It took one misclick. As a checker and rechecker I let the impulse to recheck go just once. And in one fell swoop, I airdropped my pussy to everyone in this airport.
I’m still not really sure how that’s possible. The airdrop radius is only, like, 30 feet. You have to select every device that pops up by hand. My phone wasn’t even unlocked. But by some act of cosmic interloping, everyone in this airport is staring up my snatch.
Nearby an old woman in a white turtleneck lets out a gasp of revulsion, nearly dropping her phone to the geometric carpet, bedazzled wallet case and all. With shaking hands she thrusts the phone into her daughter’s hand. A low whistle. “I can’t explain why,” the daughter says softly, “but I get the distinct impression that whoever did this, whoever’s snoot this is, she’s probably got a rough relationship with her mother. Don’t you think, Ma?”
The old woman leans over to get another look and nods slowly. “Well… Yes, I suppose I see it too, now. Odd what all you can tell about a person, just by a thing like that.”
I rush past, head lowered, and run directly into the broad back of a large tree of a man in a denim jacket. “WOAH,” he barks, and I start to apologize before noticing his attention isn’t on me at all, but rather on his phone. He turns to his fellow tree-size friend. “Look at this shit!”
“My god,” his friend says as they shuffle toward the Dunkin’ Donuts line, “that thing is a looker. Doesn’t it look kinda… I don’t know. Like she’s probably a really attentive lover? Like she really cares about whether her partner enjoys it?”
“Huh, it really does. I bet she’s a trooper even when her arm gets tired.” They disappear into the sea of waiting customers.
I slip into a gaggle of people and push on toward my gate, fully intent on getting on this plane, reputation unmarred. I won’t be the girl who airdropped her pussy to everyone in this airport. I refuse.
No one will know. No one can know. No one has to know.
As I continue down the endless flecked terrazzo throughway, however, the crowd ahead gets thicker and slower, gumming up the works as they all stare flabbergasted at my pussy on their screens. I split off to the left. I still have half an hour until boarding. I figure that maybe I can weather this storm tucked into a booth at Qdoba.
I order a syrupy Coke and some plain tortilla chips and approach a free seat. “Excuse me,” I say meekly to the man taking up all four outlets at the table. I try to hide my face in fear that he might match it to my snatch. “Can I sit here?”
“Sorry,” he says gruffly, “I need to put my backpack there.” He slings his bag into the chair. I nod understandingly and start to flee. As I slip around behind him, I catch a glimpse of his tablet screen.
“You won’t fucking believe this. Some girl just airdropped me her cooter. Honestly it’s subpar, though. Solid construction, but it looks a bit unhappy. Like she’s a smoker, or she had a really shitty boyfriend in college who fell asleep and didn’t pick her up from the bus station and made her walk 4 miles home in the dark. Maybe on more than one occasion. Overall rating? 4/10.”
I take off like a shot out of the Qdoba, coke and chips in hand, weaving fast through the milling crowd now. Everywhere I look I see shocked, horrified, intrigued, curious, and leering faces, shoved close to phones, looking long and hard at my bare snatch on display. It’s too much to bare. I have to get out of here.
As I skirt a scandalized church group in matching orange T-shirts, I hear someone call out:
“Ma’am! Ma’am, wait!”
I look over my shoulder and go cold with fear as I catch sight of a short man in a three-piece suit barreling toward me at overwhelming speed. I try to outpace him, but two women with strollers are stopped ahead, sharing a tablet screen with sympathetic looks on their faces. “Poor thing,” one says, “I bet she’s a middle child.” I can’t get around.
“MA’AM!”
I’m powerless to move as my pursuer catches up and hits the brakes just before he bowls me over. He reaches out a hand to steady himself against my arm. “Ma’am, excuse me,” he says breathlessly, wiping sweat from his brow, “is this your pussy?”
He holds out his phone, showing me the picture. I look away. “No,” I say quickly, “no, it isn’t.”
“FUCK!” he cries. “Son of a bitch!” And he does look genuinely devastated, lip outstretched far enough for a bird to land.
“What?” I ask reflexively, though I’d rather not hear.
“I just know she would love this book I read last month. I’m dying to find her so I can tell her about it. If you find the owner of this pussy, PLEASE give her this. It would mean the world to me.”
He presses a blue business card into my hand and takes off, bearing down on a group of bridesmaids now, calling out again: “Ladies! Excuse me, ladies, does this belong to any of you?!”
I slip into the flow of traffic once more. I’m getting close to my gate now, I can just barely see it on the horizon. I dip low and charge through families, groups of all affiliations, groggy men and women rolling suitcases. They are all abuzz about my pussy.
“Really bad with plants?”
“Probably hates Michael Bublé!”
“Bad teeth!”
“Not a strong swimmer!”
I hurtle past these casual observations about my snizz, clawing desperately at air, racing for that beckoning gate sign.
Boarding has already begun. I vault over a frail woman who has fainted in the aisle, my cooch still displayed on the phone clutched in her outstretched hand. “Pulse is thready,” says a paramedic crouched over her.
I slip seamlessly into the line, and thank Christ, it is moving fast. In a minute’s time I stumble before the gate agent, fiddle quickly on my phone, and show her an image of my boarding pass. She scans it, smiling politely, then freezes.
“Just a second…” she says slowly, slipping a phone in a cat-shaped case from her back pocket. She unlocks it, taking ages. I glance around nervously, but no. I can’t run. There’s security all around.
She holds her phone close to her face, then looks at me, then back to the phone, then to my name on the boarding pass, back to the phone, then back to me again. “Is…” She laughs nervously. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but… Is this your pussy?” She turns the phone to me. I can’t speak. I just want this to be over. We lock eyes for a long moment.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “It just reminds me so much of someone I used to know… Ever lived in Flagstaff?”
I shake my head and put my phone back in my pocket. “Am I good?”
“Yeah,” she says distantly, staring off toward the window as she muses. “Yeah, you can go.”
When I get to my seat, I am sweaty, hoarse, and weeping with relief. This nightmare will soon end and I will be soaring overhead, rising up and far away from this awful airport, off to Connecticut, where no one has been airdropped my pussy. Perhaps I’ll cancel my return trip and make myself a life there. I could learn to appreciate a lobster roll.
A college-aged boy settles into the middle seat beside me, noisily taking off and stowing his windbreaker. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say.
“I’m on my way to see my girlfriend, up in Hadley.”
“Cool,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. He pauses a moment. “I’m actually so excited to get there. I have to tell her about what just happened.” He is looking at me expectantly.
“What just happened,” I ask.
“Some girl airdropped me her pussy. But it was the strangest thing… See, if I didn’t know better, I could swear that girl has a cold dread about her. Like maybe she’s lived her entire life without ever letting her feet leave the ground.”