I don’t know what to think. Or feel.
Is he interested after all? His tone seems flirty, but maybe I’m misreading. He’s always a bit flirty. It’s part of his job.
But he remembered Cassiopeia.
I made enough of an impression for him to still be thinking about it the next day. Enough for him to research it and then send a message about it. That has to mean something. What, I don’t know.
What I do know is that now I have to think of a response, and I have zero clue what it should be.
What to say, what to say?
I pace and compose several responses in my head before attempting to type out a reply, and even with the mental prep, I’m anxious when I respond: You said “hump.” I add a blushing emoticon because it feels appropriate.
I said it twice. You know why, right?
I’m too excited to even bother with a guess. No. Why?
Because that’s how many times I thought about humping while I typed out that message.
I choke on a giggle. His response is juvenile and ridiculous, but what does it mean? Does it mean he was thinking about humping in general or thinking about humping me?
Then I come to my senses. Of course he wasn’t thinking about humping me. If he had any interest, he would have made a move last night. And because I’m so certain he didn’t really intend any innuendo, I type back: It’s because there are two humps on the constellation that Cassiopeia rides on. You thought about it once for each hump.
There’s a delay before he responds, and I bite my lip while I wait, my legs still jelly from the orgasm I had fantasizing about him just a few minutes before. I grow hot again thinking about it and when my phone buzzes with his latest message, my heart is hammering in my chest before I even read the first word.
Yes. That’s right. Though, if there was a camel last night, I don’t remember it. I only saw Cassiopeia.
For half a second I consider letting my fantasies bloom, letting the things I wish twist into things that are, and I imagine that he means I’m as beautiful as the mythological Cassiopeia, and that he only had eyes for me.
But of course he means he only saw the stars, and he’s as far away from me as the Persian Queen on her two-humped camel in the sky.
The text he sends that night takes a much different tone.
After Stanley Tucci gives Captain America that shot and he gets all muscle-y and even more Captain America-y than before, do you think he could still have sex with a regular person? Or is his dick too powerful for mere mortals?
I’m already in bed because it’s late. A glance at the time says it’s just after one. It’s the middle of the night and he’s thinking of me.
Nope. Stop. I have to remind myself not to get giddy. He’s probably drunk texting all the girls on his contact list. I should set down my phone and banish him from my mind like I did all day long.
Except I didn’t banish him from my mind at all.
I refrained from responding after his final confusing text that morning, and threw myself wholeheartedly into trying not to think about him. Which meant I thought about him quite a lot. While I scrubbed my bathtub. During my rollerblading workout on Santa Monica Pier. Through my photo shoot for Tommy’s Toys, an erotic image website I pose for on a regular basis.
“You’re on tonight, Devi, baby,” Tommy said as he clicked shot after shot. “Radiant and fuck-hot. Are you knocked up or something?”
“Uh, no. It’s probably my new face cleanser.” I wasn't using a new cleanser, but I spouted the lie anyway, not wanting to put voice to the real reason I was glowing: Logan O’Toole.
Later, in the shower, I rubbed myself to orgasm thinking about him again. Then spent the next twenty minutes promising myself that tomorrow I wouldn’t think about him at all.
Now I’m tired and vulnerable, and when his Captain America text arrives, I surrender to his game, whatever it may be. Can a dick really be TOO hard? It’s his stamina I’d be more concerned about. The power behind his thrusts. He’d need to restrain himself if he were going to indulge in sexual activity.
But what about when he blows his load? See, I think he’d come too hard for her to take it. His sperm would shoot through her like a bullet.
Smiling from ear-to-ear, I roll over to my stomach to type my reply. Nah. You men always think that your cum is more impressive than it is. It’s really just a tiny little splurt. Even with increased force, that’s not hurting anyone.
We aren’t talking about my cum—which IS impressive, by the way. We’re talking about Captain Fucking America.
I grow warm all over at the mention of his cum, and I have to take a series of deep breaths before responding. Does the idea of that turn you on? Coming inside a woman so hard that it kills her?
Well. Sort of. Yeah.
I laugh out loud. You’re sick.
Guilty. Another text immediately follows. Goodnight, Cass.
And for the second night in a row, I go to bed with an ache between my thighs because of Logan O’Toole.
For the next several days, Logan continues to send random texts. I’ve given up trying to interpret his motivations and instead just enjoy the banter. The fun conversation has put me in a surprisingly good mood, despite my money woes, and on Wednesday morning, I even get the nerve to open up the UCLA website for the first time in months.
“You can do this,” I say out loud to myself. “Just go through the list and pick something. Anything. One thing that interests you.” There are so many things that appeal to me. This shouldn’t be that hard.
But after only a couple of clicks around the site, I end up on a page that shows the five different divisions of study available: The College of Letters and Science, The School of the Arts and Architecture, School of Engineering and Applied Science, School of Nursing, School of Theater, Film, and Television.