I gape at the latest email from ‘J’ in shocked silence, my mind slowly recovering from the sudden lurch in my chest at the familiar signature, my heart hammering wildly as alarm shoots through every part of me, waking me up faster than my morning caffeine.

I used to be all smiles when I got up in the mornings, super excited to start the day, basking in the glory that was my life since I’d been living successfully on my own terms, but not lately—not with someone intent on freaking me out and shattering my sense of security.

This is at least the tenth message from J over the past three months, and I’m no longer sure they’re harmless—it’s not like any of the others from J or any of my other fans and haters.

The offers of marriage, impregnation, and trips to faraway exotic locales I’d probably never come back from have all been unsurprising so far given my newfound fame.

They’ve remained pretty general so far, often based on things I put out there—replies to a beauty product review, comments about how ugly I am, how beautiful I am.

I noticed a few particularly amorous posters who consistently comment on my Instagram, but nothing worrisome.

Some comments get creepy, but they’re all from a distance and none of them address me by my real name.

I can’t wait to see you in your new blue dress, Angel…

Fuck, who’s writing me at my business alias email? I don’t use my real name for my online persona for this very reason, although I suppose it would be easy for anyone who knows me in real life to let it slip. From there, anyone can pretty much figure out my address, I guess, but there’s been no indication of that so far—until now.

This latest message isn’t a death threat or anything, which I’ve learned to ignore—pretty much everyone in the public eye has received one—but it’s the kind of creepy I can’t look past; somehow, comments with sexual undertones tend to be more disturbing than the ones about obliterating me from the planet.

And this latest message came from someone who has seen me very recently up close.

Too close.

Someone I didn’t know was watching me, knows that I went to a clothing store yesterday and bought a new blue dress.

Yes, I’m in the public eye to some degree, and yes, social media is part of my whole thing, but I don’t post everything online; I didn’t tell anyone I was going shopping, and I didn’t ‘check-in’ at the store on Facebook or Yelp.

I certainly didn’t post a single photo of the dress I bought yesterday.

My mind flashes back to the faces in the store, and none stand out.

I guess someone who works there could be behind the messages, but how likely is that? I don’t shop there all the time. What are the chances this ‘J,’ who managed to break through the noise of constant comments, also works at some women’s clothing store?

Alarm is still pulsing through me, my eyes still glued to the screen while my mind races.

I’ll be honest, when the messages from J began, I thought they were kind of flattering, sexy even.

My desire for you burns bright…

They crossed the line only a little, titillating my imagination in naughty ways.

I yearn to take you on journeys of pleasure…

I found myself imagining J as a certain someone—James Basden, my ex-boyfriend’s longtime friend. The two used to be best friends, and they’re still pretty good friends as far as I know, which added to the naughtiness.

James is a handsome, hard-bodied special forces type with piercing blue eyes, so it really wasn’t that hard to make a leap of sexual fantasy.

Before I knew it, I was imagining James lurking in various places, watching me lustfully as I went about my business, longing to finally say what he’s been holding back for years while I was dating his friend.

Every now and then, I found myself in a grocery aisle, wondering, Is that him disguised as an old man? Will he go back to his car once I’ve cashed out, pull his hard dick out and jerk off to the memory of me in this tank top and these shorts?

The thought made me smile.

Each new message from J sparked a dirty fantasy.

I like having a window into your home, beauty. I’m one step closer to being inside you.

I thought of James practically salivating as he watched my YouTube videos, his hand on his growing cock while taking in the details in front of him—what I’m wearing, which room I shot the video in. His hand would slide up and down his thick cock as he imagined poking my slick entrance with his mushroom tip, pushing his dick deep inside me.

You get sexier every day, my love. One day, I’ll dress you up for me; you’ll be my doll.

I imagined James laying out lingerie for me in his place, his long cock unbearably hard while anticipating ripping the skimpy clothing off me and making our bodies one.

I even imagined him finally showing up at my apartment door—no disguises, no pretenses, just sick of being trapped with his all-consuming lust and ready to indulge it at last.

I’d barely have the door open before he’d be upon me, his mouth hungrily devouring mine, his hands gripping me in a way that makes it clear I’m completely at his mercy. His massive erection would leave no question what he came here to do.

More than once, I found myself dipping a finger between my legs, fingering myself to the fantasy of him finally taking me, plowing my wet, needy pussy hard with his swollen cock.

The flights of fantasy were kind of ridiculous since James never came on to me or anything; he never said a single thing to make me think he had any sort of feelings for me, romantic or otherwise.

Eventually, I banished the dirty thoughts—besides being dangerous, considering my plans to stay single and celibate for a while, they were utterly nonsensical. No use getting excited about getting some forbidden D!

I figure the fantasies happened because James was safe to fantasize about, considering how unlikely any of the things I was projecting onto him were true.

I stopped those naughty mental journeys cold, accepting ‘J’ to be an unbalanced, potentially dangerous stranger instead.

Now I look at all new messages from J with appropriate concern; after all, I don’t actually know who’s sending me these creepy, thinly veiled sexual threats.

J’s messages are among the few I read these days; I stopped going through every single message a long time ago—I have almost a million YouTube subscribers now.

Back when I had a hundred, and even a thousand subscribers, I read every single comment, excited to reach and be reached by people from all over the world.

If I went through all of the messages I get nowadays, I’d never get anything done.

Plus, while there’s some love and some normal folks out there, there are a lot of nutjobs and hateful people I need to protect my energy from. You can’t let losers and sickos get in your head; they love nothing more than to bring others down.

But every now and then, I take a closer look, answer a fan question, block an obvious troll or spammer. Then keep it moving.

I reach for my cell, sending a verbal command to call my friend, Kiara—she’s the only one I told so far about J.

Our time is coming, he sent the last time. You’ll be coming for me after I come for you.

“I’m starting to get freaked out now,” I say once Kiara picks up.

“Uh oh. J’s at it again?”

“He was watching me yesterday; he might know where I live.”

“What makes you think that?”

I fill her in on the latest.

“And you’re sure you didn’t post anything about it?” she asks.

“Damned sure. It’s one of those things that helps keep me sane; I feel like I have something to myself. Now it seems there’s nothing just for me, nowhere to escape. I feel so exposed, which is saying something, considering the nature of the gig.”

“You should probably go to the police,” she says.

“I already went to them, remember? And they did a whole lot of nothing. I believe I must show up dead before they act.”

“Don’t say that…”

“You know it’s true. I mean, I can’t exactly blame them—shitloads of threats go out every day. How can they possibly investigate each one? It’s not like I’m a major figure or anything.”

“Well, what would make you feel safer?”

That’s a tough one.

I moved away from my family so none of them are around, and my ex-boyfriend and I broke up eight months ago, so I don’t have a masculine presence nearby to give me a sense of security, false or not. And my childhood BFF lives a few states away.

Kiara is a new friend, and outside of her, I’ve been going it alone for some time now, and I feel extra vulnerable now without anyone from my old life around.

It’s tough to make friends, in general, here—so many flaky people.

“Do you know anyone who could maybe threaten this guy?” Kiara helpfully suggests.

“How? Send a sternly worded message to leave me alone? The creep will know it’s empty since I have no idea who he is, or even where to begin finding out.”

Most of this guy’s power is in me not knowing jack about him; I have to figure out how to sniff him out.

“I don’t know. Hire some muscle in the meantime? Someone scary-looking to be around you?”

I almost laugh at the thought at first—I’m not some heiress to a royal throne or a famous singer with billions of eyeballs on her. I just have a couple of weirdos sending me odd messages, as just about anyone would if they put themselves out there like I do through my YouTube channel.

But as the words wash over me, I realize the idea isn’t so ridiculous—as a result of my last disastrous relationship, I actually do know quite a few men who could help me out.

Guess something came of that whole thing after all.

Unlike me, my ex is from here, so lots of his friends and family are near, including James Basden who knows tons of military folks—the perfect type for protection.

I’m not rolling in dough, but I’ve been making way more than I dreamed, and I have no kids, no spouse, no real obligations. I can afford to hire someone for a time, and it’s a tax write-off anyway. I just need to buy some time to investigate and pluck this groundhog from his hole, bring the creep into the light. Then maybe something concrete can be done.

I know it’s only a piece of paper, but if I can get a restraining order on J and have him charged with harassment or something, I’ll feel loads better.

I’m certainly not going to be scared back home.

That’s what I figured was up once I started seriously considering J’s identity—I thought it might be some weirdo I went to high school with or lived near who wanted me to come back home so they could have a shot.

None of these weird messages started until three months ago when one of my videos got featured on an entertainment show, and my subscriber list suddenly exploded.

I started getting offers for all sorts of opportunities—including doing a commercial which paid me an eye-popping amount; I’m still getting checks for the commercial runs.

With my increased visibility, the love—and hate—grew tenfold.

Maybe someone I grew up around decided they’ve had enough waiting and it was time to club me down and drag me back to their cave before someone they couldn’t compete with came along.

“For your peace of mind,” Kiara insists. “You know, like how we started taking guys with us to the club to reduce the incidents of ass-grabbing?”

I chuckle.

The few times she and I went out clubbing together, we became victims of sexual harassment and uninvited touching in no time.

We weren’t trying to be teases—we just wanted to dress up and have fun around other people our age, let loose with the latest beats pounding the air, shake off some stress.

We didn’t want to give up our freedom to do this because of grabby men, so we started going in larger groups, and discovered quickly that, despite not being beefy or scary-looking in any way, merely having other dudes with us allowed us to have fun without worrying too much if someone was going to try to finger us right there on the dance floor.

Some sort of guy code made most guys keep a respectful distance, and just in case, we let our guy friends know it was okay to say yes if anyone happened to notice the lack of chemistry and asked them directly if they were our boyfriends.

James Basden is the only person I know even remotely in a position to help me out now, so I end the call with Kiara, take a deep breath, and stare at the last text exchange James and I had, just after Leonard and I broke up.

Sorry things didn’t work out. You’re really cool. Wish you the best, he’d sent.

Thanks, I’d sent back, considering whether or not to add ‘Take care,’ then deciding against it since sounded too final, even though I knew that was probably the last we’d hear from each other.

We only had permission to reach out to each other because of Leonard, and now that he was out of the picture, anything else would have been inappropriate.

In my experience, once you lose a boyfriend, you lose the friends and family they introduced to you, no matter how well you got along, so James and I weren’t friends, no matter how much we seemed to get each other.

I read through almost the entire history of our texts before finally mustering up the courage to compose a new one.

Can you talk? I finally send.