Blue Film

Matt Mattila

          Justin found her online. It wasn’t hard. The girl made it too easy.

          She wasn’t on a dating service, or blog, or modeling page. The redhead  slipped the clothes off of her pale, warm flesh and posted it on a porn site.

          It wasn’t the first time he had seen her. In person, she had long red-blonde hair, a soft face with bright eyes and pink lips, a good body with a long curve and ample features. She was stunning. The girl knew it. Justin could only admire her from a distance. He couldn’t remember her name.

          He’d met her at school, on campus. He didn’t have a class with her. They hadn’t talked. He didn’t have a crush on her then. Now, with the blue computer screen shining in his face, the only light in a studio apartment filled with darkness, Justin knew that he would want this girl forever.

          He stopped daydreaming long enough to stare at the screen again. He shook the mouse and the stars ran away. The website popped up—logo in the corner: a nine trying to break out of  a ball, black and purple columns stretching vertically and across the rest of the screen. Between, in even rows, small yellow script sent him to any bedroom, shower, staircase, or bathtub he wanted. The words let him experience S&M or Lesbians or Bondage or Anal, if he was into any of those things. Sometimes he was.

          But tonight he only needed the redhead again. The girl he’d seen. The one he would always come back to.

          He had to see her one more time.

          It wouldn’t matter if he got nothing out of this. He would do anything for this goddess now. 

          At once, Justin found her in his browser history. After the loading page and title came her face, hair flipped to one side like a red river. Her glossed lips parted in a knowing smile. Her grey eyes sparkled, clawed at his soul. You know you want me, they said. She might have been in the middle of a moan. White tank top straps glided off her shoulders to reveal pale, lonely skin.

          He bookmarked the page, made the girl a favorite, not giving a fuck if anyone else could see it from his computer. The only other person who’d ever used it had left him two months ago. She was never coming back. And now, with a different half-naked girl in front of him, Justin finally didn’t care.

          All he would ever need was the ginger girl by his side, in his bed.

Someday.

          But tonight, he clicked on her still portrait again, the girl a willing prisoner in the frame. He had to have her. The click seemed to take forever. His whole body shook. Now he’d have to wait for the buffer.

          The girl went full-screen. Every detail of her beauty—her soft face, the promise of the body beneath the thin layer of clothes—filled his eyes. Her video was muted. She didn’t need sound.

          It started with the girl close-up on the camera—a webcam, judging by the quality. Nothing but her face, a soft smile widening to show perfect teeth. Her hair flowed behind her ears, encompassing her face. She mouthed a word—okay—maybe preparing herself for what she’d do next.

          She glowed.

          She swayed.

          She danced.

          He watched.

          He wanted.

          His bloodshot eyes drew in every detail of her bedroom –the low bed fitted with green sheets, the white walls, the slide-out closet way behind her. The wall-high window that let her back into the sun.

          He’d have to find this place, and make love to her there.

          Justin paused the video. Twice, he had already seen the other nine-and-a- half minutes. His entire body felt like it was filled with lead. He glanced at the computer clock—3:58 ^A.M.  In three hours, he had to play cashier at Walmart.

          It was time to sleep and dream about her.

          The girl was everywhere. Justin was sure of it. He saw her face on every woman he rang up at the register. Through bloodshot eyes, every girl became her.

She followed him from the corner of his eye. She was everywhere. Every sweep of long hair meant she was there, waiting. The six-hour shift was torture. He tried to daydream. He stopped looking, started listening for her voice.

          He had never heard the girl’s voice. She could sound like anybody.

          When a woman talked, his head swung around. He would recognize her because she’d been working here, all along. Maybe that co-worker mumbling to herself while cleaning up a spill at her register. Or she was a customer talking on the other side of the store. Or a high school girl bitching on her phone.

          He never stopped looking. But she was never there.

          Six long hours: another forty-something dollars in his pocket. Back to the apartment with cracked walls and no kitchen table. Back to the loneliness. Back to the girl in the video.

          The last nine-and-a-half minutes of blue film. Then bed. Then, in the morning, school: the Tuesday classes he hated. The classes he was forced to take so he didn’t waste all of that loan money.

          Justin scanned every female face he encountered. Every face looked like hers till he turned to get an actual look. Till he went down to the café and sat at the counter where windows overlooked the entire campus.

Outside, the rain was relentless. Girls were mere outlines. Only from this distance could they stop looking like her.

          He sipped from the paper cup, sucked on the ice once the soda was gone. He set the cup down next to the tray.

          Next to him was a ginger girl, circling her soup with a spoon. Her hair was pushed over to one side of her head. Her face was soft, with spare makeup. She was beautiful.         

          He kept looking at her, but her face didn’t change.

          What to say? A million questions bubbled under the surface. He swallowed, tried to speak without stuttering.

          “You—like it here?”

          Her grey eyes glared at him. She half-smiled, then looked down at the soup. When she shrugged, her hair moved with her shoulder.

          “Haven’t been going here long enough, I guess,” she said finally. “I’m a freshman.”

          “Really?” His voice cracked. “You don’t look much like a freshie.”

          She smiled.

He smiled back, held out his hand. She took it, gently.

          “Justin,” he said.

          “I’m Erin,” she said.

          “Irish enough?”

          She grabbed her hair, held it up. The last time he saw her do this, she was slipping off a tank top.

          “I’m a ginger,” she said. “Of course I’m Irish.”

          She laughed. Justin smiled back, looked at her eyes.

This would be easier than he thought.

          Three weeks later, Justin was in the green-sheeted bed. In the last half-hour, Erin had twisted in more ways than he’d imagined. Every part of her was natural.

          At last, every piece of her was his.

          It was midnight. In seven hours, they both had classes. The last half hour had drained them. She lay her hand across his chest. He held her close, kissed her forehead one more time.

          She breathes, he thought.  She’s real.

          In the darkness, she tried to look up at him.

          “Can I tell you a secret?” he whispered. He shifted nervously, took his arm from her side.

          He felt her nod.

          “Before we met,” he said, “I found you online.”

The truth ran hollow. He felt her shaking.

“You were doing a striptease,” he said, “On video. I saw it on the Web site.”

She didn’t answer.

          “Erin,” he said, “you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”

          She mumbled his name.

          “Yeah?” he whispered.

          “I’ve never posted a video in my life.”