Thrilled to Announce by C.E. McKenna

Let’s dissociate for a sec.

There she is: white girl drunk on the dance floor of the Reed student union. It’s all dark, pinewood paneling with an open-air loft. Unmatched, thrifted couches pushed to the sides of the large room, smelling of American Spirits and stale beer. Patchouli. Old weed.

It’s the spring of 2007, just shy of her 21st birthday. But she’s baby-faced. Hooded eyes that disappear into slits when she grins. Large cheeks. Looks closer to sixteen. She’s wearing a strappy, black, empire-waisted dress with a plunging neckline. Her breasts are medium-sized and perky enough to go without a bra. She has a healthy body that fluctuates between athletic and chubby, depending on the season. Right now, it’s on the smaller side — she’s been deadlifting and running hill sprints. She has strong ankles, which is good because she’s wearing high wedges.

Her legs are covered in bruises. Big, purple welts, fringed in yellow. She is proud of them because she chose them. She’s played fly half for her rugby team for two seasons now. Been stomped on and kicked, had women who outweigh her by a hundred pounds crash to the ground in her arms. She chose this dress partly to show off the new mark on her right shoulder blade: a perfect imprint of three metal toe cleats that have only faded a little in the week since she earned them.

She is doing wild, arm-out turns to mashed-up songs. Iggy Pop and the Teddybears. White Panda. Usher and Britney and TV on the Radio.

And here he comes — blond hair, wide shoulders. Scruff along his neck and jaw. He’s one of the few guys at this tiny, bookish liberal arts college who looks like a man. He’s got a good smile — that mischievous kind that pulls to the side, as if he’s got a plan. They know each other. He plays for the men’s team. They’ve practiced together on the pitch with the same coaches for three years.

But this is the first time their eyes have met with a spark.

***

You know what’s weird? I can’t remember that guy’s name.

I could try to find it online, I guess. Ask around. Do a snoop.

But it’s been eighteen years since that night. And I took myself off all those social media sites, those data reservoirs. I took myself out of that comparison wheel, that propaganda machine.

I’m not curious enough to reanimate the foul corpse of my Facebook profile just to remember something as meaningless as a blond boy’s name.

So why are we here?

Because I need to check and see if I was always going to end up this way.

***

Back to the dance floor.

She’s not confident enough to reach out and grab him by the shirt, pull him to her. But just thinking about that act seems to be enough of a snare.

There’s his right hand reaching out to her hip. A heavy grasp. Pulling her towards him, wrapping around her back. His thigh slides between her legs. His dick comes alive when she presses close. Just a twitch, rigid and strong.

The room shines. Her friends’ eyes glitter, mixing with the perennial twinkling fairy lights that drip from the loft and hang from the empty curtain rods above the windows. Neon and navy. Plaid flannel shirts. Worn Carhartts. Tattoos of snowflakes and tomato plants and The Golden Ratio. Women in bike shorts and pasties dancing with their eyes closed. BO and Goldschläger. PBR. Black coffee. Things are getting twirly and she’s not certain if it’s because of the twists she spun or because those shots of Fireball her friend gave her in a bathroom stall have made their way into the happy depths of her brain.

They haven’t said anything to one another, but he’s about to. He leans in close to her ear. She can feel his breath, humid and warm, on her neck. She swells, moves closer.

But instead of speaking, he bites her earlobe. Hard. Pain radiates along the part of her neck that was tickled, just moments before. It sobers her a little and she pulls away. His hand on her hip grips tighter.

She rubs her ear. Then she holds a pointer finger up to his face, dancing it back and forth. No-no-no.

It wasn’t enough to walk away, though.

***

I’m remembering all this while sitting at an unbalanced table in a downtown Boulder beat-poet coffee shop where the baristas all have self-cut micro bangs and lean, muscular biceps. The place is full of grad students working on statistical analyses and English papers. None of the women here have visible bruises, but I can see them demonstrate their strength in the way they hold themselves. Sturdy in hiking boots. Midriff-baring tank tops showing tanned, strong abs. Shoulders back. Eyes alert.

They walk with such purpose and I am jealous.

I’ve had a hard time determining what my purpose is anymore.

I stare at my laptop, open to the LinkedIn job postings “Top Picks For You.” Senior Front End Developer. Engineering Manager. Founding Full-Stack SWE. I click through them. AI companies. Fin-tech. Ad-tech. E-commerce. SaaS. I have thirteen years of experience in software, yet I’m still applying to jobs like I did right out of undergrad.

No, I take that back. It’s not the same as it was in 2008. It’s worse now.

Now, humans aren’t the ones you have to wow to get through to the next stage; it’s computers parsing keywords.

Worked with React but not Vue.js? Rejected.

Deployed Docker containers to AWS and Azure, but not Google Cloud? Rejected.

Led a team of eight instead of ten?

Guess. What. Loser.

The while-we-appreciate-your-interest-we-do-not-feel-that-you-are-the-best-match emails ping into my inbox at 11:52 PM on the weekend. I’d like to say that they ruin my Saturday nights, but when you’ve been unemployed for a year and a half, Saturdays are a lot like Tuesdays.

Especially because I get those emails on Tuesdays, too.

I used to be able to dazzle an interviewer with my smile, my confidence, my wit. But computers don’t give a shit about those qualities. Instead, they’re using Natural Language Processing to take in every word of the submitted resumes, weighting the applicants’ achievements, compiling a shortlist of the best candidates. Sending out condolences.

And you know what’s funny? I know how the system works because at my last job, I was the Director of Software Engineering. We built out AI to make shopping for cosmetics easier. I led a team that used machine learning, collaborative filtering, item-based recommendations. There I was, thinking I was moving up in the world — that the work I put in would be rewarded with more responsibility, more challenges. People would seek me out to solve their problems. Onward Ho!

But no.

My iced tea is sweating. Water has pooled around its base. I scroll through posts from my LinkedIn connections.

“Thrilled to announce I’ve been promoted to VP of Marketing.”

“Excited to share that our new deep-learning application is in beta.”

“Looking forward to attending Google Cloud Next!”

I go back to the jobs and click through applications, uploading my newest, keyword-stuffed resume while my brain drifts back in time. I put on a White Panda mashup, then push one of my headphones back and dig two fingernails into my earlobe. But there’s no reason to.

I don’t need that pain in order to see it all.

***

He nods his head in rebuttal. Yes-yes-yes.

Then, he leans in again to the same ear. This time, he nibbles. She decides to forgive the bite. Maybe he just can’t multitask.

His mouth moves down her neck to collarbone, shoulder, chest. She tilts her head back. Grinding to the beat, which he thankfully keeps, she forgets herself for a moment. It’s all his body — the ridges of his forearms, the hard cartilage of his kneecap, his soft but chapped lips.

Press and pulse. 4/4 time. Left and right. Snare drum. Rhyme.

What is he doing? There’s a twinge on her right breast and she realizes he has pulled down her dress. His mouth is on her nipple. The world slows down and she wonders how long he’s been there, suckling on her in front of the whole school.

This is not the type of person she is.

She pulls away, covers herself.

And yet. Has there ever been a man before this who wanted her so badly? She can’t think of one. Right now, he’s all there is. Hard and fervent, pulling her as close as he can. Using her for his own pleasure. In this moment, she’s valued. And that’s enough.

She whispers, “Let’s go.”

***

Halfway through my iced tea, I remember his name. Kyle.

I click into the LinkedIn search bar and type it. His circular profile photo pops up immediately.

Of course we are in each other’s network. Reed’s student body is only 1,400 people, and there’s only ever forty or fifty a year who play rugby. We’re all connected.

The iced tea has turned my palate sour.

I should post an update on LinkedIn for all these former colleagues and strangers whose cards I received at conferences and acquaintances from high school: Thrilled to announce I’m writing an essay about that one night in college.

***

They walk to his house, stumbling a little, holding hands and backing one another into trees with their hips. It’s early April. Cold so late at night. She didn’t wear a jacket. He doesn’t offer his.

He lives in a small ranch house in the neighborhood to the north of Woodstock, where the roads twist a little. It takes him a few tries to unlock the front door.

Inside, he pushes her against the wall and kisses her, his tongue pressing, warm and confident. Wanton. He leads her to his room.

She balks. “Where’s your bed?”

The edges of the cream carpet are dark. Dead flies like coal dust. In the center of the room is a yellow camping pad and a rumpled, plaid sleeping bag, zipped open. No pillow.

“I’m an ascetic.” He grins. “Camp-out style.”

He pulls her to the floor and rolls on top. She can feel the cleat bruises on her back in a small, aching constellation as they meet the short pile of the rug. Every part of her brain that had been attuned to his physicality, his horn-doggedness, the throbs of music and movement are now focused on each and every one of her sore muscles. He pulls her dress up. Off with her thong. There it goes, shot across the bare room like a missile, landing in a dusty corner.

“Oh baby,” he says. “Baby. Baby.”

She hates being called that, but she doesn’t say, “Don’t.”

***

This is the point where dissociation stops working. The memory of the act is gone. Whether I was slick enough, or he needed to use a hand, wet with late-night spittle. All those other details are etched into my brain as if I’m watching that night on a streaming service.

But the sex? Nada.

Here’s what I know: I didn’t come.

I definitely faked it.

***

He snores into the crook of his elbow, forehead pressed into forearm. She steps into her dress and goes to find a bathroom.

Cold tile. Her toes find a puddle. Switching the light on floods the space with harsh white, hurting her eyes. The seat is up, revealing a stained and unwashed bowl. Thankfully, there’s enough toilet paper.

She washes her hands with the final, elliptical remnants of a bar of soap.

When she returns, he is taking the full width of the pad. She curls against his back, covering her calves with the bottom corner of the sleeping bag. The room spins and her mouth tastes of stomach acid and cinnamon.

She closes her eyes. Just for a moment.

***

I scan Kyle’s profile. He lives in New York. Went to Business School at Wharton, works for one of The Big Four. I can’t tell from his profile if he married or had kids. His posts are sparse, their content predictable.

“Outstanding opportunity!”

“Huge ROI potential.”

“We don’t chase hype — we chase results.”

He’s the kind of guy who pushes for cost-cutting measures, exploring off-shore resources, replacing employees with Generative AI.

I wonder how often he takes clients to strip clubs. I wonder what size mattress he sleeps on. I wonder if he ever camps in the Catskills.

***

Her nose presses into the ground. Mildew and mice. Her mouth is chalky. Foul. He has pulled the sleeping bag into a bunch around his shoulders. She is covered in goosebumps, her skin like a plucked, dead chicken.

The sun is up, but only just. The room glows a gauzy peach.

What is she doing here, still? She is confident she went home last night. She is certain that she gathered her clothes, padded away in the dark, sank into her bed and pulled a fluffed duvet on top of her.

But no. It was some sort of strange dissociation — a dream. A trick of her mind to gain back control.

She pushes herself up and the floor groans beneath her. He doesn’t stir as she gathers her musty thong, her shoes. Holds them tight. His roommate is in the bathroom, pissing with the door cracked open. She can see the stream out of the corner of her eye as she moves to the front door.

She walks home barefoot, grateful for the sun on her back. Goes straight for the shower. Seals the curtain against the damp tile. Steams herself. Hot water runs over every bruise. Wrapped in a towel, she can see in the clouded mirror that there’s a new one — darkening now — on the right side of her neck.

***

Goddamnit, I forgot that LinkedIn is the worst for stalking people. Unlike the other platforms, this one tells on you. It logs your view, adds it to a list, sends users updates about who’s been snooping around.

I’ve got twenty-four hours ’til Kyle gets the emailed alert, “Someone with the title Unemployed looked at your profile!”

***

She rubs at the hickey, dark. Angry. Unwraps her towel. Pulls at her breasts and thighs.

Checks for more like she’s looking for ticks.

***

Here’s the thing: that night wasn’t traumatic. I don’t need to tell the story of something awful that happened to me. I wrote it down because for some reason, while I’m sitting in this coffee shop, applying to jobs, I can’t get that one night stand out of my head. I spin the thing over and over as if I’m reliving it.

I keep wondering if I would be in a better place today if there was a version of me that left as soon as I realized Kyle had hogged that sleeping bag, that once he got what he wanted, he no longer gave a shit about me. Or a version that insisted he finger me after he came, who guided his hands until they clutched at me, who didn’t just let him shoot his load and roll onto his back with his eyes closed and pubic hair damp. Better yet, a version that cracked the moment he bit my ear or when he flashed my tit to the whole school on the dance floor. Tackled him. Kneed him in the jaw. Left a bruise of my own.

Those other versions of me didn’t take so long to learn I had value apart from how many men wanted to sleep with me. Those versions advocated for themselves and recognized the guys who would go on to get an MBA from Wharton and work for one of The Big Four. Those versions were more proactive with my career, didn’t stick around at a dying start-up because they craved feeling wanted, had lined up new software jobs before AI took over and interviewers ghosted and old colleagues couldn’t even give out referrals because all the big tech companies declared hiring freezes.

Or maybe those versions of me saw through all the bullshit, realized that the only way to win capitalism was to be a creator, an originator, a succubus, a vampire. They took advantage. They laughed when someone waggled a finger, like no-no-no.

Yes-yes-yes. Give me what I came for. I will bite your neck and siphon your reservoir.

All those versions were successful.

***

She dries her hair, flipping it forward to give the final product volume. But she’s still feeling the effects of last night’s Fireball. She tips back and forth like a spring-loaded toy. Her roommate leans against the door, smiling at the scene.

“Wa— —o —e —o ——ast?” yells the roommate.

She shuts the hair dryer off, chuckles. “What?”

“I said, ‘Want to get some breakfast?’”

She smiles. “Ooo, yeah. I’ll be done in fifteen.”

“Perfect, cus there’s only one bus an hour from Holgate.”

In the mirror, she brushes on mascara, pinches her lips to bring out their color, dabs concealer under her eyes to hide those late-night circles. She puts a bit on the hickey. All it does is slightly dull the sheen of the dark skin.

No matter. She’ll keep her hair down and side-swept to hide it.

She decides to wear a dress. Another halter-top, but longer and more colorful than the skimpy black thing she danced in last night. Still, it bares her back and calves, alerting all of Portland to the fact that she is both tough and feminine. It’s an outfit that says, This one gets stomped on, stands up, puts on stilettos, stomps back.

***

The pint glass is empty now and one of the baristas has been giving me side-eye glances, like I’ve overstayed the cost of just one drink.

Can’t argue that.

I close out all my tabs, X-ing them one by one. Fifteen applications done in the span of a single, one-night-stand story.

I click my laptop shut and put it in my backpack. Place the empty glass in one of the gray dish tubs. Slip into the bathroom for a quick piss before heading home.

***

The air outside is warm. Her roommate’s large purse jangles like it’s full of silver coins. On the walk to the bus stop, her thighs brush each other in cloying sweeps, as if they are made of saltwater taffy. Onward, hoe! She chuckles to herself, causing her temples to hurt.

“What’s so funny?” asks her roommate.

“Nothing. I’m just excruciatingly hungover. And kind of a slut.”

They arrive at the bus stop with five minutes to spare. She closes her eyes against the sun and puts her arm around her roommate’s waist. They lean together, smiling, feeling the weight of one another build a bridge across their shoulders.

“No way. Is that him?” says her roommate in an excited whisper.

Across SE Holgate, slightly west, about a hundred feet away, stands the blond guy with scruff on his chin. He is there with his roommate, the one from the long bathroom piss this morning. She wonders if they are also going to breakfast. She wonders if he sees her. She wonders what she would think of this strange coincidence if she believed in god.

“Do you have a hair tie?” she asks, suddenly wanting him to know she’s not ashamed of the mark he left on her pale skin.

Her roommate fumbles around her large purse, almost diving into it. After a few long seconds, during which she makes a concentrated effort not to look at him, her roommate finally emerges with a claw clip. “Will this work?”

“Oh, perfect.”

Across the street, he doesn’t smile, seems a little stunned. Holds a hand over his eyes, like he’s pretending the sunlight has blinded him to her identity.

She twists her hair into a chignon, securing it. Pulling pieces out around her face to look pretty and soft. She smooths her dress and stands up straight. The sun is to her right, and she can feel it warm the sore spot on her neck.

This bruise, she chose like she chose the others. A badge. Her choices — even those she regrets — projected into the bright morning.

Shoulders back. Chest out. Head held high.

She waves.

***

The bathroom light flickers. Somewhere in the cafe, a man laughs in a broad staccato. Leaned forward on the toilet, elbows on knees, I thumb through my phone. A Reddit post about a Rivian crashing into a pet store. Email app connecting. No new texts.

Whose job was I gunning for when I worked on AI? Makeup artists. Cosmetologists. Personal shoppers.

And I was coming for them, those people. Maybe I wasn’t just like Kyle, with both eyes on my ROI, but was I that far off? Though the startup where I led software engineering didn’t make it, though we didn’t attain the heights of OpenAI or Google, that stratosphere was what we aimed for. For a few months before we went under, the outlook was promising. Meetings with Harvard Business School grads and C-level FAANG executives and programmers who’d gone to MIT. All my vested stock options glittered enticingly in their online vault.

My LinkedIn network would have been updated with the tremendous news: Thrilled to announce I’m a huge success. All I needed to do was replace an industry made up primarily of other women. Suck up their knowledge. Sap them of power. Leave a deep scar.

I pull up my jeans, wash my hands. Stare at my face, thinking that I don’t look all that different than I did eighteen years ago. A little more adult, with a few gray hairs that sparkle under the fluorescent light, but still cheeky. Still mischievous. Still kind of a slut.

As I open the door, my phone vibrates. It’s an email.

“Your background and experiences align well with our role! We’d love to speak with you further. Let me know when you have some time to chat.”

Image by Yazan via Flickr Creative Commons