9
I haven’t been glued to the bed for even two minutes—half alive, half on pause, body wrecked, head buzzing.
I swear I’m about to pass out cold, and tomorrow it’ll take an IV of coffee and a couple of good slaps to get me moving, when bam, the door swings open and Vega shows up with that hyena-in-rehab giggle and the kind of concern she only shows during other people’s storms—meaning mine.
She plants herself in the doorway, arms crossed, face like she heard everything.
I want to throw a pillow at her, but I don’t even have the strength to swipe the sleep out of my eye.
"What are you doing here? Look at you—you’ve got that I-know-illegal-secrets face."
"Me? Watching over you, no shit. You think I was going to leave you alone with that blonde who looks like she’d stash you in freezer bags if you blinked? I was on the other side of the door in case I had to mount a rescue."
"You were spying on me?" I growl, and yank the sheet over my ass, which, after the live audio festival I just put on, hardly matters.
"Spying, she says. Pro-tect-ing. It’s called emergency protocol: monitor, assess, and hit 911 if it smells like tragedy. There was a moment I thought the blonde was chopping you into pieces. Then I realized that was just your performance. You’re a rockstar, Alaska. Absolute force of nature."
I sink under the pillow, desperate to shut the day off, but there’s only feathers, sweat, and shame.
"Fuck off, Vega."
"‘Fuck off,’ she says. You should be thanking me. You just gifted me a three-episode soap opera, intermissions and all. This is going straight into my shared-trauma folder."
A stupid laugh slips out and even loosens the shame. Vega’s the only person I could tell the worst thing to and she’d still ask for details.
"I’m never bringing anyone home again. Ever. This place is a convent now. I swear on my pillow."
"Yeah, yeah, sure. That vow lasts till Tuesday. Take a cold shower and then we’ll talk." She winks. "By the way, did you get her number? If you’re doing a repeat, I’m booking an Airbnb in Cuenca."
As soon as Vega exits stage left, flinging advice down the hall, I let myself drop and disappear into a black, deep sleep with no notifications. If a meteor crashes in, I won’t even notice. My brain, though, schedules a private screening of dirty dreams.
Starring me, undisputed lead, I show up in a room with low lights, candles everywhere, and a huge, over-the-top bed designed for stressed-out lesbians with a serious backlog.
The blonde walks in wearing leather, rich-girl glossy hair and that look that’s half "I’ll fuck you," half "I’ll steal your Social Security number." I should run, but my legs sell me out and leave me right in her arms.
We start a slow dance, one of those that’s really just an excuse to breathe each other’s air. She murmurs filth at an expert level, voice low and unhurried, very much "I’m not letting you go tonight." I’m red as a stoplight, trying to keep it together, pretending I’ve got this handled.
And when the heat’s fully cranked, she kisses me with serious intent, zero slobber.
She pins me to the wall, stares me down—full dirty-dream mode, no cutaways.
I hand over the controls without a peep.
She drags me to the bed and the air leaves me; I try to say something and only a yelp comes out I don’t even recognize.
She growls filthy things in my ear and I nod, face burning, with a very clear need to go again until the night runs out.
Mid-action, the room fills with moans and laughter, and I’m having a blast. No sappy crap. It’s going so well the dream just keeps going: good sex, pleasure on demand, zero trauma. Until my anxiety yanks me awake.
I wake up sweating, sheet stuck to me and pulse spiking. Still, I’m smiling. What a night.
I can’t help myself: I open her WhatsApp as soon as I’m awake and—bam—the blonde in responsible-selfie mode.
No femme fatale pose or showing skin with a "freshly fucked" filter; no, here the lady’s with a Spanish water dog and a little smile with zero premeditated sex appeal, no hint of her potential for crime or kink—just her, so normal it’s almost infuriating. The bitch is effortlessly natural.
I analyze the photo in forensic detail—Alaska in full-on compulsive dyke mode. I clock everything: that ad-blonde hair (is it natural or does she bleach it with drugstore peroxide?), those big eyes looking at me like they know I’m already ironing an outfit for another date.
She’s gorgeous, but not in a Photoshopped cover-girl way—more "I threw on the first thing I grabbed and I’m still a total knockout." Even the smile feels different: not yesterday’s "I’m going to fuck your soul" one, but a "just chilling here with the dog, no drama" smile.
I build a whole mythology off one photo like a loser, while in my head the blonde is posing for Vogue on a unicorn and I’m doing the wave and giving that body a standing ovation.
I spiral: what if she’s dreaming about me right now?
Or worse, what if she’s watching videos about how to braid her dog’s hair while I’m over here debating whether to text or play it cool?
Maybe she’s napping, maybe she already muted me, maybe…
I don’t know, maybe she’s out hunting new victims. Anything’s possible. Who knows.
So I put in the work and type something mega-spicy, but then my finger betrays me, my guts clench, and I end up sending the blandest “Hey” anyone has ever written.
And now, the waiting. Let’s see how long I last before uninstalling the app out of sheer anxiety.
My phone is burning a hole in my hand. Maybe she’ll reply with a puppy GIF, or maybe nothing and she’ll leave me on read so I can stroke out. Is this 21st-century dating?
The reply, after fifteen minutes of chewing my nails:
Nat: You recovered yet...
Or still shaking?
Me: Hahaha you’re hilarious ??
I’m perfectly fine, thanks
You?
Nat: When they say please ??
Turns out you were good at it
Me: I don’t remember any of that
Nat: Let me jog your memory… ??
Me: If you’re going to make stuff up…
Keep it classy, okay?
At most I said…
Harder
Because I’m big on manners
Courtesy, babe ??
Nat: Harder
Don’t stop
Oh my God…
You’ve got quite the repertoire, huh?
Are you always such a poet in bed?
Or was it just my inspiration?
Me: I only do romantic if you pay for the premium tier ??
Though with you, ahem…
You got the emotional package
With a surcharge
And a tasting menu
Nat: Oh… what an honor
I feel like a promo ??
Want to run the promo again?
I promise add-ons
Me: Depends on the add-on
If it includes a whip, hard pass
My pride still hurts from last night
Nat: What a shame
I had the kit ready
Pink handcuffs
A glitter gag
And a unicorn-shaped plug ??
Very on-brand for you
Me: Well…
I might consider the unicorn
But only if it glows in the dark
For safety
Nat: I’m crazy about you
I don’t know you at all
But I’m crazy about you
Want to grab a drink tonight?
I promise I won’t bring toys
Just wine
And clothes
At first ??
A date? A date date? Or the kind that ends with my dignity somewhere by the headboard?
Me: If the wine doesn’t taste like perfume
And you don’t make me sweat
OK
Nat: I swear
On the unicorn ??
8:30
I’ll swing by and pick you up
Wear something pretty…
Or something easy to take off ??
I walk into Vega’s room like a reality show contestant about to confess she fell for the gardener. She’s sprawled on the bed, avocado-green face mask on and a giant claw clip clamping her bun. I fling myself on top, phone in hand.
"SIS!" I scream, not breathing. "SHE TEXTED ME!"
I lob the phone—"grenade, go"—and it bounces on the bed.
Vega doesn’t even flinch. She looks at me from under that funeral-green goop with the one squinty eye that says, "Oh God, Alaska and her lesbian festival again." I get it; the poor thing’s got calluses by now.
"What is it now?" she says, half-yawn, half "I’m so over you." "Did the blonde propose? Did your period show up from sheer excitement?"
"READ IT." I point at the phone. "BUT READ IT NOW. I NEED EXTERNAL VALIDATION OR I’M GOING TO MELT."
Vega grabs the phone and, like my identity-thieving twin, unlocks it with her face. She goes deadly serious… for two seconds, then cracks up.
"Accessories?" she wheezes, already crying with laughter. "Unicorn-shaped plug? What is this, a pervert’s Toys 'R' Us?"
"SHUT UP!" I yell, burying my head in the pillow. "I’m swallowing my pride letting you read it. And you, instead of helping, are nuking my self-esteem."
"But girl, are you actually okay? Did your amygdala short-circuit or something? Because what I’m hearing, sis, is you—but like, fourteen and hormonal. Not even then, honestly. I didn’t see you this gone even in ninth grade."
"I’M ON FIRE, VEGA!" I burst out, bouncing on the bed—if there were sacrificial altars, I’d climb on one like Joan of Arc. "She texted me! She said stuff! SHE LAUGHED! AND SHE SAID SHE WANTS TO SEE ME!"
Only thing left is to wave the sheet like I’m at a ballgame.
She’s got the face of a mom who knows her kid is two steps from a glorious mess and has zero intention of loosening the leash.
"Alaska…" She gets so serious I’m about to start praying to Our Lady of the Anxious Dykes.
"Do you hear yourself? Do you remember who you are?
Alaska, apostle of ghosting. And now you come to me airing out feelings because some girl who looks like a sexy evil stepmom fired off four texts and sprinkled emojis on top? "
"She’s not some random chick!" I howl from the abyssal zone of the sheets. "She’s THE girl. Mysterious, bold as hell, hot as sin, and her hands… She makes you want to write songs."
"That’s not love, Alaska. That’s genital overwhelm with a topping of abandonment issues," she intones, calm as a monk. "I’m glad the lay launched you into Saturn’s orbit, but you don’t know anything about this girl. For all you know she lives in a castle and collects bones. Your call."
"Well…" I shrug. "The castle thing kind of turns me on."
"You’re an idiot," Vega huffs, smacking me in the face with a towel. "A profound idiot."
"I know," I say, laughing. "But sis… this doesn’t happen to me. Ever. You know that. I hook up, get paid, shower, and forget. But this… this is something else. She said she was into me. And she didn’t say it in that regular-client voice, I felt this strange heat in my eyes. She said it like… like she meant it. Like she actually liked me. And I laughed and pretended I didn’t care, but… fuck, I do care. Am I sick?"
Vega sits up with me, gives me that little hair shake she used to do when we shared a bunk bed and trauma.
"You’re not sick, sister. You’ve just caught an acute strain of romantic dumbassery.
Which is pretty much the same thing, just with more vaginal discharge.
Look, do whatever you want: see the blonde bombshell again, hook up with her, scream 'harder' in Aramaic if that’s your kink. But don’t lose the plot, okay?
Remember: a girl making you vibrate does not equal an invitation to move in together in two hundred square feet. You know that better than anyone."
My big sister. Brutal, shameless, but with that undertow of tenderness. The one who never fails me, even when she acts like I’m too much. And yeah, sisterly love is that: sometimes it slams you, sometimes it’s a teddy-bear hug with a hidden knife.
"Thanks, sis," I murmur, curling around her back, half Care Bear, half emotional parasite. "The day I listen to reason, I’ll send you a five-minute voice memo. And hey, what about you? A good fuck clears your head, swear to God. Look at me."
"Yeah, sure. Mrs. Zen with zero trauma," she snorts, getting up. "Let go, pest, your elbow’s stabbing me."
I know Vega doesn’t want to talk about it. Her face drops in a split second, so I don’t push. I give her a squeeze, inhale the avocado mask, and switch the subject.
"You’re such a dork."
"And you’re the dumbass who drags me into bankruptcy every month," she mutters, rests her head on my shoulder, and smears a little mask cream on me by accident. "Love you anyway, though. The unicorn thing gives me secondhand embarrassment."
"Hey, I never said I’m into it, relax." I strike a theatrical pause with one hand up. "Maybe I’ll try it and drop a Google review. Five stars if it makes me see stars."
Vega huffs and gives me a soft swat. We crack up. Ugly cackle-laughter. Anyway, whatever happens, we’re the ones who’ll stir shit up—always the disaster duo: Vega and me, a lethal combo.
If that blonde ends up being a stylish badass, well, could be worse. Let the apocalypse catch me freshly fucked and with my bangs on point, thanks.