You haven’t met Shelby.
We met a while ago – before Omicron, before Delta even.
We sat next to one another in a bar. She was with a gaggle of women. I was alone. Writing.
She asked me what I was writing. I showed her. It was illegible scrawls in my notebook.
“What the fuck?” she asked. “Who could read that?”
“What’s it say?”
I read it to her.
It was a description of her.
I can’t find it now. I can’t tell you what it said. Other than that she was dripping sex. That I had the sense she was a “one-and-done” kind of girl. That she is a ton of fun. That she’s confident. And not so confident.
That she’s the kind of woman who, when she sends selfies, sticks her tongue out. (I was, it turns out, correct about that.)
That she likes her sex rough. Her men unavailable. That she’s a brat. That she’s easy to catch, hard to keep.
That drama follows her around. Just a bit more than she might like.
We exchanged numbers that night. I gave her my blog address. I happen to know she likes my blog. A lot. And. That she wants to read about her. That she wants to read what I might say about her body. About her mouth. About her orgasms.
Soon, I will have the information I need to write all those posts she wants to read.