Chapter 4
OVER THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS, I DIDN’T HEAR from ThinkTank. It didn’t really surprise me. I tried to assess the situation, to figure out if our text conversation had been a triumph or an unmitigated disaster. My friends voted for disaster.
I checked the forum religiously, but ThinkTank only posted once, in some thread about the mechanics of the shoulder in swimming, so yeah, he’d forgotten me.
I didn’t post at all. I didn’t even read the forum. I just...couldn’t.
I felt at a strange crossroads. I’d reached out to ThinkTank and we’d texted. It was all done. Time to move on. So why was I obsessing over it, like there was something unfinished?
I didn’t even know what the man looked like. And yet my body was telling me he was hot, very hot. That whatever he had, I wanted me some of that.
There was only one worthwhile distraction during this time. I drew Rafail Slutsky’s medial malleolus, a.k.a. his ankle. All the beautiful, tiny ridges and hard slopes. At the end of two days, I uploaded it to BodyDraw.
To keep myself from checking yet again when ThinkTank had last logged in, I next went to Slutsky’s Instagram.
The ex-Olympic swimmer had posted just one meme since I’d last checked:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I...I took a swallow of whiskey and went back to bed.
I giggled. Looked like he was at a crossroads, too. I felt sympathy for the man. Maybe it was a sign.
I impulsively tweeted @SwimmerSlutsky from my @CecilySketchily account. I’ve occasionally done that in the past. He’s never responded to any of my tweets. I know he gets gadzillions of them. It’s doubtful he’s aware of the individual fans who’ve followed him since they were hormone-filled adolescent girls.
I tweeted:
When you wake up, things will look clearer. You’ll figure it out. :)
I waited for a couple of minutes, but of course there was no reply. As usual, I didn’t mind. Unbeknownst to him, Rafail Slutsky had provided me with years of entertainment, orgasms, and modeling services, not to mention the meaning he added to my lonely existence by being my perfect fantasy man. Offering some supportive words every once in a while was the least I could do.
Later that night, a text came in. I felt a leap in my pulse.
It was ThinkTank.
Nice drawing. Possibly your best ankle portrait yet.
My breathing became labored. Be blasé, I told myself. Act like it’s no big deal.
Me: Oh, that old thing? Thank you. And thank Slutsky for the highly detailed nude ankle shot he posted on social media.
ThinkTank: Maybe he knows that somewhere out there are people obsessed with drawing his body parts.
Me: Haha, right, sure he does.
ThinkTank: Hey, ever considered uploading a body shot of yourself for the Model Salon?
I stared at the text. What? What? And was he implying what I thought he was implying? That I should upload a nude photo of myself?
Me: NO!
Me: I mean no, I never did. No.
ThinkTank: Why not?
Me: Because naked?!
ThinkTank: What about a clothed one.
Me: Nobody does that. That’s the point of figure drawing. There are clothed people everywhere. Naked not so much. Duh.
ThinkTank: My mistake. How about a real avatar?
Me: You could just ask for a picture of me.
ThinkTank: I already did. You were a lameass.
Me: I am not a lameass. I just...OK I’m shy. I don’t want pictures of me out there. As if it isn’t obvious.
ThinkTank: You have warts all over your nose?
I gasped. That hit a little too close for comfort.
Me: What a prick thing to say if I did have warts.
ThinkTank: I’m really curious about you.
I blushed. And blushed and blushed.
Me: Same with me. About you.
ThinkTank: Text me a picture.
Me: You first.
ThinkTank: How about this. We both take neck-down poses and put them in the PrivateShare section with only us having access.
Me: You’re serious?
ThinkTank: Yeah
Me: ...
ThinkTank: Or not....too sleazy?
Me: Well um you won’t even text me your picture. How is that trust building?
ThinkTank: I’m reticent about my face. But not my body.
Me: That’s...strange?
ThinkTank: Yeah. Sorry.
Me: Guess we’re at a stalemate then.
ThinkTank: I’d be fine with anything. Your knee. The top of your head. Your back. Clothed or not. And I’ll upload the same thing.
I couldn’t believe I was considering it. Part of my thinking, I admit, came directly from between my legs. I’d been feeling generally horny, but now, with ThinkTank asking for my picture, and offering his, my horniness had gone into an acute phase. I absolutely ached to see what he looked like.
So I typed: OK. Back it is. I can do a naked back. Give me 15 minutes. Setting it up will take a bit.
I scrambled to get the lighting and time delay right. I uploaded it first to my desktop and stared at it worriedly.
My back, the back of me, Cecily, wasn’t skinny like a supermodel's. It narrowed quite a bit down to my waist, but my shoulder bones weren’t all that defined. Despite my scapular flaws, my spine had a nice indentation because I swung my hips and gyrated when I danced to music, giving me pretty awesome erector spinae muscles.
But otherwise...it was obvious to any observer that this was the back of an average...possibly leaning toward plump...let’s call her insanely curvy...girl.
This was scary. What made me pick the naked option? Oh, yeah, I wanted to see his back.
He’s probably flabby and thin, I reminded myself. A lovable floppy teddy bear. I could live with a floppy bear.
Quickly I cropped my butt and head out of the shot, leaving just my spine down to my crack. I uploaded it into the PrivateShare space and sent ThinkTank the link.
As I did, I saw that he’d already sent me his link.
Trembling—seriously, trembling—I loaded his picture.
And stared at it. For a split second, I was flabbergasted. Then I became suspicious. Had he Googled hot cut naked man backs and stolen an image from somewhere?
Because that back...oh my lord.
Muscles.
So many many many muscles.
And here I thought I knew the human muscular system. No, I didn’t, not really. Not before this moment.
Also it was long. Endless. That back. And tanned.
I felt a flush shiver all down my body. I wanted to reach out and touch the hard angles. My finger actually brushed the screen along the line of his spine.
I sent a brash text: Prove that it’s really you. Take another shot holding a two of clubs in the small of your back.
ThinkTank: You’re cute.
ThinkTank: Your back, I’m talking about.
ThinkTank: Two of clubs? Seriously?
He thought my back was cute.
Me: I need it for trust building.
ThinkTank: I see. Rightyo.
A few minutes later, I was looking at the same back, but this time there was a hand—big, with long, blunt guy fingers—I swear those digits had muscles, too!—holding a somewhat frayed looking playing card.
Me: What have you done to that card?
ThinkTank: That’s it? That’s all I get? No sorry for troubling you ThinkTank? Just an insult for my old poker deck?
Me: :D So.
ThinkTank: So...
Me: So now we know.
ThinkTank: What do we know?
Me: What our respective backs look like.
ThinkTank: All I know is I’d like to meet that sweet waist of yours in person.
He wanted to meet my waist in person.
Shiiiiit.
And suddenly I felt as if I were floating in a strange land with strange people and strange drugs.
ThinkTank wasn’t at all what I thought.
Dude was tall and cut and...not a couch potato. Not a dweeb. He was not a dweeb!
Physically, anyway. But come to think of it, a lot of the way he acted was also not dweeby.
I was so not in his league. On any level.
I wiped a tear trickling down from my eye. This was sincerely saddening.
Me: My waist-to-back ratio is not a reason to meet.
ThinkTank: Right now I think it is. You up for a little sexting?
I suspected that my heart stopped right then. I knew I stopped breathing and moving. I might have glimpsed the tunnel of light.
Then I realized no, it was only the sparks behind my eyelids with the mental image of ThinkTank holding his erect cock in one hand while he texted me in the other.
Instant.
Virtual.
Orgasm.
I panicked again. And then, I, Cecily Spangler, sent the worst response ever.
Ewwww!