Page 13 of Make Me Dream of You

“A boy friend?” Macy chimes in.

“Maybe,” I say.

They exchange looks, both stifling smirks.

“What? He really is just a friend.”

I don’t know what else to say. It’s not like I have any other information to give. I don’t even know his name.

And I’m absolutely not about to explain to them what I started doing for money my last year of college. I stumbled upon it by accident, really. It was good money. Easy money.

I could do it anywhere, anytime, around my schedule—at the library, between classes, with multiple clients at a time while eating pizza and studying for midterm exams.

It’s amazing, actually, what I can chat about without even blushing. I’d turn beet red in real life if I even whispered half the things I’ve typed.

But I never get even remotely aroused. They’re just words. Easily written after years of media intake, reading sexy novels, and seeing porn. It comes naturally—even though I have no experience with any of those things in real life.

It seemed harmless enough, just something to do for a little money while I was in school, something I could stop at any time. Surprisingly, many of the men seemed lonely more than anything. They wanted someone to talk to.

I made sure to remain anonymous—no names, no discussing things like where we live or work, no pictures, no videos.

Beyond the anonymity, I wasn’t comfortable enough to show my body anyway, thanks to always being a little heavier growing up and a healthy dose of shame in my body or anything remotely sexual, courtesy of my overly religious mother. As I got older, she didn’t even have to say anything. Her silence was enough. Accompanied by her ever-present gold cross necklace.

Never have I felt more judged by an inanimate object.

And, oh boy, if that little cross only knew the filthy things some of these guys are into. And I play along. It’s fun. As Angel, I am a confident, sexy, experienced woman that men worship. I don’t have to be Livvy, a virgin, who only stopped being too shy to talk to men as she was almost through college.

I think being Angel has helped me with the confidence, actually. That and finally realizing I’m not that awkward, chubby tween anymore.

2Horned:

Jesus Christ that was so hot.

Did you come?

ANG3L:

I did. It was so good

“It was the husband! It’s always the fucking husband.” Bex scarfs a last Dorito then licks her fingers before typing hard and fast on her phone. “He’s a Sagittarius. I knew it. Total killer vibes.”

“I don’t know, I think it might have been the creepy neighbor who was totally stalking her,” Macy says. She goes to take another sip of her wine then pouts when she realizes it’s empty. “Darn. I think that’s my cue to wash off this face mask and go to bed. Don’t tell me who the killer is, Bex.”

“I told you it’s going to be the fucking husband.”

Macy rolls her eyes, smiling. “Night, girls.”

“I should go to bed, too,” I say, getting up. Seriously, are neither of their faces itchy?

“Night.” Bex waves, eyes still glued to the television.

She hardly ever goes to bed before three or four in the morning, thanks to years of bartending, but I cannot hang much past midnight yet. Guess I need to work on that.

I get ready for bed then get into my makeshift bed—an air mattress with several blankets and a lumpy pillow on the floor in Bex’s bedroom. But it’s better than the couch, especially with Bex’s late hours at the bar and Macy’s early hours at the hospital.

2Horned:

Thank you. I really needed that

---