Halston

I barely hear the ding of my computer over the music piping through my earbuds, but sure enough, there’s a push notification coming through from Karma.

Kerouac would like to introduce himself! Do you accept?

Kerouac? Ugh. Jack Kerouac is one of the most overrated writers I’ve ever had the disservice of subjecting myself to. On the Road was boring and self-indulgent.

I check out his message next.

“Pretty tech savvy for being 100,” he writes.

Laughing out loud, my head tilts to the side. He’s got a sense of humor. I can work with that. And I can maybe forgive him for the screen name if he’ll allow me to broaden his horizons with some hand-selected book recommendations.

Clicking on the “reply” icon, Karma tells me that by responding to this conversation, I won’t be able to communicate with any other users. And if I decide to cease conversation with this person, I need to click on the black “x” in their profile, which will prevent them from being able to contact me again and vice versa.

Forever.

Absinthe: My grandkids got me one of those iPad things for Christmas.

Kerouac: How many grandkids do you have?

Absinthe: Way too many. I was a bit of a floozy in my younger days, popping out babies left and right. I couldn’t help myself. They were so damn cute and so were the men. Sadly, I think I peaked in the 1940s. I never could resist a man in uniform! Those sailors with those little round hats got me every time. Never missed a Fleet Week!

Kerouac: No regrets?

Absinthe: No regrets.

Kerouac: Seriously though. How old are you?

Absinthe: Does it matter? Age is literally a number.

Kerouac: It matters to me.

Absinthe: How old are you?

Kerouac: Didn’t you read my profile?

Absinthe: No. I was too distracted by your horrendous screen name. Kerouac? Seriously?????

Kerouac: On the Road is a classic.

Absinthe: On the Road is shoddy drivel at best. Anyone who thinks otherwise doesn’t deserve the privilege of calling himself a reader.

Kerouac: That’s the cool thing about being a reader though, YOU get to decide what you like and other people’s opinions don’t matter.

Absinthe: Doesn’t make me judge you any less.

Kerouac: How old are you?

Absinthe: So you’re going to change the subject, just like that?

Kerouac: Answer the fucking question.

Absinthe: Oh, man. You said “fucking.” Are you pissed? Or trying to prove that you’re some big, bad alpha male who needs to be in control at all times?

Kerouac: Not pissed. Just impatient.

Kerouac: But control is a good thing. I like to be in control.

Absinthe: Then that’s going to be a problem, because I like to be in control too.

Kerouac: Your age, Absinthe.

Absinthe: Old enough to drink.

It’s not a lie. I mean, I might not be old enough to drink legally, but I’m still old enough to drink in the literal sense.

Kerouac: That’s the best you can do?

Absinthe: I need to keep a low profile.

Kerouac: Are you someone important?

Absinthe: You’re being sarcastic. Ass. And no, I’m not anyone important. I’m just me. And I want to keep a low profile because for all I know, you’re a creepy stalker.

Kerouac: Even if I was a creepy stalker, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to locate you simply based on your age. I think you’re safe.

Absinthe: Anyway, back to your horrible taste in literature …

Kerouac: My extensive library collection would beg to differ.

Absinthe: Oooh. You have a library. You must be fancy.

Kerouac: Not fancy. Just well read.

Absinthe: You know what would be really fucking hot?

Kerouac: What?

Absinthe: Sex in a library. A public library.

Kerouac: Way to get to the point. I was content discussing great American writers of the 20^th century for another hour, but this works too.

Absinthe: If you could see me right now, I’m rolling my eyes at you. Don’t be lame. Just go with it. Tell me how we’d do it. Tell me what you’d do to me.

Kerouac: What do you look like?

Absinthe: Why?

Kerouac: I need a visual. For my fantasy.

Absinthe: Blonde hair. Green eyes. Big tits. Long legs. That work?

Kerouac: Highly doubt that’s what you really look like, but okay.

Absinthe: It’s true. Maybe one of these days, you’ll get to see for yourself.

Kerouac: Doubtful. I have no intentions of ever meeting you.

Absinthe: Why not??? Oh, shit. Are you married?!?

Kerouac: No. Not married. Just a professional starting a new job in a new town.

Absinthe: So, you just want phone sex …

Kerouac: Yes.

Absinthe: And no matter how hot and bothered I get you, you’ll never change your mind?

Kerouac: Never.

Exhaling, I rest my chin on my hand and glance away. I suppose if we’re never going to meet or know each other’s real names, I can be as dirty as I want to be with him. I can tell him everything without giving two shits about whether or not he’s going to judge me because it won’t fucking matter.

Absinthe: Fine. Lay it on me. Tell me how you’d fuck me in a library.

Kerouac: I’d make you wear a skirt.

Absinthe: You’d MAKE me wear a skirt?

Kerouac: Yes. I’d make you.

Kerouac: By the way, you’re not wearing panties.

Absinthe: Obviously.

Kerouac: I’d take you to the F-K aisle, turn your back toward me, and spread your thighs. My hands would pull at the hem of your skirt, revealing your ass. If anyone walked by, they’d see my fingers trailing up your inner thighs and plunging into your wet pussy. You’d moan, and I’d cover your mouth. We have to be quiet.

Absinthe: Damn, K. This is, um, good. Keep going.

Kerouac: Your hips would buck against me. You’re so fucking hot you can’t even stand it, and you’re close, but I won’t let you cum unless you’re riding my cock. Pulling my fingers from your slit, I give you a taste before massaging your tits and pulling your body against mine. When you whimper and beg for me to fuck you, I’ll have to tease you first … I’ll have to remind you that I’m in control. Dragging the tip of my cock along your seam, I’ll slide my length inside you at the height of your anticipation.

Absinthe: Go on…

Kerouac: With your hands gripping the bookshelf and your hair gathered in my fist, I’ll fuck you like the dirty girl you are, demanding your silence and commanding your body in ways no other man has done before.

Absinthe: Wait. How do you know what other men have done to me before?

Kerouac: Seriously?

Absinthe: Just kidding. No man has ever fucked me in a library, that right there probably puts you at the top of my list. Forgive me for interrupting you. Continue.

Kerouac: Through the shelves, we see someone coming. The librarian. I press my thumb against your clit, circling it as I fuck you harder and faster, my cum jetting inside you as your body melts against mine, your pussy clenched in spasm. Pulling myself out of you, I zip my fly and you straighten your skirt. The librarian comes around the corner, giving us each an evil look. And then she carries on her way, none the wiser.

Absinthe: Not bad.

Kerouac: Not bad?

Absinthe: Yeah. It wasn’t bad. I mean, I’ve been touching myself this whole time. And I came. Please tell me you’re not one of those guys who needs constant reassurance.

Kerouac: I’m not.

Absinthe: Good, because you won’t get it from me. If we ever fuck in real life, I’m not going to lie in your arms and cry because the experience moved my world. I’d probably climb off you, wipe your sticky semen out of my pristine vagina, and make myself a sandwich in your kitchen wearing your shirt.

Kerouac: We’re never going to fuck in real life, so …

Absinthe: Yes, K. You’ve made that clear. Thank you for the reminder though.

Kerouac: Same time tomorrow?

Absinthe: Oh, you got your rocks off and now you’re done with me?

Kerouac: I ordered food. It just arrived.

Absinthe: Sure.

A picture fills our chat screen: white Styrofoam containers filled with pad thai noodles and spring rolls.

Absinthe: You didn’t have to prove yourself. I was only fucking with you.

Kerouac: Tomorrow? Seven pm?

Absinthe: If you’re lucky.

A knock at my door prompts me to shut the lid of my laptop, and before I get a chance to answer, Bree barges in.

“Where’s my gold cross necklace?” she asks, her blue eyes wild and her tone accusatory.

I lift my palms. “No clue.”

“It was in my bathroom next to my sink this morning and now it’s gone. I need it. I have a test in fifteen minutes, and it’s my good luck charm.”

“You know good luck charms don’t actually work, right? It’s all in your head.”

Her face is red, her lips shaky, and she begins rifling through my closet, through dresser drawers. Tossing throw pillows and dirty clothes off the floor, she turns my room upside down.

“You took it. I know you did.” Bree points, wearing her mother’s scowl.

“I can assure you, I didn’t touch your stupid necklace. Thing’s ugly anyway.” I roll my eyes. “What would I even do with it?”

“I don’t know … pawn it?”

I smirk. This girl has never even set foot in a pawnshop. She’s never known the burden of having to pawn your brand-new shoes for lunch money, which happened to me on more than one occasion, I might add.

“A piece like that would get me eight, maybe nine dollars tops. Hardly worth the bus fare and the trip spent in the bad part of town,” I say.

Her jaw falls. “That necklace is from Tiffany! It’s worth way more than eight dollars.”

“I didn’t pawn it. I’m just saying, if I did, that’s probably all they’d give me for it,” I say.

She stands at the foot of my bed, staring, jaw clenched. She wants, so badly, to pin this on me. More than likely the cleaning lady moved it today or it fell down the drain.

“Don’t you have a test or something to get to?” I wave my hand, shooing her.

Bree lets out a juvenile groan, her fists clenched, and then she spins to leave my room, her cheerleader ponytail bouncing with each stomp. She’d slam my door if she knew she wouldn’t get in trouble for it.

Stupid twat.

Lifting the laptop lid, I return to the chat.

Kerouac has signed off.