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“You’re not listening to me.”
“I am absolutely listening to you.” I’m not. I’m actually scrolling through comments and deleting the ones that make me want to throw my phone into the river.
Isaiah has been talking for twenty minutes about a woman’s hands, and I stopped giving a shit thirty seconds into the conversation. Hands are a weird thing to obsess about, and I was hell-bent on deleting these comments.
Oh, daddy, I’m on my knees.
Sir, PLEASE, do whatever you want to me. And I do mean WHATEVER.
I’d lick the sweat off your body and BEGGGGG for more, papi.
Papi. My eyes could not be further back in my head.
Delete. Delete. Delete. Oh God… Delete.
Three hundred and forty thousand people follow me because I wear a Scream mask and post content with my bike, or the gym.
They watch because sometimes I take my shirt off, and a solid percentage of them have decided this means we’re in a relationship, will be in a relationship, or that I’m somehow interested in meeting up with them for content creation.
I’m not.
I started posting because I love horror, riding my bike, and going to the gym.
It started as a personal diary of sorts, a way to stay anonymous while posting things that I enjoy, and then one viral video later, the algorithm decided I was a thirst trap account, and I exploded.
The comments came next, and now I’ve got women, and some men, writing fan fiction about what they want to do to my forearms in my replies section.
You don’t even want to see my DM’s. I open at my own risk on days that I’m bored and have nothing better to do.
“Quinn… her HANDS, bro.”
I look up to find Isaiah shirtless on my couch, as usual.
He never wears shirts unless it’s a requirement in public, and definitely never in my apartment.
He’s eating my pad thai. The same pad thai I bought, was saving, and wanted to eat.
We went to the gym earlier, then ordered take out and he left, but came back ten minutes later because he forgot his wallet here and then decided he was sleeping over.
Now he’s eating my food, watching a video about grip strength and eating my pad thai.
The man acts like he lives here, which he does not.
He has his own place, he just doesn’t like it as much as he likes mine. It’s the atmosphere. He told me once.
“So, bro, get this. She asks me to spot her on the bench, right? She’s doing one-fifteen, and her cute little fingers are right there.
They’re hot pink, short nails, small and delicate.
Hands that would make a brother look massive…
if you know what I mean. I’m just standing there, watching her hands shake and I swear to GOD.
” He puts his fork down and stares at the ceiling. “Swear to GOD.”
“I don’t understand. Is this a hand fetish thing? No judgment if it is, but it’s kind of a weird thing to focus on.”
“It’s called an imagination, my man. Small hands. Big dick.” He sighs. “Obviously, you wouldn’t get it. You haven’t had a girl in half a decade. At this point, I question if you’ve even been attracted to a woman since Obama was in office.”
“That’s not true.”
“Name one, then.”
I open my mouth to answer and then close it. He grins at me with those perfectly white, straight teeth. Infuriating asshole. That smile is the reason half the women at the gym book sessions they don’t need and the other half decide they need a spotter when they don’t.
“Exactly my point.” He picks up his fork and points it at me before shovelling another mouthful down his gullet. “This is why we’re going to The Maskquerade.”
“WE are not going anywhere. I don’t like parties.”
“Tickets are bought, my friend.”
“Return them.”
“Non-refundable.”
“Iz, come on.”
“Masks required. You own a mask. Several, actually. You literally make content in a mask. You are THE most qualified person in Portland for this event. If you don’t go, you’re just going to sit in that spot and keep scrolling through comments from women who want to lick your abs instead of going to a party where women might ACTUALLY lick your abs.
But, like, in person. That type of dissonance is not healthy, Quinn. That’s not growth.”
I stare at him, holding back a chuckle. “Since when do you care about my growth?”
“Since you became a hermit weirdo who hasn’t left this building for non-work purposes in three weeks.
You walk downstairs to the shop, you go to the gym, you come back here.
That’s it, that’s your life. You don’t even go to the grocery store.
You’re becoming a bridge troll. A hot, muscle daddy bridge troll, but a bridge troll, nonetheless. ”
“Muscle daddy? Really?”
“If the shoe fits.”
I rub my face and sigh. “Fine. One hour.”
“Two.”
“One, or none, take your pick.”
“One it is!” He forks the last bite of my pad thai and shoes it in his mouth, a noodle dropping onto his nipple. “You’re gonna thank me.”
I am not going to thank him.
* * *
The Maskquerade is in a converted warehouse at the edge of town. It’s a yearly event and Isaiah drags me to it every year. Masks are required at the door, the bouncer checks pockets and jackets. It’s a fully funded event and I don’t even want to ask how much cover was this year.
The bouncer checks me over, doesn’t bother with Iz because his arm is slung around a woman’s waist and they walk in together like they’re dating. They’ve known each other for all of thirty seconds, hitting it off in the line.
I roll my eyes. It’s gonna be a long hour.
The venue is dark, packed and full of music that makes my chest hum.
Over three hundred bodies in leather or lace, wearing masks they bought or made.
Some full face, some half. They’re grinding against each other on the dance floor, neon lights streaming from overhead, cutting through the smokey haze from the fog machine.
There’s people everywhere. Grinding, drinking, talking. Some are doing things that would get them arrested in a parking lot, but here, anything goes as long as it’s consensual.
Iz was supposed to go get us drinks. Instead he grabbed two drinks, and gave one to the Corset Woman he walked in with, and of course now he’s no where to be found and I’m left awkwardly standing against a pillar without a drink.
I’m counting down the hour until I can leave because this mask is hot, I’m bored and all I really want to do is lounge on my couch and watch reruns of my favorite show. I’ve got a six-hour appointment tomorrow and getting hammered is not on my docket for the night.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Iz
Where you at
Me
Exactly where you left me about forty minutes ago when you stole my drink.
Bro, that girl needed it more than you
I paid for it
And she appreciated it. You would have wasted it on being miserable, she used it to suck my dick. I redistributed your emotional management system and made someones night better. Go talk to someone
No
Go talk to someone HOT
No.
I swear to fuck, Q, if you leave before midnight I’ll tell Madeline you cried during the Notebook
Madeline is my receptionist at Hollow Point. I roll my eyes and reply:
I didn’t cry during the Notebook.
Iz
She doesn’t know that. Midnight, or I send the text.
Putting my phone away, I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the tension.
I didn’t cry. I got something in my eye during a complete unrelated moment that just happened to overlap with the rain scene.
He’s been holding this over my head for two fucking years, and if he keeps this up, I might have to kill him someday.
One drink and then I’m out.
Heading to the bar to buy myself a gin and tonic, I tip five bucks and take a dip.
Drinking through a full face mask is a challenge, and I have to twist it just enough to tip some of the drink into my mouth.
Some of it sloshes down my wrist and into my collar.
I’m standing at the bar dabbing at the wet spot when I look up.
That’s when I see her.
She’s four spots down, standing, but leaning on the bar with her elbows, chin in her hand, staring at the drink she’s just been handed.
It looks fruity and has a little umbrella on it.
She pulls the straw out, tosses it on the counter and tips it back.
Her throat is long and works as she downs half it it in one go, setting it down to run her tongue along the line of her full lips where the drink dribbled out.
Okay… you have my attention.
She’s tall. Like, five-nine if she was flat on the floor, but in the boots she’s easily six foot.
Those boots… high, black, silver buckles all the way up.
A black corset has her waist cinched, complimenting the mesh top she’s wearing with long sleeves, and a black leather skirt that stops mid-thigh.
The corset pushes her tits up so high, they spill over the top, full and round, and her ass fills that skirt to it’s limit.
Her belly is right there, poking out of the corset, soft and jiggly as she gestures to the bartender to make her another.
When she shifts her weight to the other hip, everything wiggles and I’m captivated.
I can’t stop staring.
Her thighs are thick and bare between the hem of her skirt and the tops of her boots, pressed against the stool as she leans forward.
She stands with confidence, legs apart, shoulders back, not adjusting anything on her, not trying to hide.
She doesn’t pull the skirt down, doesn’t tug the mesh, doesn’t cross her arms over her stomach.
She just takes up the space she wants to take up at full volume, and her sex appeal oozes out of her in such force that I forget I’m holding a drink.
Gin drips down my wrist, and I’m convinced I look like a cartoon character with eyes popping out of my head and my jaw down to my chest.
Her mask just covers the top of her face. It’s black, gothic, with fine details that sweep up her temples, covering her eyes and the bridge of her nose. As she laughs, she turns her face towards me. Her lips are dark red, but her eyes…