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I shift around uncomfortably in my computer chair, refusing to go down that road again.
Because jerking off to an email exchange with a listener can’t be viewed as normal or acceptable.
Even if it seemed like it was the desired reaction Zia wanted from me.
I kept my responses cool, calm, and collected. I stayed professional and respectful, but reading those words and wonderingwhysomeone would want to hear me say them so badly had my mind wandering.
Had my hand wandering too, right into the front of my jeans and wrapping around my cock.
I’m not necessarily a prude, but I am a purist when it comes to my show. Even though I refused to read what Zia wrote on the air, it didn’t mean I didn’t read it multiple times while envisioning everything she detailed.
A pretty girl on her knees, her lips wrapped around my dick while big tear-stained eyes stared up at me…
I shake the thought from my head and go back to my research.
Maybe it wasn’t exactly what Zia had in mind, but I’m a male of my word, and one week later I was talking about nebulophilia on The Nerd Word.
Did I think discussing how someone can become aroused by fog or steam was going to cause a spike in my followers? Not at all, but it did, and when I decided on robot fetishes for the next week, it happened again.
And that’s when the emails startedfloodingin.
I got dozens of emails from listeners—new and old—who wanted to hear more ofmyvoice sayingthosewords. Men and women alike sent dirty narratives, serious propositions, and a hell of a lot of photos of naked boobs and erect penises.
I couldn’t believe the way my podcast started traveling up the charts, slowly but surely, because it’s never been very popular. As actual reviews started popping up after two years of never having one, I found myself excited to see what people had to say.
And I didn’t feel so alone anymore.
Which was enough for my exiled ass to makeCrude Cornera permanent part of my regular lineup.
“Melolagnia it is then,” I say with a sigh as I slump back in my chair.
The literature lover in me wants to argue about having this segment at all because it takes away from the entire point of starting my podcast in the first place, but that lonely, isolated part of me that longs to be a part of a coven again… that part won, and it’s gotten very comfortable with using my voice tomake panties wet and groins tight across the country.
And that’s a direct quote from a listener.
****
The alarm on my phone beeps just as the last page of research shoots out of my printer, reminding me that it’s not only time to get ready to head to the studio, it’s also time to eat.
I get up from my desk and make my way across the room to the fridge, pull open the buzzing appliance, then grab a bottle of coconut water.
The small fluorescent light above the sink hums and flickers as I pop the top and pour it into a mug. It finally burns out as I stick the white ceramic in the microwave and zap my dinner for forty-one seconds.
Ireallydon’t want to call my landlord for that.
I don’t want to call him for anything, honestly, but that fixture looks like a fire hazard waiting to ignite, and I’d rather not be the one who goes up in flames.
Scratching my bare chest, I take my mug out and blow on the steaming liquid, then pop my hip against the counter and look around my so-called studio apartment.
It’s not much.
There’s a twin bed in the far corner, a single folding chair and card table against the wall by the door, and my desk sits across from that along the entire length of that side of the room. My three-drawer dresser stands immediately outside the only other door, my personal effects on top of it because there’s no shelving or space in the tiny sardine can of a bathroom— just enough for the child-size sink and toilet, and a rod for the curtain that hides a shower head above a drain. The kitchenette consists of a beat-to-hell refrigerator, an electric cooktop I’ve never used, a sink that groans every time I turn it on, and a microwave that might just be one of the first models ever produced.
So yeah, my apartment isn’t much, but it’s in the basement of a borderline condemned pawn shop owned by a crazy old coot who has no idea what day it is most of the time. All of that means my place is dark, it’s cold, it’s cheap, and most importantly, I’m left alone.
Not that I want that.
The isolation is really starting to get to me but living up here, amongst the humans? Being left alone is a necessity I can’t afford to skimp on.
