‘Bl0ss0m’ by Katy Finnegan

@ImYourMan he called himself. She liked it, liked the reference to Leonard Cohen and the playful tone of the username. She thought she detected a romantic soul in the photos he had up – a tall, broad back gazing out to sea, a hand wearing a rubber glove clenched into a fist. He reached out to her first.

*

@ImYourMan: Hello there miss
What’s a good girl like you doing on a site like this?
@Bl0ss0m: Who says I’m a good girl?
@ImYourMan: Back chat. Your good girl credentials are disappearing by the minute
@Bl0ss0m: I guess I’m achieving my objective then
@ImYourMan: And what objective would that be?
@Bl0ss0m: I don’t want to be good

*

It wasn’t long before they were messaging back and forth with regularity. He was older, 42 to her 22. She liked that, liked the way he praised her coltish body – nymphet material – and the way he told her, in great detail, about what he would like to do to it. She had always been self-conscious about her small breasts and bony shoulders. He made her feel there was something desirable, even pornographic, about her underdeveloped body. She began to wear her limp hair in two braids down her back. She bought lollipops and smeared the sugar over her lips like lipgloss. She snapped pictures and sent them to him. She had never before known the thrill of being a man’s fantasy, and she wanted to inhabit it as fully as she possibly could.

*

@ImYourMan: You’re gorgeous, an absolute peach I bet you’re sick of guys telling you that
@Bl0ss0m: Haha Not exactly
Guys don’t notice me much
@ImYourMan: I call bullshit. You’re beautiful and delicate and so so fragile and that makes you MORE beautiful
@Bl0ss0m: Youre sweet
@ImYourMan: You’re so sweet I bet you’d hurt my teeth if I bit you ;)

*

At work, she’d get distracted by his messages when she was supposed to be solving other people’s problems related to their routers. Her eyes would flicker to her phone, face up and glowing on her desk, and she’d flush at seeing what he had written, half-hoping none of her fellow workers would see, half-hoping they would. Here was a man with real desires and real demands, and she was the one he was choosing. When he told her he wanted a photo or told her to engage in some obscene act in the work bathrooms, she felt she had no choice but to acquiesce. For the first time since she was a child, she yearned to be good at something, to do something right. The daily interactions with him started to feel like an extension of her work tasks: speak to customers; log her cases on the system; respond to messages and orders from him. Of course, her manager reminded her that being on her phone was not acceptable during shifts and told her he was going to have to have a word with her if she didn’t ‘get the head down’. She could have worried vaguely about being fired, or outsourced somewhere with cheaper employees with better attitudes, but she couldn’t quite summon the wherewithal to care. In a strange way she suddenly felt she was unlikely to be here much longer. This wouldn’t be her life, she realized, she was meant for better things. She didn’t necessarily have any concrete plans to look for another job or take another course to supplement her reluctant Arts degree, but she had a feeling things were going to change. The grey plastic desk, the narrow strip-lit corridors: all of it started to seem abstract to her, like a set where she performed day by day. Now, after work, she would go straight to her room and text him at leisure from evening until night, lying there in bed unable to sleep, fizzing with excitement, the sense of an unknown future cantering towards her in the dark. And in the mornings when she looked in the mirror, she couldn’t help but smirk. With each day that passed in the warmth of his attention, it felt as if a new self was blooming inside her like a repulsive flower.

*

@ImYourMan: I like being in charge. And I think you like being told what to do We’re perfect for each other already :P
@Bl0ss0m: When you say being in charge ... what do you mean by that?
@ImYourMan: I want to guide you, help you let go emotionally
Reveal the inner you …
Bring you to the person you really and truly crave to be
I LOVE it HAHA
@Bl0ss0m: That sounds interesting
@ImYourMan: It’s not about the act it’s about the emotion
Although the acts are great too ;)
@Bl0ss0m: Sometimes I forget I have emotions
@ImYourMan: Life is like that
But I’m here to help

*

‘Did you have a good day?’ Her mother asked, looking up from the crossword at the kitchen table.

‘Fine,’ she replied, ‘it was fine.’ She dumped her bag on the chair in the corner. The kitchen was dim, the pendant light above the table exaggerating the hollows in her mother’s face.

‘How was work?’ Her mother rested her chin on her rounded, spotted knuckles. ‘Was your boss at you today?’

‘Fine.’ She sighed. ‘And no, he wasn’t.’

‘So it was a good day, overall?’

She didn’t reply to this, walking out into the hallway and clomping up the stairs to her room. She didn’t like talking with her mother for any sustained period, or even being in close proximity to her soft, ageing body with its cottony musk. It made her feel uncomfortable. She knew that it hadn’t always been like this. Sometimes when she was half asleep, she could dimly remember the lightness she had felt in her mother’s arms as a small child, the sense of being picked up and held that was uncomplicated and pure. She would try to hold onto this feeling before coming fully into consciousness, into the familiar cold sense of lovelessness that pervaded her home. Her mother and her were like sad ghosts drifting in the house with no humans to haunt.

*

@ImYourMan: Question for you miss thing
What are the things that make you most happy and most sad?
@Bl0ss0m: Hmmmm I think they go together
Like a donut has a hole and thats what makes it special
So I can’t really answer your question
@ImYourMan: Very eloquent. I think we’ll get along
@Bl0ss0m: Do you think I’m like a donut?
@ImYourMan: Perfectly formed, creamy and delicious, with something missing in the middle … sounds about right ;)
@Bl0ss0m: I like your weird compliments
@ImYourMan: I like you

*

She had a friend once. Cathy. Neighbours and then classmates in school, they would walk home together and sit by the river which flowed through their suburb, squatting on damp rocks under bridges, drinking cans of coke. She’d talk to Cathy about her most private thoughts, telling her about how she wanted to escape from here, erase her identity and start again somewhere far away. Texas. Spain. Somewhere dusty and romantic and sleazy where nobody knew her. She wanted to be renewed, as if the fourteen years of her life so far had badly warped her and set her up for failure. Cathy reassured her that she wasn’t warped, she was totally fine, they just needed to concentrate a little harder on cultivating their social life. They took up smoking, hanging around the gym with people who had parties when their parents were away, or went drinking in the field behind the GAA pitch. Cathy did most of the talking, while she smoked and did her best to look mysterious. One night they were out there in the field with a group of boys. Damp grass in the black dark. Clammy hands wrapped around naggins of vodka. She watched Cathy whispering to one of the boys, then another, then another. Eventually Cathy gave her a pitying look and she realized she had been rejected wholesale. She tried not to let it show. She watched as Cathy crept off with one of them beyond where they could be observed, and she took this as her cue to leave. After that she wasn’t invited out by Cathy, they no longer walked to school together nor sat beside one another in class, but from a few seats behind she noticed the grass stains on Cathy’s white runners.

*

@ImYourMan: Let’s meet. This weekend
@Bl0ss0m: Idk …
Not sure if I’m free
@ImYourMan: Are you scared?
@Bl0ss0m: Don’t insult me
@ImYourMan: There’s no need to be scared. I just want to give you what you want
@Bl0ss0m: I’ll need to think about it
@ImYourMan: Sure, take your time ~
You’re lucky I don’t mind dealing with a cocktease :)

*

They had been talking now for three weeks, and he was pressing her to meet again and again. She had to admit, it did sort of seem like something had to happen. The momentum of their conversations was flagging and the excitement of the pings on her phone was wearing off. Before even looking at the message she knew what he would be saying to her, the same softly insinuating threats and promises. Perhaps she needed more.

She had never intended to meet anyone when she set up a profile, she was just curious. She had had a profile on the site for a while but hadn’t responded to any of the sparse messages she’d received, most of which were crude and off-putting. The sole photo she had up was of the top half of her face, her eyes underneath a black knitted hat with cat ears. O mysterious miss thing, he had said in one of their early exchanges, I want to know your secrets. She felt her life had a new richness now she did actually have a secret, now she could finally imagine what it was she wanted from life.

He had helped her. Was helping her. There was something about the way he spoke to her that made her want to say yes to everything: he knew the right words to send a jolt through her body. There was a sense that she was in a safe pair of hands. She would not have to worry about performing, about being charming or interesting, about humiliating herself – he would do it all for her. She imagined her body lying on a bed, erotically passive, exquisitely un-culpable. She wanted to remove her boundaries, unleash the inner her to the outer world. All she had to do was say yes.

*

@ImYourMan: Friday, 8pm U, me and all the privacy we need to make it one to remember
@Bl0ss0m: Ok then mister man
Lets do it
@ImYourMan: Cheers to THAT
I’m glad you’ve decided
You have no reason to be scared around me little miss peach
@Bl0ss0m: I’m not scared. Maybe a bit nervous
@ImYourMan: A certain amount of nervousness is becoming in a girl, especially one as cute as you
@Bl0ss0m: I guess thats part of the appeal
@ImYourMan: Do you like feeling nervous?
@Bl0ss0m: Apparently I do
Lucky for you

*

The evening before they were scheduled to meet, she stayed in her room, planning and preparing. She browsed for outfit inspiration online – tiny tank tops emblazoned with the word ‘Daddy’ in a curly pink font, knee socks with frills at the top, chokers spelling out in diamante: BABYGIRL. She had a moodboard of saved posts with brands she liked, the girls posing with their teddy bears, eyes looking out at her, heavy-lidded and mysterious while sad, sultry music played over the image. Implicitly she knew this is what he would prefer. In her teenage fantasies of sexual trysts, she had imagined stockings and suspenders, maybe a pair of shining black stilettos. She was starting to see that this wasn’t correct. White cotton underwear, he had told her. She put them on experimentally and looked at her skinny legs in the mirror, the knickers with the tiny bow in the centre. There was something exciting about making herself so vulnerable. It felt like being innocent again.

*

She was a late bloomer. Sixteen the first time blood appeared in her knickers. Her mother was excited, laughing with a kind of gleeful relief. We got there in the end. See, no need to worry. The blood wasn’t red, it was brown, like it had been congealing inside her for a long time, waiting to get out. The very same afternoon she took a nail scissors to the inside of her arm, just to check it was red there the way it was supposed to be.

At that time, she spent most nights on the computer in the spare room upstairs, scrolling on Tumblr or Googling various questions from the far reaches of her brain.

Is it normal to bleed for two weeks straight.

Does Ireland have any serial killers.

What does drowning feel like.

Sometimes she’d go on websites where people would chat to you or show you what was happening on their webcam. She liked looking at strangers. She liked looking at their rooms, the posters on their walls, the furniture in the background, but she never turned on her own camera no matter how many times she was asked. She didn’t like the thought of seeing her own face illuminated in the blue glow of the screen, another bottom-feeding fish in a tank.

Sometimes during those quiet evenings, she would look at pornography – not watch, just look at. She liked boys in theory, but she wasn’t interested in looking at them. Instead, she’d pore over photographs of women. Their bare, spread bodies reminded her of the spatchcocked chicken her mother would serve on a Saturday. Some of them looked happy, they smiled or bit their lower lip. Some of them were in tears – bent, bound and gagged – and she felt instinctively that these women were more like her.

*

@ImYourMan: I can tell you’re special
@Bl0ss0m: You’re probably the only one
@ImYourMan: :(
Why do you say that?
@Bl0ss0m: I can’t talk about myself to people. So they think I’m boring
@ImYourMan: You’re anything but boring
@Bl0ss0m: Yeah of course you’d say that. Youre biased cause Im giving you what you want
@ImYourMan: Sure, I believe god made you just for me
He heard my purest and most desperate prayers for a gorgeous young thing still fresh and most importantly WILLING haha
But it’s not only that
@Bl0ss0m: …
@ImYourMan: I’m impressed by you Somehow you haven’t been ruined yet by this culture we live in that tells you you’re not allowed to want what you want
@Bl0ss0m: I dont think theres any other way to be. Brains not wired that way
@ImYourMan: That’s exactly what I mean. And this is just the beginning Goodnight, sweet thing. Until tomorrow x

*

At dinner her mother asked, ‘Are you going out tonight?’

‘Yes, actually,’ she replied, twirling her spaghetti. She focused on the tines of her fork, looping each strand carefully. She was doing everything with precision today.

‘With who?’ Her mother looked up from her plate, trying to disguise her surprise.

‘Some friends from work.’

‘That’s brilliant.’ Her mother’s thin lips curved into a smile. ‘I’m glad you’re settling in there.’

‘I hate it there.’

It was silent except for the scraping of her fork against her plate. Her mother’s gaze rested on the geranium on the windowsill, the stem of her wineglass held close to her chest. Serenely her mother said: ‘Never say hate. You’re too young to hate anything.’

‘I hate you,’ she said, and her mother looked at her.

‘You’re not a teenager anymore,’ the mother said, ‘try to be a bit more original.’

*

@ImYourMan: Looking forward to later :)
I’ve been waiting a long time for you

*

On the bus she tried to ignore the harsh lighting, the stained blue and yellow fabric of the seat underneath her skirt, the mingled scent of energy drinks and sweaty commuters. She looked out the window. In the heat of the summer evening, the streets of Dublin were thronging with people drinking on pavements, sitting outside restaurants, walking and laughing and socializing. From the upper deck, she felt an unsurpassable distance between herself and these people.

Now exiting the bus, she tried to picture his face, which she had seen only in the handful of grainy photos he had shared. The dim image of him she held in her mind seemed far removed from her feet on the pavement, the passersby under the streetlights. She felt like she was in a dream, a transfigured reality where she had permission to do anything. She looked over her shoulder, back towards the direction of the bus stop. As she came closer to the house, she felt her nervousness ossifying into an almost hypnotic state. Yes, she was anxious, but what would happen if she simply turned around and went home? Back to her bedroom with its dull familiarity, her mother with the tv blaring, the washing on the clotheshorse in the corner of the room – it was too much to bear. I’m ready for you, he messaged her. She wasn’t going back, not to that place. She was going to become a new person and he was going to help her.

*

She thought college would be a fresh start. She thought she might make new friends, or even find someone special. She was wrong, naturally. A few times she hung around the fringes of parties on campus, a drink clutched in her hand. A few times she ended up back at someone’s flat. Dank bedroom, cold sheets, someone on top of her. It was always the same. She’d dig her nails into their backs, trying desperately to feel that this moment was somehow significant, trying to bring some drama to these drunken couplings, before removing herself from the bed and into a taxi. And inevitably she would be disappointed that the experience didn’t change anything, not even a bruise to help her feel in some way transformed. Afterwards she might run into these boys in the library or see them sitting a few rows away in lectures. Always their eyes would slide past her. She felt unsatisfied, under-utilized. Her heart was untouched, going rancid inside her.

*

‘Hello you,’ he said, opening the door to her. ‘Come in.’

She walked into the hallway, noticing the smooth blonde floorboards, the coved ceiling, and submitted to his friendly embrace. Into her ear, he said, ‘So good to finally meet.’

‘Mhm,’ was all she could manage in response. For what else could she say to this man? He who had told her all sorts of plans he had for her, who had requested and looked at photos of her from every degrading angle, to whom she had told her most secret desires? She felt startled by his appearance, not because he was ugly, but simply because he was verifiably real. He was the person he claimed to be, which was different to the person she imagined.

He gestured and they entered a living room, small yet tastefully decorated with a fire blazing in a narrow fireplace, a multicoloured rug covering the floor.

‘Sit down,’ he said, and she sat on the ground while he perched on the edge of an armchair. It felt more natural that way. On the coffee table was a bottle of red wine, two glasses and a small dish of olives. Also on the table was a candle and what looked like a vintage suitcase made of dark green leather.

He noticed her looking, reached a large hand out to touch her haunch, just visible underneath her short tennis skirt. ‘How would you like this to go?’

*

She was 21, sitting at the kitchen table. Her mother had baked a cake, a sponge ringed with halved strawberries, like little hearts. For the graduate, she said, kissing her on the cheek. The two of them ate slices of the cake, served on the good plates, before covering the rest of it in tinfoil and putting it in the fridge. She went upstairs then and lay on her bed. The breeze wafted in through the half-open window, still warm, even though it was autumn. She heard the gentle tread of her mother on the landing, lingering outside her room before walking away. The house was so quiet then she could hear herself breathing. Her body felt drained of energy. She had made it to adulthood, and now the long slog of her life stretched out before her. How was she going to go on like this? She felt something yawning in her heart. She was an open wound. A bottomless pit with nothing inside. She thought to herself: someday, something good has to happen to me.

*

He didn’t start gently. He didn’t need to, the rules were clear. All she could do was exactly what he commanded in a firm tone, the tone of someone who has no qualms about his right to be obeyed. She cried out and it was with relief. This sudden sense that that which had been gnawing at her for years now finally had a shape. She felt a confluence of things coming together in her, a distillation of pain that felt not just pure but crystalline, beautiful. She was opening up, finally unfurling into something new.

She thought, perhaps, she might be in love.

From issue 17: spring/summer 2024

About the Author
Katy Finnegan works as a copywriter by day and moonlights as a fiction writer and poet. Her writing has been published in Crannóg, Crossways and The Ogham Stone. She was also shortlisted for the Bridport Short Story Prize. She lives in Dublin.