Page 2 of Most Likely to Match
Yes.
Chlo: Show me
Get here and I will
I make my way over to the mats again— they’re better than nothing— and lie back. Then, using the heel of my hand, I press myself through my jeans. Back here, even with all the gym equipment, it doesn’t feel like a school. The sound of the first lunch period is muted by the heavy curtains, the air warm and the dim light warmer. If I wasn’t so fucking horny, I could fall asleep back here.
Chlo: Show me.
Chlo: Please?
I sigh and open the camera app again. I am familiar with the concept of dick pics, but I’ve never actually sent one, so the photo I send her now isn’t much to get excited about. It’s still too dark, for one. And the bulge in my jeans doesn’t really look like anything. Just lumpy denim.
Chlo: Not good enough.
I can almost hear her voice in my head, like the pouty, pleading sound she makes when she wants to come. I squeeze myself again. If I’m not careful, I’m going to get a wet spot on this denim, and then I’m really fucked. I try another photo, this time with the flash on. That’s worse. It has a seedy quality to it. Not even good enough forPorn Hub.
The lighting isn’t good here. It’s much better in person, though. I promise.
There’s no response for a long moment, and my heart rate kicks up with nerves. We don’t really talk about it, but I think we both know that I’m the reacher in this fucked-up secret friends-with-benefits thing we have. Chlo is popular and pretty and smart; she will undoubtedly be named Most Likely to Succeed in our graduating class. Meanwhile I’m an art nerd who’d never touched a boob before hers. If I’m nominated Most Likely to be Forgotten, that will probably be a win. The only reason she knows my name at all is because her talents didn’t extend to French and she needed a tutor.
It always feels easier for her to walk away from this than me. Which is why, when she responds with her next demand, I do it.
Chlo: So find some light.
I shuffle toward the spotlight, hot on the middle of the stage. Last night this space was frantic with dancing and singing and off-theme modest costuming that looked out of place for the story through my camera’s viewfinder.
I snap another photo, this one of my hand wrapped around my junk through my jeans.
Chlo: Take it out.
Sweat drips down my back, a combination of tension and having a literal spotlight on me.
You want me to send you a dick pic?
I hope she can hear my incredulity through her phone screen becausewhat is going on?
Chlo: Duh.
Chlo: Want something I can take with me to school in the fall.
I sigh, staring at the screen until the phone goes dark in my hand, my confused expression frowning back up at me. “Fuck it,” I whisper. In a fluid motion, I shove one hand into my pants and unlock myphone with the other. My heart pumps hard and high in my throat, choking me enough to steal my breath as I position the phone’s camera over my crotch. I close my eyes when I take the picture. This is ridiculous, but I’m willing to make this sacrifice for her.
“Dean?” Chloe’s shocked voice cuts through the click of my camera and the thrum of blood in my ears.
I jump, turning to face where she stands at the edge of the stage. She smiles, oddly, like she’s unsure if she’s supposed to do or say something, and because I’ve never done this before— because I’ve never been caught with my dick in my hand by the girl who wanted to see it— I return her smile.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I look down at myself, then away, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Taking the picture you wanted,” I say, nervous laughter garbling my words.
“Dean.” She shakes her head. “What—”
Her next words are cut off by the ringing sound of velvet curtains rolling back on a metal rod, by the hum of voices no longer muffled but crystal clear, as the barrier that felt so concrete moments ago reveals itself to be actually quite flimsy.
I see in snapshots.
Chloe’s confused face.
