Chapter Thirteen

Maeve

I am not going shopping. I'm fucking shattered. And I paid extra so I could stay in my hotel room up until I need to head to the airport so that's exactly what I'm going to do.

Since I arrived in New York, I've failed to adjust to the jet lag and no matter how late I've gone to bed I've been waking up at four or five in the morning, unable to get back to sleep. So I am greatly benefitting from having a bit of extra time to pack and relax before I get a taxi to JFK.

Except, I'm not relaxing. I'm lying on my bed scrolling TikTok and for the last eight minutes I've been watching somebody do a gemstone unboxing Live, which I have absolutely no interest in and yet I've not switched it off. This is the last thing I should be doing to try and relax. And yet, I already know I can't sleep. My brain is too busy, thinking about the meeting with the agency and wondering when and how I should tell Aisling I no longer want to work with her. I'm also sorely behind on editing new content, answering email, and responding to comments and DMs but I just don't have the energy to do it. I'm too antsy to focus on a meditation and I'm too wired to try reading the mafia romance book Ma gave me to take with me.

I know what I need.

I need to come.

It's been a few weeks and it's showing in the tightness in my body, the strain in my core and the tension in a lower, lower, deeper, deeper part of me. It's also there in my busy head and across my aching shoulders and chest. I need the release. I need to have the physical relief that an orgasm gives me. I'm not exactly looking forward to it, especially because I didn't pack my vibrator so am going to have to do it with my own damn fingers, but I know I will feel so much better after the deed is done.

Maybe then I'll call Loncey.

Maybe.

I put my phone down and roll over onto my back with a sigh. I'm wearing nothing but the soft towelling white robe the hotel provides and so it takes no time for me to touch my bare flesh once I slide my hand between my legs. As I often do, I flinch as I feel many contrasting things: the warmth and smoothness of my skin, the too-raw and too-exposed fragility of my most intimate flesh. I don't hate masturbating, but I don't love it either. It's a means to an end, like brushing my teeth or moisturising my body. A ritual that brings with it a certain sense of satisfaction, but not one that overwhelms me. I can appreciate it for what it is – an act that has a certain goal in sight – but that doesn't mean I look forward to doing it or want to do it any longer than I really have to.

Unfortunately, because I don't have my vibrator, it is going to take longer than it usually would, and when the tip of my index finger finds my clit, I wince again but I also hear my breath catch in my throat. And I feel the tingles that tighten that tension in my core. I start to make small circles with my finger, and I lift my arm and place it over my eyes. If I can block out the artificial light of the hotel room, if I can mute some of the awkward awareness I have of how this looks – me lying on a giant hotel bed, rubbing away at my most private body part – then maybe it will happen quicker. If I can just stop those self-sabotaging thoughts that taunt me as I rub harder and faster. You're not a real asexual if you masturbate. You're not the voice of the community you claim to be if you need these dirty little orgasms to ease your tension headaches and anxiety. You're not being consistent or true to who you really are by touching yourself like this, all needy and desperate.

I'm desperate for release, I want to yell back. I'm needy for relief, to feel better. I may even be able to nap for an hour or so, if I can just get rid of all the pressure in my body. If I can just…

"For fuck's sake, come on!" I call out to nobody. My arm is still over my eyes so I see nothing but darkness through my closed lids.

I wish now that I wasn't asexual. That I could tap into any number of fantasies with somebody or people who could get me closer to the place I want to be. I wish I could just think about a certain someone giving me a suggestive look, or taking their top off or whispering ‘good girl' in my ear like they do in the romance books Ma lends me.

But I'm not built that way. Instead, I think about how much better I'll feel when the orgasm is done. I think about how much looser my body will feel and how much emptier my head will be. And yes, I also think about how good the orgasm will feel, albeit for just a second or two.

I focus on this and not on the way my fingers are sliding more now, slickened by the increase of moisture between my legs. It's another contradictory experience; I like how it makes my skin feel slicker and easier to touch, with less uncomfortable frictions, but it also always feels a little bit like a betrayal, like my body is trying to tell me that it wants me to do this more, like I'm enjoying it more than I should.

But still I rub, feeling that build-up of tension intensify as my nipples harden and my back arches off the bed. I use my other hand to grab the sheets I'm lying on, making a fist around them.

"Yes," I say when I feel myself jump over what feels like the final hurdle and I know my climax is imminent as long as I keep rubbing in this rhythm that is working and I can stay focused, keeping all the negative thoughts out.

I deserve this, I tell myself as I hold my breath and fixate on keeping my finger moving and my pussy clenched tight, waiting to feel the release just as much as the rest of my body. Orgasms don't make me less asexual, I tell myself. I'm allowed to feel pleasure. Masturbating is healthy. I deserve to feel better, to relieve my stress and to make my body feel good.

And then I feel it. The snapping of the rubber band that was wrapped too tight inside my core, and with its breaking, it undoes all the other tension in my body, unravelling parts of me that I didn't even know were taut and tense.

I breathe out slowly as the short climax peaks and then eases. I take in deep breaths and try to elongate the small high that washes over me. As I suck in slow inhales, I will the tingles and sparkles to reach every part of me, and I have some success, feeling a lightness come to my head and a looseness move my chest in and out, and my shoulders back and down into the bed. My limbs feel heavier than they did a minute ago but in a good way, in a way that suggests I've surrendered some of the pressure that was coiled up inside me and now that it's unravelled I'm finally able to sink back into my body.

I remove my hand with just as much relief and stretch out my body, hands up against the headboard and my toes extending and separating at the other end of my body. It feels good. So good. I stay like that for many long seconds, much longer than the orgasm itself, but that's the way it always is. My climaxes are always short, but the relief that follows sticks around a lot longer, thankfully. I just wish I could have that release with a click of my fingers and not all that bloody work.

I bring my hands down and brush away some of the hair that has somehow landed on my face. As I do, I catch the scent of myself. I've smelt it many times before, of course, and I don't hate it as such, but it normally makes me itch to take a shower as quickly as possible. But today, I'm feeling unusually curious. I recall a conversation Arabella and I had years ago, when we were in our late teens and first discovering sex and physical intimacy with other people. For me, it was a horror show of feeling so much pressure to do the things Arabella and other friends were doing, but in the moment I would hate every second of those encounters with boys I barely knew, but considered physically attractive enough to be associated with. The way they grabbed my breasts, the way they pressed their erections against me and the way they… did more than that. I shudder at the memories I have spent so much time and energy on burying and focus on that conversation with Arabella.

"Have you ever tasted yourself?" she'd asked out of nowhere, as we unwrapped our pointe shoes after a ballet lesson.

"What?" I'd responded, confused.

"You know… your pussy juice." Arabella at least lowered her voice.

I'd grimaced at that, and shaken my head so vehemently it made Arabella laugh. "Why the fuck would you do that?"

"Well, because Connor Bryant went down on me like, three or four times last night. Told me I tasted like heaven and I had to know what he meant."

"And?" I'd asked, suddenly just as curious as I was horrified.

Arabella had shrugged. "A bit weird. Like fresh fish and chips at the beach on a warm summer's day, but also with your favourite fizzy drink in the mix too."

I had pushed that conversation into the same box I shoved all the uncomfortable interactions I had with boys, and later men into, but now I'm intrigued.

I bring my right index finger directly under my nose and inhale deeper. It's a strange smell; a little earthy and airy, a little salty, and maybe a hint of sweetness. And as I place my finger on my tongue, I find that that's exactly what it tastes like too. Weirdly, Arabella wasn't a million miles away from the reality with her description.

"I mean, it's not terrible," I say to myself. I still can't really understand why someone would want to "eat it" as they say, but I guess there are worse things you could put in your mouth.

Like semen. I shudder again. And this time it's so big it prompts me to get up and go take the shower I now crave.

I take my time in the bathroom, lazily washing my hair and my body. I am also languid about how long I take doing my skincare and blow-drying my hair into the long waves I'm famous for. I also spend a bit more time than usual on my make-up, trying out some new shading and contour products that I was gifted, and I decide they're good enough for a review. Getting dressed happens much quicker considering I had today's travel outfit already planned and ironed earlier.

As I spray perfume on my clothed body, I look up at the mirror and instantly, I can see how much better I'm feeling. It's not just my make-up or my feck me, close to flawless hair, it's the softness in my jaw now I've stopped gritting my teeth. It's in my olive-green eyes that now sparkle a little when, first thing this morning, they looked dim and dull.

"You scrub up alright for a lonely spinster," I tell myself and I smile at my reflection.

Maybe I really will get better at this being single shit. Maybe my hopes and dreams for a romantic relationship were just a temporary phase after seeing Jake and Rami's movie-like reunion. Maybe if I change a few things in my work – like a new agent, new emphasis on issues I'm really passionate about – I will find more fulfilling purpose in life.

I don't know why this has me thinking about Loncey, but it does. I look at the digital clock by the bed. I'm already half-packed and there's still an hour and a half before I have to leave for the airport.

"Fine, I'll call you," I say out loud with a sigh as I go back to the bed and find my phone. I sit back on the bed and before I stop myself, I call them.

It's only after the ringing sound reaches my ears that I realise I've started a video call. Force of habit, I guess.

"Ah, well. If they don't want to see my face, they can switch it off," I say to myself but before I finish the sentence, Loncey has answered.

"Hey, Maeve," they say. Seeing their face – all warm brown skin and dark eyes and a little stubble – catches me unexpectedly off guard. They are very pretty. And then I look down.

"Jesus Christ, could you not have put a shirt on for me? It's like you want me to rip you a new one!" I declare.

They laugh. "Oh, yeah, I'm doing great, Maeve, thanks for asking. How about you?"

"Well, now I'm worried about my lunch repeating on me. And considering it was a sub-standard room service chicken club sandwich, I'd rather it didn't."

"Listen, I can put a shirt on if you insist, but I literally just got out of the shower." They move a little and I see the stripes of wooden panels behind their head.

"Loncey, where are you? It looks like you're in a sauna right now," I say, squinting at the screen as I try to take in more of their surroundings.

"It's my… cabin."

"A cabin? Where is this cabin?"

"Vegas."

"You're in a cabin, in Vegas?" I sound as disbelieving as I feel.

"In my mom's back yard. It's a long story but it gives me some privacy and my own space and I'm still close enough to them to help my sister."

"Okay," I say slowly. "But it has a shower?"

"Yeah, and a toilet and a little kitchen and look," they move the camera again, "a couch and there's my bed."

As the camera switches back to Loncey's face the angle is different and I can see their towel hanging low on their hips, a ladder of flat and defined abdominal muscles above it. I am aware that I'm reacting to the view but I don't have words to describe how I react. All I know is that they notice because their smile falls and when they speak next, their voice is calmer, softer, quieter.

"Hey Maeve, I'm just going to put you down a second while I get dressed. But don't worry, you'll have a good view."

"Okay," I say, still lacking in words. A second later the view has changed again and I'm looking up at what looks a lot like the sky at night, a pattern of bright stars lighting up a thick black background.

"Wait," I say, realising. "Is this one of your paintings?"

I hear some rustling, movement. "Yeah," they say from somewhere off-camera. "I stuck some of my old paintings up there the other day. Gives me something to look at on sleepless nights."

"You have a lot of them?" I ask, leaning closer and noticing how the stars are all different sizes and while they appear to be arranged at random, I start to make out some recognisable shapes, some constellations that I should probably know, but don't. I can also see that the canvas is not all one solid shade of black but there are shades of grey, blue and purple there too.

"Sleepless nights, or old paintings?"

"Both, I guess."

"I'd say some of both," Loncey says and they sound even further away.

"You really should start painting again. You're really good," I say. "Did you think about it after we texted about it?"

"A little. It's just a time thing. I don't have a ton of spare time right now."

"Am I interrupting?"

"No, I didn't mean that. I just mean, in general. My days are busy enough with work and Jessica and looking after my mom's house and walking a dog…" they sound closer and a second later, the camera wobbles and pivots until it's back on Loncey's face.

They're dressed in a burgundy T-shirt, their locs now tied up on top of their head. I can see more of their face like this, the hard lines of their jaw stunning me momentarily until I see how their ears stick out ever so slightly and that makes me want to smile so hard, it takes some effort to school my features.

"Where is Prince? You do realise he is the only reason I am calling?" I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

"He's in the main house with Jessica. They're having a Scream movie marathon with Mom and Jess's friend Taylor. You know Halloween lasts approximately three weeks in our household."

"Sounds fun. We don't really do Halloween in Ireland but I like it. I have a pumpkin mug and always treat myself to a Halloween manicure." I flash them my black nails, a few of which have skulls on them.

"Nice," they say appreciatively and then hold up their other hand and I notice short black painted fingernails. "We match! Shall I go show you Prince? You can meet everyone too."

That makes me sit up straighter, uncrossing my legs. Why would they want to introduce me to their family? "No, it's okay… you don't…"

But they're already on the move and I'm seeing glimpses of more wood and then terracotta tiles and some potted plants and shrubs, and finally, I'm inside another house and I briefly absorb lots of calming colours in the décor.

"Hey, Jess, pause the movie for a second," Loncey calls out. "I got a friend who wants to meet Prince."

A friend? I'm Loncey's friend? I suppose we are friends. I've been quite successful in not thinking about all the messages we've been sending to each other, and what it means now that we're talking on the phone. But I've had enough Internet acquaintances to know that these connections come and go. When your working life is like a whole new world that the real, offline world doesn't know about, you can't help but seek out community with those who can relate. That's what I've been putting my conversation with Loncey down to, but now they've just called me their friend, to their family no less, and I don't hate it. In fact, I like it.

"Who is it?" A high-pitched voice says sleepily, but I don't see any people. I only see a little curled-up ball of gray fluff.

"Hello, Prince!" I say in a loud whisper. "Ahh, is he asleep?"

"Yeah," the same voice replies. "Loncey took him on a run this morning and he's still recovering."

"Isn't that animal abuse?" I ask, ensuring my teasing lilt is very audible. First impressions and all that.

"Dogs need exercise," Loncey explains as they come back into view. "Even lazy ass Yorkshire Terriers with attachment issues."

"What number Scream movie are you on?" I call out and the camera swings round to show me three women sat on a couch close together. As they all look up and see me, I immediately recognise the oldest-looking woman as Loncey's mom and the youngest-looking one, who I assume is Jessica on account of her having the same skin tone and dark eyes as Loncey. The other woman has tanned skin and dark features with long, dark brown hair tied up on top of her head, and she's wearing a face mask. Loncey's mom is wearing linen trousers and a matching smock, while Jessica and her friend are both wearing jogging bottoms and hoodies. Loncey's mom waves while the other two smile a little shyly.

"Scream IV," Jessica says.

"That's the best one," I say.

"That's what I think," Loncey declares and the camera whips around back on them.

"Nah, the first is the best. You can't beat the original movie in a series." I think that's Loncey's mom.

"Unless you're talking about The Godfather," I say.

"Or Toy Story," Loncey adds in. "Because, duh, Toy Story 3."

"And, and this is a controversial opinion, Grease," I add.

"I love Grease 2!" The voice I now know to be Loncey's sister pipes up. The phone swings round again.

"Oh my God, it's the best!" Jessica's friend says and she puts her hands out in front of her, mimicking riding a motorbike. "I wanna coooooool rider!"

"Oh, and that song about Doing It For Your Country!" Jessica's hand lands on her friend's arm and she looks a lot more perked-up than she did a few minutes ago.

"Geez, I remember you letting her watch that way before she was old enough to be watching it!" At the end of the couch, Loncey's mom is wagging a finger at the camera, presumably at Loncey who I also guess is laughing now as the camera starts to shake.

"What can I say, it was Michelle Pfeiffer," Loncey says.

"No more explanation needed," Jessica's friend says, making Loncey's sister giggle and their mother roll her eyes. "Total MILF."

"I think she might be a GILF now," I offer. "A grandma I'd like to…"

There's more laughter. "I like you," Jessica calls out, shifting slightly so she can stroke Prince's tummy as he stretches out in his sleep. "But who exactly are you?"

"This is Maeve," Loncey says from behind the camera. "She's a content creator, like me."

My shoulders rise and go tight. "Well, not exactly like you." I raise my voice.

"No, okay. She keeps her clothes on for the camera," they clarify.

"Where are you from, Maeve?" Jessica asks. "Your accent is cute."

"Dublin, Ireland," I answer.

"Oh, you're the one Loncey has been texting," she says knowingly.

I feel my cheeks blush at that comment. The idea that Loncey has mentioned me to her already feels… unexpected and well, kind of nice.

"They've got some crazy idea that Ireland is a country worth visiting. I think they're just holding out for a European visa from me or something," I joke. "But really it's a bit of a shithole." I wince. "Sorry, Loncey's ma."

The camera lifts to give me a better view of their mother.

"No apologies necessary. As I taught my kids, there are no bad words, only bad intentions," she says, and she gives each of her children a warm smile. "And my name is Gabrielle. It's a pleasure to meet you, Maeve."

"And you. I should let youse get back to your film."

"Film?" Jessica turns to her friend, then Loncey and repeats the word with my Irish pronunciation. "She says film."

"What should I say?" I ask, confused.

"Movie," Loncey explains and their face is back on the screen. "We say movie."

I roll my eyes and then I'm raised up and I see a view of the three women and Prince on the couch over Loncey's shoulder.

"Say goodbye to Maeve," they instruct and the three of them wave and say various types of farewells. I half-expect Loncey to then hang up but they tell me to, "Hold up." and suddenly we're on the move again.

"They're nice," I say when Loncey is back in their yard.

"They're my family," they say. "And Taylor. But she's sort of like family too, I guess."

"Don't you want to join them?" I ask.

"Nah," Loncey says as they open the cabin door and in a second they're surrounded by wood again. "I've got a ton of editing to do and I'm meeting up with one of my mentees later."

"Mentees?"

"I mentor a few up-and-coming content creators. People who are just getting started. Queer people. I help them get set up, give them some tips and introduce them to other creators who aren't going to screw them over."

"Screw them over? Isn't that exactly what's supposed to happen?" I ask, only half-joking as I process what they're saying. I'd never imagined somebody mentoring another person who wants to get into selling sexual content online but now they've said it, I suspect it could be incredibly helpful.

"There's good screwing of people and then there's the bad kind. There have been countless scandals over the years of people committing assault on collaborations, not to mention not respecting boundaries, or just being disrespectful in countless other ways. There are a lot of dicks working in this industry, if you'll pardon the pun."

I snort. "It's a good pun."

"From you, that's high praise. I'll take it."

"How much do you charge for doing that?" I ask, the cogs in my brain turning over.

"The mentoring? Maeve, I don't charge. That would be… wrong."

"You just help people in all this spare time you say you don't have?"

Loncey pulls their pink lips into their mouth and seems to chew on them for a second. "I make time. If it matters, I make time for it."

I think on that for a few seconds. I'd like to say I'm the same way, but I don't know how true that would be.

"Do you think this is weird?" I ask suddenly. The question has been at the forefront of my mind all day – hell, for several days as our messages have increased.

"What?"

"Our texts, and now this. Talking on the phone."

"You know what the Internet is like, Maeve. You can make some very strange connections that actually aren't all that strange at all."

"But you're like…" It's my turn to suck my lips into my mouth, probably messing up my lip liner and lipstick. "You're the literal opposite of me."

"Opposites attract?" they offer, and I open my mouth to protest but they are quicker. "And I don't mean sexually, Maeve. Please don't get confused by my job. You must know that I can have a conversation or a connection with someone and for it to not be sexual at all."

Their words punch their way into my brain and maybe somewhere else in my body, but I don't want to think about that. "No, I get it. I don't think this is sexual for you. And of course, for me it's not at all," I say, matter-of-fact.

The truth in that statement and having it reciprocated brings me more comfort than I expect. It wasn't like I'd been worrying about Loncey's intentions, but to have them stated clearly makes me exhale and lean back in the pillows a little more.

"I think we're just two people navigating the highs and lows of sharing content online. Yes, very different types of content, but still content. And it's content that has to do with our lives – not all of our lives, I think we're both smart enough to hold back some of ourselves from the world – but it's still all very personal and that can be a hard thing to do."

I find myself nodding along with Loncey as they continue.

"I don't know about you, but the friends I've met doing the work I do, they're among the nicest, kindest and sweetest people I'll ever likely meet. They're true friends, true community. I guess I see you as an extension of that."

I stop nodding, a little stunned by what they're saying. They really do see me as a friend.

"You know," I start, my throat a little dry. "I don't really have that many friends in the industry. You know, other influencers."

"Yeah, you mentioned that already. You said you'd been screwed over a few times."

"Yeah, but also…" I suck in a sharp breath. "Also I don't exactly make a big effort. I just feel like I already have the friends and family I want. I don't need more people in my life, filling it with their noise."

Loncey holds my eye contact and tilts their head down ever so slightly. After a pause, they finally speak. "But what if it's not noise someone brings, but music?"

My stomach lurches with that question, at the beauty and hope in it. I don't like the way my body freezes but, a second later, it starts to melt, warmth spreading from my core and down all my limbs. I don't like it at all, so I do what I always do when conversations get too heavy for my liking. I make a joke.

"That depends what kind of music it is. Metal music can fuck right off."

Loncey laughs and I feel my body relax again, or maybe I feel that melting sensation stop, a little tension returning to my muscles. Whatever it is, rightly or wrongly, I feel more… normal. And I'm grateful for it.