Chapter Two

The digital clock on the nightstand in Enzo’s room read 1:30 am. He was elated, and after two tequilas and some time with Ximena, he had a decent buzz going. He lay down on the bed, pulled out his phone, and looked at all the matches on the dating apps. Each app had its own distinctive pool of participants; at this point in the night, he wasn’t looking for a pen pal. Tinder is the best for less talk and more tongue.   

👉📱

Tap on Tinder. Tap on the matches window.  

Enzo wasn’t wasting any time; he scrolled through the matches for the most interesting-looking person. He landed on Emily. Her profile photos: wearing DJ headphones, standing in a law library, hiking (obligatory), holding a puppy (also obligatory, not hers, never is), standing in front of a Jamaican flag, standing in front of the pyramid at the Louvre.  

She was pretty. Her dark hair was in a different style in every photo: straight with the puppy, teased-up Afro while DJing, braids at the Louvre. Her eyes were milk saucers, teeth blindingly white, face irresistible.  

(Here’s a little secret: Good teeth are a marker on the apps. Besides a signifier about social class, nobody wants to kiss someone with halitosis. Over the years, having good breath had become a personal obsession of Enzo’s. He was often double-fisted on dates—armed with a canister of Binaca and a tin of Altoids. The overwhelming mintiness of his breath could freeze a woman if he wasn’t careful. That’s a superhero power. Or one of them, he figured.) 

 He touched Emily’s photo and a text window popped up.  

“Don’t be a flake! Send her a message.”  

Enzo: Hey hey, pleasure to meet you virtually. 

(That was a weak opening, but he was lazy and tired.)  

It was late, so you never know if there is anyone on the other side, staring at their screen, too. Like magic, three dots in a bubble appeared. She was awake. Then there is that moment when the dots cease. A very long few milliseconds in the digital age. You either get a response, or the potential connection took a second look at your profile and decided, “Fuck this clown.”  

Emily: HI! Nice to meet you too. What are you doing up? 

Enzo: I haven't taken my Xanax yet. But I did have some tequila.  

Emily: Me too. Maybe a few other treats 

Enzo: Look at us! So much in common already. Booze, drugs and weird hours. 

Emily: Wow, check us out!  

And so, it went on like this, a few minutes of ingratiating banter. In the late-night app world, everyone knows why they’re there: to hook up. It’s far different from the rest of the time in the dating apps world, like when you’re looking for an actual mate with some degree of true compatibility. Late-night app repartee is mostly just a filtration device to determine whether your match is a creep. It's remarkable how efficient two humans can be when they want the same powerful cocktail of temporary companionship and an orgasm. The thumbs move with supersonic speed: where you grew up, where you went to school, what you do for a living. All covered quickly.  

And then, the close.  

Enzo: Are you staying at the Mission Inn? 

Emily: Yes.  

Enzo: Were you at the party at the pool? 

Emily: Yes! You? 

Enzo: Yup. I was dressed as a mythical animal. 

Emily: You were a unicorn? 

Enzo: God no. I was dressed as just a plain old human. Boring, I know. You? 

Emily: I was dressed up. 

Enzo: HMMM  

Emily: Want to see?  

Enzo: Sure! Why don’t you come here. 

Emily: Ok. Room number? I’m going to surprise you when you open the door. 

Enzo: Room 711. I'm not easily surprised. 

A few minutes later, there was a light knock on the door. Enzo looked through the peephole: What a sight. Emily was standing there in a bathrobe, looking from side to side like she had just pulled off a caper. Her Afro was teased and wild. She came in. The bathrobe was tied tightly around her shoulder and waist. It looked like she was wearing black leggings beneath her flowing white cotton robe. Enzo was a little confused.  

Late night Tinder can be weird. 

She walked over to the digital clock and plugged in her phone, opened Spotify and went to the playlists.  She did not realize Enzo could see them from where he stood. She touched the playlist “MAKING BABIES” and turned off the lamp on the nightstand, leaving just the soft yellow light of the hallway entrance weakly illuminating where they stood, looking at each other. The first song was “Often” from The Weeknd, the lyrics:  

 She asked me if I do this every day, I said, "Often" 

Asked how many times she rode the wave, not so often (baby) 

Bitches down to do it either way, often 

Baby, I can make that pussy rain, often 

Often, often, girl, I do this often 

Make that pussy poppin', do it how I want it 

Often, often, girl, I do this often 

Make that pussy poppin', do it how I want it 

Often 

Not subtle.   

“I’ve never done this before,” she said. “I’m not totally sure what we should do.” 

“You’ve never showed up in a random guy’s room in the middle of the night in yoga pants and a bathrobe? Me neither,” Enzo said. “I told you we have a lot in common.” 

“I mean, I’ve never had a one-night stand before,” she said. 

(She had.) 

“Me neither.” 

(He had.) 

She approached Enzo and laid a long, astoundingly tender kiss on his lips—especially considering they’d known each other for a grand total of seven minutes.  

“I need to show you something. But it has to be in the dark. Stay right here. Don’t move,” she commanded lightly.  

She walked into the bathroom and then toward the front door, turned off the hallway lamp and placed a towel under the crack to block out the tiny sliver of light poking through. It was suddenly pitch black; he couldn't see her silhouette. He could hear her moving around, but not toward him. Then the sound of what sounded like her robe hitting the floor. 

And then.  

In an instant, her figure was outlined with long, unending strips of neon light. It was like someone had taken a yellow highlighter and traced her long legs, her ideal hips, torso and arms, shoulders. They stopped at the neckline. She appeared headless.   

“Holy shit,” Enzo said, gasping for breath. “You’re the fucking robot DJ.” 

She giggled uncontrollably as Enzo moved toward her, hands outstretched like he was reaching for a life-sized firefly. He kneeled before her and put his hand on her hips, stood up and started kissing her.  

He felt like he was tripping.  

They moved over to the bed, her neon-lit, badass-self guiding the way. He got in front of her, and she pulled him down on top of her body. She paused.  

Enzo assumed she was going to ask if he had protection. Some women ask before the clothes come off, so there’s no interruption in the flow. Some wait until just before the act. 

“Wait,” she insisted. “Watch this.” 

Enzo stood up and looked down at her splayed across the bed. She touched her wrist and the neon-yellow lights changed to multi-colored. They were blinking like a Christmas tree. She touched her wrist again and the lights changed colors and raced around her body in random patterns.  

“Wow, you look like the lights on the side of a Ferris wheel,” Enzo said. Then he whispered in her ear: “I think I might love you.”

(He didn’t. He may have thought he did at that moment.)    

“Are you ready for this?” she asked with her arms wide open. “I want you to treat my body like it’s an amusement park,” she said with a deviant smile.  

“No one talks like this,” Enzo thought to himself. “She must be tripping.” 

“Come back here,” she implored. “Get on top of me.” 

They kissed again. It was a carnival of lights. Enzo felt like he was making out with a Roman candle.  

“Wait,” she said. “Do you have your phone?” 

It was over on the dresser. Not close by. And not terribly relevant at the moment. 

“Do you have the consent app?” she asked.  

“What’s that?” he replied. 

“It's an app that two people who are about to have sex sign on to and give their legal consent for intercourse,” she said. “I’m a DJ on the side. I’m a lawyer in real life. The DJ gig just helps me pay the rent. Palo Alto is fucking expensive.” 

Enzo got up and walked over to the dresser and grabbed his phone, arousal softening. 

“What’s the name of the app you want me to download?” he asked, looking over at her illuminated suit.   

“Condon, but it sounds like condone. It also means ‘condom’ in Spanish,” she said.   

“Clever,”  Enzo observed. 

“I’m actually one of the co-founders,” she volunteered.  

(Of course she was.)    

“Okay. I have it on my phone now,” he said. “What should I do next?” 

“Answer the questions that come up,” she replied. 

The app required that Enzo read a legal contract. He scrolled to the bottom. She had already signed hers. It then prompted him to answer a series of questions: How old are you? Did you drink any alcohol tonight? If so, how many drinks? Have you ingested any drugs? If so, which one(s)?  

“Hey, um,” Enzo stammered. “I didn’t take any drugs tonight. Did you?” 

“Oh, yes. Definitely,” she replied. “Most definitely. How the hell would I put on this suit and stand on a crane fifty feet above a pool party for two hours?” 

“Good point,” Enzo agreed. “But since you’re on drugs and I’m buzzed on tequila, I don’t think your app is going to give us legal clearance to have sex.”  

“The app is just a beta version,” she said. “We should just consider this R and D on our way to an MVP,” she said. “Can you get back on top of me?” 

“I don’t think I want sex to be beta testing,” Enzo replied sheepishly, but also thinking about Ximena. “This all seems a little too bizarre, even for me. And you’re tripping!” 

“Oh, it's kind of wearing off,” she said. “Listen, I’m a lawyer. You can definitely fuck me tonight,” she continued. “You’re condoned.”   

In Silicon Valley, you know you’ve made it when your company becomes a verb.