She could only help.
He sensed immediately what she was offering, grabbing the black thing he carried with him all the time and snapping a photo.
“Perfect, Queen LT. I’m going to send her some pics in the morning.”
10BRYN
As I scan emails while I down my coffee at the kitchen counter the next morning, my phone assaults me with a terrifying image.
“Ugh!” I shout, tossing it on the floor like it’s a diseased creature. Bruce twitches his tail, looking up from the spot he’s commandeered, a slice of morning light perfect for a catnap.
The black tabby casts a disdainful glance at the device.
“Trust me. It deserves all the side-eyes. Dick pics should be outlawed. Who is this offender?”
A furry brow arches, as if Bruce knows the answer. I snap my fingers. “You’re right! It has to be Mr. Measure.” I went out with the guy exactly once. “He was dying to show it to me on our first date,” I explain to the cat. “And he wanted to know if it measured up to other dicks.”
The cat flips to his other side, he’s so offended by such antics. Of course he is. The feline has standards. “I feel the same, Bruce. I definitely feel the same. I never even saw his penis until now. Didn’t want to. Shocker, I know.”
I’m taking another sip of coffee when my phone attacks once again, this time with a series of texts from Mr. Measure, rapid-fire and all caps.
OMG.
I’M SO SORRY.
SO, SO, SO SORRY. I CAN’T BELIEVE I DID THAT.
THAT WAS FOR SOMEONE ELSE.
I SWEAR. OH GOD.
THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT. I DIDN’T MEAN TO SEND IT TO YOU.
WELL, ON THE PLUS SIDE, AT LEAST I DIDN’T SEND IT TO MY MOM. :)
BUT HEY, NOW THAT I’VE SENT IT, WHAT DO YOU THINK???
Rolling my eyes, my finger hovers over the block button.
On second thought . . .
I tap out a reply.
Bryn: Sweetheart, thanks for the picture. It helps so much to diagnose the situation. And I agree—seems there is indeed a pimple on your pecker. I called your urologist for you and scheduled an appt. Dr. Wankerstein will see you at three. Love, Mommykins.
I hit send, then I quickly google and attach an article we ran on The Dating Pool several months back, when I was young and hopeful, still believing that we could, as a society, eradicate the scourge that was dick pics.
The plan was to start with proper public education. To use the article to lay the foundation for eliminating them. I’d hoped—no, prayed is a better word—that the piece would start a movement.
The end of wiener shots.
I’m not the only one hoping for a vaccine.
At The Dating Pool, we surveyed female readers, and they overwhelmingly voted that the ideal time for receiving a dick pic is never.
A dick pic is aggressive. Usually unsolicited. Kind of pointless.
I’d rather see a guy’s eyes.
Or his smile.
Or his pet.
As if on cue, an envelope icon appears on my phone—from Logan. I click it open, and I smile. Because see? This is what a classy guy does. He sends cat pics. Not dick pics. This is more proof that Logan is worth a second date. Probably a third too. Because . . . cats.
“Oh my God, she has the best tail ever,” I say, then I turn to my black companion, who’s shooting me the evil eye. As cats do. “I didn’t mean that. Yours is better.”
He thumps his lovely, slinky tail once, then curls up in a tight ball, tucking it away from me. I don’t deserve to see it.
I return to the phone, enjoying the shot Logan sent of his black-and-white kitty. She’s lounging on the bed, looking borderline sumptuous. The text caption from him reads: When cats know they’re sexy . . .
A huge grin fills my whole face.
It’s followed by a whoosh of tingles that spread down my chest as I remember last night.
And as I look forward to Friday.
I hit reply.
Bryn: Watch out, Marilyn. This cat looks like she might start doing pinup poses.
Logan: Shhh. She does that at night. By day, she’s sweet and innocent, posing like a pop star for my kid.
Bryn: Too cute for words. I’m going to show Bruce.
Logan: No doubt he’ll be outside the window soon, caterwauling.
Bryn: Obviously.
I show the shot to Bruce, who can’t even be bothered to raise his face. Fine, clearly I’ve offended him by dissing his tail. I park a hand on my hip, giving him a haughty stare. “Look. I love your tail more. But would it be so hard to have some entertaining skills? I mean, you don’t even knock mugs off counters or do anything worthy of a cat meme.”
I turn away, head to my couch, and grab my laptop. I’m due at the office in an hour, but I’m energized from last night and jazzed from the text messages this morning, so I decide it’s time to dive into my article on Made Connections.
Tucking my feet under me, I open a doc and let my fingers fly across the keys. It’s easy, remarkably easy, to say how I feel about that app. Forty-five minutes later, I email the draft to myself, shut the laptop, kiss my kitty boy, and head to the office.
Along the way, I reply to some emails, including one from my friend Paisley, who launched a travel blog last year that’s skyrocketing in popularity. She’s torn on which sponsorship deal to take for her home page, so she lays out the options, and I read them in detail, then reply with my opinion on what each has to offer.
Next, I turn to a follow-up email from Casey Sullivan, a woman who runs a sex-toy company. We had lunch last week, and she’s keen to strike a content-sharing deal with the site. The idea is that we’ll provide dating and relationship content for her site, and she’ll provide tips on improving sex lives. Hello, win-win. The proposal she’s laying out sounds terrific, but even though I’ve run the numbers and the deal sounds solid, I’m not authorized to approve something like this—especially with the change in management.
