Chapter One #2
I close out of social media and switch to my email app.
There’s a couple of partnership opportunities sent over from my PR management firm, but nothing overly exciting or urgent.
I glance at the TV where what is essentially soft-core porn plays.
These shows are getting bolder in what they air now, but I wouldn’t mind being in her shoes. A tall, buff guy with a six-pack?
Yes, please!
But even this hunk on the screen would never be enough for me.
He’s not him, and no man will ever compare, which is why I’m dreadfully single and orgasm deprived.
I scroll for hours until the clock on my phone finally shifts to five p.m. A quiet gasp leaves my lips as I watch the tiny numbers in the corner of my screen change from four fifty-nine to five p.m.
Is there a new post?
I rush, open the app, and, sure enough, the algorithm pushes his video to the front of my reel queue.
Algo and I were best friends precisely three times a week at five Pacific Standard Time.
My mouth waters with anticipation as the newest video starts.
My internet crush is very tall, from what I can tell, with deeply contoured abs and pecs, powerful arms, and wide shoulders I want to cling to for life, but he never shows his face, obscuring it with intentional lighting to stay anonymous.
It’s ironic given that he shows everything else that he sensibly can without being flagged for explicit content.
He sometimes speaks briefly in an intentionally hushed voice or allows a slight glimpse of his neck and jawline but never more.
It’s torture not knowing what my internet crush looks like, but he has to be hot, right?
How can I be in love with someone whose face I’ve never seen?
Rook’s nipples are pierced. The lighting of the room always catches the metallic barbells.
He has a large scar on his right abdomen but no visible tattoos.
Most male thirst trap content creators are covered in them, and that’s hot in its own right, of course.
Piercings are Rook’s signature. I’ve spent more evenings than I care to admit fantasizing about swirling my tongue over his pierced nipples to tease him, imagining what they might feel like brushed up against my delicate skin.
My thighs press together, rubbing together to feel anything to no avail.
I can already hear the buzz of my vibrator as another night alone is on the docket.
But the scar on his side is an enigma. I’ve seen online where people post their wildest conspiracy theories about how he got it.
Was he stabbed in a fight? Was he in a nasty car or motorcycle accident?
Or surgery? No one knows, and for all I know, he could be a poster on those forums, trolling with outlandish theories.
Rook’s a menace, and that would be a damned menacing thing to do.
In today’s new video, he’s in his usual uniform: dark-wash jeans and nothing else.
A quiet rock melody plays softly in the background that amps up in beat as the video progresses.
On my screen, he’s just pacing, pressing his fingers together, and flexing with his abs on display in a relatively empty room.
It’s always something simple, but it has a complete chokehold on me and a few hundred thousand others, too.
Just watching the veins in his arm bulge, pecs pop…
I’d marry him on the spot if I ever met him.
Occasionally, he’ll wear light gray sweatpants as a treat, the material clinging in all the right places, and unless he’s stuffing his sweatpants, his perfect body doesn’t stop short of his waistband.
After the video replays three or four times, I glance at the caption: ‘What would you do if I sneaked in at two a.m.?’
Fucking. Fucking for a week straight. Conceiving your future children.
Even though I’ve been on the pill for a decade.
My thighs clench together again as I watch him pace endlessly over and over. He’s good at editing his videos in a way that they loop over seamlessly, and I’m left wondering how this twenty-second video is an hour long.
My stomach growls, and I relent, putting my phone down to heat a proportioned frozen meal from a recent sponsorship.
But as it heats, my phone is in my hand again, drawing me into Rook’s world like a magnet.
As I eat the steamy, mediocre proportioned meal, I continue watching.
This pattern has consumed at least three evenings a week for years.
Despite being part of his viewership for a few years now, I know nothing else about Rook or where he could be located.
My guess is that he is in the same country as me, but I have no idea and will never know.
He posts videos only from this one room with the blinds tightly shut, making it impossible to find his location.
He never likes or responds to comments—just drops videos and logs out.
As much as it pains me, I bet it’s a ruse though; he must have a significant other and keeps his content so anonymous, so they don’t find out.
Or to make it so their friends and family don’t.
I’m guessing he’s younger based on his smooth skin, but something about the way he carries himself makes me think he’s not younger than me.
He’s an experienced grown-ass man capable of making whoever is lucky enough to call him theirs come every time without fail.
I finally put my phone on the table and stand to throw out the thin tray from dinner.
I settle on the couch again with my show on the TV to break up the silence and shift my focus to editing my GRWM video on my phone so I can schedule it to post tomorrow at my usual time.
I have a video for the day after as it was a sponsored post, but I still needed to edit the try-on and get it posted with the active code.
My phone is nearly dead from the endless scrolling, so that will have to wait.
I used to love editing and creating mini-movie magic, but Rook makes me feel like such an amateur.
I had no idea how I’d replicate his lighting setup without buying a million lights until I got the right combo.
How does he brighten the space while keeping his face so obscure?
I shake my head, snapping out of it, and switch to scheduling the post with a few hashtags and a cutesy caption.
Noticing it’s nine p.m., I head upstairs to my room to change into my pajamas.
I used to stay up much later when I first started riding the influencer wave, but it was awful for my mental health.
I got to be nearly nocturnal, and it took a long time to fix my sleep habits.
These days, I try to be in bed by ten at the latest, unless I have an event.
Standing in my en suite bathroom, I brush my teeth just as vigorously as I wiped my makeup off earlier, rough bristles scraping against my delicate gums.
What am I trying to do? Or feel?
I look in the mirror. My skin is dewy and clear, but all I want to do is exfoliate the hell out of it.
I push that thought to the side and use a gentle foam cleanser followed by toner and my lush night cream.
I pop two melatonin gummies, grimacing as the flavor collides with my freshly brushed teeth, and throw on my frilly pajamas with lettuce trim along the hemlines.
I slip into my cool, high-thread-count cotton sheets and immediately swipe back to Rook’s profile on my phone.
I allow myself a couple more views of the video.
I study the way his abs have a sharp V-line leading to his jean-clad hips like a damn invitation.
It doesn’t seem comfortable for him to have his jeans that low, and I’d give anything to see them fall off his hips.
He must be making bank on these videos, if they’re monetized, from how many times people like me must rewatch them.
I plug my phone in and set it on my nightstand.
I close my eyes. His half-naked body plays front and center in my mind, permanently ingrained there at this point.
Abs, flexed biceps, long fingers. I would give everything to see his face, to kiss him, to discover the sensation of his hard body pressing against mine.
My fingers trail around my breasts, eagerly edging down my torso where heat pools between my thighs.
I slip them under the cool, silky fabric of my pajama shorts where they meet the slickness accumulating there, and the waistband of my shorts gently snaps against my hand.
I dip my finger inside and moan out. Surely Rook would be offended if I used just a single finger to represent him.
He’d probably shamelessly fist me, not afraid to cause pain and pleasure simultaneously, and I’d beg him to do it again and again.
My eyes flare open, yet I see only the shadow of the ceiling fan and the faint triangular shape of its blades.
This cycle has to end.