What’s it called when you’ve been molested, just without the actual sex part? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what happened to me when Asia Afrodesia downloaded into my bedroom a little while ago. Like, she didn’t touch me anywhere south of the border, but she was naked under her robe, and OMFG her pubic hair was as neon pink in person as it is in her music videos.
I’ve been lying splayed on the floor from anywhere between twenty minutes to twenty-thousand years, but now I sit up and catch my reflection in the full-length mirror—a ruffle-haired, bedraggled reflection as curious as I am as to when and how Asia signed her name in lipstick across my chest. Once she’d gone full-frontal, everything had lurched into one of those psychedelic acid trip montages you see in the movies. She’d used my phone to take more than a dozen selfies of the two of us together. Fish lips. Peace signs. Bear hugs. Wagging tongues. Devil horns. Mimed blowjobs on upthrust middle fingers (hers, not mine). That weird Neil Diamond Lovescape pantomime thing. At the end, right before swiping out, she’d planted a big fat wet kiss on my forehead.
“What was that for?” I’d asked, mesmerized, dazed, head spinning out of control.
“Just autographing my work,” she’d replied, snapping one last pic, which, along with all the others, she’d uploaded to my SuperMegaNet feed. Then she’d handed my phone back to me, blown me one more kiss, and whispered seductively, “Send me home, Theo, baby.”
Then she was gone.
I sit at my desk. I check my phone. Five-hundred-thousand SuperMegaLikes—and nearly as many friend requests—for the pic of my bare chest and Asia’s hands reenacting the cover photo for Janet Jackson’s Janet—
“What the fuck happened to you?”
I look up. Ernie’s just downloaded into my bedroom. He’s in his pajamas (San Angelico’s Fundoshi Mandate may require us to wear loincloths in public, but thankfully we can wear whatever the heck we want in private) and is hefting a sleeping bag, two pairs of earmuffs, a spiral notebook, and various junk foods.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Setting up for the night.” He dumps his things on my bed. “I need a super-fast Internet connection so that I can check people’s SuperMegaStatus updates for any mention of El Cassetto.”
“Power hour’s almost up, though.”
“Yeah, but your phone’s still got at least a few hours of juice, right? I figure I can use your fancy white-people’s 50G until morning power hour.”
“Ernie, I…are those honey buns?”
“I didn’t realize you could get them in boxes of twelve.”
“You have to shop at Spendco.”
“Of course you’d know that.”