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 older 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.