The ceiling spins, and the fan stays so damn still. My stomach is a churning, burning, mass of something or other that is not bile but tastes a heck of a lot like it. My legs do not go the right way, not the way they should be—the muscles relaxed to the point I’m unsure I can stand.

Uncertainty of the nature of the fan makes the breeze across my bare thighs and bare chest, and bare everything, more confusing. As a spinning ceiling would not make wind, I don’t think—then again, I’ve never been great at thinking…or planning for that manner.

I reach down and move my hand around my body, trying to find the other body that should be there with me. Tucked on me somehow, touching me. That was the whole point of using the application, right? Summons them to me.

But my hands find nothing but trails of sweat on my body and soreness in certain areas. I glance around the room and check for someone sitting there—at my chair, on the floor, somewhere. I can’t get up, but unless she is under my bed, then she is not in my one-room apartment.

“Hello,” I call out, and expect no answer, and get what I was expecting. Something is wrong, my body has a buzz that tells me that for sure, but I can’t place it—not well enough.

My phone dings then, off to the side of me, and I pick it up with a quick motion to cover the camera with my thumb. Nude or otherwise there were a lot of things I did not want the company who makes the phone to see.

With a blur to my eyes, I place my thumb on the scanner. A few failed reads of my fingerprint set me onto typing in the code—which I can only recall because it’s my old girlfriend’s number. That bitch.

My phone displays a new screen, and still, my eyes take a long moment to adjust, and when I can read it, I read it over and over—at least ten times, and groan. Sitting up is so damn hard, but I do it and touch the thing at the back of my head—the series of eight slots, each one set for something.

My fingers trace all of them and find the little nub. Hard to grasp, but a yank gets the thing out and to the air.

A flick sends the little plug off to the floor, and I read the phone’s message one more time.

Your session has expired. We hope you enjoyed our services!

Closing out of the bill shows the home page, full of gyrating and lingerie-wearing woman in seductive poses.

Virtual prostitute. When you need some loving right now.

I spike down the phone so hard on the floor, I can hear it bounce. Next, unwanted, and held in the back of my soul for a long time, comes the tears and the sobs.

—

Special thanks to: Bob Gerkin, Collin Pearman, Dylan Alexander, Jerry Banfield, and Michael The Comic Nerd. 

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