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.