“Oh…” said Maria, as she popped the cavendish out of her mouth.
“Who is it?” She stared at the phone as if it was a foreign object, then flipped it open and mashed a few buttons.
“Rie?”
“Just… Lindsey, no worries.”
“Why would I worry?” She got back on her knees and searched for the fruit. “It’s on the bed. Why would I worry?”
“Nuh-thing, Victor. Just… just… are you almost finished? I have to go to study group.”
“… why would I worry?”
“Jesus, Vic! Forget it. I gotta go.”
“Don’t you…”
And she crawled over to her computer and the screen went black.
I erupted with a barrage of angry texts (only after an equally formidable barrage of angry phone calls, each one followed by just… just… a filthy, nasty barrage of angry voicemails).
Text to Maria <3 <3: HOW DARE YOU HANG UP ON ME
Text to Maria <3 <3: YOU BETTER CALL ME BACK RIGHT NOW
Text to Maria <3 <3: IF YOU DON’T CALL ME BACK I’M NOT TALKING TO YOU FOR A WEEK!
In my fit of rage I had failed to raise my pants and stood in the middle of the SEGA room more erect than I had been when we were simulating with fruit. Whenever my parents knew I was webcamming with Maria, they treated me like a quarantined infectious patient and remained upstairs.
To spite my girlfriend, I plopped back into my chair and typed www.pornacopia.com into the search bar and waited as the categories slowly loaded onto the screen.
Welcome back! You might enjoy these clips in RUSSIAN based on a previous search.
Crap. I had forgotten to clear my browser history from my last crack-off—when I hurried home after Maria and I watched Hitman and I had taken a lusting to lead actress Olga Kurylenko—yes, I’m aware that she’s from the Ukraine, but I suppose “Ukrainian mail-order bride” doesn’t have the same ring to it. Last time I forgot, after a seventh-grade Friday when I saw Julie Fischer’s and Jenna Tisch’s thongs creep up their lower backs in 20th Century History class, I was up until midnight on a less secure, more rudimentary pornacopia.com that left a colorful popup the next morning when my mom booted up the computer. I could hear her scream as I was head-deep in the refrigerator, shuffling through the translucent packages of salami and gabagool. I had to explain to her it was a bad joke in an email from Paxton—really missing an opportunity to smear Pierce Stone. But my mother worked with computers (I never did find out what she did) and I don’t think she believed me, but she let it slide that time.
I scribbled “CBH” on a loose notecard with a red Sharpie to remind myself to clear my browsing history after I cracked off. I clicked on RUSSIAN and scrolled down the waterfall of all the pretty blondes and picked up my phone and called Maria: voicemail.
Text to Maria <3 <3: I SWEAR IF YOU’RE EVEN TALKING TO ANOTHER GUY!
Two Russian Babes Go DEEP With American Dick. Click.
The two blondes were pale like they had been locked up away from the sun their whole lives. They sat together, bare-naked without the frills and straps of expensive lingerie, and when they undid the belt of the rich American, they did it robotically, passionless, and resembled nothing of Maria.
Text to Maria <3 <3: You better call me now!
I fast-forwarded to the sections of the clips shot from the American’s point of view, where the camera hovered above bobbing blonde heads, and I thought that could’ve been me, the two girls, freshmen at Miami, UT, or USC. But I couldn’t even touch those schools anymore—they’d probably escort me off the campus for violating the schools’ rule: failing to live up to potential—oh, what a feeling it is to realize you peaked at sixteen!
Text to Maria <3 <3: WTF RIE?!?! ANSWER ME
One of the pretty blondes peeked up at the camera as the mushroom cap popped out from her lips—Ivanka?—bearing a striking resemblance to a freshman who’d grabbed my attention ever since I saw her leaving Little Moscow, crossing Millburn Ave.
The melodious beauty of Meat Loaf’s vocals snapped me from my pornographic gaze.
Incoming Call: Maria <3 <3
“Ria.”
“VICTOR.” Knives. “What the HELL are you doing? I’m at study group.”
“You couldn’t text me? Huh? Huh?!”
“No! We have a no-phones rule.”
“Oh, that’s convenient.”
“What the hell’s the matter with you? You’re being a…”
“Who’s in the study group? What sport do they play? Year? Position?” I felt like the Grand Inquisitor sniffing out Jewish blood.
“What the… fuck… Does it matter, Vic?”
“Then who was texting you during our webcam date?”
“Oh my God, Victor. OK!” She paused for a moment. “Victor… Okay, it was…”
“It was Tyreek, wasn’t it?”
“What? No. I, like, never see Tyreek. It was Mikey DeAngelis.”
Mikey DeAngelis. Click: New tab. Click: Favorites. Scroll, click: 2008–09 Arizona State Sun Devils Football Roster. Click: Alphabetize. Nothing.
Ha! The fanook didn’t even make the roster.
“Victor, why aren’t you saying…”
“Dude couldn’t even make the team, huh?”
“What? What are you talking about? He’s the starting center fielder.”
Baseball…
Click: Exit Arizona State Sun Devils Football Roster. Click: New tab. Click: Favorites. Scroll, click: 2009 Arizona State Sun Devils Baseball Roster. Click: Alphabetize: Michael DeAngelis: Sophomore: CF: Seton Hall Prep: Cedar Grove, NJ.
“What the fuck? He’s from Jersey?”
“Yes… he’s friends with my cousins. I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d flip a shit.”
“Okay, okay, okay, I’m gonna go. Bye.” I snapped my RAZR shut and slid it down the desk and wept as I cracked off to the two blonde Russian teenagers while being serenaded by Meat Loaf.
I walked toward Maria, following the crisp white line that demarcated twenty yards from the end zone—a stretch of land so foreign to the Millburn Millers football team that we needed a passport to cross its threshold. Because of the multi-day workouts, my varsity jacket fit her as if it was her own and no longer had that baggy this-belongs-to-my-big-strong-football-player-boyfriend appeal. My heart thump, thump,
