It was quite a glorious scene if I say so myself: I’m sitting there in my work out shorts, topless, and a dozen Coke cans scattered throughout my floor and computer table. My iTunes blaring some Iron Maiden at the perfect volume where its loud enough to rock, but low enough so my mom doesn’t yell at me. I sent out text to my boys expressing my lack of nightly ambitions. They were either working or spending quality time with their “girlfriends.” Cocksuckers. As I worked my way through my phonebook hierarchy, at last reaching rock bottom with that guy who I drank a beer with once at my friends cousins friends house; it grew evident that this was to be one of those nights destined for obscurity.
In order to salvage the night, I did what most people who are in that tender age where they’re legally allowed to join the military, but not yet responsible enough buy their own alcohol do; I went online. I logged onto my myspace, pathetically hoping someone had sent me a message or left comment. To my bitter disappoint, there was one comment; left by a monstrosity of a woman I had embarrassingly befriended: “To the world you may be just be a person, to a someone, you may be the world.” People who post this sort of shit are the reason God invented anal sex.
After moments of despair, self-loathing, and finally, reinvigoration; I set out on the audacious quest to find some hot myspace pussy. The lackluster results that occurred afterwards were disheartening. I saw women with broken dreams, fat bellies, nasty dreadlocks, and kids. These offspring producing women were the worst of all. Pictures of those little dream crushers engulfed their profiles like they were the only humans in history to ever give fucking birth. Most of them were single, with that little bastard lingering, as a permanent reminder of another mans dick being in her.
Just a cunt-hair close to the onset of irreversible misogyny, I found my precious little Shy Girl. She had a black and white default profile picture. It showed a side profile of her tight, little body with well proportioned breasts and butt. I looked through more of her pictures and was pleasantly surprised to find a light skinned, emerald eyed, blonde haired, heavily bosomed woman. I analyzed every single major and minor physical feature of hers. I noticed how her nose was tiny and slightly perked up and how her eyebrows were always perfectly plucked. I even examined the insignificant mole on her right cheek and how full her lips were.
There are a lot of pretty women, I thought to myself, lets see if anything makes this one special. I read her “about me”. She only identified herself as Shy Girl because she didn’t want any creepers to know her real name. Negative point me. She is a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, majoring in psychology, and yet, doesn’t know what she want to do with her life. She loves taking care of her nieces, nephews, and dog. Thinks hip hop is stupid and loves muscle cars. This woman was tailored made for myself and my attraction, and blood flow to my cock, significantly increase.
I decide I must formulate the perfect message to her. I mustn’t appear too desperate, nor cocky, nor vague, nor specific, nor seem to care too much at all. Basically, I over think the whole concept of writing her message and sit there staring at a blank screen. I type, type, type, FUCK, delete, delete, delete. Each word, sentence, and paragraph is dissected as I attempt to assemble a perfectly casual prose. I repeat this retarded little dance for about an hour until I finally forge something worthy of being sent to my little Shy Girl. I finish correcting my grammar and spelling mistakes, give it a quick check for the quadruple time and hit Send and request her as friend; my heart sinks.
Thoughts of my little Shy Girl wrestle me in my sleep. I randomly get up and check my computer to see if she has read what I’ve wrote. She hadn’t. I start thinking about the beautiful babies, shenanigans, and inside jokes we have together. I wonder if she is the one for me and how our first interaction is going to be like. I wonder about our future first date. I wonder what her real name is. I doze off to a restless sleep full of rainbows and Shy Girl.
The whole entire next day I randomly check my computer and see if she had read what I’ve written; she hasn’t. Finally, one day, three hours, and thirty-three minutes later, she read it. At last! I would get a response! I wait. An hour, then two, then four, and then a day passes and another. No response, friend request declined.
I stare at her page and I think of what could’ve been.
What a bitch.
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