Close Call

a lit­tle face time

Hello Mr. Magazine - - TABLE OF CONTENTS - Text by NIKOLAS MALONE

“Hey,” he says be­tween stran­gled breaths. “You still there?” “Yeah! Yeah. Yes.” He grunts and seems con­tent with this an­swer.

“My par­ents aren’t home and my room is su­per dark so you prob­a­bly can’t see me jerk­ing off, but I prom­ise I am, and I wish you were here fuck­ing me right now,” I whis­per while I text my friends and tweet about the dream I had the other night where I cut off my fin­ger­tips with kitchen scis­sors and found baby car­rots in­stead of bones.

It is five-hun­dred-thou­sand fuck­ing de­grees in my room. He’s breath­ing heav­ily into the re­ceiver and has been ask­ing rhetor­i­cal ques­tions for the last 15 min­utes. He begged me to FaceTime him while he jerked off and I obliged, ini­tially be­cause I wanted to call his bluff but then his dick was out and there was no turn­ing back. My pants are off more in­stinc­tively than any­thing else. I some­how feel guilty for not wear­ing sex­ier un­der­wear for the oc­ca­sion. I lose track of his grunted prom­ises to hold me down and make me his “bitch” while I ex­am­ine the plaid on my stupid briefs, which I am con­fi­dent came in a pack of five or more. “Yeah? Yeah? Yeah?” “Fuck yeah. I can’t wait for you to cum. I love how you sound when you cum.”

He moans and I think to my­self, I am the most cre­ative per­son of all time and no one is out of my league.

Even­tu­ally Twit­ter bores me and I close my eyes, fold­ing my hands on my chest like a pharaoh in a sar­coph­a­gus, lis­ten­ing to all the things he would “do to me.” It was sloppy and there wasn’t a lot of con­ti­nu­ity – one sec­ond he was fuck­ing me in his bed, then in his dad’s of­fice, then his friend was watching us at the movie theater, then we were col­lege room­mates.

“Aren’t you glad you lucked out and got as­signed a room­mate who wanted to fuck you so bad?”

“Oh, fuck yeah, thank God. I don’t even have to worry about find­ing a good time to mas­tur­bate!”

Still, his shak­ing voice made ev­ery sex­ual prom­ise feel mean­ing­ful. He sounded sad, al­most pen­sive, like he was reach­ing into the deep­est cor­ners of his mind to give him­self to me. De­spite this, I con­tin­ued glanc­ing over to see him jerk­ing off – re­lent­lessly, an­grily, vi­o­lently. It wasn’t even him – just a dick be­ing jerked off across the length of my phone. An un­known, mys­te­ri­ous dick.

We started talk­ing dur­ing a brief stint with mono – two weeks of bedrest in my empty home. Re­lieved to be away from school but lonely and des­per­ate for at­ten­tion – my mom had stopped

re­spond­ing af­ter the 40th corgi pic­ture I sent her – I took to Tin­der to have my ego stroked for the bet­ter part of the five hours I spent awake each day. He was my third match, and his pro­file in­cluded pic­tures of him pas­sion­ately play­ing a tam­bourine. His mid­dle name was Grant, which I in­formed him was the last name of my fa­vorite pres­i­dent, whom I also thought was hot. He was fresh out of col­lege, and as such, had a laun­dry list of corny pickup lines and sly lit­tle tac­tics to get guys to sleep with him. He asked if he could call me (be­cause tex­ting felt im­per­sonal and he was a ro­man­tic), he was in-be­tween jobs (but had just stripped and re­done an en­tire apart­ment and made some joke about how good he was with tools), and told me that he “loved my mind,” which al­most fooled me un­til I re­mem­bered that the most re­veal­ing thing I had shared with him was that my fa­vorite pres­i­dent was Ulysses S. Grant. “Hey,” I say a lit­tle coldly. “Yeah?” “We should try some­thing.” “What should we try?” “You should call me.” “I’m on the phone with you right now, what the fuck are you talk­ing about?”

“No, like, you should call me call me. Like a phone call. You can’t see me, I can’t see you, we just talk to each other.”

“You want to have phone sex? How very 90s of you.”

“Yeah, I mean, it’ll be like hav­ing sex blind­folded, you have to rely on all your other senses.” He laughs. “Ex­cept I’m not there with you, so we can’t rely on any of our senses ex­cept one,” I work hard to con­vince him in a low whis­per. He’s silent for a sec­ond. “What if I want to see you cum?” “Yeah, but like, think about it, what’s re­ally that great about cum?” “Okay, I’ll call you.” He hangs up and the void his dick leaves is filled with a heavy si­lence.

The break be­tween our two calls sends me into a sweaty panic. I have made a huge mis­take and should not have done this. I con­sider the con­se­quences of de­clin­ing his call and all of his horny fol­low-up calls and emo­jis. Would he text me? Would he hunt me down? How dif­fi­cult is it to re­ally block some­body’s num­ber? Be­fore I can ra­tio­nal­ize any of my thoughts my phone is vi­brat­ing and send­ing earth-shak­ing tremors through my mat­tress and body. His con­tact pic­ture flashes on the screen – he looks sweet and unas­sum­ing, frozen in time with his tam­bourine in hand for­ever. I an­swer the call. “Hello?” “Hey.” “So… how are you do­ing?” I ask, and im­me­di­ately feel stupid. He laughs, ei­ther out of kind­ness or horni­ness, but I ap­pre­ci­ate it ei­ther way.

“I’m just think­ing about get­ting you and that tight lit­tle body alone, all to my­self.”

Al­most in­stantly my mind starts rac­ing. He has to be mak­ing fun of me. Are we do­ing role­play or some­thing? There is noth­ing tight nor lit­tle about my body – both he and the thighs I squeeze into my skinny jeans know it. An­gered, I de­cide to fuck with him back.

“Maybe I don’t want you to have me alone. Maybe I know that your av­er­age-sized cock can’t please me like I need it to.”

“Oh, re­ally?” His voice dips into a low grum­ble.

“Well how about I hold you down by your neck and your mouth while I fuck you. We’ll see what you have to say for your­self when all you can feel is oh-so-av­er­age, won’t we?”

It is five-hun­dred-thou­sand fuck­ing de­grees in my room and I hate my­self and I hate him. I spit into my hand loudly. “Ohh, shit, was that you spit­ting for me? You play­ing with your dick now? You like be­ing held down?”

“Yep,” I say non­cha­lantly, wip­ing cold saliva across my chest.

“I could never be a poly gay,” I tweet. “I’d al­ways feel like I was a con­tes­tant on the Bach­e­lor and that’s just not a level of stress I can han­dle.”

I be­gin doz­ing off to each rhyth­mic, breathy grunt. Fall­ing asleep to the sound of him jerk­ing off is like fall­ing asleep to a storm. If I zone out hard enough, his moans are like thun­der, and his words sound like rain, rain that is threat­en­ing to “de­stroy my ass” and wants me to call it daddy. Soon, my eye­lids flut­ter. The next morn­ing I wake up to a text mes­sage.

The emo­jis paired with his name are the flame and the con­struc­tion worker. “Nice.” it reads. I am too mor­ti­fied to reach out to him for a week.

He ac­ci­den­tally butt-FaceTimes me on Thanks­giv­ing. (The lo­gis­tics of a butt-FaceTime are be­yond me, but I swear to God it hap­pened.) I an­swer and don’t hang up for a very long time. I hear his fam­ily, or his friends, maybe. Ap­par­ently it’s his job to make the cres­cent rolls for the ta­ble and he’s about to go out and buy the dough. In a mo­ment of strange em­pa­thy, I de­cide that I owe him. From his pocket, as he walks through the gro­cery store, I de­tail my most pri­vate, vile and dis­gust­ing sex­ual fan­tasies and de­sires for him in a whis­per that he’ll never know. I tell him ev­ery­thing I’d let him do to my body while I hear him ring­ing up $20.40 worth of cres­cent rolls. Of course it was cres­cent rolls – just enough com­mit­ment to the hol­i­day with just the right amount of culi­nary in­ad­e­quacy. He was just like me. Sat­is­fied, I hang up.

Sev­eral weeks later, in the mid­dle of the night, I get lonely enough to give him a sur­prise call.

“Haven’t heard from you in a while,” he teases. “And you know noth­ing good ever hap­pens af­ter mid­night.”

“What choice did I have? I couldn’t stop think­ing about you.”

“Some­thing tells me you just can’t stop think­ing about me af­ter dark. Which is fine. Why don’t you come over to­mor­row and we can give you what you want?”

I close my eyes and think about the guy who bought the cres­cent rolls.

“That sounds like fun,” my lips go­ing through the flir­ta­tious mo­tions. “It will be fun.” “To­mor­row it is then.” “Just shoot me a text. Or send a pic­ture if you’re up to the chal­lenge.”

I muster a half-chuckle and the line drops out. His voice is gone but his lit­tle por­trait that I screen­shot­ted, cropped, and edited from Tin­der re­mains, and his eyes fol­low. I let the warm glow of his con­tact pic­ture light up my face, in­hal­ing the man­i­cured mess of hair, the cig­a­rette perched in his mouth, the stupid fuck­ing tam­bourine.

I exhale and block his num­ber.

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