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.