When the first photo appears, I only catch a glimpse.
That glimpse is enough to send a signal of panic to the core of my very being, a bolus of raw adrenaline that my mind can’t make sense of.
The familiar figure in the unfamiliar setting, the shadowy face in the thumbnail view.
I usually ignore the phone notifications. Every day there seems to be more and more, an all-out assault on my lock screen. Instagram, YouTube, GMail, even my goddamn Kindle App. All vying for my time and attention.
Yet I never get around to turning them off. I’m a chronic procrastinator. Been trying to give up that bad habit for years, but always decide to put it off until the next week.
Also, I have this nagging fear that there might be something important I’ll miss.
So, it’s kind of a wonder that I even see the Google Photos notification this morning; I usually skip past them, swiping them away like pesky gnats.
The notification says, “Remember this Day from 3 Years Ago!”
But I don’t want to remember any day from 3 years ago.
There’s nothing from my past that I want to revisit.
Not for a long time anyways.
Or so I think, because there she is in a series of photos. I catch the preview of her face and I have to click. I keep scrolling down, wanting to see more. Pangs of regret and loss steamrolling my guts.
I don’t remember taking these photos though. I don’t remember receiving them either. I don’t recognize the bathroom, the walls, the mirror. Looks like a hotel or something. Clean granite counter and greenish tint to the light.
In the first photo she’s stunning. Dressed and made up in a way she seldom was when we were together. She wears knee high black boots. A sleek leg resting on the bathroom counter. The exposed skin of her leg between her boot and skirt is overexposed in the harsh light and I find myself trying to look up her slightly spread skirt, trying to catch a peek of something good, but it’s just shadow there.
The look on her face is ambiguous. Shiny lips slightly parted, eyes focused on the mirror, trying to get a serviceable snapshot. I stare at the photo long enough to notice the slight flushing of her neck and chest, a tell of lust I saw often in the beginning of our relationship.
Nervousness roils in my stomach. Sweat drenches my armpits. The implications of this in the back of my mind.
The second photo must be moments later. Her skirt is hiked further up, black panties exposed. Top pulled down to show off more of her breasts and matching bra. No nipples yet. Nothing you couldn’t see in a PG-13 movie. Right now I’m not enticed so much as I’m still trying to figure out when and where this was taken. Dread overtakes the anxiety.
It’s clearly a selfie. You can see the smartphone she holds at the center of her chest.
Did she send it to somebody else? We shared a computer for years in college and it ended up on our hard drive and somehow this got uploaded to the Google Drive. The obvious explanation, but I’m hung up on who it was sent to.
The third and final photo erases all doubt. These pictures were never sent to me. Grace was always a timid kinda gal when it came to texting each other dirty stuff like that. She had known a friend that had her nudes spread around online. Had been cautious ever since. Never in a million years would she send a pic like this: her right titty out, her black panties pulled aside.
My arms tremble. The phone clatters to the floor and I drop to my knees, bury my head in the comforter of my bed.
There was that time she took the intersession class. A sort of study abroad thing, except it was only in Santa Fe. The data says this photo was taken three years ago. The timeline matches up.
I try not to glance back at the photo.
I try not to think about the taste of her skin, the exposed breast and how she liked it when I rolled my thumb across her nipple when she was on top.
I try not to think of her exposed slit digitally immortalized in all those zeros and ones.
I try not to think of the stiffening in my jeans.
#
“You told me you already knew that she had cheated at some point, that you saw the proof on her phone, that this is why things ultimately ended. Why do you think this is so upsetting to you?” my therapist asks me through the laptop screen. It’s one of those online counseling services they advertise everywhere nowadays.
“I dunno. Maybe because this is proof it was happening a lot earlier than I suspected.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And maybe because she never sent something like this to me,” I say.
“Yes, and . . .”
“Like maybe I wasn’t ever good enough.”
“But you are, Daniel. And that’s the thing, that line of thinking right there that you so easily fall back on, that’s the amount of self-respect you have for yourself that kept you in a relationship like this. An unfulfilling relationship. An unhappy relationship. Somewhere out there is a partner for you that wants to send you sexy photos. It just wasn’t Grace, and it’s okay. You wouldn’t want to force something that wasn’t there, would you?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Force something. Y’know, you want somebody that’s enthusiastic to be with you. I’m not saying don’t compromise, but love isn’t forceful.”
“Right,” I say, looking at the clock to see how much time we have left.
#
“Look bro, I don’t wanna see that,” Richie says, his palms raised, shielding him from the phone.
I’m surprised by his response. Richie has never turned down a chance to appreciate the fairer sex. In fact he’s the one that picked the bar we’re at right now, the type of place near campus that’s a meat market for college students. He’s been checking chicks out all night.
“Never thought you’d be one to turn down a nude,” I say.
Richie’s eyes narrow and he cocks his head. “So now you’re fine with other dudes seeing her like this? I just don’t know why this is so upsetting to you. Like, I get it. But this is the thing that’s got you in a tailspin? A nude she sent somebody? After everything else that you went through? Bygones, dude. Out of everything that happened, that should be the least of your worries.” He takes a swig of his pint.
“Look, I kinda blocked a lot of stuff out”
“Well, fucking yeah you did. Totally understandable. The shrinks, the meds, that hypnotherapy shit you did. It was working wonders there for a bit.”
“I’m just . . .it’s got me fucked up all over again. I’m worried about regressing or something. Getting back to where I was.”
“Well, c’mon man. Do your best to forget it. You did once before, right? I thought you had seen the light, were going on dates again?”
“Kinda sorta.”
“Atta boy. Might even get lucky tonight. It’s a smorgasbord out there,” he says, gesturing to the various college-aged patrons of the bar. “Just maybe wipe your whole Google Account. Don’t even look at it. No telling what else you’ll find in there.”
But I don’t follow Richie’s advice.
I put it off.
Maybe it’s laziness. Maybe it’s denial. Even taking the steps to safeguard my phone against unpleasant reminders seems to be an insurmountable task.
What if I stumble upon another picture—not a sex picture, mind you—but one of us together, one where we’re happy?
I try to put everything out of my mind. I practice the breathing and meditation techniques I learned. I take the medicine that was prescribed to me for my PTSD. I do some light yoga.
And for a while, I do pretty good.
No negative thoughts. No ruminations. No spirals.
I redownload Tinder. Consider Bumble.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe it is time to get back out there.
Yet, the following morning has other plans.
#
A little cry catches in my throat when I see the notification. “Rediscover this day, two years ago!” it says and there’s a little preview photo. Genuine terror courses through me as I catch sight of a phantasmal visage, the dark pits of black eyes, ethereal glowing skin.
What the fuck?
The phone quivers in my hand as my fumbling fingers click on the screen. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to what I’m seeing exactly. A video taken in a dimly lit room, awash in digital noise, the colors muted. It waits for me to hit play.
When the video goes into motion, the video smooths somewhat, and I can see it’s her, screen left.
My Gracie.
No.
Not my Gracie.
She would never.
She wears nothing but a pair of thong underwear and I can see how the first image was nothing but a trick of the light, how a zoomed-in frozen video still can look so wrong sometimes.
She makes her way over to the bed and takes a seat, gives a half smile to somebody off-screen.
This room, I don’t recognize. It’s not a hotel. Four-post wrought-iron bed with the metal bent into ornamental configurations. A pinkish bedspread with a knitted throw over the foot of the bed. Antique dresser in the background. Lampshade with beaded danglies hanging from its borders. Patterned wallpaper. Grandma’s guest room vibes or a gaudy bed and breakfast.
I think of the texture of that scratchy bedspread against the exposed parts of her ass and already I can feel myself get halfway there.
He enters from stage right. She ducks her head down a bit while a nervous smile paints her face and hangs there while she fidgets on the bed. It’s cute and I pause the camera to take it in.
When was the last time I even saw her with a genuine smile? I try to will the memories to come, but they don’t. How did it all end? There was a fight. Tears. Pleading. One more chance. One more chance. But who was doing the begging? It’s so blurry. I blocked out so much.
Maybe that’s why I’m watching now. I’d do anything to see her one more time. That smile, at least.
He’s better than me in every way. Taller. So tall in fact that you can’t see his entire face, part of it is out of the frame. A strong, stubbled jaw line is the only thing I see. He’s got a hairless torso and six-pack abs. Body rippled with muscle and snake-like veins. Bigger and longer where it counts, too. Grace’s eyes go wide at what he is packing, her hand involuntarily reaching for it as he nears.
My cheeks flush with jealousy as I seethe with rage. An uncomfortable sensation floods my veins and carries this poison back to my chest where it suffuses my heart with adrenaline.
Maybe excitement and anger are the same thing, in some cases.
Both cause your heart to pound, your palms to sweat, your thoughts to obscure.
I don’t like this, but I do and I can’t look away.
Can’t look away as he makes his way over to her and kisses her hard. Back to the camera, heavy breathing from both of them, a soft moan from her as he grabs a fistful of her hair from behind her head and gently tugs, exposing her neck.
It progresses and they’re both ravenous for it.
I grit my teeth and clench my fists, fall to the floor and stare at the ceiling. I’m harder than abstract algebra…and I hate myself for it. It takes everything in my power not to undo my pants and finish the job started by the video.
#
“It’s not uncommon for men to have such a reaction in the face of infidelity.”
“Look, I’m not some sort of cu*k, okay?”
“That’s the opposite of what I’m saying. I’m bringing this up to reassure you that you’re not abnormal. Just because you had this reaction doesn’t mean you have a cu*kold fetish. It can be natural. Like an evolutionary defense mechanism.”
“Evolution or no, it’s still a really upsetting feeling. It’s not like I’m a caveman or something, competing for her womb.”
“Do you think?” My therapist is doing that thing they do where their voice drops to a soft timber. “That a part of you is still attracted to her? That part of you is enjoying seeing her in these photos and videos because it allows you to go back to a time when the two of you did such things?”
“Maybe,” I say, but am really thinking, we never did these things.
“You could view this as your body yearning for forgiveness. This positive reaction, that is. Your arousal. Your mind is hurt, but your body is telling you to let go. This could be one step closer to forgiveness. The body seldom lies. The mind on the other hand…”
Great, I think. My dick as a divining rod for forgiveness. My feelings are being determined by a boner barometer. I’m not even sure where this lady’s from. We’ve only seen each other through my laptop screen. Right now, she’s giving a certain kind of California vibe, self-actualization and New Age healing, trying to turn my dismay of arousal over my ex-girlfriend’s recorded infidelity into a good thing.
Don’t be so negative.
I rub my eyes, stare at the floor, and nod.
What a crock of shit, I think. The brain is a body part, too. Is it telling the truth right now?
#
I take no active measures to stop what’s happening. I guess you could say I’m just waiting for the next video to appear. Maybe a part of me—a part that I’m trying to ignore—hopes for a new one to come along.
The next video that drops features a black square as its preview thumbnail. I start it and am greeted by a mosaic of gritty darkness, the camera filmed in a room with the lights out.
For this one, I get to hear the sounds, the goddamn sounds.
There’s heavy breathing, masculine and feminine.
Her soft moans.
The sounds of flesh on flesh, the wet smacking sound that gets faster and faster as she gets louder and louder, and his breathing grows heavier. The noises reach a crescendo and he backs off, slows down—the sound of someone meticulously smacking a mushed up banana on the roof of their mouth, her saying, “Don’t stop” before it starts all over again.
Crescendo.
Backs off.
Repeat.
When the moment comes, is it any wonder she screams with pleasure in a way I’ve never heard? An alien sound of rapturous ecstasy that chills me to my bone and makes me want to stab my ear canals with skewers.
But what also happens is I’ve already unbuttoned my jeans and unzipped my fly.
Before I know it, there’s a jump cut and a bedside lamp is on. She’s on her knees looking up at the camera that he is holding at his chest. I’m getting the first-person, fully illuminated footage for this next part.
Her mouth is full as she looks up at him, (or the camera, or me, or whatever—at this point it’s all the same). My heavy breathing joins his and he pulls out and finishes on her face, her hair.
This isn’t her. There’s no way. When it came to oral, she never let me finish anywhere near the vicinity of her mouth.
Not long after, I’ve crossed the threshold, finishing right there on my bedspread and all over myself. Instantly, I’m racked with a sticky disgust and loathing. My stomach turns and I dry heave a few quick sobs from the bottom of my gut.
Tears soon follow.
More bodily fluids I can’t control.
#
Apparently, it’s more than one guy. I can tell by the different tattoos, the different scars, the different colored body hair. How one guy has more grime under his fingernails and sores dotting his arms.
It’s not just the infidelity that gets to me either, the raw animal fucking that I see on perfect video display.
It’s how they are all better than me in different ways.
This one’s better than me because he’s got a pornstar cock that she can barely fit inside of her.
This one’s better than me because he’s an absolute perfect physical specimen. Hell, I’d bend over for him. He has the willpower and determination to have every muscle in his body tight and defined enough for an anatomy textbook.
This one, the guy with the dirty fingernails and callused hands, the prison tats. He’s better because he’s tougher than me, more resourceful. Life dealt him a tough hand and he got up and kept on trucking. No privileged-ass softboys are making it through the joint and out to the other side where they work their fingers to the bone and keep it on the straight and narrow until they can punch the clock at the end of the week and go off and fuck some college-educated dude’s girlfriend. (I think of his rough hands all over her supple skin, the texture of his sandpapery finger as she sucks on it while he pounds her from behind, and fucking Christ why can’t I stop watching these things, oh God oh God oh God, Why?)
#
[Hi Grace, it’s Daniel. You’ve probably deleted my number or maybe even have it blocked, but in case you don’t, I was just wondering if you had access to my accounts up to a few days ago. Like my Gmail and stuff]
7:26 * Read
[Grace…]
8:15 * Read
[Have you been messing with me? Are you getting these?]
8:17 * Read
[Newsflash, bitch. You left read receipts on]
8:19 * Read
[I know you’re there]
8:22 * Read
[Wasn’t enough to cheat on me. Had to rub it in some more. Why are you doing this? Haven’t I suffered enough?]
8:25 * Read
GRACE: no
[What?]
8:26 * Read
GRACE: i said no. you haven’t suffered enough. Were only getting stayed
GRACE: *started
[Grace…please stop.]
“+1(1)*****-11 Error Invalid Number Please re-send using valid 10 digit number
[It’s the same fucking number asshole]
“+1(1)*****-11 Error Invalid Number Please re-send using valid 10 digit number”
#
Her cheek rests on a gaudy patterned bedspread. She stares into the camera, expressionless.
It’s like she’s looking right at me.
She mouths something at the camera. I rewind several times to read her lips.
“You like that, baby?” she says silently.
Her head shifts back and forth rhythmically, pushed and pulled by an unseen force, facial expression never wavering.
“You like that, baby?” she says, out loud this time. And I know that even though this video has to be at least two years old, even though there’s somebody else with her, she’s talking to me. Her blank expression and poisonous words bore a hole through the screen.
I wonder if this is the same person I’ve been texting, somehow here and there at the same time. A contradiction of space and time whose sole purpose is to torment me.
#
“Fuck, dude. No you didn’t,” Richie says in admonishment, hands on his knees. He’s shaking his head, saying, “No, no, no.”
“I . . .I didn’t get around to changing my shit. I just couldn’t. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
We’re in the middle of his garage and he’s got a few hatchets sitting on top of an overturned 5-gallon bucket. On the opposite wall hanging from a nail is a four-foot by four-foot hodge-podge of boards and plywood with a bull’s eye crudely painted in its center.
Richie plucks a hatchet up and hurls it at the target, the blade sinking deftly into the wood with a satisfying thunk. “I just don’t understand, y’know?” He turns his back to me, picks up another hatchet, practices his form.
“Well, to be honest,” I say. “The videos have kinda been turning me on.”
Richie’s hatchet toss goes wide, completely misses the target, and buries itself up to the handle in the sheetrock wall of the garage.
“Sorry, I just needed to tell somebody.”
“Whelp. At least it’s a rental,” Richie says, yanking the axe out of the wall in a cloud of white dust, chunks of sheetrock. He looks at the wall a while, ignoring me. Finally, he turns to me and addresses what I said, his face serious. “You need to cut the shit. Change your number. Delete your accounts. You’re playing a dangerous game, Danny boy.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. An image of white hospital walls floats in my periphery. Tangled bedsheets and strangled IV tubing.
“Look, what you do in the bedroom, what you beat off to, that’s your business. I mean, I’ve heard it’s not so weird, this hot wife stuff. Like from an evolutionary perspective it kinda makes sense. It’s why our dicks are shaped like they are. They’re designed to scoop some other man’s filling from your girl’s twat pocket so that you can leave yours there instead.”
“Please don’t say twat pocket.”
“How about boner garage? Is that better? Cleaning up somebody else’s oil spill that parked there recently. Doesn’t matter. It gets you going. Your brain gets hacked to want it all the time. It’s a fantasy. A kink. Whatever. It’s your business. But when you start bringing Grace back into it. Using her. Jesus dude we almost lost you before. It’s time to move on.”
“A lot of that is a blur. I blocked out so much.”
And there’s another repressed memory surfacing. Squirming across my front porch, my legs not working like they should, arms jello. Smearing a trail of vomit across the floor like the slug that I am. Smoke alarms blaring incessantly behind me.
“Well, you need to address your feelings and move past them. Find another girl to kink out with. Just not Grace. It’s not healthy.”
“I wondered if she might be doing this somehow. Hacking my phone,” I say.
Richie freezes.
“I even sent her a text.”
The hatchet Richie’s holding clangs to the floor. He turns, says, “Daniel?”
“She didn’t respond at first.”
“Are you fucking with me right now?”
“But then she did. Said she wasn’t done with me yet.”
“Daniel.”
“I just wish I could remember more clearly. I knew we weren’t compatible. We were fighting more and more.” My voice is cracking. “And I’m wondering did she ever even like sleeping with me? She said I hadn’t suffered enough. That this was only beginning. I just wanna know what I did. I just wish I could remember.” I can’t stop the tears, can’t stop the crying. Even if I could, I don’t think I’d want to. The only thing is, that Richie stays frozen in place. He’s offering no shoulder to cry on.
“Daniel,” Richie says. “Grace is dead.”
Part 2: (3) My Ex-Girlfriend Has Been Sexting Me. She’s Been Dead For 2 Years : nosleep (reddit.com)