Filthy

I craved to bounce up and down on him the third time we met.

The first time, trivial. Of no importance. The second time, an eyebrow raised. The third, something throbbed in between my thighs, and I had to breathe as if I were sipping through a straw.

“I want to be a professional skydiver.” He blows smoke from the side of his mouth and takes another drag. “Get internet famous, or something.”

Fourth time: he texted he wanted to meet at the waterfront. Ten at night.

I nod. “How was it when you jumped?”

“Oh,” he chuckles. “Planning to do it for the first time next month. Can’t go now.” He casually waves his hand, making a grand gesture toward the most cleared night in a while; stars blinking above. “Can’t jump tandem with clouds in the way, I guess. I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna get creative with it. Pair it with some music when I post the videos; make sure another diver films me freefall.”

He’d been persistent, posting regularly. On The App. His follower count had grown so fast that I questioned if it were organic. One day, God, I think it was a Wednesday or something, his count jumped by two thousand; but the number of likes he earned remained the same.

I pucker my lips. “I think you can do anything.”

“Stop it,” he huffs, his tone dressed in slight annoyance.

A falling off a cliff feeling leaves me leaning in and near toppling over in self-pity at his refute of my compliment. I should have left then. He’d only talked about himself. Little of me. I could have been his two-star motel window he vehemently opened and closed in sporadic ideation; was he warm or cold? Apathetic or a Gatsby? Surely, I wasn’t Daisy.

I drag the cigarette across the pavement and abruptly shoot up, crossing my arms, shivering in my cut-too-low cheap Old Navy spaghetti-strapped tank top. “So, uh, did you want to go to the mini-mart, grab something to drink? A beer? White claw?”

He tilts his head toward the branches swaying over the wooden benches facing the Willamette River. Tugs the zipper of his hoody up toward his chin. “I’m always waiting for something.”

I point my nose to the ground. Tap my sneaker. Suck in my bottom lip. Drum my fingers on the side of my goose-bumped arms as he finally finishes his sixth cigarette.

After the park, he pitifully walked me to the market, like a dog. Presented two dollars while I had pulled a twenty. Then, to his apartment.

Somewhere in between the untying of my sneakers and pattering over to the couch, he grabbed my cheeks and twisted my face into his. He sank me back into the cushions and held my chin up, forcing my eyes to lock with his. He flopped it out quick enough. I gagged long enough.

The finale, he zipped his jeans back up and swiftly shuffled me to his front door after he was ready to toss the dirty dish towel that I proved useful to be that evening. Gawdy. Unforgiving. Merciless.

We made plans once more. We didn’t meet in a park though this time. He requested I drive from my apartment in Salem to his place downtown at one in the morning; took about fifty minutes. He, again, escorted me to his front door once the deed was done.

Breadcrumbs.

Impatiently lying in my bed. Scrolling through The App. Ignoring the pain in my stomach. The rumble. Jumping to the mirror to curl my boring brown hair whenever I saw him online. Draping my eyes over my hips, love handles curved through the cotton laced around my no thigh-gapped legs. Tilting my face, widening my eyes, arm held above my head for a selfie.

I reviewed his follower list daily.

Mostly models. Some followed him back. Some didn’t.

I scoured each profile. Counted all the hearts he gave as if I were a human abacus.

It took an hour of posing in front of the mirror to capture the acceptable angled bathroom selfie. I positioned my flat backside slightly over the counter to arouse a notification. Rolled around on my mattress later in the evening, restless because I ached from the hour-long lift of the hip photo shoot.

Hearts for me were few and far between.

He liked a photo I took with a friend halfway leaning toward me. She had more followers than my account by a thousand. Her pictures always admired by hundreds. Blonde. Slender. We met up only once. She unfollowed me a week later.

He liked a picture of a spider I found pretty. Sitting in a web. A fly wrapped morbidly near the center.

He liked a posting of a new video game I bought. Played it only never.

He didn’t like my new tattoo. On my wrist. Always dive, it read.

He didn’t like my bathroom selfie.

The App came out with a new tool that unveiled who looked at your photos and how many times they peeked. A daily number of views by each username if your profile was public. Several hours behind everyone else it seemed, my heart leapt with a swift slide of the “make account private” hidden in the toolbar when the social media company released the new feature.

He blocked me the next day.

Before my eyes fluttered open, my first movement upon waking was an arm reach toward my phone. I curled like a potato bug in bed, tears cascading down my cheek, a soft wail of misery escaping my esophagus when I couldn’t find him online. The time stamp he’d last been active, my regular checking upon throughout the day. Gone. The green light blinking of hope. Unavailable.

By lunch, I had eaten four bags of Pop-Tarts. Shoveled Hot Cheetos for a snack. Scooped Ben and Jerry's for resolution. Hunted for promise in my Lucky Charms.

His friends requested to follow me a week later. Some messaged me the nudes I sent him when he and I originally made plans to meet up. I guess the pictures got around. Some of his friends made fun of me for the shape of my body. Some of his friends asked to hang out; but only if I’d meet at midnight. Drive thirty minutes to do so. One offered to pay for my gas.

I found her under the hashtag #bikinisfordays. Each screenshot sent a tremor tingling through my knuckles as if I were clipping for coupons. The creases of my lips uncontrollably twitched.

@jasmine_beaufort_thebest I named her.

Pride slithered up through my spine and wrapped itself like a crown on top of my head.

Luckily, the creators of The App were frat boys who cheated on their girlfriends, the New York Times article read once, or something along those lines. And so, The App allowed you to change time stamps under pictures and make other horrible choices on its network. Allowed you to rearrange your posts too. Gaudy.

I posted five times a day on her profile and five times on each of the other profiles I’d keep private so that she’d have people to tag. It took fifty-eight days. Was two months worth the wait? Probably not.

Jasmine liked a picture of him standing in front of a skydiving poster on the fifty-ninth day after I created her account. Under his caption read: Finally planning it guys! #freefall #skydive #firstdrop

A few girls commented. A few of those guy friends so eager to jab at me did too.

Jasmine wrote, Terrifying.

He added her within the hour.

I darted to the account settings once we followed each other, ravenously switching the “make account private,” to prevent the number of times she viewed his account to be known to him. Adrenaline pushed through my arms and shot up my neck. I sucked in air, anticipating the next move.

He messaged Jasmine’s account promptly, Hey! Do we know each other? How’d you find me?

I tapped my foot rapidly underneath me as I sat in my desk chair. I swiveled to face the calendar on the wall behind. October 14th, 2021. I twirled my brown hair in between my index and thumb finger.

Under your hashtag #firstdrop. I’m going for mine next month!

Three dancing dots emerged too quickly underneath her sentence. A bowling ball fell from my heart to the pit of my stomach. I didn’t even know those dots existed when I would message him from my personal account before.

That's awesome! I can't wait to take the leap. Whereabouts are you? You look like you’re from Cali?

She has a father in Oregon, is what I’d later tell him. She’d be visiting during Thanksgiving; they could hang out then. I webbed Jasmine’s words around.

It didn’t take long for the daily conversation to begin. It became ritual. Morning, noon, and night. Weeks bled into a month. He, relentless to meet with her. Jasmine, relentlessly mysterious.

Ok, who are the top five people you look up to? Dead or alive? I typed through Jasmine’s messenger. Earlier that day Jasmine had taken a bikini picture at the beach. One of many now littering her profile. He had liked it, of course.

Three dancing dots. He responded. Well, if I’m being honest, I’d say Felix Baumgartner, Snoop Dog, Mark Wahlberg, Teddy Roosevelt… Malcolm X. You?

A twinge of annoyance invaded my chest. Men will never name a woman when asked this question. Give a man five opportunities to show he likes a woman. He’ll list none and then proceed to scratch at his head to ponder the fifth. Men don’t like women, I’ve come to reason. And yet, excitement toiled every time my phone dinged, and I got to sporadically type through Jasmine’s account. Say whatever I wanted to say. Pull him even closer.

They’d talk about movies.

God, I think my favorite movie is The 40-Year-Old Virgin. It’s just too good. He messaged once.

Yes, a sexist comedy. Men will always list one of those sexist comedies. The ones with Will Farrell, or Jason Bateman, or Paul Rudd, or Seth Rogan. The ones famous actresses claim are her favorite and have pretty women perpetuate those ones. To keep us all in line. They’re all the same.

Always big-lipped.

Always small-waisted.

If a woman is anything but, she is to be joked about. If the woman is wrapped pleasantly, with a bow on top, those men, in those movies, will unwrap her to play catch and ball. In the sequel, she, the once shiny toy, will die, or be divorced, or go crazy. She will no longer exist because they want a new present to unwrap. We all love those movies. America loves those movies.

I love that movie! I watch it at least twice a year! I have Jasmine say.

Damn, you’re perfect. He responds with a heart emoji.

Of course, she was. She skimped around in a bikini, was under the age of twenty-one, and responded to everything he said with excitement and awe. Men like women like Jasmine. Because they’re malleable. A pet. Will do what you say and when and where you say to do it.

Men don’t like women like me. Women one hundred pounds overweight. Can’t make eye contact or smile straight because I know they don’t see anything beyond the couch and then his front door. Sometimes in parking lots. Sometimes in bathroom stalls. Always with excuses.

When are you heading up to Oregon? He nudges one evening, likely stroking himself to her pictures.

When are you flying me? I banter.

Didn’t you say you were visiting for Turkey Day, or something?

Lying my head back on my pillow I message, Yeah, visiting Dad. That’s right.

Well, let’s go out. Grab some food?

Twitching my lip from left to right in pleasure, my fingers ferociously type, Sounds great.

The plan was to meet at Toki Restaurant on Twelfth and Alder at five in the evening. He stood on the corner, scrolling on his phone. A bouquet of flowers in the other hand. His North Face rain jacket gleamed with water droplets. The streetlamp poured down that yellowish-orange light on top of him.

My heart lurched as he approached the spot, swiveled his head around, and messaged, Here!

I sat across the street, a mere one hundred feet away, at the Multnomah Whiskey Library, twirling my straw in the cocktail. I clicked the notification on my phone. "Read" displayed underneath his text message, signifying Jasmine saw his text.

He twisted his body a full rotation, put his phone in his back pocket, and spread his fingers through his hair. Where are you? He messaged her. The "read" notification emerged under his sentence. She’d read it, again.

After thirty minutes of waiting, the glory I felt rising up in my abdomen and then through my neck was unmatched. He threw the roses on the ground and walked toward the direction of his apartment on Eleventh and Jefferson.

I followed.

With my hood up and covid mask on, I wore baggy clothes to hide myself as much as possible. I snapped goggles on my face as a protective measure. Creeping a block behind, we rounded the same corner. He paused. I scurried into a nearby alley, hiding in the dark. He flicked his head around, as if he sensed me, and then promptly shrugged. Men can walk in the dark without too much agony, it seems.

With deserted streets, besides a few homeless men smoking meth on the curb, I pulled the taser and mace from my pocket and pitter-pattered stealthily behind him. And just before he could turn around, I jutted my taser into his back. He fell to his knees, seizing, and then landed on the sidewalk. I pressed my index finger on the bottle's button and sprayed mace.

He curled like a potato bug, tears cascading down his cheek; a soft wail of misery escaped his esophagus.

The homeless men, with eyes glazed over, pointed and laughed at him convulsing on the sidewalk. I jogged as quickly as I could three streets away, to where I parked my car.

I expected a police report. Some recognition for my revenge. But none came. And so, I deleted Jasmine’s account.

Working out in the gym, about five months later, I’ve lost about forty pounds, my phone dings as I’m finishing up my thirty-minute stair master routine. I love the gym. It’s true, gym rats really do prefer thicker women. They like to throw around weight. Didn’t feel the need to lose anything when I got here, though. Dated a few. I ended those dates amicably. It felt nice to be the one to end things.

I reach for my phone to unlock. He had unblocked and followed me.

He liked the picture of me at the beach with my mom a week ago.

He liked the picture of me on a hike in the Gorge with two new girlfriends I met at a CrossFit event three months ago.

He liked the picture of me dancing at a marathon race. I’d just run ten kilometers.

He didn’t like the picture of me skydiving.

Apparently, for some reason, he never ended up going skydiving. When he messaged me asking how I was, I approached the topic.

I kind of chickened out. You know? He answered.

Yeah, I actually don’t know, I replied and then blocked him.

At home, I set down my gym bag and unlock my phone screen. I maneuver to The App and type in Jasmine’s credentials. The App promptly states "reset your password."

I reset it and scroll to his profile.

I review his follower list.

Mostly young models between the ages of eighteen and twenty.

Mostly women with their rears perched for him to scroll by for a second long glance and swipe up to browse another one of their hour-long it took to take bathroom selfie photo shoots; those pictures that were really deserving of a heart.

Most near nude.

Most with hashtags #bikinisfordays.

Most collecting likes and ratings to assert their value, their worth, their meal ticket to any man that would give them his attention.

A man’s attention: the most valued currency for women.

I would have dressed like that to impress anyone when I was nineteen, too, if The App had been around. I did dress like that when I was nineteen to impress men like him. Those men. Ten, twenty, thirty years older. Wiser. Knows better, but still fucked me anyway because I was a ninny and could have been his daughter.

Never worked long-term. Sure, I may have hopped up and down on him like a pogo stick, but they always left me soon after. I learned not quick enough, men use you when you dress like that to impress them. They think you’re filthy. Hop in the shower right quick to rid themselves of you. And your filth. To be shiny and clean for the matured ones.

But what do you know? I keep having to relearn these things, because even when you are the matured ones, the ones with the pretty pink ribbons, all wrapped up nice and clean; the ones that learn to become the matured ones, those men will still bump around, clambering at whatever edge of you they can get. Treat you to a push of the back into a cushion and an unzip at his hip into whatever self-sacrificing pose you show best for. And when he leaves you for five months, guess what? —he’ll come clambering right on back. Because men love unwrapping gifts. Especially new and “improved” versions of those gifts.

Men don’t want you.

They don’t want the really you, parts of you. They’d much rather play the catch-and-ball version of you. And the prettier you are, the longer the game lasts. Catch and ball. They don’t want the person. They want the idea of you, because you, woman, are a boxed up, wrapped pretty, presented for the unwrapping, gift of a thing, and that thing is their idea of you. So, take a selfie.

Because that’s what men do.

Note to the Vocal reader:

This is a work of fiction. These events did not occur. These characters are not real, nor based on anyone I know personally.

All my fiction writing takes place in Portland, Oregon. This helps me develop my characters, setting, and plot as I know the area well. I’m still in love with this city, even if it has seen better days. It will always be home.

But, I have gone skydiving.

Music muse for this piece: Gold Lion by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs & Players by Coi Leray