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This week’s S L I C K is curated and edited by Carolyn Yates.

Content notes: dating apps, long distance, phone sex, vibrator

If we were being honest:

Me: 31, a tiny studio in Denver, recently heartbroken, bored and lonely, and my friends keep telling me to put myself out there, so I’m going to try, begrudgingly.

But this is a dating app, so here’s what I actually write:

Me: 31, Denver, looking for new friends or maybe someone to make me smile while we walk around the natural history museum looking at dinosaur fossils. You: 30s, wherever, hair that falls in your face and you have to push it back with a cocky smile. That’s the only requirement.

Simple, prescriptive, kind of embarrassing. I know that as a queer woman, you’ve got to go the distance to find the right one. I post it and then turn off my phone. I mean all the way off. And then I set it face down and try to fall asleep but mostly just stare at the blinking, incorrect clock for a few hours before slipping under. But you already know that, because it takes you roughly 87 minutes to contact me, and then you grow a bit more nervous with each passing moment that I don’t cringe at your message. You’d written something clever about buying a membership to the museum.

You’re five states away, but distance is no match for Facetime, Snapchat, Zoom, texts… Your first selfie just for me highlights your dimples, which is a nice surprise. I’m still at the point where I’ll only send you the most flattering angles.

We talk, and talk, and talk, and keep talking. I need to slow down and despite knowing that and reminding myself of that, I possess the incredible ability to start picturing our wedding the moment I first hear you laugh—you’d wear a green tweed vest.

Of course I know it’ll never work out like that. I broke up with my ex three months ago and everything inside of me is tender, fresh skin growing back over a wound, red and vulnerable and thin. Despite the scars, I tell you things that I never even admitted to the others, feeling strangely emboldened with the inability to see your reaction as I speak. You’re the first message in the morning, the last word at night.

It’s been two weeks and I can’t stop smiling. And sure, maybe your attention is just a balm for my bruised heart, but I don’t see a problem with that. What’s the point in limiting myself to forever when I can have right now? Besides, you’re miles away and us still feels impossible despite our emotions, which makes me pretend it feels a little safer to risk my feelings.

But tonight? Tonight, you call. No front-facing cameras, no text first to see if I’m awake. My heart stutters as I see your name on the screen, then races as I hit the accept button. I’m still feeling tiny jolts of thrill shoot through my veins. You say, “Hey, I wanna try something a little different. You up for that?”

It depends. But I want to seem brave and exciting, so I swallow my anticipation and say, “Of course,” mostly because I’m curious.

“Do you trust me?”

I trust you as much as anyone can trust another person they’ve never met in real life, which is to say, an alarming amount. “Depends,” I say, but hopefully in a sly enough tone that doesn’t give away how unchill I feel.

“Are you in bed?”

I resist the urge to snort in amusement and instead smile as I ask, “Oh, so it’s like that?”

“I had a kind of dirty dream about you. Do you want to hear about it?”

“Every detail,” I admit, shameless.

You laugh, and fuck, that sound twists itself inside my chest like a fist. I want to make you laugh more. Your voice drops, somewhere between a whisper and a quake. “It started with me kissing you.”

My stomach is doing cartwheels. “Oh yeah?” This is the moment I realize there is no pumping the brakes. The brake line was never installed in this ride.

“Fuck, I wish I could kiss you right now.”

It’s a simple confession, but it does something to me all the same. You’re bold tonight, and I want to show you I like it. “I want to hear more dream kiss details.”

“Well, we had a really nice time and then I made you hashbrowns.” I can almost hear you smile.

“You talk a big game.” I may have daydreamed about you in green tweed but I’m still tiptoeing and careful about what parts of me you get to see, and right now, it is not the fact that the idea of you making me hashbrowns has me thinking of hopping a flight. “But specifically, tell me about the nice time.”

“Well, we’d better set the scene then, huh? I’m lying in bed and I’m only wearing boxer briefs. What about you?”

I look down at my ratty t-shirt and a pair of oversized soccer shorts I stole from a boyfriend fifteen years ago, but I’d rather lie to keep you in the moment. “I’m not wearing anything,” I say innocently, just to hear your reaction. The line is silent, and then I hear your quiet, frustrated huff of air.

In this dark room, alone, staring up at the ceiling, I can be whatever I want. And I can make you whatever I want, too.

And so, I do. Your boxer briefs are dark, slung low, highlighting the stretch of skin over your hip bones. But if that’s the only thing you’re wearing… I can imagine tracing my hands up the curve of your waistline, the subtle indent of the ribs at your sides, leading to the irresistible rise of your breasts. I’ve seen your hands only in photographs, wrapped around cold glasses, strong and square-knuckled, like they could fix my bike or pick me wildflowers.

I push. “What was our first kiss like, then?”

“I kissed you, pushing my fingers into your long hair, holding you still as I brushed my mouth over yours, feeling your warm breath on my lips.”

My cheeks heat at the suggestion. “Damn, you’re really good at this.”

“And then when I kissed you, I could taste your mint chapstick.”

I smirk. You even remember the Burt’s Bees. “I’ve always imagined you kissing me a little rougher. Like you’d bite my lip, rake your nails down my back.”

I hear a cracked moan that I think you were trying to hold in. I sit up, pulling my t-shirt over my head, wiggling out of my shorts. My own hands feel foreign on my skin as I imagine yours instead. Do you have callused fingertips from playing the guitar? Now you do.

“I can’t believe you got me into bed so easily,” I say, biting my own lip.

“What makes you think we were in the bed already? We’re just innocently making out on the couch.” Your faux-innocence makes me laugh, alleviating the last of the nervous energy I have.

“Of course, so sorry,” I joke.

“I pushed you down, pinning you on the couch under me, biting at your neck.”

“Hey, careful.”

“It’s scarf season. You’ll be fine.”

I grin, tracing my fingers over my throat. You’d bite at the soft spot under my ear, the vulnerable spot over my pulse. “So, we’re kissing in the dream, then what?”

“I pushed my knee between your thighs, and then I realized you were grinding against my leg. I almost didn’t notice it as I pulled your flimsy bra out of the way, finding your nipple with my teeth.”

I cup my breast in my hand, pinching and rolling the sensitive skin between the jolts of pain and underlying pleasure. I can almost feel you exhale against my skin, hot and damp. Goosebumps rise over my chest, and I shiver. I bite back a moan, but a faint sound slips past my lips anyway.

This isn’t the conversation I expected when I answered the phone tonight. It’s so much better.

I can hear you breathing now, heavier, and I imagine your hands on your own body, tracing the same pattern as mine. Your hands become mine, and I’m tracing the outline of your breasts, kissing my way down your sternum to the expanse of your stomach, then lower. “Are you touching yourself?” you ask, all breath, barely any sound.

A storm is growing inside of me, electric with energy and dark at the edges. “Mmhmm,” I manage. “Tell me what happens next.”

“We were wearing way too many clothes for the occasion—”

I laugh.

“And I knelt between your legs,” you continue.

My hand slips lower, running through the short curls between my thighs. My heart pounds in my ears, under my fingertips. I move my fingers over the smooth velvet of my outer folds, then let my touch dip towards my core. I’m already soaked, ready, aching for you to touch me.

“The next part is a little fuzzy, because suddenly I had my harness on and… well.” You say through a chuckle, much lower and raspier than before.

“I don’t mind this change in scenery,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Tell me more about this harness.”

“Leather.”

“Say more.”

“Black leather with a silver hardware.”

“And that’s all?” I ask.

“Well, in this dream, we were using my favorite ribbed dildo with it.”

“I don’t mind the sound of that.” I clench my thighs together at the image in my mind. “And what’d you do with it?”

I can just picture your cocky smirk, the one that makes your right dimple pop, and that mischievous glint in your eye as you say, “It was all you. You pushed me down, climbed on top, slowly taking it, inch by inch.”

Oh. Oh.

My fingers find the exact spot I need, tracing lazy figure eights as the image of you underneath me blurs into focus. Your mouth slightly parted, your fingers digging into the softness of my hips. The muscles in my thighs burn as I steady myself on your chest, then you reach forward to touch me, finally.

I know I’m moaning into the phone speaker now, shameless with need. I can hear you, too, your breath hitching as I imagine you graze your fingers over just the right spot. I switch the call to speaker and let it fall to the pillow beside me as I reach into my nightstand for my vibrator, clumsy with desperation. The first rumble between my thighs nearly sends me to climax as soon as I turn on the device, but I take a deep breath as I slide it inside of me, leaving my other hand to continue its steady circles.

“That’s right, baby, make it last,” you whisper, and the distance between us evades time and space, folding and warping until you are next to me, the fantasy comes in phrases and flashes now—those moans warm against my ear, your tongue exploring my throat, your palm slapping against my ass as you hitch my thigh up. Lips trailing over goosebumps, teeth grazing over the thin stretch of skin across clavicles and ribs, your fingers spreading to push into me.

The scratch of the sheets against my back as my body rocks with your hand, your command, my obeisance. And then suddenly, forcefully, I’m pushed over the edge as I cry out god’s name so many times the room begins to feel holy. You follow my lead, all gentle whimpers and heavy, panting breaths and I can feel your stomach clenching as you writhe against my fingers.

Flushed, barely satiated, desperate for more, I remember the phone in my hand as I blink the room back into focus. It’s my own, the clock blinking on the dresser, the glow of the streetlight outside my window. I swallow, disoriented as I catch my breath. I can hear you through the miles, doing the same. I feel a bit embarrassed with my brazen vulnerability, and judging by your silence, I wonder if you feel the same.

I clear my throat, trying to even out the temperature change. “Um, that was quite the dream,” I whisper.

“Would it be way too forward for me to fly there for the weekend?” you ask.

It’s way too soon but I want it too much to hold back. If this is going to hurt someday, I want it to feel good first. Then, it can all go up in flames after your hands are actually on me. I want nothing more than to roll onto my side in this moment, wrapping my arms around you and kissing your flushed cheeks. “If it’s anything like your dream, you’re welcome anytime,” I say, biting my lip to try to contain my quickly bursting smile.

You laugh and say, “Until then, sweet dreams.”