My 5 Bosses

Me: You’re lucky.

Stephanie: How so?

I can’t believe I’m about to admit this to the person with the biggest mouth, but maybe it will make her feel better.

Me: What I’m about to tell you better never fucking leave this space.

Stephanie: And you’re the one always calling me overly dramatic.

Me: I’m serious. If you don’t make me a promise, I won’t tell you.

Stephanie: Fine. I promise.

Pop-up ads fill my screen, slowing down my computer. I click out of them before I reply.

Me: I’ve never actually had a guy give me an orgasm before.

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