Hear You Coming

“What about that guy from work?”

“I don’t date guys from work,” I said, unlocking my apartment door and unloading my day on the velveteen couch as I chatted on the phone with my best friend for life, Helen Hasley.

“What about that guy from the party at your mom’s?” she asked.

“He’s her neighbor or something,” I said, shielding my eyes with my forearm. Even in the dim light of the room, my eyes were tired from a long day under the fluorescents at the office.

“What’s that matter?”

“It matters to me,” I muttered.

“What about that guy—ooh! The one from college. You had math class with him, and he called you that one time when you and Levi broke up, and—”

“—I was talking to him late at night in a stranger’s kitchen, and he was telling me that he always looked at my cute, lacy thongs in math class? That one?” I asked, shuffling through a stack of mail on the table, addressed Dillon Daniels or Current Resident.

“That’s the one,” she said approvingly.

“Hellie, he’s not the one. Trust me. I liked that guy for years, and we were such good friends… but he didn’t see it. Then, one night, out of the blue, he calls me and starts talking about my panties? Come on.”

“Don’t even call them that,” she said bashfully. “That’s weird.”

“Panties is weird? That’s too weird for you?” I asked. “What do you say?”

“Like undies.”

“Undies is so gross,” I laughed. “That’s like… probably what I said when I was in Pre-K.”

“You were talking about your undergarments in Pre-K?”

“If I was, I was using elementary-ass words like undies,” I said. “Anyway, he’s not the guy.”

“Well, then, who?” she demanded playfully.

“I don’t know. He’s someone. And when I meet him, he sweeps me off my feet. I stop fantasizing about all these other guys, and I only see him. I only think of him. When I’m awake, I’m thinking of him. When I’m asleep, I’m dreaming of him, and if I can’t dream of him, I’m forcing myself to wake up and daydream at night,” I said.

“You want to fall in love,” she said sweetly.

“I want—” I cut myself off, eased myself out of that sweet, romantic tone, shook my head, and laid it on her. “I want someone to satisfy me like I’ve never been satisfied before.”

“Girl, how many times do we have to have this conversation? Nobody can do you like you can do you,” she said, laughing softly into the phone.

“They do say that,” I agreed. “I want someone who’s just as good as me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” I said.

She yawned, and I yawned.

“You need to stop working so late. If you found that guy, the one you just said about, you know, like he sweeps you off your knees and you fantasize about him fantasizing about you—” she mumbled.

“I get it,” I laughed. “You’re tired.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I am, yeah.”

“Dinner?” she asked.

“No, straight to bed, probably.”

“With who?” she questioned curiously, her voice perking up a little.

“Donovan,” I said slowly, my voice almost a whisper.

“You are freaking obsessed with that man,” she teased.

“I know,” I sighed.

“Well, goodnight, then. To you and to Donovan.”

“Goodnight, Hellie.”

I hung up the phone, flicked off the lights lazily, and headed for bed. There, in the comfort of my sheets, I practiced my nightly ritual. I slipped out of my clothes and flipped through my phone until I found my favorite picture of Donovan Scott. Donovan wasn’t just any guy; he was the guy for me—at least for the time being until I found someone new. Donovan was the lead singer of my favorite local band, Fame to Fury—at least for the time being until I found a band I liked better. Donovan was tall and handsome with his chiseled abs and dark, slicked-back hair. Donovan was covered in tattoos and never wore t-shirts with sleeves because maybe he wanted to show off how fucking sexy his arms were; they were sexy right now… in this picture. Donovan always wore tight, dark jeans that hugged the definition of his toned thighs in all the right ways and expressly showcased his fucking—

“Oh my God—yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” I groaned, rolling my eyes and panting. “Oh yeah. Oh, that’s it, baby. Make me come. Make me fucking come undone,” I said, gritting my teeth a little. Oh, did I not mention that I was touching myself?

Donovan wasn’t just any guy; he was the guy I touched myself to. I did it over and over again. I did it every night before bed. I did it some mornings if I had time. I did it if I came home for a lunch break. Look, when you run a busy schedule, you’ve got to make time. A girl’s got to make time for herself when she can, I always told myself. A girl’s got to touch herself past the point of temptation, when her fingers are circling her sweetest spot and bringing her alive. A girl’s got to take herself up to the tippy-top peak of that mountain, the highest climb a girl can climb until she climbs over and climaxes and spirals on down the mountain into out-of-fucking-control land. A girl’s got to—

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s it. Fuck, that’s it,” I moaned. “Baby, yes. Yes, I’m gonna come.”

I flung my phone onto the bed, orgasmed wildly, and ignored the sound of my shaky breaths and my bed creaking out of control on the old floor of this four-story apartment building. Now don’t judge me. I wasn’t that loud… I don’t think.

“Fuck, you are good,” I sighed. The comedown: one of my favorite parts. The comedown should be so sweet and intoxicating that it’s almost as good as the climax itself. It should leave a girl feeling winded and exhausted. It should leave her with a clear mind, a peaceful calm that cannot be surpassed by any one thought, feeling, or emotion. “You are so good to me.”

Yeah, Donovan Scott.

For now.

It was Donovan Scott for now. Eight months ago, it was Tim Rally, some young newscaster on the local channel at 10 p.m. sharp every night. I liked his suits. I liked his ties. I liked thinking about taking them off. Six months before that, it was Eric Brinehart, the intern who was hired two departments over at work. He was younger than me, and I knew I’d probably never date him. Probably? I had a strict no-work-relationships rule. Either way, he was hot and sexy and all the things, and he had a voice like liquid silk. He looked good in khakis. I liked to think about his cock in khakis. A year or so before that, it was Devin without a last name. All I knew was that he worked at the local market, and he’d bag my groceries sometimes. He was a manager there, and he was older than me, but age was no determining factor. He looked good in that uniform, and with his little nametag displayed proudly on his crisp, red Shore’s Market shirt, I knew enough to be able to scream his name all night long if I truly wanted to. And honestly, some of these guys resurfaced time and time again. I’d conjure up the thought of whichever one of them I wanted depending upon my mood.

They say that men objectify women. The truth is that women objectify men just as much. In fact, we’re worse in some ways. We’re creatures of habit more than anything. We have a reliable, incessant, needy rhythm—a cycle that follows us through life and demands attention at times. And while that cycle makes us miserable most of the time, there are certain times that it makes us downright fucking feral.

Now, I consider myself to be a good girl. I’d never put any of these men in a compromising position. I’d never consider taking advantage of them in any way. I’d never say or do anything to make them uncomfortable. But the intrusive, late-night thoughts I had about each and every one of them? Well, I just chalked those up to biology. My biological rhythm was telling me that I needed to get fucked. And what nonsense was that, anyway? Biology is just a damn social construct, I swore to myself. Biology is insistent that men carry the seed required to procreate and continue life as it exists on planet earth. Biology is also insistent, at the same time, that women go through the pain, the suffering, the endless turmoil and tribulation of menstruation, of a cycle, of childbirth, of menopause—you name it. And biology—that piece-of-shit fucker—is insistent, more than anything, that a woman’s pleasure plays no part in any of it. None whatsoever.

Well, not this bitch, I always thought. Not me. You’re not going to one-up me, I thought. You’re not going to fucking get one over on me, biology. If I want to come, I’m going to come. I’ll come as much as I like. I’ll come when I like and how I like. I’ll even come where I like. I’ll come in the bath, in the shower, in the kitchen, on the couch, in my bed, on the floor, in my car, in a tree, on the roof of a motherfucking fire department if I want. I call the shots. And come I do; I always have. It’s a woman’s right to choose, I told myself. I choose whether I want to engage in such constructs. Sex, as it were, is one such construct specifically relayed and upheld by society throughout time to encourage women to be chaste and untouched until they’re wed. We’re to be passed off in some arranged fashion, probably in a loveless pursuit, and he’ll give chase to fucking us wildly until we produce tons of offspring. Now, the offspring part isn’t every girl’s dream, nor is the marriage, but one thing remains consistent: in the eyes of society, of biology, of the world as a whole, women do not, never have, and never will deserve pleasure. There’s no room for us.

But this story—my story—shouldn’t be about that. We should feel empowered and beautiful and deserving of every bit of pleasure. We deserve it all. And it’s not because we’re entitled. It’s because we suffer so much that we deserve a little piece of heaven. We deserve a little chocolate when we want it, a little sip of wine after a long day, a little good music when we’re feeling down, a little hug when we need to cry it out, a little heating pad when we need to bleed, and—I can’t believe I even have to say this—we deserve a little pleasure. Personal satisfaction.

“Shit,” I sighed, fumbling through the sheets for my phone. It was 3 a.m., and I’d been thinking too much about the universe. “I did it again.”