But I am looking at myself, and what I see is breathtaking.
It has to be.
The admiration that follows me everywhere I go testifies to that fact. If only I could remove all traces of those childhood memories that constantly crowd my mind, reminding me how unworthy of love I am. If I could, then I know I could make myself believe what my brain has been telling me all along. I know I could make myself believe the words that countless of men have whispered in my ear while they were inside of me.
Lifting my fingertips to touch my face, I trace the soft angles of my chin, the curve of my winged eyebrows, the shape of my high cheekbones. The way the outer corners of my almond-shaped eyes lift gives me a feline look. The face I see belongs to a beautiful, almost too beautiful girl.
I smile into the mirror as I begin to trace my body with my hand. The hand travels a path from my shoulder down to my breasts, caressing the rosy tips, and then it continues down to my smooth stomach. I can’t help but wonder if this is all I’m about.
Is this everything I’m worth—a body and a face?
A voice inside my head tells me that things could be different if only I’d allow it, but I ignore it. Instead, I take one last glance at my naked body and walk toward my closet, looking for an outfit to wear tonight.
It’s been five years since I moved to New York City and in those years I’ve managed to live a life full of clichés. I’ve become a walking cliché, but I don’t mind because at least I can say that I’m living and experiencing life. I’ve been a waitress, a receptionist, a sales representative in a department store … I even tried acting school for the hell of it. And through it all, I’ve managed to keep my heart intact and my feelings at bay.
Looking around at my expensively furnished apartment—my borrowed dream—I’m surrounded by glamour and false security. A white bedspread and headboard, a white rug, a white night table, white candles, white lamps, and blocks of white canvas as the only thing adorning my lavender walls. White. White. White. I breathe white. I breathe the color of innocence. Yet this place couldn’t be more soiled than the color black.
I shake my head and focus on getting ready for my date tonight with Walker.
Walker Woodsmith Jr.—the name alone drips with money. With his blond hair, sky blue eyes, body of an Olympic swimmer, a pedigree similar to the Kennedys, and the swagger of Jay-Z—he is God reincarnated. And he fucks like one too. It feels as though he brings me closer to God every time he plays my body like a perfectly tuned instrument.
Just thinking about him makes my heart rate rise. With Walker, everything is always fast, angry, hard, painful.
And I love it.
Once I finish applying the last coat of dark red to my lips, I take two steps away from the bathroom counter so I can take a better look at myself. I smile at my flawless reflection in the mirror. Rivers of straight black hair, skin that has never been kissed by the sun, eyes the color of bluebells, and an hourglass figure. This Blaire won’t be bullied by the cool kids in school. This Blaire won’t be ignored.
This Blaire will shine.
Satisfied with the way the little black lacy, see-through dress I’m wearing molds to my curves, the thin layer of lace showing the paleness of my skin, I decide this will do. I look sinful. I look like sex—and that’s what I’m selling. I want men to want me. I want women to be jealous of me. I need to feel desired.
After slipping my feet into a killer pair of black Miu Miu stilettos (and by killer I mean they are as gorgeous as they are painful), I grab a sparkly clutch encrusted with crystals and head out the door.
Standing on the corner outside my building, relishing in the attention I seem to be attracting, I lift an arm, feeling the golden bangles I’m wearing slide down my wrist, and flag a cab. As I wait for one to stop, I look around me, admiring the way the city comes alive when darkness has fallen upon us. It’s not like it doesn’t feel the same way during the day—it’s different—better. As night takes over, there’s a wild frenzy of excitement and licentious behavior that runs deep through the streets of Manhattan, swiping away with it all of its inhabitants. And as I swim in those turbulent waters, my body packed with energy, I’ve never felt freer.
I’m watching a couple hold hands as they walk their dog across the street when I hear my phone ring. I open my small clutch and reach for the white rectangle that holds my entire life in its minuscule memory chip. I smile when I see the picture of my best friend—the only person who knows the real me.
“Yo,” I answer. We like to pretend that we can talk all cool, but we’re pretty lame at it if we’re being honest with ourselves.