by Roxie Noir
“What was that?” I ask.
“Shut a cabinet too hard,” Jackson says. “I’m at my house.”
“You mean your trailer on your parents’ ranch.”
“It’s a house,” he says. “It’s got walls, a roof, and I’m hooked up to the electric and water.”
“That also applies to a lot of barns,” I say.
“Miss Guthrie, are you implying that I’m an animal?” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Well,” I say. “If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck...”
“If I have to be an animal, you can do better than a duck,” he says.
“A goose?” I tease. “A swan?”
“If I have to be a bird, an eagle at least,” he says. “Something with a little majesty.”
I laugh, and the line goes silent for a moment. I think again about the last time we talked, how we left things angry and uncomfortable. I hate that it’s hanging over my head.
“I’m sorry for being such a bitch,” I say, my words all coming out in a rush. “I could have been a lot nicer.”
“I was an asshole,” Jackson says. “I had no right to get mad at you for not wanting to sleep with me again.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, I think, but I don’t say it out loud.
“Thanks,” I say, and flop backwards onto my bed.
“Did Bruce ever say anything else?” he asks.
“Not a peep. To me, anyway, and I don’t think he’d tell anyone else.”
Jackson sighs into the phone.
“Raylan knew,” he says.
I tense up.
“Kinda because I told him. We were real drunk and he made a crack and things got a little out of hand,” he says.
“Out of hand?” I ask.
“I took a swing at him,” Jackson says, sounding resigned. “I mean, we get into it a couple times a year because we spend so much time together we gotta let off some steam. But he was kidding until I put him in a headlock and made him swear not to tell.”
I don’t know if I’m embarrassed or impressed by this. Maybe both.
“We’re good now,” Jackson says. “Besides, it doesn’t matter any more. The magazine’s out.”
“We’re free to be pen pals,” I say, trying to make a joke. “I always wanted one as a kid.”
“Did you know that Wyoming has this thing called the internet?” Jackson says.
“Shut up,” I laugh.
“It’s true,” he goes on. “It’s not just for fancy big city folks anymore.”
“You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“It’s faster than the pony express, even,” he goes on.
“Okay, I get it,” I say, still laughing. “You don’t want to be pen pals. Fine.”
Pals is not the word for what I want from him.
“I’m just saying, we could video chat instead of writing letters,” he says.
I look down at myself quickly: oversized t-shirt, ugly old boxer shorts, hair in a bun because I haven’t washed it in three days.
“Maybe later,” I say. “I’m already in my pajamas.”
“I wasn’t even going to ask what you were wearing,” he says.
“You weren’t?” I say.
There’s a pause. I bite my lip and squeeze my eyes shut, because now I’m wondering what he’s wearing, whether he’s also lying on his bed, thinking about me.
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t wonder,” he says, slowly. His voice drops in a way that sends a shiver through my whole body, and I turn bright red.
“Do you want to know?” I say.
In the kitchen of my apartment, one of my roommates starts doing the dishes, and I wonder if she can hear me talking on the phone. I get off my bed, turn some music on, and flop back on my bed.
“I feel like a bad cliché,” Jackson says. “I swear I just called to say hello.”
There’s a low ache starting inside me. It’s torture. I don’t want to want him but I still do, even when it’s just his voice.
“An oversized college t-shirt and an old pair of boxers,” I say.
Immediately, I wish I’d lied.
“Are you in bed?” he asks.
“I’m on my bed,” I say. “Where are you?”
“I’m sitting at my kitchen table,” he says. “I’ve got the lights off and I’m looking out the window at the stars.”
I look at the tiny window in my bedroom. The curtains are closed, but I know what’s behind it.
“I’m looking out the window at a brick wall, and I can hear my roommate doing the dishes,” I say.
Jackson laughs.
“Can your roommate hear you?” he asks.
“I hope not,” I say.
There’s a pause, and I hear something creak on his end. Something about this feels dangerous, in a completely different way than being with him in person did. It feels like somehow, this makes it real.
“If you hung up now and pretended this never happened I wouldn’t blame you,” he says.
My heart seizes.
“Do you want me to hang up?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
I swallow. Then I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and steel myself for the sentence I’m about to say.
“Jackson, I’m so wet right now,” I whisper.
He exhales, and I can’t say why, but it sounds like he’s smiling.
“From talking to me?” he asks. His voice is low and growly again.
“Yes,” I say. My face is on fire, and I’m certain that I’m bright red.
I have no idea how to have phone sex, but here goes nothing.
“Take your clothes off,” he says. “I want to imagine you naked.”
I do it and flop back on the bed.
“My nipples are hard, too,” I say.
Do I just describe the things that are happening?
“Touch them,” he says. “I like how you moan when I rub them between my fingers.”
I pinch one nipple and then rub it between my fingers. I squeeze my legs together but it doesn’t even quell the throbbing there. I hear myself sigh into the phone.
“Shit, Lula-Mae, I’m hard as a rock,” he says.
“Tell me more about that,” I say.
Not sexy.
Jackson chuckles into the phone.
“I’m sitting at my kitchen table, staring at the sky and thinking about you touching yourself halfway across the country,” he says. “You’re driving me wild and I can’t even see you.”
“This feels better when you do it,” I say.
Jackson groans.
“Take your cock out and stroke it slow,” I say. My eyes are still shut, my legs still clamped together against the constant, hollow throb as I imagine Jackson next to a window, big cock in one hand, eyes closed as he leans his head against the wall.
“I’d rather have you here,” he says. “Thinking about you and jerking off gets old, you know.”
“It’s only been a week and a half,” I say.
He just chuckles. I bite my lip.
“I wish I was there too,” I say. “Even if I was just watching you touch yourself.”
“Really?” he says.
I slide my hand down my belly, over my hips.
“Really,” I whisper. “You’re sexy.”
“Tell me what you’re doing now,” he says.
I slide one finger over my clit. I’m so turned on that it feels swollen, sensitive to the touch.
“Rubbing my clit,” I say.
In the kitchen, the water goes off, and I pray my roommates can’t hear me.
“I wish I was eating you out,” he says, half-groaning. “I wish I had my tongue on your clit and my fingers in your pussy, and I could watch you come undone.”
I gasp, my fingers sliding along myself.
“I want my face between your thighs as you come and come,” he says. “I want to lick you until you think you can’t come again, and you’re shaking.”
H
e swallows, breathing hard. My fingers are circling my clit faster and faster.
“I want your cock,” I blurt out, and he groans. “Inside me.”
“Say it again,” he says.
“I want your cock inside me,” I say.
My toes curl. I gasp again, trying not to make much noise. I imagine Jackson, cock out at the table, and I imagine getting on top of him and riding it.
“Fuck, Lula-Mae, I can’t hold on when you talk like that,” Jackson
“Make me come,” I say. My fingers are slippery and working my clit fast as I think about the last time we had sex, when I came so hard I thought I couldn’t move afterward.
“If I was there I’d fuck so hard you screamed when you came,” he says. “Just for how good your pussy feels when you come—”
On the other end there’s a small crash and a faraway groan.
I grit my teeth together and let my orgasm burst through me, my fingers working like mad. A single noise works its way out of my throat but the waves are already wracking through me as I roll onto my side, my ear on top of the phone as I squeeze my legs together, trying not to make any noise.
I’m breathing hard, shockwaves still going through me. I can feel my pussy twitching.
I keep my eyes closed, listening to Jackson come, imagining how he looks, with one hand around his thick cock.
“Shit, Lula-Mae,” he finally says, his voice still far away. Then there’s another noise, and suddenly his voice is closer.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Did you drop the phone?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, and he’s laughing.
“What happened?” I ask. I start to giggle along with him.
“Nothing,” he says quickly.
“Jackson,” I say.
“I need to clean off my kitchen table is all,” he says.
I dissolve into giggles, one hand still between my legs.
“Gross,” I say.
“Your fault,” he says.
“I didn’t say come on your kitchen table,” I say.
“Yeah, but you said the stuff that made it happen,” he says. “I kinda got taken by surprise.”
“You’ve never masturbated before?” I tease, blushing a little.
I don’t know why I’m blushing. I’m pretty sure I just said some pretty filthy things, and that was fine.
There’s a pause.
“I came pretty hard,” he finally says. “You should talk dirty more often.”
“I’ve never had phone sex before,” I admit.
“Well, you did great for a phone sex virgin,” he says, his voice low and slow. “As my kitchen table can attest.”
“Ew,” I say again.
“Once we got past tell me more about that, anyway,” he teases.
We talk for another hour. He tells me about his parents, about his sister and his nephews, about the magazine release surprise party. I tell him about Sasha and Dani, my roommates, about how I found the perfect pair of mittens, and how I saw a rat glaring out at me from a frozen, old jack-o-lantern.
When we hang up it’s past midnight, but I lay awake in my bed for a while.
I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t think there’s any possible way it can work out, and I have no idea how to take a first step.
But I’m happy.
We start texting each other. I wake up the next morning to see he’s already sent a picture of the sunrise over a long, flat horizon. I text him back a picture of a cup of coffee.
Jackson: Not a morning person?
Me: Ugh.
It keeps up all day the next two days, these light, flirty, fun texts. He sends me pictures of his nephews, his tractor, and his favorite goat, Flossie. I send my subway stop, my roommates, and the window from my apartment.
After a day or two, I realize: this is how we’re sharing each other’s lives. I can’t meet Flossie in person, but he can show me. When I say getting on the subway, now he knows where I am.
Two days after the phone sex, I get package and a postcard. The postcard has a picture of huge, stark, rugged mountains and says YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK on it.
The back says:
We can be pen pals, too.
Jackson
P.S. I live clear across the state from Yellowstone, but the gas station had this in stock anyway.
As I’m standing there reading it, Sasha comes out into our tiny living room and looks from the postcard to the box and back.
“That’s the hot cowboy,” she says.
“Nosy,” I say.
“You’re pen pals?” she says. “Do you know about Skype?”
“It’s a dumb joke,” I say.
“So he’s sending you postcards and you’re texting him all day,” she says.
Dani comes out of her room too.
“What’s this about the hot cowboy?” she asks, grinning.
“Now you’re ganging up on me,” I say, laughing.
“Got any naked pictures of him?” Sasha asks, getting out a box of cereal.
“No,” I say.
I wish I did, but I really don’t.
I put the postcard on the table and grab my keys to tear open the cardboard box. It’s from Amazon, and I open the outer box to reveal a smaller, smooth white box inside.
Dani looks at it and just starts laughing. I frown, because I thought it was a new camera strap.
On the side of the stark white box is a very tasteful picture of a large purple vibrator.
Dani and Sasha are both staring at me, giggling, but I’m just confused. I look at the address on the outside of the box, wondering if I just awkwardly opened a package that was for a neighbor, but it’s to me.
“Why do you look so confused?” Sasha finally asks, pouring milk over her cereal and trying not to giggle.
“Because I didn’t order a fancy vibrator,” I say.
Dani leans forward and snags the packing slip out of the box.
Then she read it and grins.
“What,” I say. I reach out and try to snatch it from her, but she waves it away. She hands it to Sasha, and Sasha starts grinning.
I suddenly have the feeling I know who the vibrator is from.
It’s from someone who goddamn knows that I have roommates, because I sent him a picture of my roommates yesterday.
I turn ten shades of red and probably every other color too.
“It’s from Jackson?” I manage to ask.
“There’s a message, too,” Sasha says.
“Please no,” I say.
She laughs.
“It just says, enjoy, wink emoji, talk to you soon, Jackson.”
Thank god.
“Okay,” I say, trying to figure out how to keep this situation cool. “Well, okay, neat, I’ll just put this in my room, I guess.”
“Mae,” says Sasha. “That model’s gonna take a couple hours to charge.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“What? I know stuff,” she says. “Anyway, you’ve got time to come back and tell us the truth about you and the sexy cowboy.”
“With details,” says Dani.
I plug the vibrator in, come back, and tell them. I skip a lot of the details.
The next day, my agent Janice calls. She wants me to shoot stills for a TV show that’s filming in New York, and it’s grueling. It’s four eighteen-hour days in a row, but the pay is good and I like working, so I take it. I text Jackson behind-the-scenes photos and loopy selfies at dawn. He texts back about getting ready for the World Championships in Vegas.
I’m kind of nervous about them. At least in Wyoming, there’s no other women around, sitting on his lap and feeding him shots and making out with him. It’s all wholesome farm stuff and a small town.
I finish the last day of shooting at nine in the morning. While I’m on the subway with no signal, I get a phone call from Janice.
Sports Weekly wants to send me to Vegas to shoot the Rodeo World Championship. I sprint aboveground and call her back.
<
br /> “Hi, this is—”
“Yes!” I shout.
20
Jackson
I haven’t talked to Mae in four days. She’s texted me and I’ve texted back, and I know she’s busy working crazy eighteen-hour days, but it’s weird how I miss her.
It snows, just a dusting, and I send her a picture of my trailer. I send her a picture of my mom’s apple pie.
I get a postcard of a trash barge that says New York City on it. The back says:
This is the realest post card I could find, pen pal.
Mae
I stick it to my mini fridge like a dork.
I look at house listings in Wyoming. For real houses that aren’t on my parents’ ranch, because I’ve finally got the urge to have something real and not temporary.
Besides, if Mae ever visits, she can’t visit me here. This trailer is barely fit for me, a bachelor who’s on the road most of the year. This is not a trailer fit for female eyes.
I’m tinkering with an old tractor when Mae calls. It’s weird that she’s calling me in the middle of the morning, so I get a little nervous.
“Hey,” I say.
“I’m so tired I think I might be psychotic, but I’m coming to the rodeo thing in Vegas,” she says.
I stand up with surprise.
“You are?” I say.
“I am,” she says. “Sports Weekly asked me to shoot it.”
“So you’re working it,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says.
I can hear traffic behind her. She must be outside. I wonder what that means, exactly, but I also can’t stop grinning. I get to see her again. In one week.
“Congrats,” I say. “They hired you back, they must have liked your work.”
And not found out about us, I think.
“They said they did,” she says. She sounds happy but dead tired. “Look, I have to go to sleep or I think I might pass out in the street, but I wanted to let you know I’m gonna be there.”
I hear her unlocking her door, and then the noise of the street fades.
“I’m really excited to see you again,” she says, softly.
“Not as excited as I am,” I say.
We hang up so she can sleep, and I just stand in our tractor shed and stare out the door at the patchy white on the ground outside.