“And when it comes to men,” he continued, “you should be choosy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind while messaging…” I pointed at a random profile on the screen. “Brendan.”
Hudson made a face.
“He’s got a quote from that toxic masculinity influencer guy in his bio. The one who got arrested for human trafficking last year.” I opened my mouth to retort, but he cut me off. “Even if your ethos isdon’t be choosy, I thinknot a potential human traffickeris the absolute minimum bar your guys should clear. What about that one?”
Jonathan.Straight teeth. Huge muscles. He’d do. He wasn’t Hudson, with the barest wisps of smile lines at his temples and hands made for grabbing the sheets. But whatever. “Sure, yeah. I’ll message him.”
“C’mon, Scout. The first person you have sex with doesn’t need to be your soul mate or anything, but don’t just passively accept some dude because he’ll answer your DM. Do youwanthim?”
I reconsidered the countless pixels making up Jonathan’s profile picture. “He looks like he’d want me to get out of bed at six on Saturday morning for a jog.”
“Not into the gym-bro stuff. Good to know. What about that guy?”
“That haircut makes him look sinister.”
He pointed to another.
“C’mon. Cowboy boots?”
Another.
“He didn’t even make his bed before taking the mirror selfie.”
Another.
“Not my type.”
Hudson barked a laugh. “And whatisyour type, Scout?”
Oh no. I shouldn’t have brought up thetypething. I idly picked at a stray thread dangling from the cuff of my cardigan sleeve. Anything to avoid telling him the truth. That I didn’t want any of these guys because they weren’t him. “I haven’t really thought about it.”
“Don’t overanalyze it. It’s thatzing. What guy makes you zing?”
I don’t know how to answer that without totally giving myself away, dude. And I can’t give myself away. Not to you.
He tried again. “Or maybe this: When you’ve imagined what sex would be like—real sex, good sex, the sex you’ve wished for—what’s that guy like?”
Say something. Say anything. Just don’t sayHe’s exactly like you. “Um. Tall.”
“Pity for the short kings out there, but at least it’s a start.”
Hand back on my mouse, I scrolled down the seemingly endless pages of dating profiles, mostly for something to do. But the longer I looked, the longer the partialism of it all—shirtless torsos, crinkle-eyed stares, buzz-cut heads—spiraled me into something like a trance. Before I knew it, I was doing that nervous talking thing of mine. The one where I said entirely the wrong thing.
The truth.
“And gentle. And thoughtful. And maybe like he wouldn’t necessarily beat me in a fight—you know, a little softer or lankieror whatever. None of those big burly types. Curly hair. Long fingers, nice hands. And he’d smell good—really good. He’d be able to talk to me about stuff that wasn’t sex. Science or math or philosophy or the last museum he went to. But he can’t be too serious. He needs to be able to have fun, too. A nice laugh. A good smile. Looks good in a pair of jeans. Bookish. Nerdy. Kind eyes—I don’t care about the color. I like glasses. And…”
I trailed off, the weight of one particular set of kind, bespectacled eyes bringing me back to reality. Closing the tab on my screen, I stood up from my chair and leaned against my desk to face him.
“And I want him to care about me. When I do have sex for the first time, I don’t want anonymous. I probably should. It’d be safer. Less risky. Easier to wham-bam, thank you, ma’am. But I want to be with someone who actually likes me. I don’t need forever. Just a one-night stand. But still. I want to feel safe. To know that it’ll be good.”
For a few moments, all we heard was the whir of the 3-D printer as it went about its work.
“Quite the Mr. Right,” Hudson mused.
“Don’t make fun. I’m fully aware that it’s ridiculous.”
