Poor Connection

‘Are you gonna take your trousers off?’

I fumbled with my belt, wondering why I’d bothered wearing one in the first place. A shag would be pretty difficult with them on. I shuffled my arse around on the bed, lifting my hips and tugging at my jeans until eventually I had them off, trying not to knock my laptop around too much. She whooped as they were tossed to the floor.

‘Is this alright?’ I slowly slid my boxers down.

She gestured to her torso, now missing her bright yellow bra. I must’ve been too distracted with my belt to watch her remove it.

‘So, uh, how are we going to do this?’ I asked.

‘What do you want to do?’

‘Well, I -’ I trailed off. Stared at her tits. Made the screen brighter. ‘I imagined we’d talk. Get off. You know? Mutual masturbation.’  

I like to think that she blushed, but the WiFi was dodgy and I couldn’t really make it out. Still, it helped to imagine. Kept things exciting.

‘Will anyone hear?’ she asked.

‘Nah, Dan’s working and Stu’ll have his headphones in. Probably playing summat online.’

She started playing with her nipples. I leaned close to the laptop, trying to combat the pixalisation somehow.

She stopped. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Yes! Yes. Don’t stop. It’s just a bit blurry.’

If my bad signal bothered her, she didn’t show it. Her left hand went out of frame and returned with a purple vibrator. The buzzing was loud. I turned my sound down, a bit too much. Then up again, too loud; her panting could probably be heard in the hallway. I felt deflated; here she was, having a fantastic time, and I’d done nothing to help. I started stroking myself, used my thumb to play with the tip.

‘God, you look so hot,’ I said, hoping to recapture her attention. ‘Does that feel good?’ I rubbed myself harder, thinking about her tits. Kneading them like bread. ‘Tell me how it feels. Do you wish it was me?’ Thought about her slipping a finger in me. ‘We could imagine that vibrator -’

I came on my laptop.

‘Fucks sake.’

‘Already?’

Before I could respond, she’d ended the call. I slammed the laptop closed.

‘Stupid bastard.’

When I opened it back up, the white gunk was smeared across the Q, W, A, S and X. 



Georgia Wetherall lives in Chester, surrounded by books and plants. Her work has been featured in Fortnightly Review and Pandora’s Box, and she is the founder of Burnt Breakfast Magazine. 

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