Easy Virtue(2)

“Hurry up,” I say, not bothering to be shy or coy about it. I mean, he brought me here to have sex, right?

“Fuck, give me a second, Blaire. Trying to get the damn condom on my dick.”

As he rolls the rubber down his hard shaft, his eyes wander over my bare chest, my face, my spread legs. Shaking his head as if trying to clear his mind, he mutters, “You’re so beautiful. I want you so much.”

That’s not the first time I’ve heard those words come out of a man’s mouth. Josh tells me all the time how beautiful I am, how perfect I am, how much he wants me. But he’s just a guy I randomly make out with. The words kind of lose their meaning when it’s the same person saying them to you over and over again.

“Show me.”

Those two words are all it takes for him to spread my legs wider with his hands and finally enter me. Pain shoots through my body, and a groan escapes my mouth when he covers my body with his. I feel his whole length inside me in one deep thrust.

“Christ, you’re so tight.”

He lifts both my legs, wrapping them around his lean waist and starts to thrust. Hard. It hurts. But I like the pain. It sobers me.

“Oh God … I love you, Blaire. I love you … I love you …” he pants in my ear.

And that’s when reality comes crashing down on me. It hits me with the speed and blinding power of a torpedo, making me realize what I’m doing. What I’m giving away. And the man doesn’t even know it.

What the hell am I doing?

Proving that you are your mother’s daughter.

Making her proud.

The room is filled with the noises of the man grunting his pleasure and the wet slapping of our skin; it makes me want to gag. I want to throw up. Maybe it’s the alcohol I drank.

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.