Mister O

Damn, her words are intense and so . . . naked. Something about this small screen makes her open up and reveal parts of herself to me. The sides she doesn’t show anyone. Except, she showed them to me at Speakeasy, and then at the coffee shop, and now it’s like an unveiling. The pieces of Harper she hides inside her top hat, or behind the red scarf, or just beyond a witty joke or quip. Most of the time she’s all now you see it, now you don’t. But this is a whole new part of her. Take away voice, face, and body language. Lean only on words and she . . . blooms.

I step away from the desk, pace across my apartment to the kitchen, then restlessly head to the bay window, staring out on the night sky of New York with the skyscrapers and neon gazing at me. I don’t want to say the wrong thing, and I don’t want to send her racing back to Veiled Harper land, so as I pick up my phone I choose a safe response, but one that acknowledges all her quirks.



You deserve all of that. I want you to have that.

Princess: I want it, too.





And quirks should never be changed. Keep all your quirks, Harper. I like them.

Princess: Same for you, Nick. I like yours, too.





I’m addicted to my phone. That’s something I’ve always tried to avoid, but I never know if she’s going to send me something that turns me on.

Except pretty much all her messages do, so I’m living in a state of suspended desire.

It’s fantastic and terrible at the same time. It feels amazing and also completely foolish. But this dizzy, heady sensation of wanting? It’s in charge right now, and it leads me on. I’d like to think this newfound infatuation with her texts is good for my show. Because this next episode is coming together like a dream, and after I leave a meeting with the head animator the next day, I make my way to the elevator so I can take off uptown to meet Tyler at Nichols & Nichols.

“Mister Hammer.”

The voice curdles my stomach.

“Hey, Gino.”

The network head strides up to me and straightens the jacket on his pin-striped suit. “Been thinking about The Adventures of Mister Orgasm,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I like to think I have several things in common with the hero.”

I stifle a cringe and just suck it down, so hard I might choke on it. “That so?”

He tugs at his tie. “I’m a bit of a ladies’ man myself.”

“I bet you are, sir.”

“And you know, I did create a show myself back in the day.”

Of course, he has to mention his brief flirtation with the other side. “I heard it was fantastic,” I lie.

He waves his I’m-so-humble wave. “It was a damn fine show. But here’s the thing. It wasn’t quite as racy as yours. Which got me to thinking,” he says, as he furrows his brow. His eyebrows are like two caterpillars riverdancing. “What if The Adventures of Mister Orgasm were more, say, family-friendly? I wonder if we could go broader, make it less naughty, and find an even bigger audience?” he says, giving me whiplash with his Mister Orgasm meets The Brady Bunch ideas. “Think about it.”

He slaps my back and takes off, and I scratch my head as I leave to see my attorney. The Uber I ordered waits by the curb so I slide in, say hello to the driver, and return to my new favorite thing—my text messages. It’s like hitting the jackpot, because there’s a note waiting for me.

Princess: I thought of some other things I like.





Tell. Me. Now.

Princess: Pretty, lacy lingerie.





Dragging my hand over my face, I sink down in the leather seat. Like that will hide this problem. I breathe out hard. Like that will make this steel rod in my pants fucking disappear before I walk into my attorney’s office. There are certain words that flip a switch on a hard-on, and she just used one of them. Lingerie.



What kind? What color? What style?

Princess: White. Black. Purple. With a little bow. On the rear. Picture a lacy panty, with a pretty little ribbon on the butt that can be untied.





I raise my face, and stare out the window. Maybe there’s a store somewhere with a tub full of ice. Maybe I can just go sit in it for a couple of hours to make this lust dissipate. Bows on panties that can be untied? C’mon. No man is strong enough to withstand those words.

Especially not a man who was sent a black satin bow with pink polka dots. A scorching heat wave crashes into me as I mouth holy shit. When Harper sent me the pencils tied with ribbon, it was like she left me a little hint before I even knew what it was. A clue to all her desires, to her secret fantasies. It’s like a woman undressing as she walks down the hallway, glancing back at you, her eyes saying follow this trail.

And I will follow.



Like a black satin bow with pink polka dots?

Princess: Yes. Did you like it?





I’m not sure I’ll ever look at it the same way again.

Princess: Did you enjoy untying it?