A few days went by before I heard from Deacon again. I’d had this funny feeling he was keeping his distance because things had teetered on crossing the line during our dinner—not necessarily on a physical level, but certainly on an emotional one. Sharing that video of my Swan Lake performance was like taking the Band-Aid off a wound that hadn’t quite healed yet. But somehow, after letting it air out, I didn’t feel like I needed the Band-Aid anymore. Reliving my past, even for that brief moment, had been therapeutic. And my confidence in doing so had everything to do with Deacon first opening up to me.
The story he’d told me about his past made me feel less alone. I’d never imagined my happy-go-lucky neighbor was hiding something so painful.
I got a text from him on Monday afternoon while Sunny was napping.
Deacon: Hey… I got a package that was meant for you. Delivery guy got the apartments mixed up. I ripped it open before I realized it didn’t have my name on it. Want me to leave it outside your door?
It seemed strange that he wanted to leave it outside rather than just come over with it—further evidence that he was avoiding me. That bummed me out.
Carys: Yeah. Sure. Thanks.
I couldn’t remember what the hell I’d ordered. Lately, I’d been up late at night one-clicking all kinds of crap I didn’t need. I bought pretty much everything online, because it was easier for me, so this could have been anything from baby food to shampoo and tampons.
A few minutes passed before I opened my door to find a medium-sized box on the ground. The top had been ripped open. I brought it into the apartment and looked inside.
A package of pacifiers.
Banana chips.
Black licorice bites.
Diaper cream.
A Woman’s Guide to Self-Pleasure.
I paused.
A Woman’s Guide to Self-Pleasure.
My stomach sank.
Oh. No.
Now I knew exactly why he’d chosen not to knock on the door.
* * *
I spent the rest of the day stewing over what Deacon might have been thinking about me ordering that book. I didn’t know why it bothered me so much. Did it make me seem lonely or desperate? Or was it just the sheer embarrassment of needing a how-to guide on touching myself in the first place. The book had seemed like a good idea the other night at 2AM. Now? Not so much.
I wished I could just not mention it. But I knew myself. The next time I saw Deacon, my preoccupation would be written all over my face. I’d act all awkward. Eventually, I’d stammer my feelings out in a less-than-articulate attempt to explain myself.
It was better to acknowledge it calmly and get the awkwardness over with now. Grabbing my phone on the nightstand, I scrolled down to Deacon’s name and typed.
Carys: Hey.
He responded almost immediately.
Deacon: Hey. Everything okay? You don’t normally text at this hour.
Carys: Everything’s fine. Are you out?
Deacon: I’m in bed, actually.
Carys: Did I wake you?
Deacon: No. I was watching some documentary. What’s up?
My fingers lingered over the keys before I mustered the courage to type.
Carys: Did you look in my box?
Ew. That didn’t come out right. Or maybe that was the perfect lead-in to this awkward-as-fuck conversation.
Of course, he picked up on it.
Deacon: Huh? LOL
Thanks for letting it slide, Deacon. I rephrased.
Carys: I assume you saw what was in the box you dropped off earlier?
My pulse raced as the little dots floated around.
Deacon: Yeah, and I have to say, I’m pretty surprised.
My heart hammered against my chest. But before I could reply, he sent another text.
Deacon: I didn’t take you for a black licorice person. Worst candy ever.
Oh my God.
Carys: Nice try pretending you didn’t see the book.
I shut my eyes tightly and cringed.
Deacon: What book? ;-)
Carys: The winky face gave you away. You know what book.
Deacon: I had no plans to mention it. It’s none of my business.
Carys: I wanted to acknowledge it before you did. I’m a bit embarrassed.
Deacon: I wouldn’t have acknowledged it. And if I did, I certainly would never shame you for reading about something that’s natural. Not only would that be wrong, it would be hypocritical.
Carys: Hypocritical…because you have a similar book? LOL
Deacon: No. Because self-pleasure is one of my pastimes. I’m pretty damn good at it.
Carys: I take it you don’t need a book then.
Deacon: I could WRITE the fucking book.
Well, then…
Carys: I know I don’t have anything to be embarrassed about, but I still feel weird that you saw it.
Deacon: Why?
Carys: Because it makes it seem like I don’t know my way around my own vagina! I’m not totally clueless. I just figured, you know, since it’s just me…I need ways to be motivated. Thought I’d check it out. See what it has to say. It sounded like a good idea at 2AM.
Deacon: Have you read any of it yet?
Carys: No.
Deacon: I thumbed through it.
Shit. This is worse than I thought.
Carys: You did?
Deacon: Yeah. And I don’t think it’s what you need.
Carys: Meaning?
Deacon: You really want to talk about this?
Carys: Aren’t we already?
Deacon: Okay. Just wanted to make sure, because you seemed embarrassed a minute ago.
Carys: I’m over it now. What did you read?
Deacon: That shit’s too clinical. The steps she goes through…there’s too much choreography. Honestly, I was bored when I should have been turned on. Worrying about where the fuck you put your hand is not going to help you get off.
Carys: Yeah. That doesn’t sound like something I have time for.
Deacon: Pretty sure what you need is to relax with a good fucking glass of wine and some hot porn. The book you bought will have you thinking too much. What you need is to NOT think. Getting off is not so much about technique. It’s about losing yourself until you can’t help but touch yourself. When that happens, you don’t give a fuck how you’re doing it.
It suddenly got really hot in my room. My nipples hardened as I reread that last message a few times.
Deacon: That’s just my two cents.
Carys: Is that what you do when you’re alone? Have a glass of wine and watch porn?
Deacon: Occasionally.
Carys: Do you always need porn to get off?