The next few days pass in mundane routine. Sierra and I revert to strictly professional exchanges—brief messages about assignment deadlines, citation formats, and the occasional polite clarification. Nothing more. My life resumes its familiar rhythm: lectures, restaurant shifts, tutoring sessions, and weekend rituals with friends that usually involve disc golf, the latest Marvel release, or marathon card games fueled by cheap beer and worse trash talk.
Then, late one Friday night, I am sprawled across my bed half-watching a documentary when my phone lights up. I assume it is one of the guys asking whether I am bringing chips or the suspiciously large jar of queso I claimed to own. Instead the name on the screen reads Sierra Acosta.
Sierra Acosta: Alex I’m bored!
A small, involuntary smirk tugs at my mouth. Why me? She has an entire social circle, presumably—including whatever crowd frequents the Phi Delta house tonight, judging by the stories already filtering through group chats.
Me: There is a rather large party at Phi Delta tonight.
Me: Why aren’t you there?
Sierra Acosta: Pink eye. It’s revolting. I look like I lost a staring contest with a jellyfish.
Sierra Acosta: Are you at the party?
The question is almost flattering. Me, at a frat party. I picture myself standing awkwardly near the keg while bass rattles my ribcage and strangers shout directly into my ear.
Me: Not really my scene. I lean more toward the Dungeons & Dragons demographic.
Sierra Acosta: lol Aww you’re one of those. Let me guess—you’re a virgin too.
The jab lands harder than it should. I have heard the stereotype a thousand times; it rarely stings. Tonight it does. Perhaps because the assumption comes from her. Perhaps because—technically—she is correct, though not for the reasons she imagines. My virginity is less a consequence of dice rolls and more a long, unbroken streak of spectacular romantic misfortune. Several of my friends roll natural twenties in both campaigns and bedrooms; the stereotype has never applied to our table.
I type a defensive paragraph dismantling the cliché, then delete it. She notices the typing indicator vanish and pounces.
Sierra Acosta: OMG Really?
Sierra Acosta: Aww
The taunting prickles. My friends know this topic is off-limits; they have offered—only half-joking—to pool money for an escort. I feel exposed in a way I did not anticipate.
Me: Why don’t you text your phone-sex friend? I’m sure he can keep you entertained.
Sierra Acosta: He’s already asleep. Early shift tomorrow.
She does not drop it.
Sierra Acosta: So why haven’t you had sex? You’ve had a girlfriend, right?
I rub my temples. Now she assumes I am too nerdy to attract anyone at all.
Me: Yes. We just never reached that point.
Sierra Acosta: How far did you get?
Me: I would prefer not to discuss this.
Sierra Acosta: Whatever
A long pause. Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally:
Sierra Acosta: So what was she like?
Me: Why?
Sierra Acosta: I’m bored. And curious.
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I hesitate. The subject is still raw, even years later. But something about the late hour and the screen’s glow makes confession feel less dangerous.
Me: We were friends since middle school. She was kind, attractive, shared all my interests.
Sierra Acosta: How long together?
Me: Just over three years.
Sierra Acosta: Three years and nothing?
Me: We did other things. She wanted to wait until marriage.
Another cycle of typing and deleting. Then the question I dreaded.
Sierra Acosta: What happened?
Me: She slept with my roommate while I was at work.
Sierra Acosta: Wow that bitch
The blunt solidarity draws a reluctant half-smile.
Me: It’s in the past.
Sierra Acosta: You’ll find someone better. Want me to set you up with one of my friends?
I laugh quietly. Her friends likely prefer gym-bro types who bench more than their body weight and ghost after two dates.
Me: I appreciate the offer, but I doubt I am their type. Especially if they resemble you.
Sierra Acosta: Actually I think the geek thing is kind of cute.
The compliment lands unexpectedly. I suspect pity, yet the words settle warmly anyway.
Me: Whatever.
Sierra Acosta: Fine. Send me a picture and I will tell you what I really think.
My pulse quickens. Refusal risks more teasing; agreement risks humiliation.
Sierra Acosta: Come on please?
Me: I don’t know.
Sierra Acosta: How about I send one first?
Curiosity overrides caution. I have constructed an image of her—blonde, blue-eyed, cheerleader perfection—entirely unsupported by evidence.
Me: Fine.
Sierra Acosta: Yay. Hold on.
The photo arrives. She lies on her back in a long gray sleep shirt, hem lifted just enough to reveal a pale, toned stomach and the elegant curve of her hip. A black-and-white hourglass tattoo, entwined with a dragon, trails from her ribs to disappear below her navel. White panties dotted with red polka dots peek out, framing smooth thighs and the faint edge of another tattoo higher up. A ridiculous animated sticker obliterates her face, but dark red hair spills across the pillow.
The image is equal parts provocative and absurd. I stare longer than intended, then save it before guilt can intervene.
Sierra Acosta: lol Are you there?
Me: That is… exceptionally hot. The tattoos especially. No face reveal, though?
Sierra Acosta: Nope lol
Me: Figures.
Sierra Acosta: Your turn.
I scroll through old selfies, then pause. Inspiration strikes. I search “hot male selfie” and select one of a chiseled, shirtless man in glasses posing like a budget Superman. I send it.
Sierra Acosta: Haha lmao that is so not you.
Me: How can you tell? I did mention the glasses.
Sierra Acosta: Shut up haha >.<
Sierra Acosta: Send a real one.
Me: Fine. I need to put a shirt on first.
Sierra Acosta: No wait!
Sierra Acosta: Take it without.
Me: Absolutely not.
Sierra Acosta: Chicken.
The word ignites a petty spark. I stand, shed my shirt, lie back on the bed in deliberate mimicry of her pose—arm draped modestly across my chest, nipples safely hidden. I add a matching face-obscuring sticker for symmetry, snap the photo, and send it before I can overthink.
Me: Fair is fair.
Sierra Acosta: Haha That’s not you either.
Me: Actually, it is.
Sierra Acosta: Really? Wow. You have a nice body.
The praise feels dangerously good.
Me: Better than Fake Superman?
Sierra Acosta: Actually yes.
Sierra Acosta: I don’t like overly muscular guys anyway.
Sierra Acosta: You should still let me set you up.
Me: I am not looking for anything right now. Still recovering from the last one.
Sierra Acosta: Aw okay. They would like you, though.
Sierra Acosta: Wow that picture is good. Saving it for later.
I laugh despite myself.
Me: For what, exactly?
Sierra Acosta: Use your imagination. If you have one. ;)
Me: I run D&D campaigns. Imagination is not the issue. I would prefer to hear your plan in detail.
Sierra Acosta: Maybe some other night.
The gentle shutdown stings less than expected.
Me: Tease.
Silence. Then my phone rings—one of the guys. I text her quickly.
Me: Friend calling. Give me a minute.
Sierra Acosta: Okay hurry.
The call is a rambling recap of the Phi Delta disaster: fistfight, police, underage drinkers. I half-listen while my mind drifts to Sierra. She texts again.
Sierra Acosta: Taking a bath since you’re ignoring me.
I groan inwardly. The conversation with my friend stretches on—new game releases, meta shifts—until another buzz.
Sierra Acosta: Getting late. Going to bed. Here’s what you missed.
The photo shows her lower body in the tub: legs extended, feet propped on the faucet, manicured toes glistening. Bubbles obscure everything strategic, but the little mermaid tattoo on her thigh is fully visible—flowing red hair, sinuous tail. Elegant. Provocative. Maddening.
Sierra Acosta: Sweet dreams (of me) Alex
Heat floods my face. I cut my friend off mid-sentence—“Sorry, gotta go, emergency”—and hang up.
Me: He would not stop talking. Sorry.
No reply. She is probably already asleep. I stare at the photo, pulse loud in my ears, and curse my own timing.
