turn on.
But aside from the all of that, I can’t get over how blunt he was on the computer. I wouldn’t say I’m a prude. Far from it, actually, but I’ve never had a guy talk to me in that way before. So aggressive and in my face. If I didn’t have a face to go with the words, I would’ve found them revolting. But when I think about Heath, those penetrating blue eyes looking up at me, I picture his mouth between my legs, his full lips parting, wet tongue pressing at my opening, I’m anything but repulsed.
I have no idea how I’m supposed to sleep now. The heater kicks on. I take off my covers and then my clothes. Getting up, I go turn it down, but soon after I get cold. I can’t seem to get comfortable, and a lot of it has to do with the fact that I’m turned on.
My computer is on my desk, the battery light blinking as it charges. I stare at it, wondering if he’s messaged me again. I haven’t checked Twitter since I closed out of it, leaving him hanging. Probably not. A guy like him doesn’t need to beg. But apparently, he thinks I do, since he thinks I’m insecure.
I refuse to check my messages. I may be insecure, but I’m not desperate. I don’t get up. I’m not getting out of bed for some stranger.
The next morning, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. Once I’m dressed I finally break down and check Twitter. Like I thought, he didn’t write back.
I managed to only get a couple hours of sleep and it’s evident by the dark circles under my eyes and the puffy skin of my face. I put on some makeup and head out to the parking lot. A frigid breeze manages to shock the drowsiness out of me.
Once I’m in the parking lot I notice all the cars are covered in snow. There’s an x-rated snowman nearby and someone’s name written in yellow on an otherwise untouched landscape. I have to guess which car is mine. All of them are just white heaps beneath the snowy surface. When I find it, I shovel off the mound with my hands until I can reach the driver-side door. It’s frozen shut. After I finally manage to get it open, the car won’t start.
Leaning my head against the steering wheel, I say to no one in particular, “Are you serious?”
At least the subway is nearby. I can walk there and get to town much faster that way. I go back into my apartment for a scarf for the walk, then head toward the subway. The sidewalks are slick with ice. Even though I wore boots with good traction, I still have to be careful not to fall.
The subway station smells like dirty diapers and human filth, but at least it’s warm. When the train stops, I climb aboard. It takes fifteen minutes by subway to reach my usual coffee shop. I almost fall asleep during the ride, but wake up just in time for my stop when someone beside me announces they have to pee.
I get off the subway and weave through the mess of weekend commuters. As soon as I climb the stairs, out of the tunnels, I’m seized by the biting air, my breath puffing a white billowy cloud in front of me.
Wrapping my scarf tighter around my neck, I walk several blocks to my favorite coffee shop. Inside, it’s warm and the smell of coffee and fall spices is inviting. A few minutes later, my jaw stops chattering and my muscles thaw enough to relax.
It’s such a cute little shop. Privately owned instead of one of those stiff chains where every single one of its stores looks the same and plays the same annoying jazz from speakers, too loud to hear yourself think, let alone read or relax while you drink your coffee.
The walls here are covered in unusual, strange art, the furniture mismatched and colorful, and the only sound is the hiss of espresso machines, the traffic outside, and the chatter of friends.
Most the people in the shop are regulars. There’s the old man who reads his book in the window seat. Last time I saw him he was reading Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier. Today it’s Love Story, by Erich Segal. Another regular sits in his usual spot in the corner, wearing an ankle monitor and ratty sweats. He plays video games on his phone without headphones, the volume on high. I figure it’s probably best to steer clear of that guy. By the empty tables around him, I assume everyone is of a similar conclusion.
On one of the sofas is a bunch of L. L. Bean-wearing yuppy kids on their iPads. I don’t recognize any of them. Must be here for winter break like most young people in this town. The local college doesn’t exactly bring people to town for the education.
When I walk by they start to laugh. I look at them, making eye contact with one of the guys, early twenties, good-looking in a plastic way. His hair is too neat, face too clear, teeth too big and straight. His gaze breaks away from mine and he cups his mouth with his hand, laughing. As soon as he does this, his friends do the same.
Now I’m getting paranoid. I’m jittery and nervous as I walk to the back of the line where people wait to order. I look down at my clothes, on the back of my shoes, wondering if a streamer of toilet paper is trailing behind me. There’s nothing that I can see.
Staring straight ahead, I try to ignore everyone. Still, I can’t help but rub my face and wipe my hands down the front of my shirt just in case there’s something there.
Once I’m at the front, I order my pumpkin cappuccino. The barista stares at me like she wants to say something. I’ve been coming to this coffee shop for as long as it’s been open. I know these people well enough that I no longer need to say my name with my order. They no longer ask. And still, this girl looks at me like we’ve never met before.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, hoping she’ll reveal whatever it is that seems to be drawing everyone’s attention.
She’s a cute girl, also twenty something, with a pixie haircut and upturned nose. I remember when she first got the job here, fumbling with the foam machines and messing up everyone’s orders. She’s a manager now and makes the coolest leaf patterns out of milk on the lattes.
She shakes her head, glancing at her co-worker who hides her smile behind her hand just like the L.L. Bean kids had. “Nope, not at all. Can I get you anything else?”
I was going to order a muffin, but now I just want to get the hell out of here.
“No, thank you.”
I sit down at an empty table, looking down at my phone and ignoring everyone.
“Callista,” the barista calls out.
When I go to grab it, I look at the cup, but it’s not my name that’s written on it. Instead she wrote, in messy cursive writing, ‘The No-O.’
I wait for the barista to finish up with her customer, then ask, “Is this mine? It says ‘The No-O’ on it.”
Two of the other girls at the counter snort out a laugh.
“It’s definitely yours,” she says.
I look at them, confused and pissed off. I’ve been coming to this coffee shop long enough to where I would think the baristas would tell me if something were wrong with me. I’m an amazing tipper, for fuck sake—well over the twenty percent line. Never again. In fact, I don’t know if I ever want to step foot through these doors. I guess I’ll
just have to deal with the burnt taste of coffee at the big chains.
Instead of confronting them like I want, I take my coffee and go outside. Should I even drink it? What if they put something in it and that’s why they’re laughing? Despite my caffeine deprived brain, I decide not to take any chances and toss it in the nearest trash bin.
Once I’m a few stores down from the coffee shop, I sit on a bench in front of a lingerie store and google ‘The No-O.’ At first I don’t think anything will show up, assuming it’s some kind of inside joke with the baristas. Kind of like the game Stephanie likes to play when we’re at the mall, pointing at all the people she thinks are ‘basic.’
I’m not that lucky, though. Plenty of things pop up on my screen. Including a photo of me. At first I’m not sure what I’m looking at until I see a screen shot of my Twitter post. My guts twist until I feel like I might throw up. I lean over, waiting for the nausea to dissipate. When the sick sensation finally passes my thoughts begin to race. If the entire internet knows, and it’s already spread to my favorite coffee shop, how many other people know?
Then I realize that screen shot of my post is on the local Twitter forum website. People go on there to sell items, look for missing pets, etc. It’s like Craig’s List but less creepy. It’s a popular site for people at the local college when looking for roommates or when they need help finding affordable furniture. Chances are, everyone who knows me has seen this by now. And with my face plastered all over the internet, if they didn’t know me before, they will now.
Sonofabitch.
Instantly, I’m on my phone, trying to freeze my Twitter and Instagram accounts so people will stop taking my photos and sharing my post, only I can’t do it from my phone. I delete the post, but I have to do the rest from my computer. I stand up to leave, slipping on the ice and nearly falling before catching myself on the bench. I look around to make sure no one saw. Could this day get any worse?
Once I get my footing, I hobble as fast as I can, practically ice skating on the sidewalk, to get to the subway.
