Page 10 of Puck Yes

Ivy: I felt bad for having seen you naked and you not knowing.

Hayes: Why would you feel bad?

Ivy: Because I’d seen you naked!

Hayes: I’m still not seeing the problem.

My cheeks go hotter. He’s kind of…sarcastically flirty.

Hayes: Or do you feel bad because you were trying to get another look?

I chew on my lip, debating. But…what do I have to lose?

Ivy: Look, all I’m saying is if the Emoji Association ever needs a spokesperson for the eggplant, it should be you.

There. I pretty much saidI like your dick.There’s silence on my phone for a few minutes until an image lands.

You can’t see his face. You can’t even see his torso. The photo is a tight shot of a man holding an eggplant against his shorts. And I sway closer to the screen, squinting. I’m pretty sure that’s the outline of his cock right next to the veggie. And…he’s half-hard. I stare so long I become a danger to traffic. Then, I force myself to read the note.

Hayes: Just thinking of you.

He’s not white-knighting me after all. But I’m not going to send a similar shot. Well, Iamout on the streets. Instead, I write back asking for something else—info.

Ivy: I have to know, why were you naked on the rooftop? Was it Naked Gardening Day?

Hayes: That’s a thing, right?

Ivy: I googled it but it’s in the spring. Is that your kink though? Naked gardening?

Hayes: Is voyeurism your kink?

That’s an excellent question. In the moment, yesterday’s rooftop entertainment felt like good old spectator fun. Like, why not check out some public, non-sexual nudity? But now it sparks questions I’ve not considered before. Like, if I’d been alone at the bar, would I have watched longer? Or if I saw that man stripping off his shirt through my apartment window, would I stare?

I’m noodling on a reply when another text lands.

Hayes: Because if it is, tell me when you’ll have those binoculars out next.

The hair on my arms stands on end. With excitement. With possibility. I don’t even know what he’s offering. To strip for me? To touch himself on the rooftop? Something else? This is next-level text flirting, and I’m not entirely sure what to say.

I don’t have this sort of experience. My ex wasn’t a sexter. The guys I dated before him sent messages that were more of theheyvariety.

Hayes doesn’t wait for my answer before he sends another text.

Hayes: Or…the next time I get dirty while gardening and strip off my clothes on the roof before I head to the shower, I’ll just stay out there longer. A lot longer.

And I have my answer. If yesterday’s show had shifted from fun to sexy, I’d have watched more.

Ivy: I think I need a shower now.

Hayes: I just got out.

This is another chance. To find out if I do like sexting. I was bold last night when I quit my job. Might as well be bold now.

Ivy: Prove it.

The man doesn’t make me wait. Another photo lands seconds later. It’s a sliver of his abs. I can imagine water sluicing down those carved muscles and into the top of the white towel cinched around his waist. He’s strong, but not perfect. There’s a small, horizontal scar on the right side of his stomach. It’s an inch long, white, practically translucent, like he’s had it for a while. I want to trace that scar then run my finger along those star tattoos on his hip.

Ivy: That’s my favorite kind of evidence.

---