“It’s their sicknesses that everyone takes pride in, and I perhaps more than anyone.” . . . I am not a sick man . . . I am not a wicked man. But, I am a man cursed with a vicious libido.   

He set his phone down for a moment and the blue light illuminated the wall behind his bed. The television in the corner played the Thursday night game and Reggie Miller droned on with moronic, obvious platitudes. He picked his phone back up and re-read the bio he’d written for his Tinder profile and frowned. Too niche. Trying too hard. No chick was gonna scroll through a dating app and respond to a play on a Dostoevsky excerpt.

Or would they?

He didn’t know anymore. After he was dumped, he second-guessed everything. He’d gotten out of that lovesick suicidal phase—for the most part, anyway—and done some soul searching, but now he felt like he was re-learning how to ride a bike. Evidently, some things are forgotten. Like how to make a dating profile. Should he use his intellect and try to attract some smart girls or should he play it cool and keep the bio portion blank? What attracts women online? Do they want to see your abs glistening on the beach and know that you can pick them up and throw them around? Or do they not want douche bags? Do they want men that know how to dress? Ones who read? Ones who make money and don’t live in unfurnished studio apartments? Are girls really after men with genuine intentions?

He could go to a bar and pick up a girl the old-fashioned way, but he still felt new to town and had never been much of a pickup artist riding solo. Luck had blessed him enough times, but more often than not, his negative self-image held him back. To go to a bar alone, he’d need to down a twelve pack of liquid courage first, but he’d sworn off drinking indefinitely because of the flab that had formed around his waist. He set his phone down again and watched the game. It was midway through the third and a close one—another high drama matchup with LeBron’s name written all over it. But he couldn’t get into it. There was a dryness in his throat and he felt agitated and finicky. He quickly grabbed his phone and opened Instagram. It was an avalanche of perfectly toned female asses and immaculate stomachs. He went to the Discover page and found more of the same—women working out and showing off their asses that they swore were built and not bought. He didn’t care one way or another, he was turned on all the same. He hadn’t had sex in six months and the only thing that kept him going on a daily basis was his nightly masturbation ritual. The videos and photos of girls lifting titillated him, but he needed more. Reddit had the answers for the bulge in his sweatpants. As he got deeper into pornography, he got tired of watching uncircumcised alphas violating breast-enhanced twenty-somethings on Pornhub—it was droll. He could get off to it, but without enthusiasm. On Reddit, he’d found dozens of communities that were tailor-made for his wide selection of kinks. Communities for people who were looking to masturbate together. Communities for people with underwear fetishes. Communities for mommy dommes, femdoms and submissive males and switches. The specificity was incredible. Anything he could imagine was there. He’d found the mommy dommes to be incredibly sexy of late. Dominant women anywhere between the ages of twenty and forty who would boss you around and tell you when you were allowed to cum and what you had to do. They’d tell you to eat your cum. They’d tell you to jizz all over yourself. They’d tell you to finger your asshole. And when you’d finish, they’d tell you what a good boy you were for mommy.

As he scrolled, his dick got harder. He took off his gray sweatpants and took his cock out of his tight briefs. It was rock hard and there was already precum oozing from the tip, despite the fact that he hadn’t touched himself yet. He found a video of a middle-aged woman with large, pale breasts staring at him. She played with them as she stood there in white cotton panties. The video had no sound, but he imagined that she was calling him a good boy. Telling him how much she liked it when he touched himself. It did the trick for a while, but he got bored and stopped. He scrolled on and looked for the right one. Some videos were okay and he sat with them and masturbated further, but none of them did the trick.

Until he saw her—a limber twenty-something with dark hair, a flat stomach and a tight ass.

He followed the digitized beauty to her personal page, hypnotized, and saw that she had dozens of videos. Some of them were a little extreme for his taste—lots of pegging and strap-ons and fat men in gimp suits. Those ones made him feel queasy, but she had other ones that were perfect for him. Pictures with captions telling him how to touch himself and how he needed to submit to her and cum. He beat his dick as if it owed him money, using his precum as lubricant, and stared at her impossibly smooth face and dark eyes. Involuntarily, he moaned, his eyes glued to the phone, the light from the television illuminating his red tip. He didn’t even bother going for a tissue or a sock—he just shot all over himself. He pulled so hard that the jizz landed on his chest and all over the waistband of his white Calvins. His chest rose and sunk and he breathed heavily, his body hot, sweat emanating from his crotch and ass. He let out a deep breath, grabbed a towel from his bedside dresser and wiped himself off. The game still had half a quarter to go. He glanced at the dark eyed beauty on his phone and his cock stiffened again. He shoved it back in his briefs, but kept his gaze on her and smiled. He had something to come back to tomorrow night. He set his phone down and focused on the commercial on the screen. Shaquille O’Neal was promoting another idiotic product that he didn’t care about. Did Shaq care about anything he promoted on those late-night commercials? But, his orgasmic euphoria subsided and a sad realization struck him—what did he care about? Anything? Anyone? And conversely, did anyone care about him?

 

***

 

The morning sun blasted through his broken blinds and woke him up immediately. His eyes wandered around the barren room and his head throbbed. The black mirrored television stared at him silently. The carpeted floor felt stiff and lifeless. He removed his light bedsheet and stared at his crotch—there were small bits of dried cum on his briefs. This turned him on for some reason. Staring at his own bulge always seemed to do that. He opened his phone and found the dark eyed beauty’s hairless taint looking at him; he’d forgotten to close the app. Quickly, he scrolled through her Reddit and revisited all the glorious photos and videos. He was still mesmerized by her body and her thin, open mouth. In some videos, she fucked herself with a long, purple dildo. In others, she had the dildo strapped to her pelvis. It all turned him on and his heart raced. He caressed his crotch for a moment and his bulge grew. But, a burst of shame ran through him and he stopped.

He exited the app, got out of bed and opened the mangled blinds. His neighbor’s apartment was roughly fifteen yards from his and she had a desk situated at her window. He wasn’t sure if she was a student or if she worked from home, but she was always at her desk early in the morning and he knew she could see directly into his bedroom. This always excited him because he was an exhibitionist. He paraded around in his briefs anytime she was there. Or if he finished a workout, he would walk around nude before getting into the shower. He never caught her peeking, but imagined—no, hoped—she did. He’d only seen her outside once and her appearance baffled him. Watching her plug away at her computer, he figured she was mature, tall, womanly, but, in reality, she was average height and sinewy with smooth features, straight black hair and beady eyes. When he realized that she had no time for his pathetic game, he changed into his workout clothes and took a large swig from his water bottle.

The kitchen was as bare as his bedroom. A single frying pan sat next to his coffee maker. He started a pot of coffee. He desperately wanted to have a cup before hitting the gym, but he’d made a promise to himself recently—less caffeine, no alcohol and healthier eating. A cup of coffee would be his treat when he returned from the gym. His apartment was silent and when he’d first moved in, he adored the solitude, but lately it had felt unbearably suffocating. He looked around, lost in thought as usual, and decided to leave before he retreated too far into himself.

The run to the gym was always quick. It was roughly a mile away, but most of it was downhill, so he typically made it there in seven minutes, which was good because the less time spent with the island sun burning his pale skin, the better. And it felt nice to hit the weights with a good sweat going. The gym, situated in an ultra-rich neighborhood, was always quiet in the mornings and most of its patrons were elderly and hunched over. Every now and then, other twenty-somethings came in to lift and that always invigorated him. He enjoyed lifting alone, but preferred others to be there. It stroked his ego anytime he caught someone staring at his vascular, swollen arms as he got through his sets; he greatly desired the gaze and approval of supple, tan, wannabe influencers.

He made his way to the free weight area in the back, knifing his way through the geriatrics, and found Dave and Herte there. They were the other two that were always there in the mornings. Dave always flashed him a friendly smile when they crossed paths and that made him feel good. Dave was like a lot of the other Asian folks that he’d met on Oahu—impossibly genuine and friendly. This friendliness prevented him from ever resenting Dave for standing directly in front of the free weights as he did hammer curls. He hated Dave’s lack of gym etiquette, but the friendliness triumphed.

 

Herte couldn’t have been more different than Dave. Where Dave was older, friendly and Asian, Herte was young, withdrawn and a haole, like him. He guessed she was older than him—maybe thirty-two—but she had a piercing shyness about her that matched his own. She had platinum blonde hair and her arms were riddled with tasteful, well-done tattoos. She was one of those gym girls that had the freshest gear and leggings that accentuated her ridiculous physique. He couldn’t help but stare anytime she was there. Her abs poked out of her crop top and glistened as she got deeper into her workout. Her legs were long and toned, her butt tight and firm. She was everything he fantasized about, but every time they crossed paths, all he could do was flash her a thin, contained, Caucasian smile. He imagined she was new to Honolulu and lonely like him and figured the gym was the only place she could unwind and search for community. He hoped she was a reader and not some young woman hopelessly obsessed with Instagram. And if she did read, he hoped she was into the classics or something cool. Maybe she dug Austen or Didion. And perhaps her taste stretched beyond literature—maybe she also dug Mazzy Star or Sonic Youth. He hoped, needed her to be perfect. He knew he was pedestalizing her and projecting his fantasies onto her, but he didn’t care. He’d done that all his life and couldn’t help it. He’d made peace with it, as a matter of fact. There was a horrible, aching longing in him and despite the fact that he was approaching thirty, he still had the schoolboy fantasies of an eighth grader. A few serious girlfriends and a single bout of love hadn’t cured him of this hazy, dream-laden lust and he resigned himself to the fact that it would never leave him. He fed into it.

Twenty minutes into his workout, Dave left and offered him a nice wave. It was just him and Herte. His stomach tightened as he considered asking her a question. Do it. But every time he stood up, she started another set and he held off. Instead, he lifted as heavily as possible in an effort to get her to notice him and seeing his bulging veins and swollen arms. He was aware that had the subtlety of a peacock, but it was all he could do. He didn’t even need her to approach him and at this point, he didn’t even need her to talk to him—he just needed her to look at him. Please.

She finished her set, grabbed the disinfectant spray and slowly wiped off her bench. Out of his peripherals, he stared at her, his mouth open, practically drooling. She bent over, her ass calling to him like a needle to a dope fiend. In the mirror, she clocked his gaze and frowned. He quickly opened his phone and pretended to be busy, embarrassed that he’d been caught like a wretched pervert. She walked out of the weight room and grabbed one of the floor attendants. He watched them talk and caught the floor attendant nodding in his direction, a look of muted disgust on her face. She reported you, oh my God. A wave of embarrassment crashed over him. His face flushed, his penis shrunk and he sprinted out the back exit without re-racking his weights.

 

***

 

He wasn’t certain Herte and the gym attendant were talking about him, but he couldn’t bear to ponder it. It made him feel so disgusting, so impotent. When had he turned into the subject of a Thom Yorke song? When had he become this side-eyed misfit who couldn’t talk to people, let alone women? As he sat in his apartment, little beads of sweat trickled down his forehead and the ceiling fan whirred overhead, offering no respite from the sweltering heat. The hot cup of coffee he was drinking didn’t help, either. The silence of the claustrophobic space was deafening. Feelings of inadequacy ravaged his entire being. He went on his phone and raced through all his dating apps, absentmindedly swiping right on every woman he came across. Didn’t bother to look at them or read anything they’d written on their profiles. Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, Feeld, he went through all of them. No matches. No luck. No love. Instinctually, he then opened Instagram and scrolled through a sea of asses, vaguely racist memes and workout tips. All it did was make the noise in his head louder.

He set down his phone and wandered to his small bathroom. The dim lighting didn’t flatter his features the way he liked, but he still spent a lot of time checking himself out in the filthy mirror. He took his shorts off and stood there in his white briefs, admiring himself. He had a lanky build, but had managed to put on a fair amount of muscle since he cut out the booze and changed his diet. His shoulders had rounded out and his arms were defined. He had that bicep vein that other obsessed gym goers always talked about. He could make his pecs dance. He twirled around and looked at his ass—it was still small, but at least semi-firm and the tight underwear accentuated it. He’d always prided himself on having a more lean build, like a model or an athlete, but sometime in his mid-twenties, he noticed that he’d tacked on love handles and a small pouch of belly fat that wouldn’t go away. He still had noticeably visible abs, but he felt hideous because he would never have five percent body fat again. His stomach stared at him. He sucked it in and felt foul, ugly and ashamed. Suddenly, he couldn’t stand the sight of himself and went back to the couch.

His mind raced and an avalanche of thoughts assaulted him without warning. You fat fuck, you look awful. How are you skinny and fat at the same time? Jesus, you look like a confused twink standing there in your tighty whities. Why WOULD any girl want to talk to you? You’re a pervert. A disgusting, creepy pervert. Don’t even bother trying to find another girl because you’re right where you ought to be—alone and in the dark. Fuck you. A twinge of pain shot through him and his chest felt like it had sunk in. His whole midsection ached and he felt empty. Instinctually, he went to Reddit and back to her page. An erection formed in his briefs as he scrolled through her photos again. To his surprise, he saw that she responded to many of the comments under her photos.

Do you do sexting sessions at all? he commented under a photo. He scrolled on, rubbing his crotch, the malaise placated but still lurking on the horizon.

DING!

In the top right corner of his screen, a message.

From her!

           

Hi bb boy. Sexting sessions go for $40/half hour. $75/full hour.

His crotch tingled and his stomach tightened up again. He’d never done anything like this before. What if she stole his money?

Like right now?

I’m free in 30 mins. Cashapp plz

Uhm. I’ve never done this before. I could do Venmo instead?

Sure. @kittywinters which did u wanna do bb boy?

He couldn’t help but laugh at the name. Why the fuck did sex workers, even internet ones, have these absurd aliases?

Hour. I’ll send it now

Send confirmation when u do

His heart racing, he went to Venmo. Seventy-five dollars to @kittywinters. Are you sure you want to send $75 to this person? You have no mutual contacts. Yes. God, yes. He didn’t want to be reminded. He just wanted her to take his money and do it.

Done.

Send confirmation.

He sent a screenshot of the receipt.

Ugh, tyyyyy. See you in 30 bb boy.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, he put on some shorts, slugged a glass of water and cleaned up his room. It made him feel pathetic, cleaning up as if he had actual company coming over, but it was instinctual. He made his bed and folded his laundry. Dusted. More than anything, he was just trying to make the half hour go by as quickly as possible. When he thought about what they were doing, he became incredibly nervous. He’d just sent money to a stranger and for all he knew, it wasn’t even a woman. What if it was some hacker? Or some loser who was more chronically online than he was? Did they have his information now? Should he show his face on the call? What if it wasn’t a girl, but some sissy posing like one?

            His phone vibrated.

R u ready bb boy

His mouth dried up, his crotch tingled and he laid down in bed, his heart ready to thump out of his chest.

Yes ma’am!

            She sent a photo and a video of herself. The photo showed her staring into the camera topless, her thin mouth exposed and open. In the video, she rubbed her impossibly smooth, almost nubile body. Her pussy was bare. Obviously, she waxed, but her tiny breasts and pale complexion made her look young. She said she was twenty, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had been fresh out of high school. The thought made him feel abhorrent.

What are u into

I dunno. Lately I’ve liked more dominant stuff, I’ve felt p sub lately. I have a bit of an underwear kink. I like when a girl plays with my ass

What r u wearing?

Briefs

Send a pic

He removed his shorts and tried to get an angle that would enhance his bulge. The smooth, tight fabric was practically bursting at the seams, his engorged head outlined. He snapped a photo.

Aw tighty whities?? Turn around. I wanna see ur ass

He did as she said.

I’m gonna fuck that ass

He tightened up. A finger always feels amazing if i’m fucking a girl. I dunno i’ve always wanted to get my ass ate, he typed out.

No

No?

            She sent back a photo of her with a purple dildo attached to her pelvis. His midsection tightened and his cock went slightly limp.

No. i’m gonna fuck your ass

I’m not into that

I don’t care. Bend over for me bb boy

Are you not listening?

No UR not listening. Have you seen my posts? And you said you like dommes. This is domme lol

I’m not into that

I don’t care

All he longed for was to be taken care of. He didn’t want to think about anything and he felt small and gross—unheard and undeserving of being heard. He took his semi-erect cock out of his briefs. The tip was red and covered in precum. He stroked it until it was its full six inches and throbbing. He sent her a video of him stroking, moans uncontrollably coming from his pursed mouth, white bits of saliva forming at the edge of his lips.

No

Look I paid for this can you please just do what I want

            She sent him a video of her stroking her plastic dick, smiling. His cock softened.

I told u i’m gonna fuck you so bend ove bb boy

How about I fuck YOU, he typed. Perhaps some reverse psychology would work?

            Minutes went by and she didn’t respond. Her responses had been instant, but they stopped altogether. He stared at his phone, his semi-erect prick in his hand, until the screen went black. He then looked up at the ceiling and felt stupid. Quickly, he thought about his ex-girlfriend’s soft breasts and small waist. He fantasized about an old coworker he had a crush on—her dark eyes, the way her voice rose when she spoke to him. He tugged on his prick, not out of arousal, but habit. He opened his phone and found that the messages with her had disappeared. He went to her Reddit page. USER NOT FOUND. His heart beat so hard that he felt it in his eardrums. He felt so embarrassed. Duped. His face flushed and the shame wrapped him up in a hot, suffocating blanket. What could he do? Control the controllables. And what did he control? The red rocket in his hand. He removed his briefs, his pale body stretched out against his navy blue sheets, and pulled on his cock. With his left index finger, he went beneath his taint and into his asshole. He searched out his g spot and fingered himself, still stroking. Quickly, he erupted all over himself, the sperm hot all over his abs. Disgusted, he wiped himself off with the cum rag by his bed and put his shorts back on. He stood up, looked at the small pool of sweat that had formed on his sheets and sighed.

“Worst seventy-five dollars I’ve ever spent.”

 

***

           

The following morning, he couldn’t bear to be in his apartment. Being robbed virtually made him feel even more pathetic than usual. What kind of a dope gets taken that easily by a total stranger? How pathetic are you? The constant bombardment of thoughts was louder than usual and he couldn’t take it, so he decided to go to the gym, even though he was scared he’d see Herte or the floor attendant. But he had to risk it—the alternative was losing his mind inside those four walls.

            He ran there faster than usual and was happy to find that the facility was empty of the usual geriatrics and children. He hurried to the weight room with his headphones fully turned up. Dave waved hello when he entered. He nodded to him and got right into it with a set of pull-ups. A grunge playlist blasted in his ears, Chris Cornell’s malaise echoing his own. His arms straight, he pulled himself above the bar as many times as he could, exhausting himself so that his brain would calm down and he would be allowed a moment’s respite. It helped. In between sets, he stared at the wall in front of the pull-up bar and sat with the thoughts that managed to get through the wall of music. A strange sense of deja vu hit him and he felt like he was sixteen again—lonely, confused and terribly self-conscious. The only difference between now and then was that his skin had cleared up. Thoughts of adolescent heartbreak shot through him and he smirked. Old memories and dull pain.

Another Soundgarden song came on and he prepared for his next set, sweat dripping down his brow. He raised his arms up and someone tapped his shoulder. He paused the music and turned to find the floor attendant that Herte had spoken to yesterday. Involuntarily, he tensed up, but his shoulders slumped.

“Oh, hi there! How are you?”

            He glanced down at her nametag. DENISE. Denise was in good shape and the rock on her finger looked expensive. Her smile was warm and friendly and her thinning eyebrows made him think that she was probably in her fifties.

“I’m, uh, I’m good,” he said uncomfortably.

“I’m so sorry, but did you check in?”

“Shit. No I didn’t, I’m sorry.”

            His profanity shocked her and made her fake eyelashes sulk. She glanced over at David and saw that he was watching them. Quickly, her spirit brightened and she waved at him.

“Hi, David!”

“Hi, Denise!”

“Er, I can go back if you want me to?” He suggested.

“Oh,” she said in a cheerful tone, “that’s okay. I can sign you in, can I just have your full name, please?”

“Sure. It’s Anthony Melton.”

            She wrote his name down on a clipboard.

“Have you been with us a long time, Anthony?”

“No, I actually got to Oahu about a month ago. I’m still waiting to start my job, but Kaiser covers my membership and it’s close to my apartment.”

“Wow! So new. Well…welcome to the island,” she said, slowly nodding her head and smiling. “One of my coworkers pointed out yesterday that you seemed like a new face, so I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Denise.”

            She extended her small, well-manicured hand. Anthony shook it.

“Thank you.”

“Any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask. Just please make sure you check in when you enter the facility.”

“Uh, sure, sorry about that.”

“No, no, quite alright! Quite alright!”

            She stood before him, her arms slightly shaking, and stared directly into his eyes. He could tell the confrontation was hard for her. As sweat trickled down his back, he focused on her thinning eyebrows and felt bad for noticing them. After standing there for an unusually long time, she gave him a thumbs up and hurried back to the check-in at the front of the building. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Dave looking at him, but he got the sense that his gaze wasn’t judgmental, just curious. The gym was a tightly-knit community and that made him feel secure, like he belonged among other human beings. As he prepared to do more pull-ups, he realized something—that interaction was the first time he’d spoken to anyone in over a month.

 

***

 

Back at his apartment, the stench of thievery and sexual shame still hung in the air, but his interaction with Denise had invigorated him. It made him realize that he had to make some serious changes. Before he’d moved out to the island, he made a promise to himself to spend more time in solitude, but unintentionally, that solitude had morphed into isolation and left him face to face with his own self-consciousness. He was faintly aware of this, but opening his mouth and actually talking to someone made it click. Silent retreats and monastic existences had always fascinated him, but they were never things that he wanted to dedicate himself to. Just because he enjoyed Radiohead and Dostoevsky didn’t mean he had to turn into an isolationist and wallow in pity, moaning about his own existence. And just because he had grown up around Gen Z didn’t mean he had to live on his phone—the masturbation machine had led to nothing but brain rot and a sore cock. He’d moved to a tropical island for Christ’s sake! Sure, he didn’t know anyone and the culture shock was more jarring than expected, but he was still close to the beach and there were plenty of hikes he could look into. However, had no idea which beach was closest to him and knew absolutely nothing about hiking. Google told him the closest beach was a thirty-five minute walk and he wasn’t in the mood to go on a hike alone in an old pair of Vans. But, he was always in the mood for a cup of coffee and remembered a coffee shop near him that he’d seen on a run.

Coffee Talk stood on the corner of Twelfth Ave and Waialae and claimed to have been caffeinating Kaimuki for twenty-three years. He’d barely been on Oahu for twenty-three days, so he didn’t know if that was bullshit, but he decided to go there anyway. Every place he’d stepped inside on the island—with the exception of the gym, grocery stores, and gas stations—felt foreign and strange to him, but he was delighted to find that Coffee Talk had a familiar pseudo-hipster air. The employees and clientele were all covered in tattoos and wore black, missing only the trademark beanie that Mainlanders wore. Billy Bragg played over the loudspeaker at an acceptable volume and people were dispersed about the tables and at the bar. Scones, pie, pastries and cookies were lined up in the glass case by the register and the long line was filled with young locals and college students. He couldn’t believe how good looking the women were. They all looked about his age and ordered overly complicated drinks. When he got to the front of the line, he ordered an iced black coffee and the plump, redheaded barista couldn’t believe the simplicity of the order.

“Just black? Any room for milk?”

“No, thank you.”

“You’re boring. Tap to pay.”

            Her comment put him on edge, but when he saw she was smiling—flirting—he felt at ease. Good, even.

“Name?”

“Anthony.”

“Stupid,” she said, smiling. “I’m writing Tony.”

            She went back to fill his order and another young barista stepped forward and handled the next customer. He stepped to the side uncomfortably and looked around. Despite the fact that it was hot out—shit, he’d sweat through his shirt on the walk over—everyone inside wore jeans. A few girls wore leggings, but otherwise it was all tight jeans. His eyes wandered about as if he were at an art museum. There were lots of couples and they took up the majority of the tables. Oddly enough, there were two small tables in the corner, one untouched, the other populated by a tall Asian girl writing in a notebook. Unlike the rest of the people there, she wore long jean shorts. Next to her legs sat a faded tote bag. He stared at her for what felt like a long time.

“Tony!”

            He nearly jumped and the redheaded barista laughed.

“Your boring coffee’s ready.”

“Your boring tip’s in the jar.”

            She ran over to the register and found the jar was empty.

“Sorry, must have forgotten cash at my boring apartment,” he said, coyly.

“You bitch,” she said smiling, flashing her light blue eyes at him.

He sauntered over to the vacant corner table and felt good. A little anxious and sweaty, but good. As his back hit the chair, the cool metal pressed his dampened shirt against his skin. He looked around again and felt like he was in his own bubble, but was comforted by the fact that he was around other people, even if they all appeared to be happy couples. It made him self-conscious to be there alone, but he knew it was better than being alone in his fucking apartment. His eyes landed on the tall Asian girl at the next table and he caught her staring at him. Their eyes met and neither of them pulled away. Her eyes were dark, but kind, and she had a nice, thin smile that complimented her porcelain skin. After a handful of glorious seconds, she looked down and resumed writing, sipping her hot coffee.

Boldness had been a trademark of his intrepid youth, but he’d lost it somewhere along the way. Was it because of heartbreaks and rejections? Or was it merely a consequence of getting older? He wasn’t sure, but as he stared at her, a tiny voice in his head told him to reclaim that boldness. Shakily, he stood up and moved over to her table. She looked up at him, her hand still pressed to her notebook.

“Somebody’s sitting there.”

“Oh, I—”

“I’m kidding.”

            The calm playfulness put him at ease. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, still staring at him, trying to get a gauge. He stared back and took in how cool she was. Everyone there seemed obsessed with projecting some sort of disaffected, existentialist air with their black clothing and tattoos, but she looked totally calm in her large white t-shirt and long jean shorts. Sharp, angular features complimented her dark eyes and her short-cropped haircut gave her an almost androgynous look.

“Aren’t you in my lecture with Ryan?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“Creative Writing with Shawna Ryan? Haven’t I seen you in her Thursday lecture?”

“Uh, no.”

“I’ve seen you at U.H. though, yeah?”

“I moved to Oahu about a month ago.”

            His answer drained the blood from her porcelain face and the sting of embarrassment extinguished her cool demeanor. She nervously laughed, covering her thin mouth with her off hand.

“I’m so sorry. I thought I recognized you.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

Discomfort struck both of them. She quickly took a sip of her coffee and looked out the large glass window. His worst anxieties felt like they’d been confirmed. Do you think random women stare at you and want to fuck you? She made a mistake, simple as that. She can smell the desperation on you, loser. Go home. Fuck off. He reached into his pocket for his phone before remembering that he’d intentionally left it at home. Reddit, social media and internet mistresses weren’t there to save him or distract him and he had to sit face to face with this discomfort, with this human being made of flesh and blood.

“Although,” he said sheepishly, “I wish I’d lied. It’d be an easier in for a conversation.”

“Yeah, you kinda fucked up.”

Her nonchalance made him smile and they both laughed, the tension erased. She stared at his black iced coffee, condensation percolating on the outside of the plastic cup.

“Black coffee’s kinda crazy, though.”

“That's all I drink. Honestly, I’m too scared to try anything else. I dunno what else to put in it.”

“Here,” she said, pushing her cup in front of him, “try mine.”

He slowly sipped it and squinted at her. “This…is also black, though?”

“I’m too scared to try anything else, too.”

            They laughed again and the muscles in his face felt good. Liberated.

“I dunno. Maybe I should try to mix it up a little bit, though? I quit drinking, so maybe more exotic coffee would be fun?”

“Are you copying me?”

“Heh, how do you figure?”

“I quit drinking too.”

“Why?”

“Couldn’t do the hangovers anymore—thirty hit me hard.”

“Imagine that.”

“Are you a writer, too?”

“No. Are you working on something right now?”

            She sighed and sipped her coffee. “I’m trying to start a story for class, but I’m having trouble, so I’m just journaling.”

“I don’t get that.”

“Don’t get what?”

“Journaling. How do you do it? Like, I’d never know what to write.”

She flipped through her black notebook and showed him dozens of pages riddled with writing and chaotic doodles. “You just write whatever comes to mind. Whatever’s in your head.”

“Isn’t that embarrassing? What if someone goes through your notebook?”

“What’s the alternative? Living with the thoughts going on in your head?”

            His eyes widened. “I…I guess I just try to work out whenever I’m in a funk.”

            She reached into her tote bag and produced another black notebook. She turned to the first page.

“What’s your name?”

“Anthony.”

“Anthony what?”

“Melton.”

            She wrote his name in cursive on the first page and slid the otherwise untouched notebook over to him. He looked at it and marveled at her penmanship. She opened her journal to the first page and showed it to him. Grace Kim.

“Nice to meet you, Anthony.”

“Likewise, Grace.”

He flipped through the blank pages, wondering what should—what could—go on them. “I still dunno what to do.”

“I’ll teach you how to journal if you teach me how to work out.”

“Okay.”

            They smiled again, sipping their coffees.

“But, like, I imagine you don’t just journal for class? What are you gonna do for your assignment?”

“I know what I want to write about, but my professor’s hammering me to come up with better sentences to start out my pieces. It’s gotta be something that sets the tone…a sentence or two sentence that hooks you right from the get go.”

“That’s a lot of pressure.”

            She slid her pen over to him.

“Try it.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. Pop your journal’s cherry.”

“I still dunno know what to write!”

“C’mon, just try—it’s not like it’s graded or anything.”

            He wanted to say no, but something inside him made him grab the pen and open up to that first blank page. His mind quiet, a burst of creativity shot through him and he put the ball point pen to the lined paper. When he finished, he slid the notebook over to her.

 

A guy jerks off too much and forgets that it’s important to go outside and touch grass. Who would have thought?

           

            She read it over, nodding, smiling.    

“What do you think?” he asked.

“See? Now, that’s a story.”