Call Me Baby: Side A

Chapter 1

CONFESSIONAL BOOTH

“Andrew Harding?

Yeah, I know him. Had him even, once upon a time.

It happened during one of those hushed summer downpours that rocked the whole city into a daydream.

I just left a pop-art gallery. Nothing fancy.

String lights, Barefoot’s Moscato in plastic cups, and people who talk in metaphors with a cigarette between their fingers, thinking they know what you’re saying before you say it.

The clouds cracked open like a painting torn in half, and everyone scattered. I stayed, sitting under the gazebo alone, notebook in my lap, and he ducked under the overhang just as the rain let go.

One second, it was only me and the summer evening.

The next, there he was, landing on the steps like he, too, fell out of the sky, with thick, dark hair drenched and rain caught in his lashes.

Looked more Union City than SoHo—gold chain, bright white sneakers, soaked shirt clinging to his chest, and an attitude in his jaw.

He leaned against the railing, elbows on the wooden ledge, watching the storm slowly pass.

He was beautiful. So I started drawing him.

Then he looked down at my sketchbook and smiled.

‘You always draw first, ask questions never? That how this goes?’

That was the first thing he said, with a smirk and a tease tucked under his tongue. I was both mortified and struck, could’ve melted into a puddle right there on the bench.

He leaned in and said, ‘You can keep goin’ if you want. I won’t move.’

And the rain continued to pour as I drew him.

Now and then, he’d glance over with a crooked grin, as if we were the only two people in the city.

‘How’m I doin’?’

‘Swear I’m tryin’ not to smile, but you’re making it real hard.’

‘I got a dimple on this side. Don’t forget that part.’

His voice had a lazy drawl, dipped in Jersey, acting like this kinda thing happens to me all the time. But they don’t. Because guys like him don’t waste their time on girls like me.

When I finally showed him the finished sketch, my hand wouldn’t stop shaking. The lines were jittery, the shadows too black, but I held it out anyway. Something about him made me brave and terrified all at once.

He stared down at the drawing, not saying anything at first. And the longer he looked at it, the more his expression sank.

The quiet made me panic. I started talking too fast, telling him it wasn’t good, that I was still learning, and I should’ve picked a different angle or pose.

‘C’mon… keep runnin’ your mouth with lies like that, your heart’ll hear it. Might start thinkin’ they’re true.’

Then I kissed him. I don’t remember deciding to. It just happened. I expected him to pull back or stop me. But he didn’t, though he didn’t kiss me back either. He just stayed there, breath warm and sweeping across my lips.

The kiss was so light that I didn’t feel my feet leave the ground until I was sitting on the wooden ledge, rain painting SoHo like the city wept in sterling silver.

‘You’re beautiful.’

He whispered it right into my mouth. And… I believed him. Because the way he touched me made me feel like a Leonardo da Vinci—rare, framed in gold, his favorite.

His hands were warm on my thighs, never greedy, never rough.

He opened me slowly, carefully, taking his time.

‘This okay?’ His fingers were soft on my thigh.

And yes, it was. It was more than okay.

Everything that came next was exactly how I’d imagined it, as if both him and the moment walked right off my sketch.

His hand slid higher, disappearing under my dress. A light stroke along the inside of my thigh, then his fingers dipped inside my panties. And he brushed me softly, holding me close as I came undone.

Then, real gentle, near my ear, he whispered.

‘There, sweetheart. That do it for you?’

And it made me smile.

I tried giving him the drawing afterward, but he refused to take it, saying, ‘Nah, you keep it. Somethin’ to remember me by.’

As if forgetting him was possible.

He left with the rain. No rush, no goodbye.

Just faded away.

It wasn’t until long after the rain had passed, long after I’d gone home and peeled off my soaked dress, hung it over the radiator in my Bushwick walk-up, windows fogged from the steam, that I realized he never asked for my name.

Sometimes I wonder if I'd fallen asleep that day, and he was nothing more than a dream. Or maybe the storm had imagined him first, and I happened to be there when he stepped out of it.

I still have the sketch. It’s framed and hanging right above my bed.

In it, he’s slouching dangerously in a doorway, shoulder against the frame, shirt half untucked, head tilted with a smirk that says he’s got one thing on his mind: wanting to touch me slowly, turn me into a wet, colorful mess in the palette of his hands.

Though, I don’t remember his eyes.

It’s the one thing in my sketch I couldn't capture.

Now every time I look at it, I'm taken right back to the gazebo on that stormy afternoon in SoHo, still asking the same thing:

How on earth did he happen to me?”

NO. 02: THE GOOD BOY

// VERONICA - JAN '22, 12:02 AM - THE EATON HOTEL - MIDTOWN, NYC //

“Oh honey—Andrew?

The bellhop with the mouth? If that’s what I said his name was? Sure.

It was at a Midtown hotel—the one with the Starbucks café charging double for a caramel latte. I was there for a godawful licensing conference. Three panels, two assistants, and not a single man worth unzipping.

I finished early, got bored, and decided to treat myself to room service… and a lot of chardonnay.

Then he walked by. Midnight. Tray in hand. Tie loose. End-of-shift stamped across his face. The breed of boy they’d send upstate to fetch ice and pretend they’re not being undressed by every woman over forty-five in the building.

I reached into the hall, grabbed his tie, and said, ‘You busy, sweetheart?’ while dragging him right into my suite.

You should’ve seen his face.

You know the look.

The one when a boy realizes his fantasy is about to become real? That.

Tray hit the floor. Door clicked shut. And I had him on his knees before he could say yes ma’am. He tried to be a gentleman about it. I said, ‘Baby, I didn’t pull you in here for your manners. Now hush and use your mouth.’

And when I tell you he used it?

He used it. Unreal.

I came hard enough to kick the minibar. And after? He was sitting back on his heels, hair a mess, face wet, mouth red and swollen, looking like I pocketed his virtue.

But I didn’t take a damn thing he didn’t offer.

Then he goes, ‘That do it for you?’

I laughed. Kissed his cheek. Slipped him a twenty. He declined, so I told him it was for the stains I left on his tie.

What? I’m not a monster. I gave that poor boy a memory he’ll be touching himself to for the rest of his life, courtesy of a seasoned woman who knows what the hell she’s doing.

Trust me, sweetheart. He’ll be thinking about me every time some twenty-year-old spreads her legs without knowing where her own clit is.

Honestly? He should send flowers.”

NO. 03: THE DAREDEVIL

// LEXI - NOV '16, 2:36 AM - ROOFTOP HOT TUB - UNION CITY, NJ //

“Wait—someone said Andrew Harding? Like, Andrew Harding?

The Andrew Harding?

No. Because listen, I need to get this off my chest before I explode.

So we’re on some rooftop in Union City, and there’s a half-broken hot tub with extension cords hanging out a busted window—straight-up Final Destination shit waiting to happen.

There’s six of us. Drinks. Laughing. Someone’s garbage playlist flipping between lo-fi and full-on club bangers.

We all pile into the hot tub in our underwear ‘cause we’re drunk and it’s freezing up there.

Everyone’s talking about whatever—sex, hookup stories, shit no one should say out loud.

But no one’s got a filter after two margaritas and a La Croix.

At one point, I blurted it out. Didn’t mean to kill the mood, but I go—‘My grandpa just died, finals are eating me alive. Phillip? Literally wants me dead, and I just need one night with a guy who actually knows what he’s doing for once.’

It was half a joke, half a breakdown, maybe from gettin’ high off the chlorine. I think I reached across the tub. Might’ve grabbed a foot. Rubbed it on my thigh. Growled. I don’t know, I was fucked up.

Everyone laughed and went back to drinking, so I thought that was the end of it. But then something inched up the inside of my thigh.

Under the water. The edge of a toe.

Like, EXCUSE me?!

I freeze. Actually freeze. My soul left my body for a hot sec.

I’m trying to stay calm, stay casual. Could’ve been anything, right?

Someone moved and accidentally brushed me or something.

A bug. The jets. But I don’t say anything ‘cause I don't know who the foot belonged to, and I’m not about to be the bitch who accuses someone of toe-petting if I’m wrong.

But then the foot moves. It inches higher.

And yes, I might’ve pulled the foot closer to my va-jay-jay, okay?

Or… I think I did?

Either way, I let it happen. Happily. Willingly.

Whatever the word is for please-don’t-fucking-stop.

Next thing I know, I’m spreading my thighs, and this toe is curling around my clit. My dumbass looks around as if someone’s gonna make a face or hold up a finger, sayin’, ‘Gotcha!’ But no. Matty’s making out with Kelsey in the corner, and everyone else is arguing if it’s okay to date a friend’s ex.

Meanwhile, here I am dry humpin’ a toe.

Deadass, I thought—ghost micro-dick?

But I didn’t want it to stop. My eyes were rollin’ back. I’m half-way there, so I pull my panties to the side. I’m not even fucking joking. I let this phantom toe fuck me and play with my clit.

And I’m tryna stay quiet, keep it together, thinking if I come quick, no one’ll notice.

And across from me? Andrew Harding leans back, arms stretched out across the edge of the hot tub, palms up, offended because no one agrees with him.

Then he goes, all casual: ‘Ayo, I’d never. But Matty ain’t breakin’ nothin’ by kissin’ her. He’s just toein’ the line.’