A Sketch Away From Perfect

Harper

"You should totally do it. My sister made loads of money. I think she paid off all her student loans!" McKenzy says, tapping the 'Apply' button on the screen insistently.

I look at https://atalooseend.com like it's a snake that's going to bite me. How did it come to this?!

"You're a poor, starving artist who doesn't sell enough pieces to cover the rent," she answers my unspoken question, her tone flat. "You have student loans so far up your ass you can taste the red ink! Trust me, this is your best option."

"But... what if they want sex?" I question, wondering if I have it in me to become an escort. I've never done anything like that before, though I'm certainly not a virgin.

McKenzy stabs her finger at the bold, red, 64-font words on the 'About' page. "'Dates are NOT required to or encouraged to provide sex or engage in sexual acts'. It's even in the legalese we read in the sample contract. Big and bold. In fact, if we go to the home page..." She reaches over my shoulder and maneuvers on my touchpad. "Ah, yes. See? They've practically got a neon sign with flares going off around it."

I have to admit, the website is making that point abundantly clear. "Still, dating for money? Isn't that a bit, you know, whorish?"

"Honey," she says, "you're at the end of your options. You're a beautiful, sophisticated, twenty-five-year-old starving artist. Shake that booty. Shake it now."

Then she hip-checks me out of the way of my own laptop and stabs my touchpad, lighting up the 'Apply' button.

"I'll just fill this out for you, if you're too nervous. Or proud." She winks at me. "You know, you're far too stuffy for a sexy woman your age. Live a little. Just give me your social security number and payment info when I ask for it, and you'll be all set."

I sit down on a plastic-and-metal chair creation of McKenzy's and try not to let out my internal scream. But she was right. If I'm going to stand on my own two feet and stop asking my parents for money, this is how it has to be.

"How's the 'rents?" she asks.

I swear she's a mind reader. "Pissed. They said if I ask for rent money one more time, they're moving me home, whether I want to go or not."

"Daaaaaamn." She fills out a few more fields.

I lean forward. "Just what the heck did you put in the 'interests' box?!"

"Big dicks." McKenzy rolls her eyes. "Relax. Art. Nature. Long walks on the beach. A good book. Partying-"

"I don't enjoy partying. I haven't done that since college," I object.

"Yeah, but they don't need to know that," she replies. "I mean, you're going to be a rent-a-woman. You're supposed to sound like you're a good time."

I groan. "McKenzy..."

"Relax. I've got this. You just go finish that painting you've been putting the 'finishing touches' on for a month." I can hear the condescension in her tone.

"You once wrestled with a coffee table design for the better part of a year," I protest.

"That was different. With the model, I can make more than one of its kind."

I see her type 'sexy and single' in another box and want to throttle her. Instead, I look away and respond to our conversation. "What do you think a lithograph print is?"

"Yeah, yeah. It's never the same as having the original," she mutters. "Okay, social security and payment info."

Thinking about my debts and knowing I've been utterly defeated, I sigh out the number. "And the email address for my payment method is michaelvernonfan33@gmail.com."

McKenzy swings her head around. "Are you still crushing on that guy?"

"I'm not! McKenzy, he's my favorite artist. I'm not crushing on him. I admire him and his work," I explain with failing patience.

"I get you. I get you. But I'll bet you'd pose naked for him and then roll around in the paint if you could." She giggles.

I rub my temples. "He's married."

"Well, shit. There goes a perfectly good fantasy," she laments.

"Are you done yet?"

McKenzy cracks her knuckles. "Aaaaand 'Submit.' Congratulations, you're a registered escort."

I throw a fuzzy decorative pillow at her. "Date. I'm a date!"

"I know. I'm just messing with you." She steps away from my laptop humming, proud of herself.

I feel sick to my stomach, nervously going over to see the profile she's made. "McKenzy, this isn't me!"

"Of course it's not you," she replies. "It's the you that you need to be to hook a man."

The profile picture in particular mortifies me. "I am not using a beach shot in a bikini as my picture!"

"You should actually add a lot more pictures," she muses. "They'll want to see you from every angle."

I consider shutting the whole thing down right then and there, but then my banking app pings my phone to tell me my balance has reached zero dollars.

"I'm changing the profile pic," I grumble. I look at my phone again and wince as the bank app continues with another push notification, letting me know something bounced. "And... maybe add a few more."

McKenzy claps me on the back. "That's the spirit!"

* * *

Two hours later, I've got what I think is a profile I can live with, sans bikini pics. I am just drying my hair after showering off flecks of paint, when my laptop dings. Curious, I look at my phone then realize I haven't downloaded the At a Loose End app.  It has to be the app. Everything else is synced to my phone.

I cautiously flip my laptop open, almost afraid the website will suck me in and deposit me at the feet of some pervert. Taking several deep breaths, I remind myself that I get the final say on who I choose to "date."

My avatar in the upper right corner winks playfully at me, tempting me to look at the request.

I have no choice. It's this or move back to Otsego to live with my parents. There is no way I'm moving back home..

I click on my avatar, and the very helpful drop-down shows me I have one request–and a message. I think I can handle the message. Actually, accepting the request might require some huffing into a paper bag first.

ScottIAm: Hi.

'Hi'? That's all I get? I look at his avatar, an ear of corn, and see a green dot indicating he's online. I decide to respond. If I can feel him out, maybe I'll feel better about accepting the date.