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 baiting 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.