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I take a series of shots. A selfie with my face straight, the time on my alarm clock on my bedside drawer—three a.m., a photo taken looking down at my stomach and legs from standing, and then I prop my phone up on my bedside drawer and strip down, going through my clothing, I take out a pair of black fishnet tights, and a black bra. I slide on a G-string before the tights, knowing well and fair that Instagram could delete my photo if it’s too revealing—Saskia’s tip. I lie back on my bed, brushing my hair over my breasts and set the timer. I take one staring right at the camera with a dazed look on my face before lying flat on my back and positioning myself in front of the camera so I’m lying with my back arched high. I remove my bra and keep my hands over my breasts, keeping one leg up and the other down. The final shot I take, I grab a joint from the bedside table and light the end, putting the camera on burst and taking a round of candid shots of me smoking the joint.
Grabbing my phone with the J still in my mouth, I flick through the shots. They’re good, but look a little basic without any filters, so I go through editing the lighting and contrast and find myself applying darker presets over the image to make it look grungier. In the end, all of them look like I’m an ’80s rock god that’s been fucked every which way by the entire band of Black Sabbath.
Putting the joint out on a piece of paper, I flick through which pictures I’m going to post. I take one candid shot, the dazed look, the shot of me looking down at my legs, the alarm clock, and of me holding my tits. Perfect. I pause when I find myself thinking of a caption. Unable to think of anything at all, I go through my emojis, using the cigarette one. Words have never been my thing, emojis fit me just like makeup and performing—none requiring any explanation. My thoughts are interrupted when notifications start firing through my phone.
I click on the little heart tab and see hundreds coming through. What? I go back to my profile and see: Followers 112.4k Following 6
“Oh…” I open up the image again and scroll through some of the comments.
She is the baddest! Oh my God obsessed w her.
Do you think P likes her?
Midnight Mayhem always has the best women and men.
Who is this? Delila seems better…
RIP Delila, but Lilith is IT.
I wonder why she got the important role if she’s new?
I stop scrolling when my vision starts to blur. Tossing my phone onto the floor, my door swings open in a bang and I jump, turning to see who the fuck thinks they can frighten me at fucking whatever time it is now in the morning.
“Kyrin! Fuck!” I lean back on my bed, reaching for the joint I stubbed out and lighting it back up. I fear I may need it with him in my space, and I was ill prepared.
My mattress dips as his arm comes in front of me and he snatches the joint from my lips. He takes a few hits as I roll onto my belly, watching as he lies back lazily against my headboard. He blows out smoke rings.
“Saw your post, figured your sleep schedule is as shit as mine.”
He passes me back the joint and reaches for my phone that’s beside me. I ignore what he’s doing and suck down more of the sweet ganja. Not one thought filtering through my mind is on what he could be doing on my phone.
“Ahhh, so you follow me now?” I can’t fight the grin that’s on my mouth.
“Stop playing.” He rolls his eyes but doesn’t look up from whatever he’s doing.
It’s not until he positions himself in front of my phone, with his middle finger raised, that I realize what he’s doing. He tosses my phone back to me and I look down to find my Instagram page open—a fresh photo of him on my feed, posted by him. He looks hot, and it’s beside the point I know, but it’s fact. He’s shirtless, his hair ruffled, and a natural flush to his cheeks from the marijuana. You know it’s not fair. He didn’t use one damn filter and yet his aesthetic is on point.
“She’s…?” I ask, flicking my phone between my fingers while wondering why he would caption it something so… random.
He shrugs, leaning over to grab my makeup wipes from the bedside table. He nudges his head. “Come here.”
I do as I’m told, crawling up the bed and taking a seat on his lap, straddling his thighs. He presses the wet wipe to my cheek, and I shiver from the sudden coldness. The high is probably not helping my fast reactions either. He starts removing the makeup from my face until the white cotton is dirty, tossing it onto the ground. “Get in here.” I’m so lost on the way his mouth moves around the words that I don’t realize he’s not talking to me.
