I start a group chat with Gabe, Tobias and Banks.

Elise: Hi. What’s everyone up to?

The name of the group is immediately changed to Tram Fam. Tobias. I watch myself shake my head on the screen of my phone, but despite my exasperation, I instantly feel better.

Less alone.

Tobias: We’re in a group chat with Elise. Hell hath frozen over, lads.

Banks: What’s wrong? Are you okay?

Gabe: Watching 30 for 30. Having a beer.

My mouth twists with a smile over how different they are from each other.

Elise: I’m fine. Rough day at work. Distract me?

There’s an extended pause. Then…

Tobias: To answer your original question, I’m obviously in my penthouse, standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling window in silk boxers, staring broodily out at the city lights…

Banks: A tripod set up to capture the moment, otherwise it didn’t happen, right?

Tobias: The shorts are so brief, my cock looks like it could tumble out at any moment.

Gabe: Porno Bruce Wayne.

Banks: Christ.

Tobias: YES. Waiting for Elise’s bat signal. Is this it? Are we fucking, Fam?

Elise: I instantly regret this group chat.

Tobias: Ah, but you’re distracted now, aren’t you, love?

A sound makes me jump—and I realize it’s my own laughter.

Gabe: I don’t like Elise having a rough day at work.

Banks: No, me either.

Tobias: Who made it rough? I’m a lover, not a fighter, but I can make an exception.

Banks: Can one even fight in silk boxers?

Tobias: Yes, as long as no one minds my tumbled out cock. Spoiler: no one ever does.

Gabe: I got challenged to a lot of fights growing up, but no one was ever my size. Didn’t feel fair, punching someone smaller than me.

Elise: That’s because you’re a good man, Gabe.

Banks: She has a soft spot for you, Gabe. Don’t screw it up.

Gabe: Maybe we could just steal something from whoever made you have a bad day.

Banks: Way to ignore my advice.

Elise: GABE! No stealing!

Tobias: Elise, do you like me yet? Have we made progress?

Tobias: Because I think of nothing but ripping your fucking panties off.

The group chat goes quiet, but it’s not quiet in my room. Or inside my body. Everything is pulsing. Scrambling. The lamp glow of my room has gone from functional to seductive, the cool Manhattan breeze doing nothing to keep my skin from heating, flushing. Maybe the events of the day and my need to distract myself are making me extra brazen. Or maybe it’s the safe headspace these men put me in, but for whatever reason, I find myself standing in front of the mirror hanging on my closet door and stripping off my night shirt.

I face the window, cock a hip and look back over my shoulder, snapping a picture of my reflection. Of me, long, dark hair down and messy to the middle of my back, covered only in baby blue, bikini-cut underwear. I send the picture to the chat, alone with…