Easy Virtue (2 page)

Maybe it’s self-disgust.

The initial pain is gone and now I just feel sore. And strange, like an out of body experience.

He lowers his face, his lips about to connect with mine, and I feel the bile rise inside my throat. I turn my face to the side, his kiss landing on my cheek. My eyes watch the way the lights in the bathroom illuminate all its used and dirty ugliness.

“Oh God, I’m going to come … I’m going to come … I’m going to come,” he continues to pant in my ear, pumping in and out of my body. Before I know what’s happening, he half screams and half groans, his body going tense on top of mine.

And just like that it’s over. In less than five minutes I’ve managed to kill a part of me.

Our breathing evens and he pulls out, moving to stand up. I push myself up on my elbows to see him inspect his condom. It still glistens. By the time he lifts his eyes, connecting with mine, I’ve already wrapped my body with the duvet cover.

Confusion, shock, and pleasure reflect in those brown eyes. “I—I didn’t know … I …” His hands go to his hair as we stare at each other. “I didn’t know you were a virgin.”

I shrug my shoulder carelessly, causing the duvet to slide down, exposing my bare breasts to him. His eyes immediately flare with lust. “It doesn’t matter … I wanted it to be you.”

And that’s the truth.

“But—”

“But nothing. If it bothers you, then forget it happened. I already did,” I say, ending the conversation.

This is my body. I will have the last word. Not him. Not anyone. This is my life. This is my decision.

Without giving myself a chance to doubt my next words, I turn to look at him in all his naked beauty, the gold wedding ring on his finger catching my attention. “Don’t worry, Mr. Callahan … I won’t tell your daughter that you fucked her classmate.”

And with that, I seal my destiny.

I DIDN’T HAVE AN ABUSIVE CHILDHOOD
. My parents didn’t beat me, didn’t yell at me—they just weren’t there. I was the lonely child who talked to her animals and dolls. But in my case, the absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder. With time, and after many tears shed and unheard prayers to a deaf God, absence made my heart grow bitter and hard. It froze me from the inside out.

I didn’t have love, but I never lacked beautiful things without a heartbeat.

My parents gave me gifts, not love ... or was it their love that was offered with each tangible gift?

Maybe those
things
were just substitutes for their love and their presence.

Maybe that’s why I associate happiness with possessions?

As a child, I didn’t hunger for any of those things. I hungered for the love of my parents. For a motherly caress or a sweet pat on the shoulder as they told me that they were proud of me. I longed for a tender embrace in my darkest hours …

But I had nothing.

I was nothing.

I’m still nothing.

And I don’t care anymore.

That chubby girl who cried herself to sleep every night … the same girl who kneeled by her bed and prayed to the skies above for a happy family—for someone to
see
her …

That chubby girl is gone forever.

And in her stead is me—beautiful, shiny,
empty
Blaire. Attention-loving Blaire. Really, after so many years without anyone noticing me, I now thrive on the feeling I get when all eyes are on me. Men or women, I don’t care as long as they see me. As long as they follow me whenever I step into a room.

I’m in the midst of rolling the waistband of my plaid skirt to make it shorter when I hear the soft vibration of my phone. Walking away from the tall mahogany dresser, I make my way to the bed where my phone is lying amongst a pile of yellow fluffy pillows. Throwing myself on the bed, I feel the mattress bounce underneath me and smile when I see the name of the caller.

Mr. Callahan.

Just because I feel like fucking around with his mind, I wait to answer for a couple more rings.

“Hi, Matthew.” Mr. Callahan’s name feels like a dirty secret on my lips.

“Hello, Blaire … I thought you weren’t going to answer,” he teases.

“Maybe …”

“You little tease. Can you sneak out of school during your lunch hour? My schedule cleared up for the afternoon, and I want to see you again.”

I bite my lip and rub my legs together; the soreness is gone since a week has already passed. I picture us back in the same seedy motel room with its dirty yellow-colored curtains and avocado furniture, and the memory alone makes the smells of his sweat and the moldy rug fill my nose once more. It would be nice to meet at a respectable hotel in town instead of our usual place, but keeping our affair anonymous is paramount for him.

“Tut-tut,” I say. “Asking a senior in high school to skip school, Matthew?”

He chuckles. “It’s the only time I’ll be able to see you and be alone with you until next week. Besides, I bought you something that I think you might like.”

“Oh, yeah? What did you get me?”

“Well, if you want to find out you’ll have to come and meet me.”

I giggle like the seventeen-year-old girl that I am. “Matthew! Please tell me!”

“I knew I’d be able to find your weakness … so you like presents, huh?”

“Not usually, but I guess I do now.”

He chuckles once more. “Send me a picture of yourself and I’ll tell you what it is.”

“What kind of picture do you want?” I ask flirtatiously.

“Whatever you want to send me, Blaire. I just want to see your pretty face—I miss you,” he says, his voice growing deeper.

His words sink in my head, the real meaning hidden between the lines. I can almost picture him sitting in his office chair behind the desk looking pristine in his silvery-grey suit, waiting to jerk off to anything I send him.

“Okay,” I whisper.

“Good … I’ll be waiting.”

After I hang up, I continue to lie on my bed and stare at my light-blue ceiling while my fingers play with my cellphone. I wonder briefly why it feels like I’m selling my soul
,
but I dismiss the thought as quickly as it comes
.

Shimmying out of my skirt, the waistband touching my skin as it goes down, I’m left wearing only my white shirt and navy blue vest and a pair of white cotton panties. I open the camera application on my phone and lift an arm in the air so I can take a picture of myself lying on the bed.

I can feel some loose wisps of hair tickling my chin as I lower my hand and place it inside my underwear. My heartbeat accelerates in anticipation and my breath shortens as I begin to rub myself slowly, imagining the soft, wet caress of his tongue inside me, licking, lapping … fucking me.

My cheeks burn a rosy pink as I feel my lips swell. Closer. Much closer. A moan escapes and I’m there, snapping a picture for Mr. Callahan at the same time my body floats high on ecstasy and bright colors twirl in my head.

There … that should do.

Once I’m satisfied with the shot—a shot that showcases a voluptuous girl with hair the color of coal and skin as pale as the moonlight, touching herself for her lover on a bed covered in daisies, her blue eyes sparkling with a feverish light that promises the forbidden—I send it. Not a minute goes by before I receive a text message from him. When the image has fully loaded, a tarnished smile touches my lips as I stare at the ice-blue box wrapped in an elaborate white bow.

Maybe that voice inside my head wasn’t wrong after all.

I
am
selling my soul.

And the sad part is …

I don’t care.

I’m walking through the halls of my high school with my back erect and my chin held high like a regal queen. Fear of my classmates’ scorn is pushed so far back in the recesses of my heart that I’ve almost forgotten it exists—almost—but the slight tremble in my hands tells me otherwise.
Fuck.

Looking around, but not making eye contact with anyone, I sense the way crowds open to let me through as if I’m some animal carrying a contagious disease. Or maybe it’s because they just want to get a better look at my ass in my short plaid skirt. Same difference if you ask me because I don’t mind either—I enjoy both.

There are no girlfriends waiting for me by my locker with a ready smile on their faces and today’s gossip on the tips of their tongues. No best friend about to link her arm with mine as we make our way to first period English while chatting about our weekend and boys. There’s no one … at least no one that counts.

Growing up in a home with no siblings and self-absorbed parents was a lonely way to live life for a child. However, loneliness taught me to be comfortable being alone …
or maybe it just hardened me?

It was the same way in school, too—it still is. I have no friends. It all goes back to the day I found out the reason no one wanted to be friends with me.

We were only nine years old.

It was lunchtime on a cool spring day. The sun was warm on my skin, but the air still sent a chill running through my body. I was making my way to an empty bench far away from the playground when I saw Paige and her posse approaching me. It was too late to avoid them. I remember lowering my eyes to the ground, pretending that I didn’t see them and hoping to get them to ignore me, but I wasn’t that lucky. As soon as I was close enough, I heard Paige, who was flawless, say to her friends, “She’s so fat. I wonder if she eats in her sleep.” There was snickering and then someone added, “Did you know that her mom left her and her dad for another man when she was like two years old but then came back? My mom told me to never be friends with her because her mom steals daddies, and her dad is always drunk.”

I felt my heart skip a beat as my chest contracted with pain and tears blurred my eyes. With each word, they killed me a little bit more. Then Paige added, “Oh yeah, I heard my mom talking to my daddy about it. She also said that her dad came to a meeting with scratches all over his neck and face and smelling like alcohol.” She paused. “Anyway, she told me to never be friends with her. I wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to worry because I would never be friends with a girl who looks like a fat duck.”

They burst out laughing, and when they saw me stop and stare at them as tears fell down my cheeks, they began to laugh louder and harder until their cruel delight was all I could hear.

I began to run away from them as fast as I could, but the ringing in my ears and the ache in my chest wouldn’t stop. Their harsh words wouldn’t let me escape my ugly reality.

It all made sense after that. Hearing them talk had brought back memories of all the crying, fighting and yelling. When she mentioned my dad’s wounds, it reminded me of that night, and the horror I’d felt seeing my parents in one of the lowest points in their marriage. I remembered the courage it took that little girl, not even eight years old, to stand between them, and beg them to stop fighting and love each other, just as she loved them both. The tears streamed down her face, and her voice shook with pain.

Suddenly, I understood why their parents wouldn’t allow them to come whenever I invited the pretty and popular girls for sleepovers. I understood why my mother, who was the prettiest amongst all the moms, had no friends. And I understood why my classmates’ fathers always seemed to stare at her like she was something shiny and beautiful to look at. I understood why my nanny, the only person who truly loved me and didn’t find me an annoyance, said that my father had been a good man, a brilliant man. A man who, when left with nothing, battled ghosts with the only weapons available to him—hatred and alcohol.