I hung up the phone, getting a clear view of the mess I had made. My cum was all over my stomach and a little bit on my pants, like a teenager who just couldn’t hold it in.

Shit.

In recent years, I hadn’t been a very sexual person. I used to be a long time ago, but now my urge to have sex came maybe once or twice a year, hence my party fucks. Don’t get me wrong: I liked sex, a lot, and it felt fucking amazing, obviously, but it wasn’t something to get me off my feet floating in the air like a new drug on the market mixed with a good drink.

However, this time ... this time I jumped and for a brief second I was in the air feeling the high I’d been craving for years. Fuck. I got up and headed toward the bathroom to clean up and change into my pajamas, which was a roundabout way of saying my briefs. I headed to the kitchen, checking on my roasted chicken that only had a few minutes left to cook before I dove in. I got busy mashing on the mashed potatoes when I heard my phone buzz, not once, not twice but four times.

I knew it was Mallory. I knew it was going to be another text saying she is not going to send a no nudes —

The high hit me again, another jump, as I flipped through two images of Mallory's naked body. Her soft light-olive skin took over my phone as she did what I told her to do and spread her swollen wet cunt that was shining bright like a star. The other image was sexy and cute, showing off her round pink nipples. One of them was red from the attention, and the other hard and red from the metal piercing inside of it, which I never, not even in my wildest dreams, expected her to have. She had two dark freckles on her breast next to each other below her right, non-pierced nipple. It made me want to lip them and connect the dots. Her naturally pale pink bottom lip with her diamond peeked out at the top of the image, somehow fucking stealing the show from her breasts, which were fan-fucking-tastic. Like two soft melons I wanted to eat.

I chuckled to myself, still amazed she sent the nudes.

Her text was straight to the point and business-like, which I didn't read much into. Instead, I headed toward my laptop and typed Mallory Scarner in the search box to see what came up. But I struggled with the small font, so I gave in and put on my reading glasses. I always forgot how old I was until I had to put them on.

The usual results came up. Her Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Tumblr, Twitter — she rarely used any of them— until I found her website on the second page. I clicked on it and expected to see something that resembled her bedroom, white and pink mixed in with a few black posters. But it wasn't like that at all.

The website background was black and the font was thin and retro and all lowercase, like an old typewriter. She had only five tabs on her page, which consisted of the home page and four projects: poster rework, vernacular type, K+J, and Polaroid Steroids.

Poster rework and vernacular type were average since they were obviously school projects. But K+J and Polaroid Steroids were interesting.

Polaroid Steroids was a gallery of Polaroids she took of men who were jacked like they were on steroids. She sharpied over their faces so you couldn’t see their identity, but that didn’t hide the fact that they looked like tools, like college frat boys who wanted an easy fuck to boost up their “number” and their low self-esteem. All of the photos were taken in the street, except for one, the last one.

It was taken inside an old apartment where the not-too-buff guy was sitting on a busted up dark blue couch with a pair of soft thick calves resting on his lap. It was Mallory’s legs and for a split second I was jealous. Jealous because I wanted to be him. I wanted to be the guy hugging her legs, slowly moving my hands up until I got to her happy place and spread her pussy open with my fingers — one, two then three — giving her another orgasm, something I knew this kid could have never given her.

I huffed a laugh and headed to the last project, K+J. She didn’t explain what or who K+J stood for, but she wrote “The things K+J said.” There was a total of twelve images on this page, comprised of interesting typefaces and calligraphy that became more detailed with each poster. They started off small then got bigger, in size, text, and color (which she didn’t use a lot of).

The first poster was a white poster with off-white text that spelled out “Mallory.” The second, “Say Dada,” was written in a scratchy, almost unreadable font like a toddler had written it. The third, “Come to Mama, Lory,” was bubbly and sweet. It took me only a few seconds to realize that K+J were her parents and she as quoting them from the day she was born until she was twelve years old. The last poster said, “Don’t be afraid, my Pink Star.”

My heart gave out when I saw the last poster. It had such a sweet quote and context, but the type and colors were dark, filled with depression and sorrow. I wanted to ask her about this project. I wanted to ask why it ended at twelve posters and why the last one was so painful, but I already knew the answer. I just wanted her to tell me. Seeing the last poster was when I realized I had just hired Mallory for the job. She knew exactly what I had felt, what I still felt, and she showed it in her work, which is what I wanted.

My oven buzzed and I got up, slamming my laptop shut and forgetting what I had just saw. I headed toward the kitchen to grab my dinner and finished mashing my potatoes, feeling a painfully strong tug on my chest. But as always, I neglected it, trying not to think about her and what I could have done to help, or how great it would feel to have another high or drink so I could go numb for just a few hours. For a few minutes.

I took a deep breath and pushed my heavy thoughts aside, trying not to remember what I did. I pushed down precious memories until they collapsed under the tons and tons of pressure in my abyss and vanished.