Last Call (2 page)

I drop the case back on the coffee table and make my second argument. “Giselle, let me fill you in on what you missed.” I rewind the DVD to the vertical 69 and freeze the movie. “There is no way in hell this is a turn on. For starters—”

“I would have to dis—” Shelby interjects; however, I shut her down.

“We are talking about the average sexually active person, which you… are not.” I lean down and kiss her forehead. She knows she’s a dirty tramp and has no qualms about it. “As I was saying,”—I point again at the TV—“look at her face. This man has flipped her upside down, allowing all the blood to rush to her head. She’s going to pass out before either one of them can get off, or she’s going to slip from his grasp. At that point, her natural reaction is to clamp down and now he’s going to the ER to get stitches in his dick. Next”—I move my fingers to the man’s arms on screen—“he has a tribal tattoo trailing down his biceps. Ummmm, correct me if I’m wrong, but tribal tats were popular in the late nineties and early two thousands. If this is supposed to portray the 1950s, then find a fucking guy without tattoos or cover that shit up. Lastly, look how tightly he’s holding this woman.” I point to his huge, flexed muscles and sigh. “I’m sorry, but there is no way in hell he’s not squeezing a fart out of her.”

Shelby and Giselle look at me then bust out laughing like I’ve never heard them laugh before. I soon join them, thinking about how freaking funny it would be to see that girl fart in his face. It would be disgusting on the receiving end, but would definitely have comic appeal for people like me—people who have given up on the ideals of love and the pleasures of sex, people who just cope with the life they’ve been handed.

And this is me, Mariah Huxley.

Lately, I’m a judgmental, skeptical bitch who always has something to say about why anything related to sex is idiotic. I never used to be that way. In fact, I was the exact opposite. However, that was seven years ago, and life has dramatically changed for good ol’ Mariah Huxley. Today is my twenty-sixth birthday, and with each passing minute, my views of sex and love get more cynical. Recently, I’ve been reflecting on my love life and find it will never be the shit you see on TV, and honestly, I’m okay with it. I’ve got the only man I need in my life to give me love, and he’s been there for the last seven years. However, to feel a man’s weight on mine or to be worshipped—only if it’s for a moment—I crave that every single night.

I walk back over to the couch and flop down next to my friends. Once a month, I have the ability to meet up with them without my kid and do exactly this. Royce, my son, goes to Shelby’s Aunt Maggie’s house and spends the night. I get to hang out, curse, drink, and watch dirty movies. Shelby started this tradition six months after Royce was born, and we’ve had unforgettable nights since. Mostly, we hang out at one of our houses, and on a rare occasion, I am willing to go to a club. Although, that only seems to happen when I’m desperate for male physical contact. Not sex, just grinding on the dance floor and engaging in a harmless make-out session. Again, that’s a rare occasion, and it’s been well over a year since I’ve even done that.

As for sex, the night Royce was conceived was the last time I was with a man, and I can’t remember a fucking thing.

It hasn’t been easy having a child so young. I had just turned nineteen and was only in my first year of college. I was forced to grow up quickly the moment he came into my life. I wouldn’t change it for anything, but it hasn’t been an easy road to travel, especially when he was a baby.

Enter the contemptuously cranky bitch you get the pleasure of meeting today. I’m in a mindless, shit job because it pays well, but my boss is the biggest douche bag walking on two legs. Some days, I’d like to walk into the men’s restroom and de-pants him. I honestly think it would be the only way to know for sure if there’s a giant stick permanently lodged in his asshole.

Adding to my crankiness is that I am seven hours from my family. We’re one of those freak families who actually love spending time together, regardless if we get along, but when I’m lucky, we get to see each other every other month. My older sisters and brother are funny, supportive, and embrace me for who I am. And my parents, well, they are a little different, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t have the extra money or vacation time to visit them as much as I’d like.

I am the only child who stayed away after I went to college. I didn’t go back home when Royce was born because something inside told me I needed to do this on my own. Something said I needed to prove to myself I could do this, regardless of how hard I knew it would be.

Often times, people ask me about being a mother so young. After watching all the stupid, teenage pregnancy shows on TV, they assume I came from a broken, white trash home and am a person who has disturbing daddy issues. No offense to gals who grew up that way, but not all children born out of wedlock have mothers with traumatic back stories. Some of us simply got drunk and careless then, nine months later are saddled with a kid.

The truth is, my back story is quite the opposite. I came from a very loving and supportive home. My father works in construction and my mother owns a small flower shop. We weren’t rich by any means, but as a family, we managed to get by. My parents did the best they could raising my four siblings and me, and they made it a very memorable childhood.

For example, when I was thirteen, I watched my first R-rated movie. My parents were gone for the night and my oldest sister Jerrica was babysitting. Sitting next to my other sisters on the couch, I saw firsthand what sex looked like. The couple was enthralled with one another. You couldn’t see much—not like you can nowadays—but it was what my imagination started to do when I watched them on the screen. I started to feel flushed and excited, but I didn’t understand why.

My face must have been as red as a tomato because, the moment the sex scene was over, all of my sisters were laughing hysterically. I felt like such an idiot and raced off to my room, but later that night, I couldn’t erase the images of the movie from my mind. I had become attracted to it, and soon, I began fantasizing about how amazing it would be to experience that with a man.

Fast forward two years, and my only serious boyfriend and I decided to just go for it. It was awful. Max was nice, and up until that point, all we had done was kiss a lot. My imagination was ripping through my conscience; brain and curiosity had gotten the better of me. My inner nympho needed to be un-caged. Therefore, I convinced him to just go for it and we did.

We stripped our clothes and stood there looking at each other’s naked bodies. I hadn’t meant to, but I kept staring at his dick in sheer terror. My eyes were popping out of my skull as I took in this rock hard thing and how it wanted to impale me. It was huge. There was no way in hell that thing wasn’t going to ram into my stomach.

In my innocent, fifteen-year-old brain, these were the thoughts bouncing around.
If he pokes me too hard or too rough, will it make me vomit? Will jabbing me with his giant man sausage cause me to blow chunks all over his face?
Then I really was starting to think about it
. Is this how models stay so skinny? Do they just have a lot of sex with men who have gargantuan wieners then puke up the contents of their stomach? On one hand, I could stand to lose a little weight, but I hate throwing up.
Again, this was my first experience. I shouldn’t have been thinking about puking on my boyfriend’s bed. I should have been experiencing this deeply emotional experience, right?

However, when Max pulled a condom from his dresser and tore open the package, and I saw him set it on the tip of his penis and roll it down, this got my mind distracted once again. I remember feeling this tingling sensation in my gut. He was touching his manly part as he rolled the latex over himself, and I was incredibly turned on. All thoughts of impalement, puke, and model skinniness had left my brain.

I lay on his bed, and he blanketed on top of me. We both took a deep breath, and then he stripped me of my virginity. I remember the burning pain between my legs and immediately cursing the assholes I had watched on TV. He had acted like it was the best feeling in the world, but in my state, I had felt like a red hot poker was being jabbed between my legs.

What the fuck is he doing? Am I extra small down there and he’s extra large? Does molten lava run through their veins when their dicks get hard or what?
I recall thinking as he moved in and out of my body, ripping me in half.

The moment had only lasted a couple of minutes, and then he had groaned and fell limply on top of me, the experience over. He climbed off me and pulled the condom off his cock. Then that dumbass had the nerve to ask me if it had hurt.

Looking down at his blood-stained sheets, I punched him in his face and threatened to stick a lava lamp up his butthole to see if he liked something ramming in and out of him. I had stormed out of his bedroom, swearing I would never do that again.

I did have to give it to Max, though, he didn’t give up on me, and eventually, we got the hang of it. I turned from loathing anything that could lead to sex, to loving it more than chocolate. Throughout high school, Max and I became amazing at it. We craved it and fucking became the only thing we ever did. The summer after we graduated, Max moved to Iowa to attend the University of Iowa and I stayed in Florida, preparing myself to move to Miami. We broke up amicably and wished each other the best.

I would always say Max was my first love, but when I really think about it, I never loved him. Not the kind of love that leads men and women to each other forever. I had loved him like a good friend and that was about it.

I know love like the forever kind exists, though, because I see it in my parents and between my brother and his wife. I’m just not sure it’s a life I will ever have. Will love ever find me? Or I it?

“Mariah!” Shelby’s shrill voice fast forwards me back to the present. “It’s your fuckin’ birthday, chick, and we’re not sitting here one more second.”

Before I can protest, I’m being yanked off the couch and drug down the hall.

“M
AKEOVER
!” Shelby shouts in my ear.

“Oh, let’s go to Toxic. I heard on the radio that tonight is their decades night and everything will be eighties themed.”

Oh, shit, I’m in trouble. With Giselle onboard, there is no way in hell I can talk them out of this.

Both girls tug me into my bedroom, and the torturous pain of becoming pretty for a night out on the town commences.

I feel like I’m going to a meat market, getting prepped for sale. I was forced to shower and shave then put on the undergarments you only wear for special occasions. So, in my case, bra and panties that haven’t seen the light of day since… ever. However, the black lace fabric is very soft and sexy. Next, I have to sit in the living room, that way I cannot see what Shelby and Giselle are doing to me. Fingers are being run through my brunette hair as it’s shuffled over to the side. Giselle tugs and pulls, subjecting me to the pain of getting my hair braided.

“Ow! G, I swear, if you pull my hair one more time, I’m going to slap you,” I threaten and then feel her lips on my cheek.

“Beauty is pain, my darling. Get used to it.” When she finishes my braid, I can feel it lying across my shoulder.

I lift my hands to the end of the braid and run my fingers over the corded tail of the strands. It feels pretty, but the minute I attempt to get up from the chair, Giselle slaps my hand away and scolds me.

“You’re not done yet!”

I had no idea Shelby left because, when the front door of my apartment slams shut, I see her with clothes over one arm, a duffle bag slung over her shoulder, and she’s dangling strappy stilettos from her fingers. Shit, fucking shit. G was right. If beauty is pain, those shoes look like antique torture devices.

Shelby tosses the duffle bag to the floor and starts pulling out a smaller, yet still large bag from the inside. When she unzips it, the bag is filled to the brim with makeup. I only roll my eyes because I know they’re going to make me look like a cheap eighties hooker. Oh, well, maybe it will be a dick repellent. Who am I kidding? That’s me on a normal day.

“Okay, it’s my turn.” Shelby puts the makeup bag on the stool next to my chair and begins to work. She gets foundation out and the cool liquid is rubbed over my skin with a sponge. Then I can feel the powder brushed over my cheeks. Finally, my eyes are grazed, jammed, and painted until Shelby steps back and smiles. “Oh, fucking shit, Mariah! You look so hot right now.”

“Hot in a hooker sort of way?” I ask, hoping the answer is no.

“You’ll have to see for yourself, but first, you need to get dressed.” She thinks for a second then moves to my bedroom. I can hear the hangers scrape against the metal rod and suddenly a loud squeal. “I am so glad you kept this.”

Shelby is holding up the black, strapless dress I wore all the time during my slutty college year. Almost once a week, I’d squeeze my body into this sleek fabric that covered from my breasts to just below my ass and that’s it. It’s so short, tight and revealing I can’t believe I ever left the house wearing only a scrap of cloth covering my body.