10 #3
The phone vibrates. Heart at a hundred. I grab it with clumsy hands. One notification. A single emoji. The flame.
I plant myself in front of the mirror. Wet hair, mascara half-smudged, freshly showered skin.
I give myself a silent round of applause.
I look sexy in this controlled-disaster vibe.
Then a lightning bolt of clarity hits. A flash of Are you seeing what you’re doing, Alaska?
Have I turned into a groupie for my own hookup?
She said shower and I obeyed. I spritz perfume because she’s coming over and I get dressed in comfy mode—translation: no panties and a top that comes off in two tugs, just to make it even easier for her.
At what point did I slide down the evolutionary scale?
What happened to that punk Alaska who didn’t shave in spring and couldn’t care less about anything?
Did I sign some kind of contract and miss it?
Heads up: I’M CRAZY HORNY ON TOP OF IT. Last night was so out there I can’t think about anything else.
I start tidying the room. Hide the bra on the floor, shove the panties into a drawer with one swipe, pull out a wrinkled sheet and smooth it. I sit on the bed, phone in hand. I open the chat and see the flame staring at me. I open the keyboard.
"What does this even mean, boss?" I delete it before sending.
I type, "You coming?" Delete. "Bring wine." Delete. I bite my lip. Set the phone on the nightstand. Pick it back up. Zoom in on her profile pic. Replay her laugh in my head. "Alaska, don’t beg," I order myself, and play it cool for five seconds.
I slather on lotion so I don’t cave and send the desperate text. I close my eyes and the scenes hit. Her hand on my throat, her breath in my ear, her palm sliding lower. My whole body revs up again. I go back to the mirror. You’re a mess. I laugh. I pinch my cheeks to tone down the red.
Ever since the blonde shoved her finger under the table, I’m at the point where if a breeze touches me I’ll hump the damn couch.
And I know it. I know what’s coming. I know that the second the doorbell rings, I’m going to spread my legs like a box of chocolates at Christmas.
And that, honestly, pisses me off like crazy.
My dignified side wants to burn bras in the town square.
But my slutty side is head over heels to see this blonde again.
The door down the hall opens and I sharpen my hearing like I’m waiting for destiny to arrive. But meh! Nothing. Not her. It’s Vega, flip-flops dragging, a bag of Doritos glued to her chest, looking like a pilgrim back from the corner store with a sack that stains your fingers orange.
"What are you doing?" My evil twin pokes her head in, crunches a triangle, and slides into my room without asking.
"Guided meditation via WhatsApp," I say, holding up the phone. "Expert level: don’t text her."
"Thirsty for drama," she says, rummaging through my drawers. "The blonde?"
"I’m expecting a state visit." I go mysterious; my therapist says sometimes it helps to fake elegance.
"Weren’t you with her? She’s coming now? Don’t make me listen to you again, it grosses me out."
The little bitch sticks her hand in the bag and grins.
"Leave me alone and put on your headphones. The real ones. Today I need medieval fortress mode, double moat and an electrified drawbridge, okay? Or better yet, go take a walk."
In my head, by the way, the bunker has a disco ball and a dance floor packed with drag queens dancing to It’s Raining Men. That’s just how my secret world works.
Vega looks me up and down, smirks with that genetic snark, and chews louder, savoring the live gossip.
"Fuck, Lasky, another session of horizontal Pilates with the ominous voice-over? Sorry, but I don't trust that chick. I'm not leaving you alone in the apartment."
I picture Nat as a drill sergeant, but with a pink fuzzy whip, yelling "Burpee, now," while snapping my ass with a wet towel. But to Vega, I only say:
"Then deal with it. And don't you dare let out that hyena giggle of yours later, okay?" I try for a straight face, but I'm wearing a dirty grin. "It's… a special situation."
"Special as in sore everywhere, or special as in eyes rolled back?" the missus presses, clearly on a roll today.
"Both, champ. She wants a repeat. So help me out: set a silence record—full mute mode, no ear to the wall.
I can see myself bargaining away my scruples in exchange for…
that thing you know about," I confess, because at this point, why lie?
After all, last night she heard me moan like a cat in heat with a megaphone.
"Look, girl, do me the favor of your life and pretend you aren't here, okay?
Because she told me to shower and she's on her way. "
Vega loses it. Not normal laughter, no. It's that cackle that mixes the cruelty of someone who's seen you cry over a tampon lost in the vaginal depths and the unconditional love of someone who'd scoop you out of a roadside ditch drunk and dressed like a Teletubby.
"But girl," she says, swiping away a traitor tear, "you've signed up as a consensual sex slave with no paycheck. Babe, that's not how you manage a career."
"Drama queen." My voice comes out weird. "She suggests, and I, out of basic courtesy, comply. Hostess niceties, you know."
"Suggests? In what language, Alaska? She told you to shower and you were soaping up before she finished the sentence."
"IT'S HER LINES THAT TURN ME ON," I blurt, desperate. "The heat hasn't died down since last night. I'm horny out of my mind. I want her to spread my legs, grab my hair, yank my hips, and fuck me without stopping. And tell me in my ear what to do."
"Just wait till she asks for anime cosplay, a plush whip, and patent-leather boots to lick."
Of course I fantasize: ears on, soft whip, the blonde with a "very good, my little kitten" face. My decency drops to my panties—except I'm not wearing any, so, yeah.
"Depends on the boots, right? If they're good boots and she calls me kitty, I might make the effort."
Vega claps. For real, happy, operatic. I'd be embarrassed, but I'm so turned on I don't care.
"This is better than any show, Lasky. I'm grabbing my headphones. And out of sheer respect I'm going to pretend to have selective hearing. But if I hear you scream 'yes, mistress, whip me harder,' I'm coming in and whacking you on the head with the broom until the nonsense passes."
"I fucking love you," I tell her, half laughing and half wishing the earth would swallow me and spit me out on a deserted island with no cell service.
"Love you too, my little bitch in heat with an identity crisis."
She sashays out of the room, humming something like "Whip me, whip me so much, your whip has me under its spell," and I’m left alone, phone in hand, heart feral, crotch on red alert.
And the doorbell still won't ring. Goddammit. But it will. I know it. And when it does, I'm marching straight to hell.
When I finally hear the blessed sound, my knees go loose. I answer the intercom with a voice pretending at calm.
"Come up," I say, flat.
Phone on vibrate, screen facedown, notifications off.
I walk down the hall and feel the cold floor under my feet.
The entryway mirror gives me back a version of me I like: bright eyes, hair in organized rebellion, a half-crooked mouth.
I give myself a light smack upside the head to snap out of it.
Here's the plan: zero drama, zero speeches, yes to everything I'm not allergic to.
Footsteps on the stairs, and I plant myself in front of the door.
Damp hand on the knob, mind strapped in.
I open. And there she is. Nat. Red lips, black coat, a hit of cologne that cracks my will into five pieces.
A hello slips out that doesn't even make it to a word.
She smiles, steps in, shuts the door, and looks at me without hurrying.
"Shower done," I say, obedient and proud.
She nods, drops her coat, arms around my waist. She grazes my neck, speaks low, and the whole place trembles without trembling.
"You're in charge today," I lie, playfully docile.
She laughs and spins me, kicks the door shut, kisses my face with deliberate control. The rest, you know the drill. Vega turns up the music; I shut the world off. In my head, the drag queens are applauding. Cher sings. And I step into the scene with no brakes, happy, with no Plan B.