Best Friends Don't Kiss(94)
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.
“Cassie…” I pointed in her direction, but it was too late. She was already standing on top of our coffee table, using the remote for a microphone.
My best friend had this thing with making parody songs out of pretty much anything when inspired. And she didn’t do it quietly. No way, quiet was not Cassie’s style. She sang like she was Adele performing at the Grammys.
“I call this one White House Lovin’,” Cassie announced.
I groaned but secretly couldn’t wait to see what she would come up with. Think Kristen Wiig on Saturday Night Live kind of hilarious shit. That was Cass.
“Blue-dress intern, found my pants fast…”
“White House intern, it was a blast…”
She was singing her little heart out.
“This girl, she was crazy for D…”
Snapping fingers. Pelvic thrusts. Head bobs. Cassie wasn’t missing a beat.
“Met the prez, down on both knees…”
One verse in and the dick pic bandit had been forgotten. I hopped off the couch and tackled her to the floor. She screamed. I laughed. And five minutes later, Cassie was back on the coffee table while I sang backup to the rest of her ridiculous song.
Tell me, whore… Tell me, whore…
Admit it, you’re singing it too.
Later that night, once I had cozied myself in bed and was so very close to reaching that heavenly REM cycle, the ping of my phone pecked at me. I groaned my way out of Dreamland slowly. God, it was time to make some major life changes. For example, the alert settings for my TapNext profile in my phone. It was either that or murder, and I’m the kind of person who likes to dip a toe in the pool water to test it rather than cannonball my way in.