Getting Off

Mallory’s ability to be a productive member of society ended at precisely 1:37 PM Eastern one summer Wednesday when the boy she’d been seeing/obsessing over for about three weeks made it clear via text message that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. She spent her lunch hour crying and composing herself in the office’s handicapped bathroom, leaving a message for her therapist saying she needed to talk, and abandoning the sensible salad lunch she had brought for two gigantic pizza slices, consumed sullenly at her desk. She spent the rest of the work day texting various friends about her heartache and general inability to date successfully and unconvincingly staring at her computer screen with glistening eyes while waiting for them to reply.

This particular let down in the form of a boy was a friend of a friend who she’d met at a birthday party for someone she didn’t know. Alone in her apartment in Washington Heights with no friends or dating prospects to speak of, her friend invited her out, they met up with the friend’s friends at an overhyped speakeasy-style bar downtown, and when Mallory and the boy shook hands and said hello she felt that familiar flow of electricity between their skin, felt his gaze lock onto her so pointedly that his interest was unmistakable. Later, he kissed her mid-conversation in front of the few remaining after-after-partiers at another bar, and then she invited him to her apartment, and they drank and fooled around until the sun came up. She knew he was just out of a multi-year serious relationship. She knew there was no reason to hope, but infatuation made everything she knew unrecognizable and fuzzy except for the very tangible skip in her stomach when he texted or called.

It was foundationless ardor played out in a few weeks, but Mallory was particularly disappointed because of that cinematic first meeting, that stunning flash of kismet that she liked to interpret as some kind of intense recognition of one another’s souls rather than basic sexual attraction. The experience of unexpected mutual interest was a powerful dose of hope, so different from the thin anticipation she felt when meeting a date acquired via an app. She had put too much trust in her body; let it guide her mind to places too far ahead where there was love and respect and publically official relationship statuses. The boy had read her behavior as clingy, and abruptly exited the narrative.

Her commute back to her apartment was unusually smooth and by the time she entered the sweltering 6^th floor walkup and turned on the air conditioning unit jammed precariously into her bedroom window, the second wave of sobbing she’d held back all afternoon had dissipated. She could call her mother, whose soothing voice would likely invite her cry again, but she didn’t want to be comforted. She thought about masturbating, since lately she’d found that she started crying after doing that, but she didn’t want to, at least not by herself.

She stripped off her work clothes, soaked through with sweat from standing on subway platforms and walking from the station to her building in the thick August air, heat radiating off the ten city blocks of concrete. She put on a robe and scrutinized her face in the mirror hanging on the back of her closet door. Her makeup was almost completely melted off; only a few shreds of mascara clung to her top lashes after her lunchtime cry. Furrowing her brow to keep from sobbing had temporarily deepened the perpetual forehead lines she’d had since high school. Finding no redeeming qualities in her face she decided not to continue scrutinizing her body as well and threw a robe on over it.

Mallory opened her laptop on her bed and tapped her fingers on the keys, not depressing them, considering her options. She turned the TV mounted to the wall in front of her bed on, and then off again, and opened various social media platforms and scrolled through them without latching on to anything in the feeds. She told herself she wouldn’t log on, that she needed to start weaning herself off anyway; this was not how you found someone to make a life with. Every time she logged on she felt the combined thrill and shame of it, the further solidification of her life as empty and herself as a complete and utter loser. She pulled up a private browsing window, typed the URL, and then deleted it. She typed it again and hit enter. She typed her username and password in a flash and waited while the old technology tried to connect. She didn’t know what it was that made getting in so difficult in a time where web pages loaded instantaneously, but maybe it was just to prolong the thrill, the possibility that you might not get in at all. But then suddenly the loading bar jumped to capacity and the screen changed, and Mallory let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding, watching the ever multiplying lines of the chat room scroll up and away in the little window.

Sometime during her first year of living in New York City, after getting dumped by her college boyfriend and realizing she hadn’t made any friends yet, Mallory became a frequent visitor to a sex chat room. She wandered in one day when searching for erotic writing online, deciding that it would feel better to get off to her own imagination, or at least the helpful imagination of someone else, rather than to internet porn. She stumbled into something rather more addictive, and frankly more embarrassing, than porn. Worst of all, she thought she was sometimes in love with, definitely infatuated with, a guy she’d never met, who lived halfway across the world. She hated herself for it, and every day told herself she’d stop logging on. She did take breaks from the chat room sometimes, like she had recently, when distracted by a living, breathing guy or when trying to dedicate herself to “seriously dating,” but then things would go bad, and she would get bored, and then there was the voice in her head that reminded her that she had nothing else to do anyway.

Today, her Internet crush was already online, she could see his screen name in the sidebar, and she felt relief and excitement well up in her belly. She waited for him to notice her, hoping it wouldn’t take long, imagining he had been checking the screen name list for her handle. She had dubbed herself “anonymousbrunette” and she thought that was clever. Sitting cross legged on her full-size, Scandinavian mass-market bed in a robe bleached from the wash she used to keep body acne at bay, her screen name made her feel sexy and mysterious.

A new tab denoting a private message appeared at the bottom of her screen, flashing, and she held herself back for a beat for one last twist of anticipation. She had the involuntary and radiant smile of the newly infatuated, even though she’d been chatting with this man for months now. The distance somehow prolonged the magic. His screen name was stupid and she told him that she hated it, even as she secretly thought it was clever. “CourgetteCasanova,” he had told her, was poking fun at those who took themselves too seriously and tried to come up with an intellectual screen name, while also eschewing something primitive like the ridiculous, but informational, names such as IowaDaddy4u or SingleAussieSub.

CourgetteCasanova, real name James, was British, living in a London suburb, and some 12 years older than Mallory, if he was to be believed. She was disinclined to believe that he was a catfish because the pictures he sent her were of an average looking man with thinning red hair, unstylish, rectangular glasses that probably had transition lenses, and a bit of a belly spilling over his dad jeans. He was not Mallory’s type physically, and when she would think back on it later, he wasn’t terribly interesting to talk to, but when you’re feeling rejected, you can idealize just about anything.

Hi beautiful. Haven’t heard from you in a bit. Did you meet someone?

Previously, Mallory had contacted James when she started dating someone and declared the end of her relationship with him and the chat room, only to crawl back sometime later, tell him about her misadventures, and be comforted by him. This time around she had hedged her bets, not wanting to be hasty, but she hadn’t spoken to him in about a week, as she’d been absorbed by her new crush. Now she wondered how she could have gotten so distracted.

Eh, went on a few dates, it didn’t go anywhere. Mostly I’ve just been busy.

I’m sorry to hear that.

It’s alright, I wasn’t terribly invested. Figured I should maybe try to talk to someone in my own city, but that got me fuck all.

You’ll find someone.

Does that mean you’re not interested in me anymore?

I didn’t say that. But I want you to feel free to explore other options, I don’t want to hold you back from anything.

No? You wouldn’t be incredibly jealous if you knew there was another man touching me?

Of course I would. But I’d know that they wouldn’t know how to please you like I can.

Oh yeah?

They constructed a fantasy in which James saw her out on a date with another man and then the conversation continued as usual with talk of glances exchanged, clandestine meetings, places that would be touched or kissed, sounds that would be made, etc. Mallory was surprised at how much it turned her on and was almost embarrassed after she made herself come. She lay with her head next to the laptop, imagining James similarly spent at home.

Mmm that one was messy. My fingers are sticky, haha.

You know I love that, baby. You gonna lick it off?

Way ahead of you.

Mallory was not licking her fingers, but preliminarily wiping them with a tissue before retying her robe and creeping out of her room to wash her hands, hoping she wouldn’t run into one of her roommates with the flush of orgasm still on her cheeks.

The chat immediately following mutual masturbation was the worst part. If you assumed no one was lying about getting off, you knew that there was just some quick cleanup happening, no basking in an afterglow or cuddling up to one another in filmy-edged bliss. It was like regular ill-advised sex, awkward and a little shameful, at least for Mallory. Sometimes James would go offline almost immediately after one of those conversations and she would feel used.

But today he hadn’t signed off, though he was talking about nothing for a while, circling something else.

You’re all over the place today.

Sorry, I guess I am a bit distracted. It’s been a weird day.

She noted he hadn’t seemed distracted while he was getting off, but then let it go. It’s nearly impossible to hold a person to their words when you can’t see their face.

Do you want to talk about it?

Mallory already knew that she did not want to talk about it. It was clearly going to be uncomfortable, whatever it was, but she asked anyway.

My wife called me today.

Said wife and James had been having problems for years and they had finally decided to separate and pursue a divorce not long before Mallory and James had crossed digital paths. She had left their flat to stay with her mother in the country somewhere and they hadn’t communicated much since. To hear James tell it, they were best friends but intimacy had long since dried up and though he tried and suggested everything, she was closed for business. Mallory believed that sex was very important in a relationship and in her mind it was synonymous with intimacy, so this seemed like grounds enough for divorce. There was probably more to the story, but she didn’t really want to know.

She said that all these months apart she’s missed me, and she thinks maybe she didn’t try hard enough to work it out. She said she’s open to couples therapy.

Huh.

Mallory was fuming now, somewhere between devastated and furious with hot tears rolling down her face. It was pathetic, she thought, that she’d let her feelings take root in a person who was barely real to her, that she could be disappointed twice in the same day.

I’m sorry if this hurts you to hear. I just want to be honest with you, it’s the least I can do. And I honestly don’t know what I am going to do right now.

They had talked about meeting up; James typically traveled to New York a few times a year for work. They had imagined countless scenarios in hotel rooms, Central Park, dark bars on the Lower East Side, the slightly stodgy English guy and his sexy younger date who usually wasn’t wearing panties.

Mallory had liked creating these fantasies because she wanted James to really want her in his life, but she wasn’t ever certain she really wanted him in her life. She was devastated when he would break the fourth wall like this and show himself for what he truly was. Her ego shattered for the second time that day.

I mean whatever, I should have known better.

I’m sorry.

Sure.

It’s entirely possible that this never goes anywhere.

So I’m supposed to wait for you guys to figure your shit out?

No, I would never expect you to do that.

What do you expect me to do?

You will move on, find someone in New York. My life is fucked up and I can’t promise you anything, I’ve been up front about that.

She stewed. He had told her about all of those things but he kept talking to her. Did honesty exempt you from being a dick?

Do you want to be with her?

I mean, I did marry her. I made a commitment.

That commitment hasn’t stopped you from coming on here. Talking to me. Talking to whatever other girls you jack off with.

I realize I’m a hypocrite. But if she wants to try I feel like I need to honor that.

Mallory rolled the word over, “honor”. Was there anything honorable about either of their behavior? If he was a piece of shit, she thought, she was one too. Maybe a bigger one.

Well so far you’re doing a great job.

Mallory had transitioned fully into anger now, and she wanted to hurt James the way he had hurt her. She wished she could be more aloof, that she could pretend she had boys just knocking down her virtual door.

I don’t expect you to understand.

Right, because I can only get a guy in a fucking chat room and am stupid enough to put any stock in a connection like that.

That’s not what I meant and you know it.

She cried again, angry that she showed her wounds and hurt because he didn’t deny her romantic incompetence when she went fishing for a consolation. She pulled the covers up and slid her laptop next to her head so she could curl into a ball and still see the screen and peck at the keyboard.

I’m not really what you want or need, Mallory. We both know that.

This didn’t hurt so much as annoy her. She was young, she was objectively not ugly, and on a day when she just wanted him to tell her how lovely and worthwhile she was, he decided to grow a fucking conscience.

That’s not fair.

Her anger was losing steam now, and she wasn’t crying anymore. She glanced out the window at commuters returning to the neighborhood after work and teenagers coming home from practices or clubs, discernable by their backpacks. The jingle of the ice cream truck sitting on the corner of Broadway and the side street she lived on could be heard just faintly over the blare of her yellowed air conditioning unit. She checked the recent messages on her phone: her mother asking how her day was, a friend sending a picture of their dog to cheer her up. Neither of them knew about James and Mallory noted she felt relief when telling herself that they would probably never hear about him, not now. When she looked back at the chat, she saw that James was getting angry.

Isn’t it? It’s not like you didn’t date before you started talking to me. It’s not like you haven’t dated since you met me! You found me because you were lonely and bored. We both were. In that way we both used each other. You wouldn’t be seen with me on the street, so don’t act like you’re an unwitting victim here.

At this point it was important for Mallory to exonerate herself – she would not be considered equal to a virtual philanderer. Now that he had suggested the correlation, rather than her own brain, she had to defend herself against it.

You don’t know who I would or wouldn’t be seen with. I don’t think you can call me shallow when you started looking outside your marriage for sex. And even if I am shallow – I’m not the married one here. I’m not even in a relationship.

I asked you if you were married when we first started talking. You told me it was over.

Before logging onto the sex chat room had become solely about talking to James, Mallory dabbled in dirty talk with other users and she had one main rule, aside from avoiding anyone interested in family or underage role play. She didn’t ‘play’ with married men. She hoped she would have a husband one day and though chatting online and masturbating to it seemed to fall into a cheating gray area, she knew she wouldn’t want her future husband doing it. Therefore, she felt it was her moral responsibility not to engage with men who admitted to being married. Mallory wanted to tell herself that she kept talking to James because him saying his marriage was over was enough, but she couldn’t delude herself that explicitly. His being married came up later in initial conversations than it had with others; he didn’t try to flirt with her until they’d established a rapport, which she liked. She ignored men who private messaged immediately asking for her measurements or if her pussy was shaved in favor of those who tried to be funny or interesting. She had learned quickly that no matter what a chat room’s title is, lonely people will use it for whatever they wanted, so she approached it like her dating apps, except the end game wasn’t to ever meet these people, at least initially.

By the time she found out James was married she already knew she wanted to keep talking with him, it was too late for a clean break when it was so difficult to find a modicum of interesting conversation in a sex chat room that should have been defunct.

She saw the comedy in it all, the mental gymnastics she did to justify her actions, but she didn’t seek out the motivating factor. She could easily convict herself of being lonely and desperate, and that meant she didn’t need to look any farther.

I don’t get why you’re so upset about this right now, it seemed like me being married was kind of, part of the appeal.

I told you I didn’t want to chat with married men. I didn’t want to be somebody’s virtual “other woman.”

You said that, but then you would say things about taking my ring off and…you know. There was this whole dynamic around sex with you being more exciting. We literally just talked about me taking you away from another guy and that turned you on.

I guess I got caught up. I’m not proud of it. But you don’t have to throw it back in my face to make yourself feel better.

I’m just saying it’s not like you weren’t into it.

Mallory was assaulted by what she’d said now, throw-away lines about his ring burning on his finger, about removing it with her mouth, and more. Mallory squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her fingertips to her lids as she cried, her embarrassment so swollen it doubled her over in pain. She wanted the release that came from sharing your shame with a third party who would soothe you, tell you that a person can make mistakes and still be good. She couldn’t pardon herself, she had to accept that she was filthy and had only herself to blame.

“I just wanted to know your attention was only on me,” she typed, but then deleted.

I wish you had just left me alone.

I told you my situation and you had the choice to stop talking to me. You still do.

Right. You’re totally blameless here.

I didn’t say that. I’m not innocent, but I didn’t lie to you.

No? What about all the stuff about coming to New York and seeing about being together?

I said it was a possibility, I didn’t know my wife was going to have a change of heart.

Does it really matter that she did? I didn’t get the impression you were waiting for her to come back to you.

I wasn’t, but I can’t say I’m completely closed off from the idea.

Do you want to be with her?

I don’t know right now.

Then you shouldn’t be talking about potential future shit with me!

You’re right, but I thought we were both enjoying the fantasy.

I felt like a line had been crossed. That we’d moved past just fantasy.

I’m sorry I made you feel that way.

Even when James was groveling his apologies were qualified. I’m sorry I’m fucked up. I’m sorry you let me mislead you. He wasn’t interested in doing the right thing, but quick to apologize for not doing it, and he couldn’t even be fucking charming about it. She wondered how many apologies his wife had suffered.

Look, maybe we were both using each other in the beginning, as much as anyone on here is using each other. I won’t deny that. But it became more than that and you know it. I don’t speak to anyone else on here and I haven’t for a long time. I told you that. We talked about meeting when you were divorced, about seeing what it would be like to really be together. You said maybe you’d consider moving to New York since London didn’t have anything to hold you there anymore. It was like…I felt like I was almost in love with you. Scared, but, on the cusp of tumbling into that. Are you saying you didn’t feel that too? That you didn’t know where I was at?

James took his time responding. Mallory re-read the lines she sent and realized how stupid it all sounded. She buried her face in her pillow, ears trained for the notification bell. After ten minutes she realized even the main chat room was frozen, the old technology had seized up as it often did. She turned on the TV and eventually the main chat began to scroll at hyper-speed, indicating that the connection had righted itself. She checked the private message for what James had sent. It was disappointingly brief.

I knew.

I’m sorry.

I don’t know what else to say.

I don’t know if the chat is lagging or you’re mad but, I do really need to hop off.

I’m sorry.

I’ll speak to you soon, if you want to. If not I understand.

And he was gone again, living whatever his real life was wherever he really lived. She shut her laptop and turned to her phone, but there wasn’t anyone she could text about James. No one knew about him, except for maybe the NSA and China, and she figured they’d never tell.

She tapped the icons of her preferred dating apps, long since offloaded by her phone due to lack of use, and re-downloaded them from the cloud. She opened the first one restored and was surprised to see a notification, but told herself it was likely old. To her delight, it was new.

It was from a boy with loose brown curls swept back, perfectly adjusted American teeth that he showed when he smiled, and a charmingly lanky build, if the beach pictures on his profile were recent. He branded himself as goofy, maybe a little awkward. He was just Mallory’s type, and she remembered that their conversation had been cute and witty and in her opinion, progressing nicely, until he’d gone dark a month or two ago before she’d decided to take a digital dating detox and subsequently met the guy she’d been dumped by that morning. She tapped on the message icon, her fingers trembling.

Hey, you! Sorry I seemed to ghost you a while back, I ended up getting promoted at work and needed to do a lot of travel and I just didn’t feel like it was fair to waste anyone’s time on here. I got back a few weeks ago and was re-reading our conversations and they had me laughing. I feel like we had a good vibe going. So if no one swept you off the market in the interim, I thought I’d see if we could get that going again. Basically, I was gonna ask you out before, and I still want to. If you’re into it.

Mallory took a screenshot of the message and sent it to her friend, ignoring the dog picture from earlier, and started drafting an answer that she hoped would be the perfect balance of nonchalance and interest.