By: Penny Wylder

A few seconds later a message shows up in my box. I click on it and see that it’s an Instagram account for Heath James. No “O-Maker” in between the names. Just him.

I lean closer to the screen. Hand shaking, heart pounding in my chest, I reach for my mouse. I don’t know why I’m so nervous about seeing what he looks like. It’s not like anything will ever come of this. We won’t text or talk on the phone. We won’t ever meet—no matter what he looks like. I’m just curious, I guess.

I don’t know what I was picturing, but it’s not the man in the photos. He’s in his mid-late twenties, he looks tall, though I guess it’s kind of hard to tell from a picture. He’s drop-dead gorgeous, has scruffy stubble on a strong jaw, soft-looking full lips, and the most amazing icy-blue eyes lined with long dark lashes that make them stand out even more. I would kill to have those eyes. How is it fair for one person to have so many perfect attributes? I bet he’s a real asshole. That, or a complete idiot. Someone who looks that good can’t possibly have a great personality too.

In nearly all of his pictures, he’s with a dog. A husky with one blue eye, almost the same color as Heath’s, and one brown. They aren’t selfies. Just of Heath and his dog in different places. Mostly in country settings, hiking near a river, kayaking on a lake. An outdoors, rugged kind of guy. He looks like the type. I wonder who’s taking all of these photos. Probably the women who seem to worship him in bed.

I stumble across a picture of him without a shirt, standing knee-deep in the ocean in a pair of swimming shorts. His chest is smooth and hairless—unlike his face—and chiseled with muscle as if he’d just stepped out of the gym. His smile shines bright white, squinting his eyes as his dog leaps out of the water to grab the stick he’s holding in his hand.

Are you fucking kidding me? He even has perfect teeth. Even if I were contemplating sleeping with him, there’s no way I could be with a guy who’s better looking than me. On a good day, with the right makeup and decent lighting, I might be an eight. Heath is a hard ten. Easy. I’ve only seen men like him in magazines. He looks airbrushed, beautiful. Nothing like the men I’ve had in my bed.

Suddenly, without realizing it at first, I’m picturing him lying on top of me, those beautiful blue eyes staring into mine. I’m actually picturing what it would be like to be naked in bed with a perfect stranger.

My Instant Messenger chimes, and I open it.

Stephanie: Well, did you find out what he looks like?

I contemplate telling her no. If she sees how good-looking he is, she’ll never let it go. But I’ve never lied to my best friend and I’m not about to now. No matter how annoying she can be.

I send the link, then switch back over to Twitter and my conversation with Heath.

Me: I like your dog.

Heath O-Maker James: That’s it? You like my dog?

I’m sensing that he’s waiting for me to gush about how hot he is. I’m sure that’s what all the women who talk to him do. I’m not one of his groupies. He’s practically a god, yes, but I’m not about to feed his ego with cheap fluff.

Me: Yes, I like your dog. What’s his name?

Heath O-Maker James: Opie. He’s my best friend.

I fight the adorable thoughts running through my head. I swear, I’m a sucker for a guy and his dog. I’m sure it’s yet another way he lures women into his sex web.

Me: So, are you like a prostitute or something?

I guess it would be called a gigolo for a man, but that’s such a stupid word and I refuse to use it.

Heath O-Maker James: No, nothing like that. I just like sex and making women feel good. If you’ve never had a guy make you come before, chances are he’s doing something wrong. You need to be with someone who knows what they’re doing. I can make your pussy explode just by using my fingers, and I’m far better with my tongue. Do you like to have your pussy eaten?

I’m taken aback by how blunt and sexual he is. I don’t know this guy and I’m definitely not comfortable talking like that to someone I don’t know. Without responding, I click out of Twitter and bring up Instant Messenger again and see that there’s a string of messages from Stephanie. They mostly blather on and on about how hot he is.

Me: I gotta go, Steph. I’ll talk to you about it later.

Stephanie: Don’t hang up on me, Callista. We need to talk about this O-Maker some more.

Me: Later. I promise.

Okay, so maybe I do lie to my best friend once in a while, because I have no plans on talking about it later with her.

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