As I meet Liz by the elevators, she smiles, but I see the worry etching its way across her beautiful face. We step in together, and she instantly reaches for my hand and doesn’t let it go until the doors open. We walk together to the bar, and I set about numbing my body with alcohol. Derek wants me sober enough to think clearly, but I’ve decided, since Derek doesn’t have to fuck complete strangers, his opinion on this matter isn’t going to be a deciding factor for me. Liz watches me in continued concern as I down my second glass of wine. She spots Derek walking toward us and hastily whispers that I need to play it cool. But too late. Derek has apparently been watching us closely enough that he’s already well aware I’m not following any sensible suggestion in terms of my alcohol consumption.
He reaches us, leans toward my ear, and demands, “Slow down.”
I’m not drunk, but I’m relaxed and slightly tipsy, and at his comment, I turn to his ear and respond, “Make me.”
His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare as he takes me in. Liz stands by watching the situation unfold. I don’t take my eyes from Derek’s as he glares at me. I want him to know my pain, my fear, and, wrong as that is, I don’t care. He briskly turns to Liz and demands that she keep an eye on me before he moves away from us.
Regardless of the show I put on for Derek, I do slow down, but the moment he approaches me to let me know my time has run out and I’ve been purchased, I regret ever listening to him. I grab two shots of something that belong to someone else at the bar, and in an incredibly impulsive, and perhaps a bit self-destructive move, I down them both quickly before Derek can stop me. His eyes close in frustration, but he says nothing. I watch him, guilting him with my eyes, though I know he doesn’t deserve my wrath. I want him to suffer, and I know he does, but I still want him to suffer more.
He introduces me to the man, and I don’t even look at him. I continue to stare at Derek as he looks back at me coolly. I can’t even remember the man’s name, and I don’t care either, and as Derek continues to eye me and I continue to return his gaze, the man beside us starts to fidget and clear his throat.
My pain is driving my body and my actions at this point, and in yet another bold-as-hell move, I turn to the man, flash him an incredibly contrived and over-broad smile, and speak salaciously. “Let’s go have some fun, shall we?”
But as the man brushes past me, I can feel my expression slacken and fall in defeat, and I look to Derek once more, torturing him with my pain. I follow the man from the room without a second glance to Derek. My pain is morphing to rage, and I’m counting on this rage to get me through this final consummation of being a whore.
Once in my room, I finally take the time to look at the man. He smells of bourbon and sweat. He’s pudgy and unattractive, and while he smiles sweetly at me, the fact that he’s paying for my body undoes whatever sweetness he radiates with his eyes. When he touches my skin, I squirm, trying to make it look like nothing more than a casual shrug. When he smiles, I purse my lips and force the corners of my mouth up. If anyone cared to look at me too closely, I probably look like a head case who is not in control of her body. But Derek isn’t watching, and that provides at least some measure of comfort. He would no doubt cringe at every mistake I make; perhaps he’d be embarrassed by my performance. I’m not sure I care. I’m just glad he isn’t seeing this. I resent him. I’m angry with him, and while I know this has been my decision from the get-go, I hold him completely responsible. None of it is his fault, but hating him makes me feel better. I don’t care if it’s inappropriate or misplaced anger. I want to hurt him with it.
I will my dinner to stay in my stomach and not end up on the floor, or this man. Blessedly, he’s not asked me to have anal sex with him, but he wants to fuck me, and that is bad enough. I was hoping I’d get off with just giving him my mouth, but luck is a bitch, and she’s not my friend tonight.
As he watches me undress, he showers me with romantic epithets, all the things naïve girls think they want to hear, that is, until they become jaded whores and realize life sucks when your sole business is to fuck. But for all his kind words that are meant to sound endearing, he disturbs me. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know that I’m sweet, so why should he call me “sweetie”? He’s never touched my body, so how does he know he’s going to make me “feel so good”? He has no right to be romantic with me because he hasn’t earned my adoration. He has no business telling me how good he’s going to treat me when he hasn’t earned my respect. I hate him for his words, and wish I could tape his damn mouth shut and make him shut up, and when that mouth kisses mine, I struggle not to cry. When his tongue enters my mouth, I struggle not to bite it off. Every touch, every kiss is a painful struggle.
He ends up entering me from behind as I quickly run a couple of fingers covered with my saliva over my sex to facilitate my complete lack of lubrication. He’s small, at least compared to Derek, and there is nothing I want more than to expel him from my body. His moans and romanticism have me wanting to punch him by the time he tells me to turn and suck him, but I plant a slight, stiff smile on my face as I round to his waiting penis. There is nothing impressive about it, and I don’t want to touch it, let alone taste it. But keeping my eyes closed tight, I catapult myself into another world. I imagine I’m sucking Derek, and the moans I hear are his, but every minute or so, I make the mistake of opening my eyes or opening my nose or any other sense that reminds me swiftly and surely that this is not Derek in my mouth.
When he tells me he’s going to come, he unloads more pet names and acts as though he’s too much of a gentleman to come in my mouth. When he pulls from my mouth, I’m hit full in the face with his cum as it squirts disgustingly on my skin. I jump and flinch in shock as the wetness meets my skin, and I instantly want to bathe in bleach. But it’s over. He returns to calling me “sweetie,” and tells me how much he wants to see me again. He’s acting like my damn boyfriend, and my brain imagines screaming every curse I can think of at him. I want to kick him out, but I can’t, and as he caresses and rubs my skin, pretending to care about me, my anxiety starts to rise at his lingering presence and touch. Wasn’t it enough that he should pay for my body and then use it? But to act as though I’m something to him that I’m not disgusts me more than anything he’s done to my body. I smile gently and give nothing away of my hatred for this man I don’t know. He’s given me little reason to hate him. He’s not hurt me. I can’t even say he’s scared me. I should be thankful, but I’m not. He’s disgusted me and nothing more. What did I expect?
When at long last he leaves me with a deep, passionate kiss that makes my stomach turn, I run quickly to the toilet and finally empty my stomach. I sit on the floor naked, staring at the toilet for many long minutes before wiping the remaining cum from my face and crawling to the bathtub. As it fills, I look at myself in the mirror. I have no reason to smile at the woman looking back at me. She disgusts me, and at the moment, I hate her. I want to scream at her in shame and humiliation. I want to hurt her. My self-loathing is so powerful and complete that I stand staring nearly until the bathtub fills to overflowing.
When I make to turn from my image at last, I curse her out loud. “You’re a disgusting whore.”
I flip the light switch, leaving myself in the darkness to feel my way to the tub. When I sink down in the cleansing warmth, I stare out at the nothingness in front of me. I can’t even cry. I don’t deserve to feel sorry for myself.
While I stare into the abyss, I remember my parents. They would be ashamed and humiliated by me could they see me now, and for whatever mistakes my father made, he surely didn’t deserve to have a daughter like me. I could be no more disgusting if my skin were crawling with maggots. I can think only of my parents and what the shock and dismay at my choices would have looked like on their faces. The images of them in my mind are as painful as if they were standing alive in front of me. Can I do this for the next five years? Hate myself? And in the end, will I be left debt free and so filled with self-loathing that life ceases to matter to me anymore?