Still bent, I have my hands on the arms of a chair, my behind in the air, and my panties pulled down, showing my… everything.
I also have a thick layer of… ejaculate all over my backside.
The first heave throws me to my knees. I don’t want to straighten up because all the sticky stuff on my back will run, so I stay like I am, bent, hunched, submissive. It’s not comfortable.
So, I bury my face into the overstuffed chair to muffle any noise I might make while several convulsing waves make their way over and through me, as if trying to teach me a lesson about what I’d just done.
Please don’t puke, please don’t puke. It will be hard to clean up and will stink, too.
I wait for the tears, which will be easier to manage.
I didn’t have sex, but I did do something bad. I just know it. The man didn’t really touch me aside from running his hand over my butt cheek, but he sure looked at me. And got me to touch myself.
That was wrong, right? I mean, nice girls in the town I’m from don’t do things like that.
But they don’t move to Chicago to get their bookkeeping certificates or take cleaning jobs in places like Club Sin, either.
I heave a second time, but nothing comes out, thank goodness. Nor do tears. Am I so dry, so barren, that my body can’t even purge my sinfulness? Isn’t there a price to pay for the awful, humiliating thing I’d just done?
Letting that man touch me, see me, and smell me is one thing.
But the bigger sin, which I figure has sealed my fate, that of spending eternity in hellish damnation, is… that I enjoyed it.
Ienjoyedit. That’s all there is to it.
I enjoyed his dirty gaze, his filthy words, and the way he spurted his essence on me like I was some sort of trash bin.
The contradictions swirling around my mind are dizzying. But I take deep breaths just like they say to in the psychology magazines—the ones I wasn’t supposed to ever read—and in a minute feel calmer.
But I can’t sit here like a pile of waywardness for long. Someone will come looking for me, find me with my dress off and panties pulled down, covered in a man’s sperm.
Orcum,as I’ve learned to call it.
I grab the towel Max threw my way and strain to reach my back with it. I figure I won’t get every last bit of what he let loose on me, but that doesn’t matter. What does, is getting back to work before I’m discovered. My Timex tells me I’ve been in the room for a good hour. Someone will be looking at me.
Like Gwen. And it’s never good when Gwen is looking for you.
What did I just do? I heave again, thinking about the self-destructiveness of my actions. There is something wrong with me, something irrevocably, treacherously wrong. I always knew I was different from the people who surrounded me. I never really bought into my parents’—and church’s—narrow beliefs about what’s right and wrong. I tried to, though, god knew. I prayed and prayed, night after night on my knees on the hard wood floor at the foot of my bed, relishing the discomfort and pain. And yet my doubts never went away. If God wanted me to feel differently, wouldn’t he have let me know?
All my friends had accepted the doctrine they’d been fed, hook, line, and sinker. Never was any of it questioned, at least by anyone I knew. Not in my entire life.
So, I kept my own thoughts and questions to myself.
Like, how could it be a sin for a girl to wear a skirt above her knees, tempting boys into ‘impure’ thoughts?
Why wasn’t it a sin for the boys who were tempted with such? And, god forbid, if they acted on those temptations, why was there no fault on their part?
It was still the girl’s burden. Always the girl’s burden.
It just never made sense.
But I kept that to myself.
When most of the stickiness is wiped from my back, I crawl over to where my dress sits crumpled in a pile, set aside like the ugly thing it is. And yet, somehow it entranced Max. He found something sexy about it and would no doubt have ravished me further had his time not expired.
It isn’t the short skirts that bewitches boys. More like the brains between their ears. And the genitals that sit between their legs.
I look at the crumpled innocence of my dress, but there’s something about it that keeps me from touching it.