I’m biting my cheek so hard while I wait for the bubbles to turn into text that pain bursts through my skin right up to my eyelid. But then the bubbles stop.
Excuse me?
I exhale when they begin again.
It’s one thing to be a fish daddy, but it’s another thing to be a fish fuck boy.
Oh shit, fish daddy is going to become a thing, isn’t it?
But then the text appears.
Mack: I know . . . I KNOW you didn’t just send me this after breaking into my house and interrupting my otherwise perfectly fine and peaceful life. I know you wouldn’t do a thing like that, would you, Jules?
I giggle. He sounds angry, but also . . . he asked a question, right? A question means: continue on.
I take this as a sign. I shouldn’t because, as per usual, I’m acting as unhinged as a broken front door, but I can’t help it.
This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in years.
No, that’s happened to me ever.
And I don’t want it to stop. I can’t remember the last time I felt so alive.
Before I respond, because I want to think about this, I pad my way over to the bathtub, strip off my clothes, and flip on the faucet.
The sound of the water soothes the deafening silence of my apartment. I toss in some bath salts and dip in a toe, letting the heat from the water spread from my leg to my heart, goose bumps rippling up my skin along the way.
Once I’m submerged, I settle in with my elbows on either side of the porcelain tub, my knees bent—one leg crossed over the other, swinging cheerily—my head resting against the wall, and the ends of my hair damp with moisture.
Jules: If you know, then why are you asking?
Typing bubbles appear on the screen. Excitement bubbles in my belly.
Mack: Because I just want to verify exactly the kind of crazy you actually are.
Jules: Are you really one to judge?
Mack: I might look crazy, but I’m actually incredibly reasonable. More reasonable than you, at least.
Now I’m extra excited. I kick my feet in the water. We’re flirting again. Talking, like friends, like we used to on the forums. Or at least, we kind of are. We’re on the path.
Jules: So, does that mean you can’t fuck?
Mack: We’re really doing this, huh? We’re really going to talk about . . . me.
Jules: You can’t blame a girl. You can’t act like you wouldn’t have a million questions either if the tables were turned.
Mack: Sure, but I wouldn’t break the ice with questions about how someone fucks!
Jules: Oh, the ice has been broken, my friend. The ice was broken when you sent me those pictures. Consider yourself the breaker of the ice. I’m merely just testing the waters now. Dipping my toe in to feel out the temperature. But I didn’t get here on my own.
Mack: I can’t deny that you make a good argument.
I shake my shoulders and smile smugly. Why am I enjoying this so much? Really, an unprecedented amount of satisfaction surges through me given the situation.
Jules: Then answer the question.
Mack: If I answer the question, then we’ll be done talking?
Jules: No, of course not. If you answer the question, that’ll just be one question off the list of the many, many, many questions I have for you.
Mack: But what if I don’t want to answer your questions?
Jules: You do.
There’s a pause in the typing bubbles. We’ve been rapid-fire texting back and forth. And maybe I’ve pushed him too far.
Mack: The truth is. I don’t know if I can fuck. It’s embarrassing, honestly.
Jules: You’re a virgin?!
I’m shocked at the very idea. Even I’m not a virgin, and I’m practically a hermit crab.
Mack: Why does it feel like the idea of me being a virgin is more shocking than . . . well, the other thing?
Jules: So you are a virgin!??!
Mack: No, I’m not a virgin.
