Busted

It's an ordinary morning. Alarm, shower, lip balm. School run, coffee. Home in time to clap on a coat of mascara and a button-down over the yoga pants. Email checked, urgent messages handled, and Zoom booted up by 9:30. Big smile, bright voice. "Good morning everyone, this is Rachel."

I am every working mom. I'm pleasant and efficient and effective and nearly invisible. I wasn't always like this. I've got stories - every woman like me has stories, and we've all gotten to the point in our lives when they've become irrelevant. We've become what we are, irrevocably, irrecoverably, and we are ok with that. We are fine with it. We make our jokes about wine o'clock, we try not to think too much about the gallery wall we've never quite gotten right, we wear the yoga pants, we bake the fucking banana bread, we show up, and we smile. And we're fine.

I am fine, actually. Most days, anyway. Maybe it's because I've been dealing with what we now politely refer to as "mental health issues'' since I was 12, and have gotten rather handy with it. Maybe it's because I know that "boring" is ungratefulese for "stable." Maybe it's because my life really is pretty good. There are things I miss, sure, but it's pretty good. And I know it.

I like my job. I'm a product expert at a software company. Most of my job consists of partnering with our sales reps, making the product look really good on demonstrations. My boss says I always know the right thing to say. I work from my home office but I travel a lot, I get to meet lots of people, I'm respected for my experience, for my skill, for my knack at setting up the close. Also, I get a dopamine hit whenever I succeed in manipulating some smug man who thinks he is smarter than me into spending a whole bunch of money because I made him think that my idea had been his all along.

The 9:30 meeting passes without incident. I answer a few emails, tweak a Powerpoint. The noon pitch starts. This one is a preliminary, the sales rep will drive, I'm just there as backup. The rep introduces himself, and then it's my turn. "Good afternoon everyone, this is Rachel."

"Hi, it's Jared ____, finance."

"Hello everybody, Scott ____ here, GC."

"This is Charlie _____ from Procurement. Hi everyone, thanks for joining."

And I freeze.

I am every working mom. I get through my days, I am good at my job, I smile at my neighbors, I take care of my home and my family. And I have a secret.

For the past several months, I have been listening to what the internet calls "NSFW ASMR." I call it "ear porn." It's basically one-sided phone sex, performed by some rather talented voice actors who dabble (hah) in very specific Foley effects. It's really porn for your ears - with the massive advantage of requiring nothing but an earbud or two to enjoy anytime and anywhere. And the added bonus of getting off without having to compare yourself to the perfect plastic bodies of the women, or fighting off mild revulsion at the oiled, oddly angry-looking men.

I love my ear porn. And my favorite performer, by far, is a fellow who calls himself Anonyfun35. I can't quite tell why I enjoy his audio as much as I do. It's not like there aren't weird, awkward bits, same as in all of these sounds. His voice is pleasant, not as growly and fierce as some others'. But there is something about him, about his inflection, that does it for me, every time. Strange to say - considering that each audio is, if I bother to really think about it, the product of a dude sitting alone, muttering into a microphone while jerking off - there is something like authenticity in what he creates. Maybe it's just that, in every audio, there is a generous and often unexpected sprinkling of laughter. Random silliness. Real, human warmth.

And Charlie from Procurement sounds almost exactly like him. There's no way, of course. I've just been indulging a bit too much in my lovely little secret hobby. The thing about Anonyfun35 is, when he isn't breathing and humming and whispering, he sounds like any male voice. Like, you might hear it if you called customer support, or the doctor's office. Pleasant, even, polite, not too deep, not too high. Completely forgettable, unless you keep listening.

Anyway, Charlie from Procurement isn't saying much, so far. Our rep, Bill, is talking. Scott asks a question, Jared asks a question - really it's an excuse to bloviate for a minute or twelve - and Bill flips through the Powerpoint. Jared asks something about data storage, and I know where this is going, so by the time Bill says "Rachel, would you be able to speak to this" I've already got our software pulled up, ready to share.

Unfortunately, I share the wrong window, and what I end up showing everyone is the tab of search results for "difference between latte and flat white," which Bill hastily informs me of.

No big deal - I switch tabs quickly, saying, "Sorry about that everyone. I know, I have some reaaaally unusual interests, ha ha..."

They laugh politely, and before my mind has fully processed it - I know it, that laugh, that bumpy low snicker, brown sugar dissolving in black rum - my body makes the connection first, and I am suddenly, intrusively aroused, swelling, getting wet. My breath catches, and I can't tell from the tiny square on the screen, but I'd bet my face is flushing.

I need a second - to hide my fluster, I make an excuse about slow internet, and shut off my video. I get through the presentation easily enough - I could do it in my sleep by now - but my mind is racing and I'm taking a second or two longer to answer each question than I would normally. Is it him? It can't be him. It sounds like him. But there's no way Charlie from fucking Procurement is the man who brought me to a thousand orgasms using nothing but his fucking voice.

I'm finished; the rep thanks me and takes over again. I click through the participant tiles, but Charlie has shut off his camera at some point. He'd had it on before, but I don't remember what he looks like. He looked like... anyone. Polite smile. Washed out skin. Backdrop with.. houseplants, maybe?

There's no way. There's no way. Just as I've convinced myself of this, just as my breathing starts returning to normal, Charlie from Procurement starts talking. He is asking something about pricing, something else about availability, something about support. I still can't believe it, this is too implausible, but my body is responding, my nipples getting hard, because my hippocampus is eagerly waiting for him to go from talking about net 60 to slyly commenting on how wet my pussy is. Which, by the way, it is. I mute my mic, and check. It definitely is.

There's no way.

We are wrapping up, and Charlie is speaking again, that blandly pleasant voice. "Well, this has certainly been helpful. You've given us a lot to think about. We'll look forward to having you come in to show your product to our executives..."

Executive. That is the word I needed to hear. He sounds exactly like him, exactly...

"... keep us posted until then. Thank you for setting this up, Bill. And thank you very much for the demo, Rachel." There is a smile in his voice, a warmth - it's the same inflection everyone uses to say my name at this point in the call, appreciatively friendly, but it sounds like, it sounds like, I can't breathe - and I barely unmute my mic in time to squeak "of course, happy to help," but by then Bill has begun saying something at the same time, everyone laughs awkwardly, and it's finally over.

I remove my headset. My blood is pounding in my ears. There's no way. There's no way. There's - I check my schedule, it's clear for the next 30 minutes. I grab my phone, my earbuds, and turn on one of my favorite tracks - there's no way, no way - the scary movie, and I hear him laugh, that sound that makes me grin like an idiot at nothing - it sounds exactly the same, it can't be - I'm wriggling out of my yoga pants, pushing aside my panties - green lace, limp in the crotch - I've got two fingers on my clit, rubbing hard, fast, my legs spread wide, thighs shaking, my back arching against the ergonomic office chair - it can't be, what the fuck, Charlie from fucking PROCUREMENT can make me feel this??? - God this feels good, so good so good so good - I slide a finger inside my pussy, it's dripping, much wetter than usual, I slide it myself for a moment or two, move my slick finger back to my clit and rub, fast, flick it, fast, and when I come, I cry out loud in the empty room, and the backs of my eyelids flash lightning in the shape of houseplants.

I open my eyes and check the time. Less than 5 minutes have passed. I catch my breath, get up, wash my hands, get a glass of water. I shake myself off. It can't be. It just can't be. What are the odds that the boring dude on my Zoom call just... does his job, finishes replying to his emails, shuts off his laptop, and then simulates a long, convoluted sexual encounter on a microphone for the enjoyment of random women over the internet? And what does it MEAN about all the awful men I've encountered on these Zooms? Does fucking JARED go home and audio-record himself jerking off? Does he pontificate lengthily about the direction of our industry while he does it?

This thought makes me giggle, which takes the tension off. I return to my computer, go through the rest of my day. I'm fine. The weather is great for my after-work hike in the park. For dinner, we order from the new Thai place. Everyone is in a good mood. It's a good day.

Much later, when everyone is in bed, I gulp an extra glass of wine, fast. It doesn't make me drunk, but it sort of lets me pretend that I am. I log into my anonymous email account. It doesn't have my name anywhere on it. I mostly use it to set up logins to avoid spamming my real account. I draft an email. It isn't very long, just "A35?" in the subject line and a heart emoji in the body.

I type in Charlie's work email. I hesitate for a moment. Then I hit send.

* * *

The next morning - alarm, shower, lip balm, school run, coffee - I log into my computer at 8:57am. At 9:02, my phone pings a notification from my private email address. It's a reply from Charlie. As I tap to open it, I notice that my hands are shaking.

It contains nothing but a smile emoji. I'm still scrolling through, wondering if he had appended something to the bottom of the thread, wondering if I am completely wrong about this, already panicking that he will somehow figure out that it's me, and somehow figure out what I meant, Christ, have I just destroyed my life - and my phone lights up with another new message in the same thread - "give me your number and find out :-)"

I'm typing it in before I can think twice, hitting send as fast as I can. I exhale shakily, resting my forehead on my desk, clenching my phone so tightly the case bites into my palms. I check my calendar. Nothing until 11am. Is it possible he will call before that? Is it - Jesus, can you reverse lookup a cell phone number? What have I done? It suddenly crashes into me - this isn't lovely distant faceless Anonyfun35, this is a real person, an actual human being, an actual human being who could easily cause disaster if he figures out who I am, who could out my little secret - but then, I could out him too, couldn't I - and how would he ever figure it out - my mind is racing, and I am panicking a little, but also I'm getting that feeling, like a rollercoaster inside my skull, my stomach is dropping, my breath is speeding up -

My phone rings with an unidentified number, an Illinois area code. I take a breath as I pick up the call, and I intend to make my greeting sound playful, arch and flippant, a sing-songy "Busted!" but the word comes out in a much lower, huskier register than I had intended, that sounds, to me, vaguely threatening.

There is a pause. "Excuse me?" he says, and the register is utterly detached, coolly professional, perhaps mildly offended.

I clear my throat, and start doing the thing I always do when I'm nervous, words skittering out like marbles from a can - "Uh, I'm sorry, I - that was meant to be funny, I just meant, is it - I know this is weird, you - " and then I realize that he is laughing, that fantastic infectious chuckle that always makes me want to join in. So I do.

"Sorry, sorry," he finally says. "You gave me an opening, I had to take it."

The heat rushes to my face at that, a million responses flash through my mind, none of them appropriate. "Fair enough. I probably would have been disappointed if you hadn't."

He laughs again. I can't summon anything resembling banter, I have to know, I have to just get it over with. "So are you him?" I ask.

He pauses. "Him who?" he asks neutrally.

"Anonyfun35." I mutter it, weirdly shy - I've never actually spoken that name out loud, though I've Googled it enough times to have muscle memory in my fingers - God forbid I should leave a bookmark anywhere. "He's a - are you - the audio, er, performer?"

There is a pause, and a long exhale. "I am," he says finally. His voice is only a little resigned. Like he's been caught, but doesn't mind much. "I have to ask, how did you figure it out?"

"On a Zoom. I wasn't sure at first. And then you said - you said "executive," and I just knew - "

He bursts out laughing again. "I knew it! I knew that was going to get me in trouble eventually! Do I say it funny or something?"

"No, it's just - ok, let's just say I've heard you say it a lot of times."

"Hah! That makes sense. Well, I guess it was going to happen sooner or later. I mean, I was really hoping it wouldn't be on a work call, but I suppose it could have been worse."

I close my eyes, clutch my phone. "I'm sorry I emailed you, but I just had to know. I promise never to call you again, I just had to tell you how much I love your... your work. You are really kind of... brilliant. At what you do. Anyway. I know this was maybe not the best idea, and I will let you move on with your day now. I'm sure it's a busy one, haha. And I promise I won't tell anyone anything."

"I appreciate all that. I really do. And I appreciate that promise. Although, I probably wouldn't have confirmed this if I did think you were going to tell anyone," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice, a definite gleeful note as he adds, "Rachel."

So I hang up immediately.

Ten completely mind-fucked minutes later, an email appears in my inbox from Bill. CC'ing me on a reply to Charlie, who has just requested contact information for someone who could show him the product again, real quick, ahead of our meeting next week. And Bill, of course, dropped in my email and cell phone number. It's what we always do for prospects, after all. (Hold space for rant about work-life boundary erasure.)

It dawns on me that, while Anonyfun35 is just a faceless guy with a sexy voice and a great imagination, Charlie is an actual grown man, a man intelligent and savvy enough to successfully climb a corporate ladder, a man clever enough to outplay me before I knew the game had even started. A man who almost immediately texts me: "Busted :-D"

* * *

He never asks for another demo, but we text intermittently over the next few days. Brief texts, mostly emojis, not professional, but not exactly flirtatious. About almost nothing. Office jokes. Weather. I can't tell how he means anything in the texts. I can't tell if he is Charlie or Anonyfun35. I can't listen to his audios anymore. I take refuge in the audios of some dude with a much huskier and more commanding voice, but who doesn't make me stupid-grin nearly as often. I dislike the way he says "baby." I dislike the fact that he makes me come anyway.

I think I'm going to let the texts peter out. It all feels weird, awkward. I think about him too many times in a day. I don't really know what I am doing, or even what I want this to be. On Thursday, Bill is flying to Chicago to show the product to Charlie's company. The plan is for me to join virtually, do a brief product demonstration for the group - all those executives - and let Bill handle the rest of the conversations (and dinner, and drinking, and clubbing, and all the other bits known as "relationship building") in person. That's how we usually handle these deals. Once we know whether we've won or lost, I can stop texting him, and we will all move on. Maybe someday, I'll be able to listen to his audios again. I miss them.

On Tuesday, Bill calls me. "Do you think you can come to Chicago with me? You'd have to fly out there tomorrow, so you can be sure to be on time for the morning meeting."

"I probably can, but - why? I thought I was going to remote in."

"The opp's just gotten way bigger than we thought. I think it's gonna be a whale. I was just circling back with Jared and Charlie, and I think we need to put our best foot forward, bring our A game and really get our ducks in a row, so we can get that home run."

I close my eyes briefly. It will just be a day. And I can get out of the inevitable drinks afterward - I will book a flight back home right after, that will be my excuse. It's no big deal. I can handle it. "Sure. Let's crush this."

"You're the best, Rach! I will owe you one for this."

"Yeah, yeah - put it on your tab."

I make my arrangements - easy enough. I've done this so many times, it takes me maybe twenty minutes to book a flight and a hotel room right near Charlie's office building. I let my sitter know I'm about to take one of my short-notice overnight business trips. I pack the usual bag. A wrinkle-resistant dress and blazer, nice shoes, a spare outfit just in case, toiletries, underwear, hairbrush, Tide pen... and, on a whim, I toss in my little blue vibrator. (I take the batteries out first. Trust that you do not want that shit turning itself on in your carry-on at the wrong time.)

My plane has just landed at O'Hare the following afternoon, when my phone pings with an incoming text. Charlie. "Drinks tonight?"

I stare at the words, glowing on my screen, radioactive with possibility. The hum is starting in my ears, drowning out the noise of the restless passengers around me, as I type in: "Meet at the bar of the Omni, 7pm?"

The response zaps me as I shuffle down the jetway, the cooler weather sliding under my clothes and making me shiver. "Don't be late :-D"

* * *

I am very much tempted to be late. The entire time I bathe, dress, and apply my makeup, my head races with what might happen if I were, in fact, late. If I showed up 15 minutes late. In a short skirt (which I have not packed). With no panties on underneath. (Which is, to be clear, not a thing I do.) With a mild case of active bitch face. (Which is, to be real, a thing I do a lot.) I have to stop for a few minutes at one point to replace the batteries in my vibrator. It's a quick one, full speed, under 60 seconds, just to take the edge off. Just so I can unfog my brain enough to function. Afterward, I spray my thighs with lavender water, just in case any smell lingers there. Just in case.

But here is the thing - I honestly am still unsure of what this is. Are we friends now? Is this going to affect work? Could anything really happen? This isn't Anonyfun35, I remind myself. This is a man named Charlie. From Procurement, fuck's sake. Do I even want anything to happen?

I've asked him to meet me at the bar in my hotel. I don't not want anything to happen.

* * *

He could blend into any street in any business district in the Western world. He looks like someone's dad on the playground, like your friendly neighbor, like your brother-in-law's amiable best man. He looks like an absolutely ordinary man. Early-middle-aged, medium height, medium build, no visible tattoos. If he had to disappear into a witness protection program, he could start a new life in any peaceful suburb in the United States, and no one would question whether he belonged there when he came out to mow the lawn on a Sunday.