Coming home and going back to my simple life turned out to be not so simple.
When you decide to exploit yourself, it seems social media takes that little bit of your life and turns it into widespread media footage. People who didn’t know who Bailey Swan was before, knew her now. And they also had a face to the name.
When I finally made it home, my answering machine was full. I know, who the hell still has an answering machine? Well, I do. I like things simple. I’m a simple girl. I came home to thirty-two messages. Some from friends I haven’t spoken to in some time, some family, a few cousins, a random ex-boyfriend, and then a shit-ton from work. They all pretty much had the same message. “Holy shit.” My family all gushed over how proud they were of me. My grandmother cried for almost five minutes. It could have gone longer, but I had to abort the remainder of it.
I had friends from all eras of my life, telling me they saw me on so and so, and how awesome. They never thought I had the talent to write a book. I guess that’s also why most of them are no longer my friends. The ex-boyfriend was Jeremy. He went on and on about how his girlfriend, which, later in the message he tried to retract saying she was just a friend, showed him my photo on Facebook. Had the nerve to ask if when I wrote any sex scenes I was remembering him. He told me how great I looked and that we should get together. I also threw up in my mouth, then deleted the message.
The ones I did kind of feel bad about were from the crew at the bar. Dex, who I’ve known for the whole seven years simply left me a message saying, “Heard you write porn.” And hung up. Typical Dex just to get to the point. We got to the point the first couple months we worked together and realized the point being was that we really didn’t click well outside of the bedroom. So, we decided to just remain friends. Not that there was any regret. Dex was smoking hot. The typical tall, buff, tattooed guy, who ran with his biker posse half the week, ran the bar the other. He had dark eyes to match his dark hair and he was a walking mystery. But that’s why he got a lot of tail. Including me. Too bad I figured him out right away. Ever since our test run, he’s always been protective over me. Watches over me at the bar when fights begin to brew, when drunk idiots try and get too touchy or just when he knows I need a time-out even when I, myself, don’t. He always has my back. But again, that’s Dex.
Moving past all the random bar patrons, which I have no idea how they got my number, asking me out, was Randy. Randy, whose father wanted more than anything to have a boy, named his daughter the name he wanted no matter what sex popped out of his wife’s vagina, is a knockout. She’s all blond and boobs, making everyone who walks through the bar’s doors look bad. She started just a year after I did and I couldn’t have been more thankful for her as a friend.
Thinking about work reminds me of all the reservations I have about returning back. I think about all the explaining I’m going to have to do and possibly some apologizing. But I’m still unsure if I actually owe anyone one. I do feel like a jerk keeping this part of my life a big secret. But I just didn’t want to feel the wrath of the judgement. I didn’t plan for it to go this well. I actually planned for it to fail. And then no one would ever know about my explosive attempt at becoming someone I clearly was not. But then, when it exploded in a good way, it all happened so fast I didn’t even know how to bring it up. People would here and there talk about the book and the infamous Bailey Swan. I wanted to hear what they had to say without changing their opinions knowing I was right in front of them, so I fed them booze and got them to talk. And damn was it entertaining.
Betty Meyer, an older single woman who works at the tattoo shop a few blocks down, got wind of the book from her sister who was getting her hair done and her stylist was talking about it. Told her she swore by the book. The author was a love guru. Told it how it really was. That it was the next “he’s not that into you” kinda read. So, she picked it up, and when she was done, she literally kicked out her boyfriend of two years and told him until he learns to appreciate her for her, and not all the stuff she is forced day in and day out to prove her love for him, then they were done! Good ole Betty Meyer no longer does the dishes, takes out the trash, or feeds the dogs. And her man now cooks half the week! I was shocked!
Steph and Dee, twins and weekend regulars, came in telling us they both read it, well out loud to one another, and they were on a sex sabbatical. They weren’t allowing any more duds into their beds until they found the real deal. No more fake lines to get them naked. I was honored they took my words so far that they were choosing to actually be better people. By the end of the night I caught an eyeful as some dude had his hand fully up Dee’s skirt, but in the end, she stuck to her guns. She kept her clothes on.
Then there were people like Chrissy Baker or Stacey Wright. They just couldn’t be happy for anyone. They took the book and murdered it with their opinions. Said they guarantee some overweight troll wrote it while eating Twinkies in her trailer, and has probably never felt the touch of an actual man in her life. I would have been more offended, but I actually do love Twinkies and when I was younger my parents used to take us camping in a trailer, so they technically were on the right track. Either way, their feedback was harsh. Poorly written book. Horrible, weak advice. How can someone who has never been in love act as the expert liaison for all love hungry women? While I wanted to take both their faces and bash them into one another, I knew they also did have a point. I had never been in love. But I had been played. I’d been used, lied to, taken advantage of and felt weak and betrayed. You don’t have to know what the real thing is to know what the fake version looks and feels like. And yes, you bitches, I was the expert. Because I’d spent my entire life getting played. And when that’s your specialty, you learn how to become the expert on how to avoid it.
In the end, I knew not to get upset. Because I knew deep down that Chrissy Baker’s husband was actually sleeping with Stacey. And when that shit hits, smacks, and fucking splatters all over that fan, I will be here, behind my bar, silently saying I told you so. Well, I guess not so silently anymore since my gig is up.
I just knew that when I walked back into that bar, it wasn’t going to be the same. I wouldn’t be seen as the laid-back chick who likes to talk and pour booze. I guess I never thought about how I would be exposing myself. I guess I didn’t expect a billion people to take my picture then tweet, post, Instagram, snapchat, shit, everything possible to post my face around the universe. I don’t want to have to look at Chrissy Baker and vocally say I told you so. I want to do it behind her back while I smile and jam out to outdated alternative music.
Four hours, two layovers, and a delayed baggage claim incident later, I walk over to my bed and drop my things. I say hello to my bird Gerdie, who looks just as content as when I left him. I make little kissing noises to let him know I’m home and I watch as his feathers shiver at the sound of my voice. I got Gerdie three years ago on a whim. I had a weak moment with a guy who worked at a pet shop and while he was cleaning the counters with my bare ass getting it on, he kept talking dirty, referring to himself in the third person. At that point in my life I was experimenting in ‘anyone sex.’ Not just random, anyone. I just wanted sex. I wanted to lose myself to an orgasm and simply not have any sort of attachment. I didn’t even want to worry if he was educated, had nice eyes, ate his vegetables, and flossed daily. I just wanted his dick to work. Hence, how I ended up being banged on the counter of the pet shop. Nonetheless, he kept talking dirty to me and lo and behold, the parrot that was “for sale” kept repeating him. Through the entire experience all I heard was this bird chirping “yeah, Jerry’s gonna get it. Jerry’s gonna get it.” And as pet boy grunted out his release, I couldn’t control my laughter. He didn’t give me anything close to that orgasm I so desperately needed, but I did go back the next day and buy that damn bird.
“Guess who’s home?” I sing, pulling the cover off Gerdie’s cage. More kissing sounds and I see him flap his wings in approval. “Hello there, handsome. Did you miss me?” I ask, opening his cage and allowing him to climb into my hand.
“Why isn’t my boyfriend calling? Why isn’t my boyfriend calling…” Gerdie chirps, and I smile, knowing for the next couple of days he will be repeating anything the bird sitter said.
I allow him to perch himself on my dresser while I wash my face. I try not to acknowledge the weight in my pocket as I brush my teeth. When I change into a pair of shorts and a tank top, I stare at the discarded pair of jeans, holding that heavy weight. Seven little numbers. I shake my head and kick my pants, running over to my bed and jumping in. I cuddle into my covers, pulling my blanket practically to my chin.
“Maybe I’ll wait to call tomorrow. I don’t want to look all eager. Because I’m not.”
“You’re eager. Call, you’re eager,” Gerdie chirps as his nails click on my dresser, before taking flight and landing onto my bed.
“I am not eager. I can wait. I don’t need to talk to him. He’s probably not even home yet. Or flying. Or already forgotten about me. That’s probably not even his real number!” Ugh, that thought kinda hurts. The feeling in my stomach, I blame on indigestion from the airport food, swirls inside making me feel unsure. Would he give me a wrong number? I mean, that was pretty theatrical, the whole airport stunt if he was just wanting to end things on good terms. Which we did since we had incredible sex. And he got to avoid that uncomfortable ‘so, I’ll see you around’ talk.
“Crap, what if I call and it’s the wrong number? I will die of humiliation.” I look over at my jeans, taunting me.
“Wrong number, wrong number.”
“Gerdie, shut it!”
“Die of humiliation, die of humiliation.”
Ugh. This is pointless. I mean, oh well, if it is then I hang up. He’s probably still flying home anyway. Chances are I’ll get his voicemail. Tap, tap, tap. My fingers drum on my bed, debating my next move. Saying fuck it, I snap out of my pity party and jump up, scaring poor Gerdie. I grab for my tormenting pants and dig for the little piece of paper. Running back to my bed, I slip back under my covers. “Okay, fuck it. Here it goes…” I pull my phone up and begin dialing the numbers. I get to the last digit but can’t enter it.
I stall too long and my lock goes on. “Shit.” I punch in my password and go to press the last number and again, I stall.
What the hell has gotten into me? “Just dial the damn number!”
“Dial the damn number.”
I look at Gerdie, wanting to smack him off my bed. If I didn’t love him so much I probably would. Then I think about the conversation I had with Chase and his love for his dog.
And then it hits me.
I’m not one to call a guy. It’s not my style. That’s probably why I’m struggling to press that final number. It’s been burned inside my brain that it shouldn’t be the girl who makes that move. He should have asked for mine. And would you have given it to him, you chicken? Ugh, true. So maybe I need to break a few of my own rules here. Or at least bend them a little.
Therefore, change of plans. Thank God, we’re also in the era where no one calls anymore anyway. Since texting is the new wave of communication, I decide to take the chicken way out and text him. If he never replies, then I know it’s the wrong person and I don’t have to hear a human voice tell me I have the wrong number. I can just read it and go on my merry pissed off way. I get Gerdie’s attention and snap a photo of him, looking very perched and fluffy. I type in the message.
Me: I thought that if we decide to get to know each other we should make sure our loved ones get along. Otherwise we should cut our losses now.
And with Gerdie’s smiling face, well, I think he’s smiling, I press send.
Then I throw my phone across the room, landing in a pile of clothes.
Getting myself more comfortable in my bed, I tell myself I’m really tired and if he messages back I’ll see it in the morning. I don’t really care that much anyway. Five, four, three, two, and I jump off the bed and snag my phone, flipping it over with superhuman speed and check to see if I got a message.
No message.
I look to see if my text has been read yet, and it hasn’t. Dang. It’s cool, maybe he’s flying. Or home and sleeping. Or… Ding. My phone goes off and I freak out, tossing it like a hot potato.
“Shit!” The sound startled me. I just stare at it lying on the floor.
“Ding. Shit. Ding. Shit. Ding.”
“Gerdie, I get it.” I shake it off and lean off the bed, reaching for my phone. I keep it covered and readjust myself. I take a deep breath and while holding said breath, I flip it over.
“FUCK!” I swear loudly, seeing a stupid notification that my phone has an app update.
“Fuck. Shit. Ding. Fuck. Shit. Ding…”
“GERDI—”
Another ding interrupts. I glare at it and it’s then I see a text and a photo attachment to my reply. My finger, which is shaking like a pansy, slides my phone open to see a photo of a fluffy brown-haired dog. Below the message reads:
369-555-2549: I showed Ellie your photo. She’s not normally into birds, but she has a good feeling about Gerdie. She knows they may not hit it off, but she’s willing to try. Maybe if you sent a photo revealing what’s under those feathers, it would help.
My smile hitting my ears almost hurts as I shake my head. Of course, Chase and his wit and his sneaky little codes. I save his contact info and begin texting him back when another one pops up.
Bates Motel: Ellie takes that back. She wants to see everything. A full frontal is preferred. Pup-pup-puplease.
Oh my God! How corny is he? Playing his game, I reply.
Me: Gerdie normally doesn’t show the goods on the first date. How about just a headshot?
I type it, and shame on me, I place the phone in between my legs so as I get Gerdie who is in the middle of my bed, I also get a side shot of my inner thigh. I press send and regret it the second it goes through. What the hell is wrong with me? I do not send cheesy text messages. I drop my phone and cover my face with my hands and sigh, when the ding echoes around my room. I pick it up and almost choke. On my phone, is a picture of the cutest dog, lying on a naked chest. And of course, the dog is leaning to the side so I get a great view, giving away that he’s completely naked. His message reads:
Bates Motel: Deal, I’ll match you with two headshots ;)
Oh my God. This guy. “He is so full of himself,” I mumble as I open the picture fully and use my fingers to zoom in. Two heads is right. God, I miss him and his gorgeous energizer cock. I wish we were still wrapped up in my hotel room licking and biting. I sigh as I save the photo, the ding coming through again.
Bates Motel: I kinda miss you, Katie Beller.
Fuck. My heart squeezes, with a flutter in its wake. I don’t put thought into my reply, I just type and send.
Me: I kinda miss you too, Chase Green.
Bates Motel: Thank you for giving me a chance.
Ugggghhhh what’s WRONG with me? His message is just a message. Why do I feel like I want to laugh and cry at the same time? Why is this guy making me feel? He’s like a wrecking ball, taking me out, one emotion at a time. In the end, I’ll be a mess. He will hurt me and I know that. Statistics know that. Society knows that. But why am I falling for it? Why do I get that giddy feeling from his words?
I do what I do best and take the chicken way out and not respond. A few minutes pass before my phone dings again.
Bates Motel: Good night, Katie Beller.
Me: Good night, Chase Green like the color.