Charlie

The Internet is mocking me.

For the last hour, I’ve been pacing my room, eyeballing the DateMate.com homepage. Sign up? It asks me. So casual, like it’s offering me a stick of gum. The blinking cursor might as well be a box tied to a string. Soon as I lunge for the waiting carrot, I’m going to be trapped.

Okay, it’s time to weigh the pros and cons.

Con: If I sign up to the dating site, I’m going to find Ever’s profile within minutes and drive myself fucking crazy. There will be pictures of her. Words typed by her fingers. And I will know what every other man is looking at when they click on her name. Hello, mind fuck.

Pro: I’m already fucking crazy, so what’s a little more fuel on the fire?

I crack my knuckles and sit down in front of my laptop. It’s easy enough to enter my name and e-mail address, then I’m taken to a short questionnaire. I have so much resentment for this bullshit site that my inclination is to make my profile name Magilla Gorilla and mock the system like a good little troll. But my cop blood gets the better of me. I’m already doing something pretty unethical by checking up on Ever, might as well be honest as possible to balance the scales.

Name: Reve S. Guy

(Reve spelled backward is Ever. Ever S. Guy.)

Clever, right? No. Not really. Because seeing the words on the screen makes my windpipe feel strained. I hurry through the rest of the questions, inputting my actual age, location, favorite music—James Brown—and a long list of physical stats. For a profile picture, I hastily upload one of me in a Jets ball cap, the brim partially obscuring my face. But when I reach the question about my profession, I hesitate. Combined with all my other answers, someone would definitely know my real identity if I input police academy recruit. What’s the closest possible answer without revealing myself? Fire academy recruit? Fine. It’ll do.

It’s not like I plan on interacting with anyone.

Or I don’t plan on interacting, until I see there’s a catch. I can’t just search for Ever. The only profiles I can view are my matches. A sea of smiling female faces greets me as I scroll down impatiently. Christ almighty, our society needs to find a better way to pair people. This is why—luckily—no one approached Ever in the bar the day we met, while I got my shit together. The Internet is making it too easy. Poor ladies. They should all delete their profiles in protest of modern men being so dickless and force us to do better. In real life.

My rambling inner monologue screeches to a halt when I get to the very bottom of the first page. And there she is. Ever.

They matched us.

I take back every bad thing I said about this website.

My nose is pressed to the screen, I realize, so I make myself back up. I have a finger hovering over the mouse, ready to click, and my pulse is booming. Did she really have to pick the sweetest photograph of all time to lead off with? No wonder she was setting a record for hits. Who could resist a girl hanging from a tree branch in a Wonder Woman T-shirt? Central Park is spread out behind her in the background, a blanket and Frisbee lying haphazardly off in the distance. Who was she with that day? Does she go to the park a lot?

Did I think she spent all her time waiting for me in her apartment? Yes. I kind of did. Because I’m a stupid, self-centered idiot.

I click. Right on top of her nose, pretending I’m tapping it with my finger. After that, I’m just fucked. There are around nine more pictures of Ever in various scenes that I am definitely not a part of. Carrying trays in a giant kitchen, a white apron tied around her neck, determination in her hazel eyes. Huddled under a blanket on her couch, making a squish face and a peace sign. Total joy bursting from her in rainbow waves as a sea lion kisses her cheek, a sign for the Bronx Zoo in the background. She’s so beautiful, I put a hand over the screen for a few seconds to collect myself, then drop it once again.

That’s when I see the bikini shot.

And my cock sits up for a better look.

“No. No, no, no,” I tell my dick. “Don’t even think about it.”

But seriously, the bikini is cotton candy pink, with flimsy, little ties on the sides. The fringe rests on her suntanned hips like a taunt. I’m supposed to just pretend I don’t see this? The bottoms mold to the pussy I know is criminally tight and always, always so damn wet for me. Her pose is modest, her arms twisted in front of her to hide her tits, but the photo is still so sexy I want to die just knowing other men have seen it. Die.

My cock does not want to die, on the other hand. He’s alive, well and thriving, thank you very much. My self-loathing isn’t strong enough to keep from enlarging the picture, looking for the reflection of a man in her sunglasses. Nope, though, just Nina. Knowing Ever was with a man in that bikini might have killed my erection, but no way that’s happening now.

“I’m sick.” I reach into my sweatpants and give my cock a vicious tug. This is what it has come to. I’m beating off to Ever’s dating profile. “Fuck, I’m sorry, cutie, I’m so sick. I just miss being inside you so bad.”

I let my head fall back and picture myself coming up behind Ever while she’s dressed in that bikini. Put the phone down, I would say to Nina. No one sees her like this but me. She would give me a mischievous look over her shoulder, then shake that tight ass against my lap.

“Fuck me,” I breathe, pumping my fist harder, my gaze zeroing in on the tiny pink triangle between her thighs. “Oh fuck, rub your pussy all over me. Slide it all over me. Make me so hungry for it. Make me hold you down and spread your legs to get my mouth on it.”

Every muscle in my neck, stomach and arms is strained beyond belief. I’m going to go off so hard. I might even come close to the kind of orgasm Ever gives me. Maybe. Maybe . . . here it comes . . . just another few jerks—

My laptop dings.

What the hell?

I sound like a racehorse after the Kentucky Derby, my cock is a throbbing monument jutting from my lap, my hand squeezed around the base. But I drop my junk like it’s hot when I see Ever is messaging me. She’s messaging me. Jesus Christ. Can she see me? Did she see me rubbing one out to her pink bikini picture?

That’s it? That’s all she’s giving me to work with? I mean, I definitely shouldn’t message her back. She doesn’t know I’m Charlie. But ignoring her would be rude. Especially when the hard-on she inspired is lounging on my abs like a sunbather. I drum my fingers on my desk a few moments, trying to ignore the voice shouting in my head that answering is a terrible, no good, very bad idea. The desire to speak to Ever wins by a landslide.

“You do?” I have this crushing urge to hug my laptop. Or pick it up and shake it. I’m not sure which. “What else don’t I know about you, Ever?”

My smile collapses like it’s a Vegas casino that’s just been imploded. Worst taste in men. As in, me? Charlie? Or is she just kidding around? I’m scared to find out.

It hits me at once that Ever is flirting with a man she thinks is someone else. Charlie is barely an afterthought right now for her. I have no idea how long I stare at the winking cursor, trying to count how many things suck ass about the current situation. In the end, I run out of fingers. And my erection has left the building on top of everything else. Another message dings on the screen from Ever, shaking me out of my stupor.

My fingers are stiff as I type, but I can’t deny wanting to reassure her. And no lie, I’m back to a semi-even keel knowing I’m the first dude she’s messaged. That’s not the kind of thing Ever would lie about. She’s not a liar at all, being nothing but honest with me since the beginning. I’m the liar in this scenario, and I’m making it worse the longer I continue this conversation, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I want to talk to her.

I snort laugh. Then I make a pretty unmanly whining noise. She makes sports references, too? Reve S. Guy is one lucky asshole.

The words have been typed before I realize my fingers are moving. What am I doing? What is wrong with me? I can’t meet up with her. I’m Charlie, not Reve. I’m pretty sure a Halloween mask and a voice manipulator are out of the question when we meet in person. So what is my end game here?

If Ever has plans to go on a date with Reve, it might prevent her from making more dates. And if I plan the date with Reve far enough in the future, it will give Charlie time to slide back in to her number-one spot. It’s such a dick move, though. Am I really capable of something like this?

God, she could have just as easily messaged someone else tonight. If I hadn’t signed up, she would be chatting with them right now. It could be anyone on the other side of the screen. Someone who could break her heart . . . or prey on her. I hear those kinds of horror stories every day. A woman meets a man on the Internet, he lies about his background and intentions, then boom. He’s a felon with warrants for credit card fraud and assault. Not Ever. Never Ever.

I’m jealous of myself. How ridiculous. But seriously, she’s not even going to ask me for a better picture? Or some proof of citizenship? Or a hair sample? I could be a serial killer.

I have two options here. One is to turn up to the date as Charlie. In which case, I’m pretty sure she’ll castrate me, right there in the dining room. The second option is to lead her on until the date rolls around and cancel at the last minute. Or not show up at all. No way. I’m not going to hurt Ever’s feelings like that. I still haven’t recovered from the first time, when I fucked up her speed dating night and made her sad.

So here is what I’ll do. I’ll give myself until the date to get us back to our original arrangement. As Charlie. If I can’t pull it off by next Friday . . . I’ll show up to the date as myself and come clean.

It’s risky. Really risky. But I don’t see another way that doesn’t cause Ever pain.

God help me if I blow this.