CHAPTER 2: Simon
I have exceptional hearing in my left ear and enjoy sitting against my sixth floor apartment door, listening to the activities going on in the hall. It’s amazing how much people give away on their way from the elevator to their apartment. Sometimes people step out of their apartment for “privacy,” a fact I find hilarious. From my door side seat, I hear the fights, the secret phone conversations, and the everyday normalcy that gives away so much about a person.
Simon was, for a long time, the “Brown-Haired Smoker.” I keep a notebook next to the door, in the cardboard box. In it, I have a page dedicated to every resident on our floor, including myself. There were fifteen ‘Sixers,’ as I like to refer to us, and when Simon moved in, “The Brown-Haired Smoker” is what I wrote on the top of the page.
He moved in with a girl who, as best I could tell from my peephole, was one step above trailer trash. They were arguing, carrying black trash bags full of crap, and her voice interrupted his twice between the elevator and their door. I started a page for her and titled it “Trailer Trash Tonya.” I later found out her name was Beth, and she worked at Applebee’s. Two weeks after moving in, they got in a fight, she moved out, and I threw away her page. From the words of their parting, she would not be coming back.
In return for my containment, I keep Simon’s prescriptions current. Vicodin is his latest addiction, and from his level of dependence, it is a demanding tyrant. Simon understands that if he ever unlocks me, ever releases me before morning, his prescriptions will stop, and his addiction will go hungry. He doesn’t realize he might die at my hand.
CHAPTER 3: Annie
Annie sat on one of the high stools in her kitchen, kicking the baseboard of the bar top, which caused her stool to slowly spin, right then left. Her book bag, the edges frayed from three years of use, slumped against the bar, exhausted from a day of reading, writing, and riding the bus.
“Stop that,” her mother said—not turning—the sound from Annie’s kicks grating on her nerves. She stirred a bowl of pink icing, Annie’s birthday cake cooling next to her on the counter. Seven candles were laid in a line next to the cake, along with a jar of sprinkles.
Annie stopped, using her hands instead, to spin her stool. She looked at the digital display of the old microwave above the stove. 3:49 p.m. Over two hours ‘til her party. She pushed off the stool, the worn soles of her sneakers smacking against the kitchen’s clean linoleum floor as she headed to the round table, pushed into one corner of the kitchen. Rounding the table slowly, she ran her hands over the tops of the bright and sparkly packaged plastic bags, stuffed with candy, markers, and packets of stickers. Ten favors in all, for her ten best friends. Hearing her father’s call, she turned from the table and ran, following the sound of his voice ‘til she reached his chair, set up in the living room.
Her father wanted company, so Annie sat in the living room with him, her feet tucked under her, curled into the corner of the couch. Their dog, a mutt that had scratched at the trailer door for two weeks before her mother finally relented and welcomed him in, jumped up beside her, circling twice before settling in, snug against her body. His wire bristle black and grey hair scratched her bare leg, and she reached out a small hand and patted his head. His tail thumped, slow and steady, and he opened one eye to look contentedly at her. He was a good dog, but what she really wanted was a kitty—one with soft fur and big eyes, who would curl up in bed with her at night.
“How was school?” Her father’s voice was creaky, roughened by too many years of cigarettes and coughing. He reached for his tea, and drops of condensation dripped down the side, landing with a soft splat on the worn surface of the table.
“It was good, Daddy.”
“You like first grade?”
On TV, a soda commercial came on, and Annie watched a bejeweled pop star singing and dancing through a crowded street. “I guess.”
“How’s your teacher? Miss Parakeet, is that her name?”
She dissolved into giggles and reached out and pinched her father’s arm. “It’s Miss Sparrow, Daddy. I’ve told you that, like eight times.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I get confused.” He grinned at her and tousled the top of her blond head. “Excited about your party?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Super excited, Daddy.”
CHAPTER 4: DoctorPat92
MALE ASS PLAY: Many men find anal sex pleasurable, and some may reach orgasm through anal penetration—by stimulation of the prostate in men. Pegging is the term for sexual practice in which a woman penetrates a man’s anus with a strap-on dildo.1 The National Institutes of Health, with information published in the British Medical Journal, states, “There is little published data on how many heterosexual men would like their anus to be sexually stimulated in a heterosexual relationship,” but that it is a substantial number. What data we do have almost all relate to penetrative sexual acts, and the superficial contact of the anal ring with fingers or the tongue is even less well documented, but may be assumed to be a common sexual activity for men of all sexual orientations.”2
A client’s username can tell me a lot about the person. With descriptive usernames, like DoctorPat92 or 1HotLawyer, it is often who they are or who they wish they were. Numbers in a username typically stand for a child’s birth year, their graduation year, or their age. I have a lot of “doctors” that pass through my chat room, but DoctorPat is, for once, an actual doctor. And, as you might guess, I occasionally have a need for one.