Page 12 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

“He probably just passed out. It’s late,” Dani says with a yawn.

“He definitely thinks I’m an insane sex freak.”

Dani rolls her eyes. “Yeah, because no man wants to date a sex freak.”

Thunder rattles the windows hard enough to shake the lamp beside us. I stare at the silent screen in complete horror. One minute passes. Then two.

“Oh my God,” I groan, burying my face back in the pillow. “I’ve scared him away.”

“Impossible. Men would survive war for bikini pictures.” Dani grins wickedly. “I bet he’s, you know…” she waggles her brows and mimes jerking off and snapping a picture.

I groan, falling dramatically onto the couch. I’m not sure what would be worse—getting back a cringy dick pic or him ghosting me. Another minute goes by. Still nothing. “See?” I say miserably. “He thinks I’m weird.”

Dani snorts. “Sadie. You literally asked a hot gym trainer for a dick pic. If anything, he’s probably just getting the best angle.”

I groan louder. Finally, I grab the phone again, thumbs flying nervously over the keyboard.

In my defense, my friend is a terrible influence, and I’m deeply concerned about all my life choices right now—

Before I can hit send, my phone buzzes violently in my hand. Image received.

Dani screams. Actually screams. “Open it!”

“I don’t want to.”

“You absolutely do.” I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe as she climbs halfway over me, trying to snatch the phone again. “Lemme see, Sadie! Open it!”

Heart hammering, I tap the image. My mouth pops open, and I forget how to breathe for a moment.

Dani goes dead silent beside me for exactly one second. “Oh my God it’s huge!”

I nearly drop the phone directly onto the floor. “Jesus Christ!”

Dani is fully wheezing now, clutching her stomach.

Meanwhile, I can’t stop staring. I should probably be offended, or scandalized, or something more appropriate for a mother and progressive, modern woman. Instead, heat pours low through my stomach so suddenly it almost makes me dizzy. Because the picture is confident, not awkward or cringey, and I have to admit, very impressive.

Dani is still laughing beside me. “Girl, that thing has its own zip code.”

I shove her away with a horrified laugh. My phone buzzes again.

Is your friend still helping?

I realize then that I must have hit send in my shock. I bite my lip hard enough to stop another laugh as I type my response:

She’s being aggressively supportive.

His reply comes instantly:

I like her already.

I like that he sent such an intimate photo and yet didn’t expect a response, didn’t expect me to praise his manhood. He didn’t send it to seek validation. He sent it because he knows it’s hot, and I asked for it.

The conversation spirals after that, with texts coming in faster and growing increasingly hot. Every message leaves me more flushed than the last.

The storm outside grows louder while the house gets quieter around us, the clock pushing later and later into the night. Owen sleeps upstairs, completely oblivious, while I sit curled barefoot on the couch, sexting a man I barely know, while Dani coaches me like some deranged life mentor.

At some point, she stands up dramatically. “Okay. I’m tapping out.”