It was late, well after midnight. I was trying to get some writing done when I saw the notification pop up. A new friend request. I didn’t recognize the name or the face, but I’m horrible with remembering both. Wouldn’t surprise me if she knew who I was. I accepted the request.
Within seconds, she was messaging me. Asked if I wanted to hang out with her. That was a little direct. I was in one of those odd moods where I’d rather write than fuck a pretty girl. I told her that I was tired and we should hang out sometime soon. She agreed and asked what the nerdiest thing about me was. I told her I liked professional wrestling. She told me to come wrestle her one night.
I didn’t talk to her for a few weeks. I bought the new Red Hot Chili Peppers album, “I’m With You” and she started messaging me as I was trying to listen to it. Somehow phone numbers were exchanged during this time. More plans were made to hang out.
At this point, I thought she was coming on a little too strong. I thought she was attractive, but was put off by her eagerness to have sex with a guy that she randomly met on Facebook. I decided that I would ignore her and move on.
It worked for a while, until she randomly sent me a text one Friday. She had managed to get some alcohol and wanted to know if I wanted to hang out. She was under 21, so this was something big for her. Being a nice guy, I told her I’d think about it.
Later that night, I got quite the blunt message: “Hey, wanna fuck me?”
Wow, I think to myself. I really don’t, but I feel like saying that would hurt her feelings. I tell her the truth, that it’s late and I have to work in the morning. As the conversation progresses, I detect that she’s had a little to drink. I ask if she’s drunk. She denies it, although the amount of typos would suggest otherwise.
I felt bad for her when she sent the next message. From what I could deduce, she was on a touch-screen phone that didn’t have a strong autocorrect. “Do you not think” is spelled out perfectly, then where I assume she tried to type “I’m beautiful?” comes out as a jumble of odd letters.
We didn’t talk for a few days after that.
I wake up one day around 12:30 p.m. and check my phone. I groggily realize I have a picture message from her. I open it and am soon wide awake. It’s a picture of her, naked, spread-eagle, hands in suggestive spots, all that good stuff. It’s intense.
I’m sitting up in bed now. I’m staring at this picture in shock. My first thought is “Why??” My second thought is “Holy shit!” I text back with the only reply I can think of: “Wow.”
She quickly replies back asking if I liked that. To clean up her language a little bit, she then asks if I prefer the front or backside of a lady. I already have a front, so I mention the other. And, I quickly receive one.
What throws me off is that both of those pictures were taken by somebody else. She is posing for these nude photos and somebody is taking a picture of her. She goes on to tell me that she likes to take these pictures and posts them on some site. It’s mostly really old guys who look at them. At this point, I’m a little weirded out, but still kind of intrigued.
After a while, things change. I notice that she has a boyfriend now. She doesn’t talk to me anymore. Months pass.
One day I’m laying in bed and feeling introspective. I start thinking about people and times in my life. Those photos flash into my head. I go through my phone and realize I had only saved one of them. Luckily, I had saved the best one.
I wonder what she’s up to these days. I hadn’t thought of her in a long time and didn’t even remember her name. I pulled up Facebook on my phone and started scrolling through old messages trying to find her picture. I find her name and poke her face with my finger, taking me to her Facebook profile.
I stare at her page in disbelief. She’s dead. She died in a car wreck. And apparently it was a while back, too.
I’m sitting here staring at a naked picture of this girl, wondering how she’s doing, and she’s dead.
Weird how the world works sometimes. I’m conflicted on what to do with the picture. That’s a memory of our time together; is it my way of honoring her life? Or am I just a pervert who likes naked pictures of girls?