Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl...

  Single Player

  Jamie Nicole

  Single Player

  Quirky House Press – Florida

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events and organizations are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Single Player Copyright © 2015 Jamie Nicole, Quirky House

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Nelly Murariu at www.PixBeeDesign.com

  ISBN: 1508412499 (Quirky House)

  ISBN-13: 978-1508412496 (Quirky House)

  Mom and Dad

  Love you more

  Also by Jamie Nicole

  Flighty

  one

  I’m CeeCee. Actually my given name is Cecilia Saint May, but I prefer to be called CeeCee because Cecilia sounds like a snotty, trophy wife and I am neither a wife nor am I snotty. Well unless I’m sick, which is hardly ever and the reason for that is simple; I don’t go outside. EVER!

  If you’re wondering about the reason for my extreme partiality to the indoors that, too, is easily explained. I have agoraphobia. I say “I have it” because I didn’t catch it from someone. Believe me when I tell you that agoraphobia is not as elementary as that. It happens to be quite a complex predicament, that for me translates to being completely terrified of all that life has to offer outside of my very clean and obsessively organized home.

  I’m sure you’re wondering how I make money, everyone does, but that’s also simple. I write. Of course, most of what I write I know nothing about on a personal level, but that’s what God created our imaginations for… and, of course, The Google.

  If you peeked in my front window right now you’d get a glimpse into a typical evening for me. I’m sitting on my couch (Indian style) and putting on makeup (for no one) in panic mode. Why the panic? Well, in one hour’s time I’m going on what constitutes a hot date in the world of an agoraphobe. Granted, I’m not actually going anywhere or seeing a real life man on this date, but that’s just semantics.

  Now you’re wondering, ‘Then how do you date? I can explain it in three short words; I’m a gamer. Translation for the lay people out there; I play video games. A lot. So much so that I’ve joined - and am heavily involved in - a very serious online community of gamers. We meet up regularly throughout the week to fight to the death in some very serious combat scenarios where we hope to pad our very important KDRs or for you non-gamers, Kill-to-Death Ratios.

  Now that I’ve explained, let’s get back to my big plans for the night. My gaming bitches and I are preparing for and playing in a massive tournament. This is stressing me out for one reason and one reason only, and here it is: I have been invited to be on the team of my one and only true love, Mrnotsosmall@all. I KNOW! That’s his gamer tag and Jesus, Mary and Joseph whip me with a waffle iron because IT…IS...HOT!

  Maybe if I had a female role model at home growing up I’d be offended by his blatant reference to junk size, but I didn’t. What I did have was an older brother and a dad who often times forgot that there was an observant little girl running around, watching and listening to everything that they said and did.

  The first time I saw a pair of naked, developed, female breasts I was seven years old. Imagine my surprise when I opened my thirteen-year-old brother’s closet door during a game of hide and seek and came face to face with a poster-sized image of a woman taped to the inside wall with all of her naked bits exposed for the world to see. It was like some kind of kinky, dirty secret that shortly thereafter became an obsession. I wanted to know why a woman would want to be naked in a picture in a closet, and more importantly, how that related to me since I too would also have breasts one day?

  This woman with a beautiful head full of blond hair and enormous life giving breasts called to me and my young motherless psyche. Over the years I became more and more awestruck by each of the buxom girls as they were traded out and changed for different models. At first the pictures were solely relegated to the inside of the closet as if they were some sort of dirty little secret. But, eventually with rebellion leading the way (and hormones) they bloomed forth into the light of the bedroom and soon covered every available inch of my brother’s walls, no longer shamed to the darkness and secrecy of a curious adolescent’s closet. Back then, my dream in life was to grow up and one day possess a mere portion of the confidence these girls radiated out to me. They were like the sunshine to my slowly developing flower.

  You must think the poster situation sounds strange, but I promise you things only became more convoluted when I found out about Playboy a short time after the closet incident. To this very day neither my father nor brother have any clue that I was the one who frequently stole the Playboys that came in the mail (they were concealed upon delivery but I was a nosy kid, so…). Needless to say, my unending curiosity about the Playboy women - who I dubbed the “Play-women” as a child - grew from my lack of having any sort of female role model in my life, specifically speaking, a mother.

  The sad truth is that my mom took off when I was a year old, leaving my dad to raise two mischievous young kids by himself. I have no memories of her, and my brother’s memories are shaded by the pain of her leaving. When my father finally accepted that she was never coming back, he made the hard decision to take down all the pictures of her that were scattered around the house. He said they only served as painful reminders of the fun mom and wife he and my brother remembered, but not of the woman she became after I was born.

  The two of them never talked about her as I was growing up. Never! I know she didn’t die and that she was pretty. That’s the extent of my information where she was concerned. Sometimes, on days where I felt almost desperate for a mom, I would imagine that she was one of the “Play-women” and that eventually she’d show up in her pretty panties and lacey bra to take me shopping for some of my own to match and then beg for my forgiveness and tell me what a horrible mistake she’d made in leaving me. “We could be panty twinsies” my imaginary mommy would say before throwing her loving, warm arms around me, cushioning me with her soft, life-giving breasts.

  Imagine my excitement the first time I noticed a Victoria’s Secret at the mall. I begged my dad to take me in there, the magical place where all the pretty mommies were milling about. I had no idea at the time just how embarrassing that must have been for him. Loving Lord, was that man patient with me, because without a moment’s hesitation he marched me in there like I belonged, even though I was barely four feet tall at the time. Then, he watched for at least an hour while I walked around touching each and every inappropriate garment on display. My father was what you would call a professional over-compensator, and I love him all the more for it. Today I am still a sucker for pretty lingerie, be it in a window display or a catalog. I may even have my own subscription to Playboy, but don’t you judge me (you know, the thorn in your own eye and all that). Sadly though, I still imagine my mom to be like one of those women… a Play-woman.

  I know… You can think it. Weirdo.

  ***

  Back to the tournament. That’s what’s currently relevant. Tonight I, PrettyPanties (that’s my screen name), am about to meet up with my crew to fight to the death in a Halo four tournament of epic proportions. The aforementioned epicness starts in fifteen minutes, and I am still in the process of getting dressed, even though no one will actually see how awesome I plan on looking. All the girls out there understand. Even when we’re alone being dressed up makes us feel pretty and confident, and tonight I really need the boost because when I play with Mrnotsosmall@all I’m a hot mess and In a tournament this size, there is absolutely no
time for that. There is no crying in HALO!

  As I’m applying the last of my liquid black liner in a perfect and practiced cat-eye stroke, my heavy front door swings open and is thrown into my recently patched wall… again.

  “Damnit, Ashton! I just fixed that wall yesterday and now you will be fixing it tomorrow! And I was almost done with my makeup! AHRG!” If I didn’t need him as my best friend I’d break it off.

  “You know I’d fix anything for you, sweet cheeks,” he says after sauntering over and kissing me smack on the lips. Like we’re lovers. Which WE ARE NOT!

  “GET OFF! YUCK! Now I have your cooties. Blahk! How many girls have you sucked face with this week? Like 20? God, you are so gross. And so we’re clear, just because you have a key does not mean you don’t have to knock before you enter. It just means that when I say so, you can use it. Ass.” He laughs as I rant and simultaneously rub my mouth raw in an attempt to get all his STD germs off. I’m going to have to Purell my lips. So annoying.

  “Oh, Ass? You must really be pissed off if you’re using one of your never-to-be-used big girl words. EWWWW, now I’m scared,” he backs away from me into a safer zone as he continues on with his ribbing. “What time does your date start, anyway?” Aaaannd here it comes… the teasing.

  “It’s a tournament, douche-bag. Please tell me you aren’t going to stay here and torture me all night? Don’t you have like girls to accost somewhere or a gig to play?” I swear he really is my best friend.

  “No, and no. Besides, you can’t accost the willing, baby. The ladies come eagerly for a piece of Ashton.” Now he’s waggling his eyebrows and talking in third person. He really is a douche. I’m renaming his band Summer’s Eve.

  Ashton here has been my best friend ever since that infamous day in first grade when he took on the class bully for tormenting me about being a, “no-mommy, whiney baby with stupid hair.” To be fair to that kid, my dad was really bad at ponytails back then, my hair was kind of stupid. Anyway, because of that one act of valor, I tolerate Ashton along with his whorish ways and douche-bag tendencies because I know that beneath it all, he’s awesome. He really will beat people up for me and I love that about him. It’s like he’s my very own white knight rocker (another good name for his band) but we don’t… you know… love each other… like… that. Don’t get me wrong, he’s hot and he’s a crazy talented musician, but I’ve never been able to look at him as anything other than Ashton, my annoying best friend. Only once did he almost cross out of the “friend-zone”, and that was many years ago in the wasteland known as high school. This was pre-agoraphobia, when I was fun and could go outside.

  Imagine it: His band was playing at a party, and like all the other girls that were there with their teenage hormones running amuck and fueled into stupidity by wine coolers, I got caught up in the moment. Stupid moments.

  When Ash was done playing his big set, he came off the make-shift garage stage, and I, his very - reiterate VERY - drunk best-friend, attacked him. It was embarrassing. I’m still embarrassed. Right now I am blushing from the memory alone. It’s easy to imagine why when you consider that two short, misguided minutes into our first and only real kiss to date, I threw up all over his leather pants (Brand new leather pants! First-wear new leather pants!). Needless to say, any romantic dreams I may have had died that night, right along with those new pants. It was understood between the two of us that after that we would just be friends and it’s been that way ever since. Friend-zone.

  “Where’s Master Chief? Did you lock him out again?”

  Ashton’s husky voice pulls me back from my shameful memory and I watch him guiltily as he looks around for his buddy. He’s got a soft spot for my oversized black lab. He thinks he can understand him and that Master likes him better than me because often, after a long night of partying, they end up cuddling together somewhere in my house. You heard me. CUDDLING! Poor thing… Not Ashton, I mean the dog. When I bought this townhome it was meant to be for me and me alone, but since it’s so close to everything it’s become Ashton’s home-away-from home, strictly because he’s never sober enough after a gig to get back to his place so instead he walks here. It could always be worse. He could be a bed wetter.

  “My dog is out back, on the patio, where he is being lovingly mocked by the neighborhood squirrels. Why don’t you make yourself useful and go save him, and leave me alone so I can finish getting ready for my, tournament.” I say this last part putting an emphasis on the word tournament, even though inside I’m thinking, my date.

  “Whatever. Maybe tonight he’ll send you an icon of a rose or something. Oh, maybe you can make out with your headset on and make all sorts of sucking, slurping and smacking noises to each other so you can actually feel like you’re tonguing.” He’s laughing at me while he walks away rubbing his back in a very obnoxious kissy way. Such a tool.

  “At least my kisses don’t come with STD’S like your hookers do. Now who’s the stupid one? Hmm?”

  “I love you when you’re being mean. It’s so sexy on you, especially with your hot, nerdy-girl gaming glasses on. MeOw!”

  He’s giving me his infamous do-me eyes, walking backward now making come hither gestures. I’m totally not telling him he’s about to bump into the corner of the table. And there it is… payback.

  “Damn it CEECEE! Could you please move the table from out of the way of the back damn door! Stupid table,” he says under his breath as he saunters in search of his real best friend, the one with four furry long legs.

  Ten minutes later, I’m on my giant L-shaped couch sitting in the permanent indentation my butt has created from hours of gaming in the middle of the night, looking for my teammates. That happens to be the time all the kiddo’s are off in dreamland and us big kids can come out to play. What I mean to say is that all of us mature adults finally have some time after our very busy day of doing our very adulty things to finally take a moment to sit and what would you call it? Oh hell… okay, we play.

  I’m waiting patiently while all my teammate’s sign in, silently watching in anticipation as each of their gamer tags pop up on the screen. One by one they arrive and the match is set to begin momentarily when I notice that we’re one short. “THE ONE”. You guessed it, my boyfriend. I mean alien-killing teammate.

  How can he not be here? I mean, he asked me specifically to be here, at this time, to be on HIS team, during THIS tournament. It’s unacceptable not to show up for your own pre-set game! I suppose technically you can, considering this is all, you know…not real, but still. Manners! Now, I’m wondering if Mrnotsosmall@all is even dependable. Maybe I was wrong all along and he isn’t good boyfriend material after all. Great, now I think I may cry, and to make matters worse, Ashton is here to witness my breakdown. I need a girl BFF, like pronto.

  “Hey, could you maybe go get us some beers? I know I don’t usually drink, but for some reason I’m jonesin’ for a Killian’s or maybe a Fat Tire? I don’t care. You pick. Momma needs a brewsky.”

  I’m desperately trying to sound cool here but a tiny little tear is trying to escape the corner of my eye and Ashton is looking right at me. I do the sensible thing and turn all caddy-wompis’ on the sofa as I ask for my beer in hopes of keeping the douche from noticing the damned little puddle I’ve got brewing. But no such luck, he’s on to me.

  “My answer to the beer question is this: Why are you crying?” Busted.

  “Why do you hate me? Can’t a girl just be sad all by herself anymore? Why do you always make me… say things? Go… buy me beer. Maybe there will be a hot cash-register-girl you can flirt with at The ABC or something. Please… beer… tongue the register girl, just go.” Those last words trail off in a whisper and I plop my head down into my Indian-styled, legging-clad lap and make very loud wahhhhhh noises, in the hopes of annoying him into leaving faster. It works. For now.

  “I’m leaving to go buy the beer. But, you do not get to be mad at me when I bring the register-girl back here for an orgy. You can’t just send this,�
�� he says giving himself a Vanna White style hand-swipe from the top to the bottom of his slutball self, “out into the liquor store universe and not expect me to come back here without a party. It’s just too much to ask anyone to ignore.” GAH!

  “If this orgy will buy me privacy for my non-crying that I’m not going to do, then yes! I accept your terms. Just. Leave!” My voice is muffled into my favorite frilly turquoise throw pillow which is probably now ruined by black liquid eyeliner, great. Just great.

  I hear him practically run to the door in his excitement over the imaginary orgy, that… PS… I am never letting happen in my lovely, perfectly clean and safe home. If he thinks for one minute that he’s bringing one of his nasty skanks back here, then he’s lost his horny mind. I don’t care if she is capable of selling beer to the masses. She’s not going to be capable of entering La Casa CeeCee.

  The door shuts and I finally have my precious moment of peace. I start counting slowly, inhaling deeply between each number exactly how my last therapist instructed me to. That was the therapist I had right before I became a full-time agoraphobe. In my own, non-therapist, uneducated opinion this counting trick was her one and only bit of good, sound advice. Her other awesome trick, I mean therapy, is what propelled me into never leaving my house again. She had me do immersion therapy. HA!

  I’d like to suggest that you do not try this if you are afraid of dying the way that I am, which is like, really freaking afraid of dying! The problem is simple; I have already been immersed in death. My father’s. He died a slow and painful death three and a half years ago, due to the stupid breast cancer he got. I mean what man gets breast cancer? That’s like a woman getting prostate cancer, right? Wrong! Big Fat WRONG! The number of men who get breast cancer is not large when compared side by side with the ladies, but that statistic means nothing because my dad held one of those unlucky lottery tickets and he got it, and he died.