Page 13

Loncey

“This is really what you want to do on your birthday?” Jessica asks after pulling the car door shut.

“This is exactly what I want to be doing on my birthday.”

“Shouldn’t I be surprising you? I’m pretty sure that’s how these things normally work.”

I turn to look at Jessica, one hand on the steering wheel. “What can I say? I get a kick out of making you feel nervous and on edge.”

“You sicko.” She wrinkles her nose at me, or at least she tries with a nasal cannula in place. Jessica doesn’t wear oxygen every time she leaves the house but she’s still not breathing as comfortably as any of us would like so I’d got the POC, her portable oxygen concentrator, ready for her before we left and much to my surprise, she didn’t fight me on it.

“And I hope you know that’s not true. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I promise you this is going to be a good surprise.”

I really do hope it is. The idea came to me in the middle of the night a few weeks ago after a particularly bad day of Jess coughing and struggling to even get downstairs without a sudden shortness of breath. It wouldn’t have been a problem but I was busy most of that day with the gym, getting tested and filming Harley and Miko in a scene. I’d hated leaving her alone. It didn’t seem fair.

Fuck. None of it is fair.

But this could be something good. Something nice. Something to make Jessica smile.

“Buckle up,” I tell my sister and once she has, I pull out of the drive way.

We make the relatively short drive in mostly silence other than fighting over which song we listen to. I roll my eyes at her euro pop choices and she tsks loudly when I chose some early 2000s rap or Nineties RSo, important question. What’s the weather like in November?>

I smile when I read her message. I wasn’t lying in bed scrolling TikTok on the off chance she would message again, like I have been a lot over the last three or so weeks, but I was possibly spending more time on there than I usually do. Just in case…

Here, in Vegas?>

No, in Outer Mongolia. Of course, in Las Vegas, you dope.>

I laugh to myself as I type, rolling onto my back in bed.

You’re lucky I don’t always understand every word you write.>

Careful, Loncey, I’ll start to think you’re nothing but a pretty face and washboard abs.>

You’ve noticed my abs? I thought you didn’t like my content.>

1. I never said that I didn’t like your content. It’s just not what I would usually spend my time on.>

Ouch, that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. I know logically it’s because she’s asexual and with that she could be sex-averse or even sex-repulsed so I’m glad she’s diligent at upholding her boundaries. But still, some stupid weak part of me craves validation from this woman I barely know.

And 2. I think they can see your abs from space with the way they’re always on show and invading the Internet. Pretty sure they’re considered a threat to national security.>

May not be a good idea to type out those words when you’re supposed to be coming to this country in a month’s time.>

Try today, buster. Packing for my flight to NYC as we type.>

What’re you doing in New York?>

Just another phase in my plan for world domination.>

I see. Teaching the minions hair tosses and how to shut down any text conversation before it really starts?>

If only those qualities were required, I’d already be King of the World.>

Don’t you mean Queen?>

And leave room for a man to usurp me?>

I’d like to see a man try to usurp you.>

It wouldn’t be pretty.>

I resist the urge to say that I’m starting to think that her doing anything, even castrating a man, would be plenty pretty.

You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing in NYC?>

A few things. A photoshoot. Seeing some friends. Have a meeting with a possible new agent too.>

Who?>

Do you have an agent?>

Only for my studio work.>

Photo studio?>

No, porn studio.>

Time passes and there’s no reply. Shit. But then three dots appear and I stare at them until they result in a message.

Okay. Well, do they get you good deals? Listen to what you want?>

Yeah, they do. Does your agent not do that? I’m assuming you have an agent, with numbers like yours.>

Got an agent here in Dublin. Been with her for a few years now. But it’s not really working so well.>

In what way?>

It’s a boring story.>

I like boring stories.>

I expect an icy or snarky response to that, but instead I see three dots reappear and stay there for many minutes. Again, I watch the screen the whole time, waiting for her reply.

So you know I’m asexual, right? Well, my agent knows it too and she said she was fine with it and I guess she is, but she keeps trying to push sexier brands on me. She always has and in the past I’ve done bits and bobs she wanted me to do. Skincare brands, hair removal products, even this stupid massage wand back when I was first starting out that my comments immediately informed me was most often used as a vibrator. But since I came out as ace, I’ve said no to taking my clothes off for stuff or talking about my body in ways that make me uncomfortable. But she doesn’t seem to get it. Or to stop pushing gigs that I just don’t want to do.>

That’s shit. She should be working for you, not the other way round.>

Right. Yeah. I mean, I know it makes business sense – I know that sex sells, I’m not an idiot – but that doesn’t mean I have to do it.>

You should never do anything you’re not comfortable doing.>

That’s why I decided to the shoot with SAFE. They made me feel comfortable. They made it seem like the focus of their campaign won’t be sexual.>

Yeah, I get that vibe too.>

That’s why I’m going to NYC, for a meeting with a new agent. They’re a queer start-up. Founded and run by women and queer people. I’m hoping they’ll be a bit more understanding.>

What are they called? I may know someone who works with them?>

Here Talent Management.>

I’ll ask around.>

Okay. Thanks.>

I think about what I can ask her next, how I can keep this conversation going but another message from Maeve interrupts my thoughts.

Listen, I’ve got to get going or I’ll miss my taxi and then my flight and then all hell will break loose.>

Yeah, go. Do your thing.>

I guess I’ll be closer to your time zone while I’m there.>

Yeah, she will, I think. And then my mind is filled with one thought. You should call her while she’s in New York. You could take advantage of the closer time difference and speak to her on the phone like a normal person. Maybe just hearing her voice would snap you out of this silly infatuation you have.

Have a safe flight.> I type instead.

Ta. Later.>

And then she’s gone.

*****

I get up in the middle of the night to pee, which is unusual. It’s also unusual that I reach for my phone before I go back to sleep and open up my TikTok app. I guess it’s also unusual that I feel something a little bit like butterflies thunder around my stomach when I see Maeve has messaged again.

You never did answer my question about the weather in November. Please redeem yourself before I start to think you’re all muscle and no brain cells.>

You’ve mentioned my muscles twice in one day, Maeve.>

And you’ve been vain enough to notice, Loncey.>

You know Loncey isn’t my real name. It’s Lawrence.>

So Loncey is for Internet purposes?>

No, Loncey is the nickname that stuck. My sister couldn’t say Lawrence when she was little so I became Loncey and never got rid of it. I’m only really Lawrence to my mother.>

They’re both nice names.>

Maeve is a nice name too.>

Sure look, it’s grand. Irish AF but then so am I.>

I’d like to go to Ireland one day.>

Then you’d better stock up on T-shirts otherwise you’ll freeze your nips off.>

I’ll come in summer then.>

Ha! You think it will be warm then. You’re an eejit. But speaking of weather, TELL ME WHAT I NEED TO PACK FOR NOVEMBER IN VEGAS!? Google tells me it could be as hot as 21 or as cold as 2 degrees, which is no fecking help to me.>

2?? 21???>

Celsius, you dope.>

Right, yeah. So I guess somewhere in the middle would be about right. Bring a jacket if you want but you may not need it. Jeans and a top should be okay most days.>

I see there’s a reason you’re not a fashion influencer.>

I’ll have you know I’ve sold many pairs of boxer briefs in my time. And ball gags. You know we have shops here in Vegas though so if you really need something you can get it.>

That’s not going to help me save the planet.>

Nor is taking two transatlantic trips in two months!>

I carbon offset! And I’m vegan. 50% of the time.>

Maeve, it’s not up to you to save the planet. It’s up to governments, global corporations and the ultra-wealthy.>

Well, when you email all of them, can you also ask them to remove tax on period products and to do something about institutional racism while they’re at it?>

I’ll add it to the list, my little social activist.>

Don’t patronise me, buster.>

Sorry. My BIG social activist.>

Better, I guess. Although I belong to nobody.>

You’re right, Maeve, you only belong to yourself.>

Don’t go getting spiritual on me. I’ve already got a tension headache from going through airport security.>

Do some deep breathing. Or some meditation.>

Wait, what time is it there?>

I pause, part of me not wanting to answer her because what does it say about me that I’m awake and instantly replying to every one of her messages. I’m not usually so self-conscious. Maybe I’m more tired than I think. Just before two.>

Jesus Christ, get off your phone and go to bed.>

It’s okay. I’m awake now. How much longer until your flight?> And I don’t want to stop talking, I add mentally.

We were supposed to be boarding in ten minutes but there’s now a delay so who fecking knows?>

Tell me more about your New York trip.>

Not much to tell. Just going to be gallivanting around in front of a camera most of the time. Same shit, different place.>

Do you enjoy your work, Maeve?>

It beats digging ditches.>

Yeah but people who dig ditches don’t get shitty DMs every day.>

How do you know I get that?>

We work in very different fields, but the job is the same. We both open ourselves up to strangers on the Internet behaving badly.>

Yeah, but I bet it’s worse for you. Doing the work you do, plus being Black and queer.>

I blink at that message, reading it a few times. But you’re a conventionally attractive woman with a much bigger following. I bet we probably get around the same amount of ugly comments and messages.>

Do you read them? Or do you just delete? Do you have someone else manage your inbox?>

I do it all myself. Everything. I’m not very good at giving up control. Aries moon and Taurus rising be like that sometimes.> I only briefly wonder what this will make Maeve think about me.

I can relate to that. I had an assistant helping me with engagement and emails a few years ago but she didn’t even last six months.>

What happened?>

Caught her stealing from me. It wasn’t much, just some of the PR boxes and freebies I’d been sent, and I would have given her all of that plus more for free if she’d just asked, but I didn’t like her doing it behind my back. Made me realise I’m better off on my own.>

Yeah, I know that feeling.>

Exactly.>

I don’t know why but her validation makes me feel sad and I’m clueless about what to reply. But I don’t need to because Maeve sends another message.

How is your sister doing?>

It’s the last thing I expect her to ask but it makes a small smile curl my lips. She’s okay. Thanks. I got her a dog the other day. Like an emotional support animal. Prince is his name. A Yorkshire Terrier.>

Err, photo, immediately! >

My smile grows as I scroll through my camera roll and find one. It’s of Prince in Jessica’s arms on one of our first walks when he was still wary of his surroundings and Jess loved nothing more than taking care of him through it.

Here you go.>

What a cutie! And your sister is stunning! I need her skincare routine like yesterday.>

Serious?>

Yes, maybe you should take some notes too.>

What’s wrong with my skincare routine?>

I snap a quick photo of me pouting at the camera and send it. It’s only after I see the photo appear on the screen that I notice the thin spaghetti straps and lace décolletage of my white negligee are visible.

Shit. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that when I open them that photo has magically disappeared. It hasn’t, and now there’s a message from Maeve underneath it.

Your blood circulation could use some work. And do you exfoliate your lips? If not, you should.>

That’s it. That’s all she says. She doesn’t mention what I’m wearing and I am breathless with the relief of it all. Except I see she’s still typing.

Love your camisole too. But I think a pastel colour would look better on your brown skin. Bring out those rose gold undertones.>

And suddenly I’m feeling more than relief. I’m feeling joy, the kind that has me fidgeting my feet and feeling tight in my chest. I’m feeling joy at her not only noticing my negligee and liking it, but also thinking about what else would look good on me.

Thanks for the tip. You should be a fashion influencer or something like that.>

Haha, maybe when I grow up.>

Now why would you want to go and do that?>

Shit. Gate’s open. Gotta go.>

Safe flight, Maeve!>

Sleep, Loncey.>

Much to my surprise, after putting my phone back to charge, admiring my negligee briefly in the mirror in the low light that filters through my windows, light I tell myself comes from the stars above me, I climb into bed and do just as Maeve instructs.