“You’re supposed to swallow them. I mean, that’s what the stripper did at our last party. It was awesome! Shoved the whole damn thing down her throat and didn’t even gag,” he says proudly.
The balloon in Isabelle’s hands suddenly explodes with a loud pop when she squeezes it too hard, the broken and deflated rubber falling from her hands and onto the floor.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I mutter.
“Tiffany didn’t puke. She took that thing down like a champ,” John informs us before turning away and starting up a chant with the group of men still standing in front of us with money in their hands, waiting for us to do something.
“TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF!”
“What do we do?!” I ask Ariel frantically.
“We have two choices. Start taking shit off, or run like hell.”
I think about the three thousand dollars that is waiting for us at the end of this night. I think about the overdue bills stacked up on my counter. I think about the three new voicemails I received from my in-laws today, each one angrier and more demanding than the ones before. I think about how it’s time for me to take a stand and do something about the sorry state of my life.
Glancing around the room at the all the men, my eyes meet the gorgeous blue ones attached to the rude owner of this house. He’s still in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe with his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans and a bored look on his face. I suddenly want nothing more than to watch his eyes light up with something other than rudeness and irritation. Like maybe shock that this princess isn’t as virginal as he thinks.
And then I think about the fact that the only man who has ever seen me naked is Brian.
Lifting my chin in the air, I smile at the men standing in front of us, their cheers growing louder and louder. I grab both Ariel and Isabelle’s hands, which just makes them even more excited.
Clutching my friends tightly, knowing it’s now or never, I open my mouth and scream at the top of my lungs.
“RUUUUUUUUUUN!”
Chapter 6: It’s Time to Get My Hands Dirty
“We look like we went through a princess war zone,” I complain, crossing my legs on the love seat and doing my best to smooth out the wrinkled, torn mess of my costume.
“No, we look like princess gang-bang survivors,” Ariel complains, flopping onto her back on the sofa across from me in the sitting room, holding her hand against her chest when the ripped bodice of her slinky mermaid costume starts to fall off.
To say that running and screaming out of PJ’s house was not the wisest decision around a bunch of inebriated men who had anticipated watching strippers perform is an understatement. They assumed it was part of our “act.” But after we dodged several grabby hands, which resulted in Ariel kicking one of the men between the legs, they quickly realized we weren’t acting and wanted out.
“Do you always have to be so crass?” I complain, sighing in annoyance when the ripped sleeve of my costume keeps falling down my arm.
“Do you always have to be so un-crass?” she complains, pushing herself up from the love seat with one hand while she continues to hold the top of her dress together with the other. “Say something offensive. Right now.”
I bite my tongue as Ariel stares me down. After a minute of silence, I quietly watch her get up from the loveseat and stalk over to the fireplace mantle, reach up and knock over a picture frame, her eyes never leaving mine.
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying my best to keep the annoyance out of my voice and remain calm.
“Say something offensive,” she states again, her hand slowly moving to a small, metal statue of the Eiffel Tower that Brian and I got on our honeymoon.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper, clasping my hands together tightly in my lap as Isabelle looks back and forth between us from her spot on the floor in the middle of the room, like she’s watching a tennis match.
With a flick of her wrist, Ariel knocks over the statue.
“Say gang bang!” she orders, moving down the mantle, her hand now hovering over another picture frame.
“No.”
Everything inside of me is screaming to get up and fix what she’s messed up, needing the order restored almost as much as I need air to breathe. If everything is where it’s supposed to be, nice and neat and tidy and perfect, I can pretend my life hasn’t become one big, horrifying mess. I can look around my nice and neat and tidy and perfect home and forget all of the chaos that surrounds it.