TapNext was the latest and greatest dating-site-turned-app for single men and women to meet, chat, and, hopefully, find their next date. Generally speaking, it was a better alternative to nights out at a bar or club. Because, for me, those nights had the same ending—politely declining the thrilling (insert heavy sarcasm) offer of hooking up with some random dude at his apartment, one hell of a hangover, and weird guys with names like Stanley or Milton sending me texts for late-night booty calls for the next month. Which I always ignored.
My business card said Director of Marketing, Brooks Media. It was a hefty title for someone just starting out in their career, but I had earned it. I worked harder than anyone else in my department, and it also may have helped that the man who held the position prior to me had been fired after being arrested for picking up a prostitute in one of the company cars. Why he had even been driving a company car in the city was still confusing to me. Seriously, even hookers cabbed it in New York.
Since Brooks Media owned TapNext, it was easy to understand why I was well versed and highly invested in the app’s success. It was a requirement when hired—all single employees had to create a TapNext profile. Staff were strongly encouraged to use the app and give honest feedback about their experiences. Profile names were kept top secret and on penitentiary-style lock-down with Human Resources. And feedback stayed anonymous.
Translation: Don’t worry, TAPRoseNEXT, your boss doesn’t know about your pervy play on words.
At first, I’d felt it was an odd way to handle business, but after two years of working at Brooks Media, I’d found that my TapNext profile was a damn good way to do research and find promotional ideas.
My phone pinged with the offender’s response.
BAD_Ruck (11:38PM): …
Did he just ellipsis me? Really?
TAPRoseNEXT (11:38PM): Creep Threat Level MOTHERFUCKING Red.
There was no immediate response, but the rest of my rant would not be contained.
TAPRoseNEXT (11:39PM): Don’t any of you know how to start conversations anymore? Jesus.
Cassie sighed beside me. “Stop slamming everything around, Wheorgiebag! I’m trying to watch American Ninja Warrior and you’re totally messing with my pumped up vibe.”
I ignored her, still focused on finding a way to erase the offending images from my brain.
She peeked over my shoulder before I could pull my phone away. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Is that my picture on your profile?”
Creamy, perfect-skinned thighs on display, she was bent over with her dark brunette head peeking through the space between her open legs. Her hooch just barely escaped making an appearance.
“Paybacks, Casshead.”
“And what did I do to deserve being your pro-bono photo ho?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Do I have to choose just one?”
“Go ahead, give me one example. I dare ya.”
“College. Sophomore year. I told you not to post those pictures on Facebook, but did you listen? Of course not.”
She grinned. “Ahhhhh, yes. I remember those. I thought you looked really cute that night.”
“My head was in the toilet.”
“But you had those cute puppy dog eyes going on.” She glanced at my phone again, dusky gray eyes hitting the phallic bull’s eye. “Holy hell, what is that? Is that Quasimodo’s dick?”
I stood up from the couch and began to pace in front of the TV. “Four dick pics today, Cassface. Four!”
Cassie scrunched her face up. “And what? You were hoping for five?”
My expression was a combination of disgusted and puzzled.
“You know,” she explained, “one to fill all the holes and one for each hand.” Easy to interpret and equally graphic hand gestures matched her words as she spoke. “Although, I’m not sure I’d want DP from The Hunchcock of Notre Dame.” One look at my face and she coughed out a laugh. “You’re not really a prude, but right now, you’re playing one on TV.”
I groaned and gave in, planting my ass back on the couch and burying my face in my hands. “I guess it’s because this profile is for work research. I have this unjustified sense that it should be more professional.”
She shook her head and smiled, propping her mismatched-sock feet on the arm of our couch. “I gotta say, that wiener is pretty fucking awful. But, Georgie, you work for a company that specializes in an app called TapNext, not the White House.”
After a brief beat of silence, we laughed at the same time, and I raised one eyebrow in question. “You’re comparing TapNext to the White House?”
“You’re right,” she agreed. “Bad analogy. There’s probably more dick pics there.” A giant, mischievous grin consumed Cassie’s face as she grabbed the remote.