Chapter One Informed Consent

DRAFT ONE

Chapter One

They always knock before dropping off the food because he tells them to. They wait for me to step out in my pajamas, nipples hard against the thinning fabric of my tank top, toes scraping against the doormat that still says ‘Tis The Season even though it’s April. Sometimes they hand it to me directly, but usually they’ve backed up a few feet, the tightly sealed bag with all of its contents waiting for me to bow in gratitude as I retrieve it, pretending not to notice my picture being taken. He insists that I am always in the frame, or they won’t receive a tip. Of course this makes me feel important, alive even. I’ve only ever felt like a real person when someone was watching. 

He follows up with some text message complimenting my hair or my outfit, real polite. There’s never anything vulgar or explicit, not with Leonard. I respond with a photo of the goods, and even though every morning I order the same full fat matcha latte with an egg and cheese bagel, he asks what I think. He wants me to describe the dairy to him specifically, some perversity he developed because he’s one of the over ninety percent Chinese who are naturally lactose intolerant. We all want something we can’t have. I tell him it’s delicious as always, refraining from putting any real effort into my description. He doesn’t push back. I like that about him, his deference.

Leonard is a feeder. He’s not the kind who wants me to become morbidly obese and unable to walk, or at least that hasn’t happened to me yet. He’s more like a grandmother who won’t let you leave without feeling like you have to roll out the door. The kind of grandma people have in the movies. He’s as close as I'll ever get to it. He’s the only one I've given my address to. The only one who knows my real name. What I do out in the real world. I don’t know how it happened, really. He started out as an early viewer under the deprecating username shittyaZndriver, back when I didn’t have anyone visiting my channel. He’d ask me about my likes, my dislikes, never anything too personal. Then he became a dedicated moderator of the chat when I started to see growth. On one of the longer nights I mentioned I was hungry, and somehow he convinced me to let him send delivery. He hasn’t stopped since. 

I toss the sandwich in the trash then let BB out the sliding glass door. She charges out through my ankles, releasing a long snarl that jumps up and down through the air, just as her legs do. The ducks fly a few feet away from her into the safety of the retention pond while she crouches in the shape of a fully cooked shrimp for her morning shit, sniffing the cold air all satisfied with herself. She makes eye contact with me as she strains to pinch the turd from her hairy ass. I don’t break contact because I want her to feel safe, to know I've got her back. I think she is the only being I’ve ever truly loved. I think I might be a sociopath. Most people with personality disorders prefer animals over humans, at least that is what I've been told. I haven’t bothered much to look into the depth of it.

After I get dressed and put together, I type out a loving good morning text message and paste it into the chat of every man who paid for the girlfriend experience this month. I send them all a photo of a burgundy stain in the shape of my lips on the opening of my latte lid. Just a faint apparition of a kiss. 

The girls at the front desk are busying themselves deciding what to order for lunch later. They collaborate over a daily takeout to be delivered and every morning they’ve each got some venti iced Starbucks latte and always with the fresh manicures, as if they’re somehow paid a more livable wage than me. They do not notice me, or otherwise choose not to acknowledge me, as I walk back toward my office. They are the same girls from high school, but in different skin suits.

Henry texted something last night about stopping by earlier than I normally would for a brief chat, but I forgot. His office door is closed now. I pause to listen to his muffled voice, or that of a client’s, at least. I lean in closer to discern if he is providing talk therapy or if this is a vibroacoustic session, which I’ve gathered is basically just a very expensive vibrating bed that people meditate on while he occasionally verbally guides them. I imagine the client laying silently on the bed, fitted with an eye mask. The lights are dimmed and, at best, Henry is scrolling through his social media while he pushes buttons and gives a new prompt every ten minutes or so. At worst, he’s got his hand down his pants, tugging away at the dick he can only get hard when no one wants him to. “That’ll be two hundred dollars,” he says as they take the eye mask off, smiling. I walk away before anyone can accuse me of eavesdropping on his session. 

My first client is a twenty-four year old woman whose parents pay the practice $165 per hour for my counseling, only for them to turn around and enable every behavior they want me to correct. A reminder that love is more dangerous than being alone. It makes you defenseless.

After the session I take a selfie on the toilet for Danimalia77. He tips me to send a photo of my piss, even more to describe the smell. It’s darker than usual. Somehow the scent of instant ramen, chicken.

I quickly inhale a glass of water, a stream of which pours down my chin and through my black turtleneck, soaking my breasts. I wipe the remaining dribbles onto my sleeve, remnants of my foundation smear into the dark cloth. 

My next client is a man in his forties. He’s mad at his ex wife for resenting him for cheating on her. He is with the new woman, but he pays me to talk only of his ex. She’s all he thinks about. 

In the staff kitchen Henry says he missed me this morning, he’s masticating what can only be a leftover tuna sandwich for lunch, the sugary white bread sticks to his canines as he takes a dry swallow. He says I need to turn my notes in by the end of each business day, which could have been an email. I apologize and see myself out as though I am a diligent employee with important clients to attend to, tossing a promise to do better over my shoulder.

I ask the boyfriends each how their day is coming along, offering the same enthusiastic affirmation I would my counseling clients. I say the right things that make them believe they are loved. I chew rice cakes slathered in peanut butter alone in my office, the gritty crumbs of which collect between my thighs. I remind them of their mothers. I send a photo of my hand between my thighs amongst the crumbs, fingertips disappearing underneath my skirt. I tell each of them I am thinking of them only, that I want them to lick the mess up. My panties are damp because I turn myself on, because they all want me. There is no time to do anything about it. 

My next client is a man just barely a few years older than me. He is single and does not want to be. He doesn’t realize it, but he doesn’t actually like women. He talks and I do not listen, really. He doesn’t notice, he never does. He pays me to listen where the women on his dates refuse to. I fantasize about taking him home where I watch him masturbate in the corner of the shower, but I don’t let him warm up under the water with me. 

I end the day with an agoraphobe. This is the only time she leaves the house each week. I am more important to her than a trip to the grocery store, or maybe it’s just that she can’t have me delivered. I understand why she feels this way, how easy it could be to close yourself off from the rest of the world. I find it hard to challenge her because of that, but I do my job just as expected with everyone else.

I finish my notes as Henry instructed me too. He pokes his hair-sparse head into the light from the crack of his office as I walk by, wishing me a good evening in a way that beckons reciprocation. I do the same with a smile so thick with honey it would kill a newborn baby. He licks it up, too ignorant to understand insincerity. I wish I could find a new exit route where I do not cross his path.

In traffic I watch the other cars. The woman to my left plays drums on her steering wheel performatively, as though she wants to brag about how unbothered she is by the standstill. She mocks the cars around her honking and shaking their fists in frustration just through her act of joy. She is not desperate to get home because she loves herself. The man to my right keeps both hands on the wheel tightly, he is talking to himself, or maybe on bluetooth. I want to be the type of person who dances through moments of frustration or even who has someone they want to call, but I'm not. The cars move again and I am relieved to see them off. 

At home my elderly neighbor’s gaze follows my footsteps. He guards his mailbox until I am in front of my own door. We both turn our keys at the same time, as if he was waiting for this very moment, my arrival. I am reminded of the game children played at Recess– the one where swinging side by side meant you were married. I wonder what this key turning collaboration makes us. BB presses into my legs immediately but she knows better than to leave the apartment without being picked up. She’s a good girl. I let her sniff my fingers as I close the door. 

I call each of the boyfriends through the app for ten minutes, not more. They don’t get my personal number, and they answer when I want them to, not the other way around. I ask them how their days are going and make up a stress to complain about in just the right sexy baby voice. They think I am a receptionist, and I channel the girls from the front office to convince them. I text Leonard my order and he sends me the updates as it goes through stages of delivery. 

The driver knocks. I answer. Another candid photograph. A black bean cheeseburger with no pickles. I tell Leonard the cheese fries are my favorite. He’s happy with this response. At dinner I eat all of it. I want a hot slice of chocolate cake but I don’t say so, because Leonard would send that also. 

I end the evening as I do every weeknight, in a hot bath. Tonight I take a photo of my toes against the faucet. A distorted reflection of my naked body appears in the chrome if they look closely enough. I wait for them to want me, to tip me for more. 

I check personal emails to pass the time, and there is one that catches my attention. It looks like junk, the username DoNTiGnoreME followed by an endless string of numbers, but somehow made its way past the filters and into my inbox. Normally I would mark as spam and move on, but the subject has my full legal name, Iona Miller. There are the kind of people who would delete such an email, not giving it another moment of their time. Maybe they’re the confident type, or quite the opposite, the ones who fear ignorance is some sort of manifestation of danger. Not me. I’ve never been able to delay the impulse of my curiosity, and this time will be no different. Inside there is no text. Only a photo from my basic set, the one anyone with a general subscription could access. I’m wearing thigh high socks and nothing else, bent over just slightly, back dimples and darkened vulva on full display. In another world I did not open the message, and I went on living as I always have, unbothered.

In this world, that is not the case. It never is.

They do not say what they want. I do not respond. Not yet.

Thanks for checking out the first draft of chapter one! I hope to build some excitement for myself and also would love to hear thoughts!