Well, whatever. Vaughn has no idea who I am on Twitter, but as soon as I get to my stop in Atlanta, that shit is going.
I plug my headphones into my phone and bring up my tunes, then settle back into my oversized seat and try and enjoy my first, and probably only, first-class experience.
A few hours later, after I’ve been served lunch, champagne, orange juice, a hot towel, and a movie—IM1, it’s the only one playing—I’m satiated, relaxed, and even a little bit giggly over my ridiculous weekend with movie star Vaughn Asher. It’s sort of a blur, and sort of surreal. I mean, did I really get f**ked by him in a tropical forest? Did I really put a vibrator against my pu**y in the company of the great Adam Asher?
I laugh out loud and several people look over at me.
It was sorta fun, but Jesus, I’m glad it’s over. I’m not his type, he’s way too much ego for me, and we really did fight the entire time. I prefer my quiet, predictable, low-conflict life and the only dates I see in my future are virtual ones on Saturday night Dirty Heaven twitter chats.
The plane lands and phones begin dinging as everyone switches them off airplane mode. I stretch out, ready to get off this plane and find my next gate so I can just go home to Denver. I fish out my phone to check my messages. Bebe is gonna be pissed off when she gets that note. I switch the phone off airplane mode and it begins dinging.
A balloon bubble pops up on my home screen telling me I have twenty-two messages.
What?
I swipe my finger to go into my messages app and look at them.
Unknown number.
Unknown number.
Unknown number.
Unknown number.
They go on and on like that. More and more and more.
My email app dings and I press that to take my mind off what might be happening on my phone. I have fifty-two new emails from Twitter.
I open the first one and it takes me a few seconds of staring to realize what I’m seeing.
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
On, and on, and on. Down to the very last new email for today.
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) is now following you on Twitter!
I scream.
People startle and flight attendants come to help me. But I fall back against my seat, unable to process what just happened to my life.
I’ve been outed. He knows. Every last dirty thing I’ve said about him over the years—from I wish I could slide my pu**y against your scratchy chin to You have long thumbs, I hear your c**k is three times that size—he knows them all.
And then my phone dings a message.
I force myself to look down.
I can’t wait to play Dirty Heaven with you this weekend—Vaughn
I die of humiliation right there. I just die.
I plug my headphones into my phone and bring up my tunes, then settle back into my oversized seat and try and enjoy my first, and probably only, first-class experience.
A few hours later, after I’ve been served lunch, champagne, orange juice, a hot towel, and a movie—IM1, it’s the only one playing—I’m satiated, relaxed, and even a little bit giggly over my ridiculous weekend with movie star Vaughn Asher. It’s sort of a blur, and sort of surreal. I mean, did I really get f**ked by him in a tropical forest? Did I really put a vibrator against my pu**y in the company of the great Adam Asher?
I laugh out loud and several people look over at me.
It was sorta fun, but Jesus, I’m glad it’s over. I’m not his type, he’s way too much ego for me, and we really did fight the entire time. I prefer my quiet, predictable, low-conflict life and the only dates I see in my future are virtual ones on Saturday night Dirty Heaven twitter chats.
The plane lands and phones begin dinging as everyone switches them off airplane mode. I stretch out, ready to get off this plane and find my next gate so I can just go home to Denver. I fish out my phone to check my messages. Bebe is gonna be pissed off when she gets that note. I switch the phone off airplane mode and it begins dinging.
A balloon bubble pops up on my home screen telling me I have twenty-two messages.
What?
I swipe my finger to go into my messages app and look at them.
Unknown number.
Unknown number.
Unknown number.
Unknown number.
They go on and on like that. More and more and more.
My email app dings and I press that to take my mind off what might be happening on my phone. I have fifty-two new emails from Twitter.
I open the first one and it takes me a few seconds of staring to realize what I’m seeing.
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
On, and on, and on. Down to the very last new email for today.
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) is now following you on Twitter!
I scream.
People startle and flight attendants come to help me. But I fall back against my seat, unable to process what just happened to my life.
I’ve been outed. He knows. Every last dirty thing I’ve said about him over the years—from I wish I could slide my pu**y against your scratchy chin to You have long thumbs, I hear your c**k is three times that size—he knows them all.
And then my phone dings a message.
I force myself to look down.
I can’t wait to play Dirty Heaven with you this weekend—Vaughn
I die of humiliation right there. I just die.
