"Chris!" With that exuberant syllable I drop the packages just inside the front door and start to rush toward my adorable boyfriend who isn't supposed to be here until tomorrow, but something in his face freeze-frames me like Roadrunner over its ersatz Latin caption.
He's sprawled on the couch, having made himself at home. "Your roommate let me in." An open bottle of Sam Adams is on the coffee table, and he's never had anything stronger than Nantucket Nectars. Worse, the tv is dark when it should be beaming tonight's Red Sox broadcast. Something is very wrong indeed.
"Don't worry, she's gone for the evening. It's just you and me. Care to dance, babe?"
Uh oh. 'Babe' and not his usual 'Baby J.' Not a good sign.
He cranks the stereo, which blares the opening guitar riff from 'Everything You Did.'
It doesn't take a genius to figure out that I'm in some deep shit. But when in deep anything, keep your mouth shut, so I say not a word and let him spin me in an exaggerated twirl before he pulls me assertively into his arms.
"What's the matter, babe? You feel pretty tense. Maybe you should lie down for a bit."
"I don't think--"
"I don't think you understood me," he says evenly, steering us through the bedroom door. "Maybe you should get on the bed, where you belong."
I sit on the edge of the mattress, spine rigid. Maybe I'm being paranoid. Maybe he just wants to try his hand at role play. Where in Bunker Hill did he get this idea?
"What are you being so prim about?" He sits next to me and reaches for my top blouse button, slowly working it undone as he smacks a kiss on the side of my flushed face. "Usually you're out of your panties and all over me by now. So be a good girl, take everything off?"
His uncharacteristic attitude is throwing me for a loop, and I might as well be doffing clothes in a doctor's waiting room. With trembling hands, I strip quickly and clinically as his indifferent expression drains all hope of making him more horny than snarky.
"That's much more appropriate for a little vixen like you," he drawls. "Now come on, get comfy..." He eases me backward and into the middle of the bed, kissing my neck until I relax and lift my hands to caress his back.
So it is role play. He scared the dickens out of me. Wonder what came over him?
"Remember what you always wanted to try?" He pulls my wrist toward the headboard before I can react, wrapping and knotting it deftly with a clothesline, then fastens the other.
To my disappointment, he gets up and walks to the desk.
"Where are you going?" It's the chirp of a paranoid mynah. My arms yank at the cords to no avail. Damn. He means business.
Only then do I notice my opened laptop, which he swivels toward me. With a thud in my chest I recognize the familiar red bar - and my Lush profile page.
Somehow he had hacked into it! But why? And how? And what would he do, now that he saw my virtual sex wish list, such as it was, flashing before his eyes?
He would pull a stunt like this right after I uploaded that blow job picture with the ropes and vibrators. Oh crap, I hope he hasn't found the one of--
"So this is what you're up to while I'm away? Care to talk to me about it?" He parks himself in the chair and folds his arms expectantly as a drill sergeant.
Please, please don't throw up, no matter how topsy-turvy your guilt ridden tummy feels. You can't get to the bathroom, for one thing.
"Is there anything to say?" I choke. "It's obvious you've drawn your own conclusions. I read and write some stuff--"
"Yeah, such intellectual and artistic stuff, I can tell. How does it feel to be trussed to the bed? That seems to be a recurring topic of yours. And asking total strangers about whether they would be tied up during sex or not."
Shit. He's been into my forum questions, too. I freeze, thinking it might be safer just to let him vent.
"Quite the subject matters that have piqued your interest." He proceeds to rattle off my favorites list with a raucous bark that would be right at home in the Fenway Park bleachers.
I had forgotten how crude those story titles sounded. My face burns even redder than the Lush bar, but at least the urge to barf is fading.
He scrolls, then stops, his eyes widening. "You did what at the beach? How long ago?" He sounds more amused than annoyed. I can only hope he finds the rest of it equally amusing.
"It was before we started going out, Chris. I forgot all about it. Besides, I gave you a hand job in the same place and you didn't mind one bit."
"I'm surprised you didn't write about that too." He swipes at the touchpad. "Oh, you did! How interesting. And the Celtics' game! Now everyone on four continents knows what we do in and out of your bedroom?"
"That was too good not to share," I blurt. "I mean, how often do the Celts win in post season, anyway? Only a few people even read it."
He's not listening. "All guys for friends, too, I see?"
"They're all good writers." Which is true.
"They all write dirty stories, you mean," he glowers.
"I hardly talked to most of them!" Which is also true.
"Operative word 'hardly'?" he snarls.
Horrible word choice, of course. "Barely?" I bite my tongue, but it's too late.
"Even more appropriate. You must have naked role played with someone to come up with a scene about four guys wanking over you during your lunch break? And you just happen to have how many friends? One...two...three...four!"
"There were only three at the time." Take my word for it; logic flies out the window when your wrists are on the verge of rope burn. "It was a one-off fantasy, a total fluke, and it wasn't even my idea."
"Whose idea was it, then?" He chants the one liner. "Let's find the object of that dedication, shall we?" He navigates for some moments without success.
I hold my breath, wishing fervently for an EMP attack. Or a lightning strike. Neither comes to my rescue, and the clicks and taps of his muckraking mission drag on in a foreboding Morse code.
"So let's talk about what else you did while you were at work, and with whom? And here's yet another story on the topic. Must have been some hot and heavy connection. Who was it? Hah, here's the thread..."
I gnaw at my lip and brace for the worst. Vic Feldman's Rhodes solo from 'Black Cow' trills accusingly from the living room.
"Well, well, and the same user's name shows up like a rash in your mailbox. Here he is asking for your picture...and asking for your picture...and again asking for your picture."
"You'll also find he didn't get anywhere with it," I huff with a righteous air.
"Check this smoking gun of a message out." He reads it and I flinch. "Either not much of an IQ or a lousy typist, but it appears we just found your literary inspiration, Ms. Nooner," he sneers.
I forge ahead with a preemptive strike. "Okay, so now you know I'm a perv and a degenerate and that I can stretch eleven words into at least eighteen hundred. I plead guilty on all counts."
"Not so fast, my little NSFW defendant. You sent a lot of sexy pictures to your guy friends. Naked ones, too." His eyes devour frame after frame of bare boobs and beach bronzed backsides. "At a thousand words each, you've compiled an X-rated Harvard Law Library by now."
"You don't understand. That's just a polite gesture here, like a handshake. It doesn't mean anything."
"I don't remember ever getting a 36D handshake in my life." He points randomly. "Did you take the booty train with this jerk?"
He can pick out anyone he likes; I'm clean. My tummy clenches again. Now that what's-his-face is off the map...
"Nope." I reply confidently, staring at the ceiling. Curious as to what constitutes 'jerk' by his standard, I raise my head, squint at the screen, then let it fall again. Quite perceptive of you, Chris. Not only did the icon's owner lust after fuck-me-daddy fifty-pointers with big tits and bigger kink, but at least two of his multiple profiles had been vaporized like cockroaches by admin's virtual Raid.
