The bullets definitely looked less threatening. I picked up a packet and looked at it curiously. It was metallic silver and it was small and slim and did look like a bullet. “How does it work?” I asked.
“Well, you just press that little button at the top, and it vibrates. They’re all waterproof and come in different colors. I guess it’s a good one to start off with if you don’t want to go straight for a penetrative vibrator,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “They come with batteries too.”
It was £14.99 and the rabbit started off at £35.99—and this one came with free batteries. My mind was made up. I debated between buying a hot pink one or a leopard-print one, but decided the latter gave off creepy bestiality vibes. I selected the hot pink bullet and took it to the counter.
The shop assistant looked at me with disappointment, but I was sure I had made the right choice. I couldn’t handle breaking my hymen myself with that huge lump of plastic—I doubted it would even fit inside me. Anyway, if I fancied fingering myself, I could stick my fingers up there myself or . . . maybe I could even slip this bullet up there too? It vibrated, so it would probably feel good, and it was about a tenth of the size of the rabbit. In fact, it looked a bit like a tampon, so it would definitely fit. Perfect.
I was dying to try it out, but I had stupidly agreed to go out for dinner with my mum and Nikki Pitsillides and her parents. I groaned at the thought and considered canceling, but when I got out my phone to call my mum I already had a text from her telling me there was no way I was getting out of this dinner and I should come home immediately to get ready and make sure I looked nice.
It was two p.m. and dinner wasn’t till seven. Did I really need five hours to make myself look good? Clearly my mum thought so.
“No, you can’t wear that,” my mum said as she sat on the edge of my bed with her arms crossed. “You look like a boy.”
“Mum!” I cried out, exasperated and slightly hurt. “I’m wearing jeans and my favorite top. I wear this outfit all the time.”
“Exactly, and this is why you are still single.” She saw me open my mouth and held up her hand to stop me from speaking. “Elena, I’m not being cruel. I’m just trying to help you. You have such a nice figure. Why don’t you show it off more?” A wistful expression came over her face as she continued. “When I was your age I had the best legs in the whole town. I used to wear skirts every day and they were so short my mum and I argued constantly.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at me suspiciously. “But with you, that’s not a problem because you don’t wear skirts. Why can’t you be more feminine?”
“Oh my God, Mum. Everyone wears jeans,” I snapped back. “It’s normal, okay? Girls don’t have to wear skirts to be feminine. Besides, the androgynous look is in. It’s all over the catwalks, so you’re completely wrong.”
“Do you think you have the figure of a catwalk model?” she retorted. “No. Your figure is different, so you have to dress differently.”
I sighed in frustration. “Mum, can you just get out of my room and let me get dressed alone, please? I’m twenty-one years old and I don’t live at home, so I reckon I’m capable of choosing an outfit for a dinner in Guildford on my own, thank you.”
“I want you to look nice, Elena. You’re my daughter and I want to show you off,” she said.
“Firstly, I’m not a pedigree dog. If you wanted something to show off you should have bought a pet and not given birth. Secondly, why is tonight such a big deal? Nikki isn’t going to care what I wear and I doubt her parents will either.”
“Yes, but we’re going out to the new Italian place. So why not make an effort, Elena?” she asked, as she came over to me and started stroking my hair. “You’re so pretty, but you hide it all with these boyish clothes. And you never wear makeup.”
She was being uncharacteristically weird. “I do wear makeup,” I said.
“But you don’t wear lipstick or lip gloss like all the other girls. You wear this eyeliner, like some punk rock star, and you never brush your hair and make it all soft and pretty,” she said, still stroking the curly mass that I called hair.
“Yeah, because look at it, Mum! If I brush it, it makes me look like I’m going to an eighties prom. Also, no one above the age of thirteen wears lip gloss.”
“Okay,” she said, throwing up her arms in resignation. “But can you please just try this on?” She held out a floral dress I had bought years ago on a whim and barely worn.