­­­10

My ovaries are blue

MIA

EVERYTHING CHANGES.

We can’t go back. Everything is charged now with this fatal layer of sexuality, vulnerability, promise. Hope. Doubt.

Plus, now I know the tone of his voice. The way he pauses a split second before he answers, how cautiously he weighs his responses, the deep timbre that makes my insides melt.

I know all that, but mostly I constantly wonder at his motives.

Why does he want to talk to me so much? A man like him, he could be with any woman. He doesn’t need to talk to me. I’m predictable, inexperienced, boring.

I’m pretty enough, but I’m nothing unusual. And he can’t even see me. What is so special about me?

It’s a constant dance of does he like me? Doesn’t he? Do I like him? Do I not? Is this real? Is it not?

We are a mystery I’m both desperate and terrified to solve.

We’ve been getting to know each other slowly, but now it’s an explosion. We text for hours on end. About everything, but about sex too. Constantly.

Late one night while Jer lazes on the couch beside me, I huddle under a throw blanket. A movie I couldn’t tell you a thing about drones away in the background. I stare at my phone.

Stranger: Are you wearing panties right now?

Mia: Always.

Stranger: Not always. What color are they?

Mia: Are you imagining them?

Stranger: I’m looking at your picture. Yes. I want to imagine you in nothing but your panties.

Mia: They’re white and lacy.

Stranger: Ugh, I wish you were here.

Mia: Why?

Stranger: Are you asking what I want to do to you, Mia?

Mia: Ummmm... I hate you. Fine. Yes.

Stranger: I would back you up against a wall, slide my hands around your throat, watch your eyes go from fear to trust, pry open your mouth with my thumb, taste your mouth.

Mia: I don’t think you’d have to pry. I’d open for you willingly. I want your tongue in my mouth.

Stranger: See. That’s what I mean. Perfect.

Mia: And then what?

Stranger: I’d do whatever I wanted with you.

Mia: Like what.

Stranger: Tell you to get on your knees.

Mia: Eh, maybe.

Stranger: Definitely.

Mia: Then what?

Stranger: I’ll push you to the edge of what you think you can take, and then demand a little more. You’ll love it.

Mia: What if I said no?

Stranger: You wouldn’t.

Mia: What if I did?

Stranger: LOL. Then I’d ask you what you wanted, and we’d do that instead.

Mia: I almost believe it.

Stranger: Is he there?

Mia: Yes. He’s watching TV.

Stranger: Take your panties off.

Mia: Now?

Stranger: Yes. I bet he doesn’t even notice.

Mia: ...

Stranger: Do it.

Mia: Done.

Stranger: You’d kneel and you’d love it.

So confident.

How could I not wonder?

And he’s right. For him, I would kneel, I would choke, I would drool, I would beg. I think I’d do anything he asked—at least if our chemistry in the flesh is half as electric, as vibrant, as potent as it feels now.

This is the game we play. He proposes a sexual topic of conversation, I skirt it, dance around it, but never quite give in. I pull away.

We do this constantly.

My work suffers. I ignore Jeremy, neglect Annie, avoid my family.

I respond begrudgingly to texts from friends, arrange for a double date with Erica and Caesar the day after Thanksgiving. Erica suggests driving to the coast to stay at a B&B by the sea.

I suggest the Finger Lakes.

She finds us a hotel there, a fancy resort with fireplaces in every room.

I don’t mention, though, that the Finger Lakes is close to where Stranger lives. I’m forcing our lives to bring us closer to one another, making it possible I might see him sooner than I’d ever imagined.

He’s a sickness in my blood. The sickness is spreading. He’s in my brain now, stretching his tentacles toward my heart.

Thanksgiving approaches rapidly.

I BECOME PARANOID about my phone.

I actually googled ‘how to hide text messages?’ and followed recommendations from cheaterstricks.com. Yes, I actually visited a website by that name, my face burning, my stomach rebelling, loathing myself as I did it. The advice was to use a friend’s name, turn off notifications, disable the preview settings, delete all convos instantly, and of course, keep your phone on you at all times.

All of which made me feel like the moral equivalent of a slug.

I refuse to delete our conversations. I need a record of Stranger, proof that he’s real. I spend lazy mornings rereading our discussions, analyzing them, laughing at them.

He sent me a pic of his tattoos, well, really of his whole body, in the mirror, almost naked.

Tattoos cover his shoulders, arms, chest and part of his stomach. They’re beautiful and swirling and vibrantly colored, patterns and letters, a kaleidoscope of color. I want to touch them. I want to lick them.

And he has abs. Deep thick abdominal ridges. Thick biceps. Enormous shoulders. He’s glorious.

I should delete the picture of him from my phone, but I don’t. I email it to myself, save it to my notes and back it up on my laptop. I love that photo.

It’s a wild risk—all of it. A social one. I will lose Annie’s friendship if I break Jer’s heart. An emotional one. I will lose Jer, who’s been my anchor for so many years, I don’t even know what I’d do without him. A financial one. I would lose the safety and comfort of his income. A filial one. My parents would disown me. And that carries its own fear, because they control the trust my grandparents set up in my name.

They’d be embarrassed in front of all their friends.

I could lose everything.

And him? Stranger has nothing on the line.

I try with Jeremy. Try spending time with him, but he’s always busy. I try talking to him on the phone, but he just asks in his exasperated tone what it is I need, and the sad answer is... nothing. I need nothing from Jeremy. Stranger gives me everything I need.

IT NEVER STOPS. October slides into November. Every day, he’s there in my phone. And because we’re locked in this game of mutual attraction, it’s a daily barrage. He starts sending me photos of what he’s doing all day. And I send them back. My lunch—I send him photos of my salads. I don’t even know why I do this. But it’s fun. We talk about it. It feels like being together.

His lunch. Egg salad sandwich covered in pepper.

Mia: Barf.

Stranger: Says the woman eating canned tuna with frozen corn.

Mia: It’s good. And has very few calories.

Stranger: Doubtful.

We do this all day, share inconsequential and meaningless events with each other.

Stranger: Would you ever get a tattoo?

Mia: I don’t know. I kinda always wanted to...

Stranger: Really?

Mia: Yeah, but I’m too chicken.

Stranger: What would you get?

Mia: A quote.

Stranger: Of course.

Mia: Why ‘of course?’

Stranger: It’s just what I expected you’d say. What quote?

Mia: Hmm... An Anais Nin one?

Stranger: Interesting. Which one?

Mia: ‘What a mystery...’

Stranger: The lovesickness one?

Mia: Yes. I shouldn’t be surprised that you know it.

Stranger: Why that one?

Mia: It’s the quote that made me want to write. It’s the feeling I always want to capture.

Stranger: You should get it then.

Mia: I can’t.

Stranger: Why?

Mia: I just... my mom would hate it. My fiancé would hate it.

There’s a long pause. He doesn’t like it when I bring up Jeremy or my future with him.

Stranger: It’s your body.

Mia: It’s too late anyway. What would be the point now?

Stranger: Sometimes you talk like your life is over. Where would you get it?

Mia: My shoulder blade. In another language. Arabic maybe.

Stranger: Why Arabic?

Mia: Because it’s pretty. And I don’t really want everyone I meet to know what I have written on my back.

Stranger: That would be pretty. Small black Arabic font. Tidy little lines on your smooth skin.

See, best girlfriend ever, only he has a cock, and he never lets me forget about it.

Now instead of watching an hour or two of TV at night, I sit in my bed and text with him. Increasingly descriptive, graphic and personal conversation.

Highly sexual. Highly explicit.

The week before Thanksgiving Jer is working late again, and I’m in bed, my face buried in my phone, telling him about the exercise videos I do.

Mia: It’s a lot of jumping. Fake punching. Dance moves.

Stranger: I need to see this.

Mia: Umm... No.

Stranger: Oh, yeah! I’ll sit on the couch right behind you, drink a beer and stare at your ass.

Mia: You would make so much fun of me.

Stranger: All the fun.

I can see it so perfectly. It feels so homey it makes my heart twist. That’s what we’d be like as a couple. He’d be there, enjoying these stupid moments, teasing me, making me laugh, liking me, just being together. I have never had that before with a man.

Stranger: And then I would fuck you.

That surprises a laugh out of me.

Mia: Hmmm... I don’t know, I get really sweaty. It’s hard dancing like that.

Stranger: I don’t mind a little sweat. I’d stroke my dick, memorize the shape of your ass in your leggings, your tits bouncing for me.

Mia: That would sort of ruin the point.

Stranger: Oh?

Mia: I mean, I’d probably just want to come over and help you out rather than keep up with the video.

Stranger: What would you do?

He does this to me, Stranger. He forces me to say things, engage with him in these sorts of dialogues that leave me clueless as to how to proceed. I want to keep going, I want to play with him. I spend so much of my time frustrated and aroused, but my polite mannerly self wars with the horny little sex freak he’s turning me into.

I clamp my lips together. He’s waiting. He knows what he’s doing. He plays me so well.

Mia: Depends on my mood.

Stranger: ???

Why can’t he ever show me what to do? There’s still so much I don’t know about this man. He says he rarely smiles, even though I know he does with me sometimes. I wonder what I would do. Play out a few scenarios. Imagine straddling him, consider kneeling before him, maybe dancing closer and staying just beyond his reach?

Mia: I don’t know. Would I be comfortable with you? Would I be scared of you?

Stranger: You’d get used to me.

Mia: Hmmm. I’m a pushover. I’d probably just glare down at you?

Stranger: That’s all you got, Reed?

Mia: I can mean glare.

Stranger: Wouldn’t phase me. I’d just sip my beer. Stare at your tits, keep stroking my dick.

Mia: I’m not patient. I’d get even more annoyed.

Stranger: Brat.

Mia: Definitely. I’d push at your thighs, shove at your beer, drop down between your legs. You can’t ignore me.

Stranger: I’d tuck your hair behind your ear, pull you closer.

Mia: To make me suck your cock again?

Stranger: No.

Mia: Then what?

Stranger: To kiss your lips.

Mia: Sigh.

Stranger: Are you touching yourself?

I pause again. I wasn’t. Not before. But I want to. My whole body is laser focused, a hundred percent on him. I go ahead, slide my hand down my pants. Try to get used to texting with only one thumb.

Mia: Yes.

Stranger: Are you wet?

Mia: You know when you slide your hand down a woman’s body, over the rise of her pelvic bone?

Stranger: Yes.

Mia: Down over the folds, where the skin is soft and warm, to the bottom, and sometimes you have to open her up?

Stranger: Sure. Spread her open, get a finger inside, find out just how wet she is.

Mia: Right. It’s... dry on the outside, but then you find this one spot and it’s all slippery and warm, and it opens up from there.

Stranger: I know that feeling. It’s the best feeling.

Mia: That’s not me right now.

Stranger: ???

Mia: There’s no dry on the outside. I’m a mess. All the way through my panties.

Stranger: LOL. Nicely done, Reed.

Mia: I’m serious, Stranger.

Stranger: I like that. I want to lay you back, spread your legs wide, lick your clit, fuck you with my tongue till your thighs shake.

I’m not even thinking anymore, I’m just doing whatever occurs to me, one handed and it’s the longest, strangest foreplay I’ve ever had, but I have never been so turned on in my life. It makes sense in a way, we’re writers. We think in words. This is an extension of that. I should feel guilty, but right now I’m not letting myself feel anything at all except how badly I want him.

I reread his words, touching myself.

Mia: Pathetic whimper.

Stranger: I’d make you lick my fingers, fill your mouth with the taste of your cunt.

Mia: Hmmm... I don’t know.

Stranger: Keep touching yourself.

Mia: Trust me, I am.

Stranger: I like the idea of wrapping a hand—I’ve got big hands—around your neck, pulling you into my lap, a little rough, manhandle you, make you work for it.

Mia: Do it. I won’t break. I can handle an awkward clamber into your lap.

Stranger: I like that. Awkward clamber. Get the angle right, my palms on your ass, line it up and slam you down. Fill you with my cock.

Mia: It would glide right in. I’m that wet.

Stranger: And I’m that hard. But I don’t really like the girl on top. Not for long.

Mia: I hate being on top.

Stranger: You would. I’d toss you on your back, force your legs open wider, hold you down, kiss you gently and fuck you hard.

Mia: I love kisses!

Stranger: I’d give them all to you, stroke your face with my thumb, hold you still, all mine. Where would you want me to cum?

I blink at the phone.

Mia: Hmmm... what are my choices?

Stranger: Pussy? Ass? Mouth? Tits? Other?

Mia:  Too hard to choose. Maybe not ass?

Stranger: ‘Maybe’ with a question mark. I like it. We’d be good together.

Mia: I think we would be.

Stranger: We understand each other.

Mia: Sexually yes.

Stranger: Definitely. How wet are you now?

Mia: It’s disgusting. I may have to change the sheets.

Stranger: Killing me.

Mia: Are you touching yourself? Right now?

Stranger: I’m so hard it hurts.

Mia: I wish I could see.

Stranger: I could show you. We could facetime right now?

Mia: No! Seriously. I’m not ready for that.

Stranger: You could take it.

Mia: Could is different than want to.

Stranger: Fair enough. But Mia?

Mia: Yeah?

Stranger: We just officially sexted.

Mia: Ohmygod! We did.

He’s right. I didn’t even really notice. I was just having so much fun with him, acting out the scenario, playing along, laughing, so turned on.

Stranger: Yeah.

Mia: I feel so awkward now.

Stranger: Don’t.

Mia: I should go to bed.

Stranger: Wait.

Mia: I’m here.

Stranger: Are you freaking out?

Mia: No, I don’t know. Maybe? I’m confused. And frustrated. Guilty.

Stranger: I can understand that.

Mia: I... want to go.

Stranger: Right now? Go where?

Mia: To sleep. I need to have an orgasm. I think my ovaries will turn blue if I don’t.

Stranger: Do it. Think of me. We’ll talk in the morning.

Mia: Good night, Stranger.

Night: Night, Sexty Mia.

I drop the phone on to my bedside table. It takes less than two minutes for me to have a truly impressive orgasm.

I fall asleep moments later.

When I wake in the morning, I convince myself that it was a one-time thing. That it won’t happen again. That I’ll talk to Stranger, break it off, end it.

But there’s a text from him.

Stranger: Stop beating yourself up.

I’m lying to myself.

I’m lying to everyone except this one person I’ve never even met.

A liar, that’s what I am. And according to Stranger everyone lies. Does he lie to me? About what.

This is all a mess and it’s getting messier.

I hate myself.

I have to talk to Jeremy. But when I call him first thing, he says that he just booked a two-week trip to Hong Kong. He’s on his way to the airport now. When he comes back it will be Thanksgiving. I can’t tell him over the phone. I can’t tell him on a holiday. There’s no time.

So, I don’t tell him.

Instead, every single night for a week, I find myself in bed, texting—usually one-handed—or speaking with a strange man I’ve never met, but who feels more real than anyone I’ve ever known.