Page 2 of Desperately Seeking Kitty

PRGLDNROD

I reread my ad one last time then finished the last of my cider. My cat had wandered away, so I curled up on the window seat for a short nap. It wasn’t the most comfortable position and my ample parts dangled off the cushions, but I just needed a few minutes to rest. I was a night owl, after all, and I had a ton of work to get done tonight. Damn cider had hit me harder than I’d expected.

Two hours later, I shot up into a seated position with my dark curls half covering my face, my eyes bleary, and the snow outside reaching epic levels. Not unusual for my small town in central New York, but I must’ve somehow missed a weather alert.

I lifted my phone, swiped it awake, and squinted at the screen with one eye, sure I must be seeing things. I’d left my Kitten Around profile open and my mail icon was jumping madly. The red number above it read 213.

What the hell?

I opened my inbox and started reading the messages with growing horror. They got more and more salacious, describing sex acts and positions that even I wasn’t familiar with.

And I knew my sex acts. I actually prided myself on my knowledge of a wide array of the ways people got off, so that I could help my editing clients.

These people apparently could teach me a few things. At least intellectually. I wasn’t looking for those kind of playdates, thank you very much.

I shuddered. And neither was Princess Goldenrod.

I went through every message. Some went right in the trash bin. A few of them, I noted their contact information in my notes app so I could possibly contact them with questions later.

That left me with three candidates. Three out of the now 226 messages.

I took a deep breath.

Perhaps I’d gone too provocative. I needed a beta reader when I wrote these things, apparently.

Thiswas why I just edited romance novels and didn’t write them. I’d probably set the internet on fire if I tried.

Shivering, I tightened my robe as message #227 came in. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to read any more about pony play except with cats. Or humans dressed as cats or something along those lines. Hey, you do you, whatever works. I just hadn’t expected quite that level of enthusiasm in response to my ad.

Maybe I should have. I hadn’t exactly posted it at the best time of day for such things. But who spent the overnight hours trolling Kitten Around’s classifieds section?

Color me schooled.

I opened #227 and read it with my heart racing.

Admin

Hi, you don’t know me, and maybe I’m not understanding what you’re looking for, but considering where you posted this, you might want to reword it? I can’t imagine the kind of replies you’re getting. Actually, I can, but don’t tell me because I’m not a pervert and not interested. You probably won’t even see this.

I frowned and responded before I thought better of it. Although I probably wouldn’t have thought better of it, anyway. I had a vague hard cider buzz and it was three a.m. and my toes were freezing. How those three things worked together, I wasn’t certain.

PrGldnrod

When someone says they aren’t a pervert, they most certainly are. It’s like someone in a cabin in the woods saying they aren’t a serial killer then holding out a handful of candy to a hapless stranger.

I don’t know what made me say that. I wasn’t that drunk, if I even was at all. But there was a little devil on my shoulder who felt bold behind the screen.

I often did while I did my work, too, despite the fact they weren’t my words I was editing. I just rearranged sections that needed help. I didn’tcreate.

Kitty Armor, developmental editor, was the brave one, not Katherine Armitage, mousy recluse with a pair of red heels she’d probably never actually wear anywhere other than her own apartment while she edited.

So who was being brave here? Kitty, Katherine, or someone new altogether?

While I pondered that, another message came in. And it wasn’t from my cabin-candy giver.

Whom I’d apparently scared away. Even my typed words were intimidating somehow. My dad would shake his head sadly and say he’d told me that men like to make the first move.

I hadn’t made any moves. I was looking for a cat, not a man, for fuck’s sake.

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