I got so caught up in my history assignment yesterday that I completely forgot about blogging. As an apology, I am posting twice today. This is my second post.
Trigger Warning: Disturbing content involving sexual assault of a minor!
When I was thirteen, I attended a party. An innocent enough statement, right? Brings to mind images of cake, dancing, too-loud music. This wasn’t that kind of party. Maybe you weren’t picturing that. Maybe you imagined us splashing about in the pool, chucking water balloons, indulging in ice-cream sundaes. It wasn’t that kind of party, either. I’m not telling this right. Let me start over.
When I was thirteen, my guardian – cos there’s no way I’m calling that asshole dad – decided it was time I earned my keep.
The party was boring. A bunch of old men standing around in suits, sipping cocktails, pretending interest in the economy. I was sent upstairs with four other teens I didn’t know, while Asshole worked the room. To ‘freshen up’ he said. He was still Dad then.
Fifty bucks. That’ll buy you an hour.
The party was boring. I know. I keep harping about that. Is it weird that’s what I remember most? The boredom. The monotony. The normality.
Five hundred buys you the night.
One of the other boys brought a Nintendo. We took turns playing, egging each other on, laughing whenever Mario died. The noise didn’t disturb the party. We were far enough away.
Kissing costs extra.
The party was exclusive. Invitation only. Very hush, hush. Working sods need not apply. Except Asshole. Rules don’t apply if you supply the entertainment. Dunno how he heard about it. Assholes have a grapevine, I guess.
The first paid double.
The bed creaked. My bed at home doesn’t creak. I thought it was something that happened in movies. A device to add humour or drama to the film. But this bed creaked. Our own personal soundtrack. Creak, sigh, creak, sigh, creak, sigh.
They like it when you cry.
The party was exclusive. The bedroom wasn’t. There were ten flowers on every patch of faded wallpaper – four pink, three yellow, two blue, one red. The dirty ceiling housed precisely seven spiders and three empty webs. The room would have been pretty twenty years ago.
A couple of hundred buys you bruises.
Men sweat. Even the exclusive ones. They try to hide it with showers and expensive cologne, but it’s always there, just below the surface, damp, musty, offensive. The sweat is the worst part.
They like to hear you beg.
Men are heavy. I’ll never get used to the weight, pressing down, stealing my breath. Especially afterwards, collapsed, exhausted, threatening suffocation. The weight is the worst part. Worse than the sweat.
They like to pretend.
Men are lonely. When they’ve finished, when they’ve ridden the high and re-joined humanity, they like to cuddle. They wrap their arms around you and whisper endearments and imagine you’re willing.
That’s the worst part.
When they pretend, when they take their time, when they’re slow, and gentle, and attentive, when they stroke my hair and whisper sweet nothings in my ear, sometimes I pretend too.
Sometimes I ride the high.
I’m taking a course at uni entitled I Have a Dream: Political Writing. Our first assignment was to write a 500 word piece experimenting with elements related to ‘the political’ and inspired by, or in response to, our course readings and tutorial discussions. We were allowed to interpret the word ‘political’ rather broadly. This is my piece as it was submitted. Next week, I will re-post this piece incorporating the changes that were suggested by my marker. I recieved 82% for this assessment.
Categories: Fiction Friday