Him: Kidding, darlin. I’m holding back the marriage proposal until the 3rd date. When?
Me: I’m bringing my friend Carin and u need to bring the hottest guy u know.
Him: I’m the hottest guy I know. Will look for 2nd hottest guy on campus. She have any preferences?
Me: Someone who knows how to use his tongue.
Him: Again, that’d be me. Not sure how I’ll find out how good the other guys are w/ their equipment. Not a topic that comes up a lot.
Me: That’s the price of my time.
Him: On it.
There’s a short delay, and then another message pops up.
Him: You won’t regret this.
*
I have the perfect date idea, Carin texts an hour later. It’s eleven and I’m getting ready for bed because I have to be up at four to sort mail. The text is followed up with a slightly blurry pic. I pinch and zoom until I manage to make out a few words.
Me: Paint night out? I have no artistic skills. Even my stick figures look terrible. U know this. U mocked my hangman once.
Her: That was NOT a hangman. That was…I mean, the arms shld come out from the side of the body, not the neck. Anyway this is EZ. It’s like a paint by numbers thing. We drink/paint/enjoy ourselves. If the date is crappy then u and I can drink ourselves into oblivion.
Me: Fine. When is it? I’m only available Sun, M, W, Thur.
Her: I know. It’s why I picked this, dummy. It’s every other Sunday, as in tomorrow night.
How would I know? The picture she sent is small and blurry and could say it’s a church group meeting on Saturday morning.
Me: I’ll see if T is available.
Her: Bet u he is.
I’m not taking that bet. Instead, I text Tucker.
Me: You in 4 some paint by numbers?
My phone dings the message alert just as I’m pulling on my sleep shirt and boxers.
Him: Is that like naked Twister?
Me: I have no clue.
I send him the picture. Maybe he can make some sense out of it, because I sure can’t.
Him: Was this taken with an actual camera or drawn by tiny leprechauns?
Me: Carin’s a scientist, not an artist. Btw did u find someone?
Him: Yes. My buddy Fitz is coming and b4 u ask, I have no idea re: his oral skills. But he’s hella smart, has a mean slapshot, and I’ve never heard any complaints.
I take a screenshot of that text and send it to Carin.
Me: Is this OK?
Her: Can I have a pic?
I text Tuck, Can she have a pic?
Him: Of what?
Dear God. This is a ridiculous game of actual telephone.
Me: Tucker says: of what?
Her: Face, abs, ass. No dick
I take yet another screenshot and shoot that off to Tucker. While he considers the request, I wash my face and brush my teeth. By the time I climb into bed, there’s a message waiting for me. A picture of a gorgeous dark-haired guy flipping Tucker off fills my screen.
Wow. It’s incredible how hot these Briar hockey players are. Is that a requirement of making the team? Be able to slap the puck a hundred miles an hour and also star in the calendar?
I forward the picture to Carin, who sends me a thumbs-up emoji in return. Then I text Tucker again.
Me: We’re good to go.
Him: Time/place? Srsly can’t read this thing.
Me: Tomorrow. 8 p.m. Carin says there’s booze.
Him: K
I’m about to put my phone away when three dots appear. And then disappear. And then re-appear again. Finally, the message comes through.
Him: Dick pics that bad?
I smother a giggle. That’s his question?
Me: Why? RU going to send me one?
Him: Feel like that may be a trick question. Do u want one?
Me: Depends on context. Random dick pics = no. Otherwise? I dunno. I haven’t gotten one that I’ve really liked. U’ve sent one? Or several?
Him: My thumbs are tired. Hold on.
The phone vibrates in my hand a second later.
“Hello,” I answer.
“Hey.” He pauses. “So what made you change your mind about the date?”
“My friends said it would be good for me,” I admit.
“Your friends are right.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Anyway, I feel like this is a conversation we should have in person so I can see your face. Eggplant emojis don’t have enough nuance.”
This makes me laugh. “True.”
“But you’re in Boston and I’m in Hastings, so we’re going with the phone call. I may have sent a pic once, but it was solicited. She sent me one first.”
“Really? I’m not a fan of that. Too many revenge pics online.” Besides, I never really hung around a guy long enough to want to send him a picture, but I don’t share that with Tucker. “So there are pics of Tucker’s mighty wang on the internet?”
“I haven’t been tagged on Instagram yet, so I’m hopeful they aren’t out there. But thanks for calling my dick mighty. We appreciate that.” Amusement colors his words.
“We? As in you and your penis?”
“Yup,” he says cheerfully.
I snuggle deeper under the covers. “You have a name for your penis?”
“Doesn’t everyone? Guys put a name on everything that’s important to them—cars, dicks. One of my teammates in junior hockey named his stick, which was dumb because sticks break all the time. He’d gone through twelve of them by the end of the season.”
“What were the names?”
“That’s the thing. He just kept adding a number to the end, like iPhone 6, iPhone 7, except in his case it was Henrietta 1, Henrietta 2, et cetera.”
I snicker. “He should’ve used the hurricane naming convention.”
“Darlin’, he wasn’t smart enough to come up with two names, let alone twelve.”
Darlin’. My heart trips at the endearment. When he used it before, it seemed like a throwaway. But now? After he just said guys name things that are important to them?
I quell my fantastical interpretations before they lead me to a dangerous end. We’re flirting. Keep the tone light. “What’s your dick’s name?”
“Uh-uh,” he scolds. “That’s wife knowledge. I can’t tell you until the honeymoon.”
I wait for the inevitable sense of discomfort to start tickling my neck, but it doesn’t come. Apparently the offhand jokes about marriage no longer bother me.
“So what makes a good dick pic?” he asks. “Not that I’m sending you one.”
Me: I’m bringing my friend Carin and u need to bring the hottest guy u know.
Him: I’m the hottest guy I know. Will look for 2nd hottest guy on campus. She have any preferences?
Me: Someone who knows how to use his tongue.
Him: Again, that’d be me. Not sure how I’ll find out how good the other guys are w/ their equipment. Not a topic that comes up a lot.
Me: That’s the price of my time.
Him: On it.
There’s a short delay, and then another message pops up.
Him: You won’t regret this.
*
I have the perfect date idea, Carin texts an hour later. It’s eleven and I’m getting ready for bed because I have to be up at four to sort mail. The text is followed up with a slightly blurry pic. I pinch and zoom until I manage to make out a few words.
Me: Paint night out? I have no artistic skills. Even my stick figures look terrible. U know this. U mocked my hangman once.
Her: That was NOT a hangman. That was…I mean, the arms shld come out from the side of the body, not the neck. Anyway this is EZ. It’s like a paint by numbers thing. We drink/paint/enjoy ourselves. If the date is crappy then u and I can drink ourselves into oblivion.
Me: Fine. When is it? I’m only available Sun, M, W, Thur.
Her: I know. It’s why I picked this, dummy. It’s every other Sunday, as in tomorrow night.
How would I know? The picture she sent is small and blurry and could say it’s a church group meeting on Saturday morning.
Me: I’ll see if T is available.
Her: Bet u he is.
I’m not taking that bet. Instead, I text Tucker.
Me: You in 4 some paint by numbers?
My phone dings the message alert just as I’m pulling on my sleep shirt and boxers.
Him: Is that like naked Twister?
Me: I have no clue.
I send him the picture. Maybe he can make some sense out of it, because I sure can’t.
Him: Was this taken with an actual camera or drawn by tiny leprechauns?
Me: Carin’s a scientist, not an artist. Btw did u find someone?
Him: Yes. My buddy Fitz is coming and b4 u ask, I have no idea re: his oral skills. But he’s hella smart, has a mean slapshot, and I’ve never heard any complaints.
I take a screenshot of that text and send it to Carin.
Me: Is this OK?
Her: Can I have a pic?
I text Tuck, Can she have a pic?
Him: Of what?
Dear God. This is a ridiculous game of actual telephone.
Me: Tucker says: of what?
Her: Face, abs, ass. No dick
I take yet another screenshot and shoot that off to Tucker. While he considers the request, I wash my face and brush my teeth. By the time I climb into bed, there’s a message waiting for me. A picture of a gorgeous dark-haired guy flipping Tucker off fills my screen.
Wow. It’s incredible how hot these Briar hockey players are. Is that a requirement of making the team? Be able to slap the puck a hundred miles an hour and also star in the calendar?
I forward the picture to Carin, who sends me a thumbs-up emoji in return. Then I text Tucker again.
Me: We’re good to go.
Him: Time/place? Srsly can’t read this thing.
Me: Tomorrow. 8 p.m. Carin says there’s booze.
Him: K
I’m about to put my phone away when three dots appear. And then disappear. And then re-appear again. Finally, the message comes through.
Him: Dick pics that bad?
I smother a giggle. That’s his question?
Me: Why? RU going to send me one?
Him: Feel like that may be a trick question. Do u want one?
Me: Depends on context. Random dick pics = no. Otherwise? I dunno. I haven’t gotten one that I’ve really liked. U’ve sent one? Or several?
Him: My thumbs are tired. Hold on.
The phone vibrates in my hand a second later.
“Hello,” I answer.
“Hey.” He pauses. “So what made you change your mind about the date?”
“My friends said it would be good for me,” I admit.
“Your friends are right.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Anyway, I feel like this is a conversation we should have in person so I can see your face. Eggplant emojis don’t have enough nuance.”
This makes me laugh. “True.”
“But you’re in Boston and I’m in Hastings, so we’re going with the phone call. I may have sent a pic once, but it was solicited. She sent me one first.”
“Really? I’m not a fan of that. Too many revenge pics online.” Besides, I never really hung around a guy long enough to want to send him a picture, but I don’t share that with Tucker. “So there are pics of Tucker’s mighty wang on the internet?”
“I haven’t been tagged on Instagram yet, so I’m hopeful they aren’t out there. But thanks for calling my dick mighty. We appreciate that.” Amusement colors his words.
“We? As in you and your penis?”
“Yup,” he says cheerfully.
I snuggle deeper under the covers. “You have a name for your penis?”
“Doesn’t everyone? Guys put a name on everything that’s important to them—cars, dicks. One of my teammates in junior hockey named his stick, which was dumb because sticks break all the time. He’d gone through twelve of them by the end of the season.”
“What were the names?”
“That’s the thing. He just kept adding a number to the end, like iPhone 6, iPhone 7, except in his case it was Henrietta 1, Henrietta 2, et cetera.”
I snicker. “He should’ve used the hurricane naming convention.”
“Darlin’, he wasn’t smart enough to come up with two names, let alone twelve.”
Darlin’. My heart trips at the endearment. When he used it before, it seemed like a throwaway. But now? After he just said guys name things that are important to them?
I quell my fantastical interpretations before they lead me to a dangerous end. We’re flirting. Keep the tone light. “What’s your dick’s name?”
“Uh-uh,” he scolds. “That’s wife knowledge. I can’t tell you until the honeymoon.”
I wait for the inevitable sense of discomfort to start tickling my neck, but it doesn’t come. Apparently the offhand jokes about marriage no longer bother me.
“So what makes a good dick pic?” he asks. “Not that I’m sending you one.”
