This is it. This is the kind of thing I always daydreamed about in the dead hours on night buses between cities: a platform big enough to really do what I love the way I love doing it. Sex asculture. Sex ashistory. Sex ascommunity.
“And they’re happy with me being based wherever?” I ask. “I don’t have to move to some cold, soulless office building and be on call?”
“Tip, are you even listening? They’re building the show around your nomad thing.That’s the selling point. We’d need to talk logistics, like visa stuff, tax stuff, production cycles. But the whole pitch is: we drop Tippi into a city, we see what happens, doubtless there will be multiple orgasms.”
I laugh, a little shaky. “I like how that sounds like letting a raccoon loose in a kitchen.”
“Exactly. You wreak charming, insightful havoc, and everyone learns something, then you move on.” I can hear her sitting back triumphantly in her desk chair. “So. Initial thoughts?”
Initial thought: every cell in my body is vibrating withyes. Yes to the travel, yes to the creative freedom, yes to the money, yes to the scope. This is the opposite of the LA morning show with its beige sensibilities; it has my fingerprints baked into the concept.
I stand up, pacing to the window. The garden’s full of toys: a little plastic slide, a tricycle lying on its side, a water table half-full of rain. It looks like a life I’ll never choose for myself, and yet I’m oddly fond of it.
“Honestly?” I say, pressing my free hand to my chest. “I think this is what I’ve been waiting for.”
“Good. I thought you’d say that. I’ve told them you’re interested in principle. Hop on a Zoom with them this week. They want to see you, get a sense of your onscreen energy, blah-blah.”
“Of course. Tomorrow? Day after? I’m free as a bird.”
The word lingers. Bird. Jacob’s wrist, Sadie’s ink. Wings.
“Perfect. I’ll email you times. And Tippi?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t talk yourself out of this because of some guy,” she says bluntly. “I can hear it in your voice.”
“I, um - what guy?” I laugh too quickly.
“Uh-huh. You’ll tell me when you’re ready. Just…” Marcy sighs. “Just remember who you are. You’ve spent years building a life that fits you. Don’t bend yourself into a pretzel for someone who doesn’t even know the right way to coil a whip.”
I smile despite myself. “He absolutely knows the right way to coil a whip, thank you very much.”
There’s a gasp. “Oh, wearetalking about someone. I expect details.”
“Later. I’ll email you.”
“Do that. And Tippi?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m proud of you, kid,” she says softly. “This is big. Let yourself be happy about it.”
We hang up, and I stand in the middle of the living room, phone dangling from my fingers, feeling like someone’s just opened a door in my ribcage and let a cool wind howl through my heart.
This is big. This is…everything. Work-wise, at least.
So why does my stomach feel like I just swallowed a handful of ice cubes?
Because you had that dream, my brain supplies helpfully.Because you’ve let a man into your bones a little, and now you’re picturing him on planes with you and in hotel rooms you haven’t booked yet.
“Nope,” I tell myself firmly. “Work first. Feelings never.”
I clap my hands once, sharp, and get moving.
Step one: caffeine. I make myself a cappuccino in Leo’s fancy machine, smother it with chocolate powder, and drink it at the breakfast bar while cutting fruit for Rhiannon’s snack box.
Step two: admin. I answer a dozen emails, decline three dubious sponsorship offers (“No, I will not endorse your ‘slimming lube’”), and flag up two interesting potential collabs with sex positive influencers I respect.
