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 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.