The Girl in 6E

by Alessandra Torre

  I fell in and out of love with Francis three times during my high school career. During the “out” phase, I would wonder what the hell I had ever found attractive about the boy. His feet were ridiculously big, he took out his retainer during lunch, and no matter what he wore or how he wore it, he couldn’t erase the GEEK vibe from seeping out every pore of his body. During the “in love” phases, I would be certain that we were destined to be together—would find his quirks and stutters amusing, and would steadfastly decide that he was my one true love and I would never, ever, look at another man. Unluckily for Francis, a football jock, or a homecoming king, or the hot flavor-of-the-week would invariably swoop in and snatch me away. And I’d always go, with barely a second glance back. And he would always wait.

  When we were dating—it was something my mother would have approved of: intellectual dates with a chaste kiss at the end of the night. He never pushed, there was no tongue, his hands never traveled, and he always “respected” me.

  Nice guys occasionally do win. Francis is now in grad school at Harvard and holds a patent for some refrigeration chip thingy that all the restaurants are using. I stalk him online and get Google alerts every time something about him is written. He’s worth about $200 million and is engaged to some perfect blue-blooded blonde who probably sucks his cock three times a day. God, was I stupid.

  Despite my stupidity, the one thing that I did get out of my Francis infatuation was my virginity. His steadfast dedication to me, coupled with his constant presence as a friend when he wasn’t my boyfriend, allowed me to be firm with my dates and gave me the confidence to not be swayed or pressured by insistent hands or smooth words.

  At first, my virginity was a hindrance when it came to camming. My familiarity with fucking and masturbation was elementary at best. I had given head in high school, was anatomically familiar enough with a cock, balls, and the process of a hand job, but I had serious homework in front of me when I decided to pursue camming as a full-time occupation.

  Porn ended up being my education: Jenna Jameson, Nina Hartley, and Peter North were my professors. For a two-week period, I watched ten to twelve hours of fucking a day, read how-to seduction books, and let Carmen Electra teach me the art of the striptease. I was a dedicated student, and after more than a hundred hours of study, I felt ready.

  My first session was a disaster: uncomfortable dialogue followed by a lot of nervous giggling on my part. I looked uncoordinated on camera, arching my body into odd angles, my limbs moving awkwardly in ways they shouldn’t, my own vagina scaring the crap out of me when displayed in high-definition on-screen. But things eventually clicked, with patient clients holding my virtual hand until I became the virginal Internet vixen I am today.

  But am I still a virgin? What is the technical definition? If I’ve had a seven-inch dildo inside of me, is that any different from a real cock?

  At the rate I’m going, physical sex doesn’t seem to be in the cards for me, not unless I develop an affection for necrophilia. So I don’t think my sexual classification really matters anymore. The only people who seem to care are potential suitors, and I don’t have any of them lurking in the crowded corners of my apartment.

  A virgin is defined as someone pure, innocent. It is also described as “not yet explored or exploited by man.” By those definitions, I am mostly definitely not a virgin. And even if you got technical, divided my body into quadrants and analyzed them separately, whether or not my vagina is “pure” is of small consequence when the rest of me is anything but.

  Chapter 9

  THE MAN WATCHES the girls play. Their happy smiles, their youthful innocence. He moves from his place at the window, walking to the cashier, pulling out his wallet, and fighting the urge to glance backward. This is a small town, a town where people notice things and odd behavior stands out. A town where everyone knows and has known everyone else, since the day that they themselves were kids. A shriek of pleasure hits his ears and he focuses on the woman before him, on her lips, which are forming words he should respond to.

  “That it?”

  He swallows. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, Ethel.”

  “No problem at all. I’ll see you on Tuesday, and will let Bud know you stopped in.” She beams at him, passing him the bag of groceries, and then turns to the next person in line.

  He breathes hard, walking past the girls, his eyes locked forward on the handle of his truck. One step before another, three steps away, now two, now one. Don’t look over, don’t listen to their laughter, don’t think about what lies under the thin cotton of their dresses. Then he is inside the truck, the radio turned to loud, and puts the truck in drive, the tires skipping slightly as he gives the truck more gas than is necessary.

  He needs to get home. To get in front of the computer and find a girl. Just for a quick release. Without a release, his thoughts will wander, and lately they are wandering to the place they shouldn’t go. To the one little girl that he should stay away from more than any of the rest, the one who is too close to home, the connection too strong—the chance of capture too great. He shakes his head, focusing on the road, focusing on step one.

  Step 1: Get Home.

  Step 2: Get Online.

  CHAPTER 10

  JEREMY DELIVERS A package midmorning, one I ignore until lunch, when I sit down to eat. I examine the package before opening it, the bright bubble-wrapper mailer and mail-forwarding sticker indicating that it is from a client. While I wait for the microwave to heat vegetarian lasagna, I shake it, trying to guess what is inside. No rattle, and the package is soft. Probably clothing—a sexy outfit of some sort.

  The return address will normally tell me if the client is married. Married men don’t put a return address or use a work address. Married men skip over the hearts drawn next to my name or smiley faces on the box. Married men don’t want a returned package biting them in the ass. This package, with its pink mailer and a Maine return address, is probably from a single guy. One who has high hopes of stealing my heart and convincing me to be his, forever and ever.

  The microwave dings and I press the button, stopping the timer from shrieking incessantly at me. I open a drawer, pull out children’s scissors, and cut open the package.

  Hand towels. That’s different. I hold them up, my eyes examining the embroidered roses on the front, something that is more appropriate for an elderly woman than for me, but pretty just the same. I dig through the tissue paper for a card, find a white envelope, and pull it out.

  Hand towels are not normal gifts. Jewelry, lingerie, pajamas, stationery, porn videos, personal porn videos, sex toys, costumes, sports paraphernalia…those are the norm. I rip open the envelope and pull out a card with a golden retriever on the front, then open it to find handwriting in a neat script.

  Jessica,

  I just got a new machine and wanted to try it out. Thought you would like this design, as I have noticed you like pink.

  With love,

  Lillian

  Lillian. I look at the return address, which has “L. Baker” as the sender. The hand towels suddenly make more sense.

  I don’t have many female clients, but they are there, and they do—in some ways—take up more time than my male clientele. Women require more nurturing, personal attention. They write longer e-mails, spend more time chatting and less time masturbating, ask personal questions, and expect me to remember personal details about their preferences, life, and stories.

  For women, our chats are more relationship building. Some are established lesbians, some are bisexual, some are curious. Some just seem to be lonely, while others want the physical exploration that can occur via cam. Some, like Lillian, are old enough to be my grandmother, while others are college students looking to experiment.

  I’ve “known” Lillian for about a year now. We chat about once a month, a friendly conversation where she occasionally asks me to remove my shirt or pull up my dress and show her the lace of my panties. We have never done sexually explicit act
ivities, but she subscribes to my website and I have watched her web traffic. The older woman watches at least an hour of my feed per day.

  She is a very kind woman, always pleasant and curious about my day, my life, my general happiness level. Hand towels seem right up her alley, as does embroidery. I pull out some stationery and write her a quick thank-you card, the smell of lasagna reminding me of my lunch.

  After sealing the envelope, I address the front and stick it into the large envelope that gets sent back to the mail-forwarding company. Then I rip the plastic off my lunch and dig in.

  CHAPTER 11

  ANNIE

  AT FIVE THIRTY P.M., relatives start arriving to the party. Uncle Frank is the first, taking off his worn baseball cap in the front doorway, smiling shyly at Annie, and holding out a small, yellow-wrapped present, which looks as if it has been wrapped with half a roll of tape. She jumps excitedly, wrapping her small arms around his waist, inhaling the cigarette and earth smells that always follow him. She beams up at him, grabbing the present and shaking it excitedly. “Thank you, Uncle Frank.” He squeezes the back of her neck and grins down at her.

  “You’re welcome, sweetie.” He crouches down so they are eye to eye. “You want to open it now?”

  Her eyes widen. “Can I?” she whispers.

  “Sure. Let’s sit on the back step, and get out of everyone’s way.” He straightens, holding his hand out, and she slides her tiny one into his and tugs, pulling him through the small living room to the worn-out back door.

  They sit close, heads together, legs touching, on the small concrete step of the back stoop. She leans against his shoulder, pulling at the paper with anxious hands, her frustration with the tape eliciting a laugh from him. He takes the package gently and works the tape loose. “There,” he says, passing it back to her. “Now you can rip it to shreds.”

  Inside the house, the front door is opened to another young girl, her father holding on to her small hand until they cross the threshold. The girl runs, heading to the table of favors, her feet pounding the thin floors of the trailer. “Where’s Annie?” the man asks, watching his daughter streak through the house.

  “She’ll be in in a minute,” Carolyn Thompson says, setting down a pitcher of tea and flashing a smile. “I know she’ll be excited to see Dana. It’s been too long since you brought her over.”

  The man grimaces, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “You know how it goes, Carolyn. Too many other temptations on our time.”

  The woman nods as she sets out a stack of cups, then turns to head back into the kitchen. On the way she stops at the back door, watching the step, seeing her brother lean down and whisper something into Annie’s ear.

  CHAPTER 12

  I HAVE TWO shrinks. I don’t really know why, except that I can’t seem to tell one of them things that I can tell the other, and vice versa. I actually pay both shrinks, which is an oddity for me since I normally try to exchange goods for services. Sex, even Internet sex, seems to be a universal currency. I tried using a client as a shrink once, and it was disastrous. Of course, with a username like QuackAttack, I probably should have known from the beginning that it wouldn’t work out. That was the guy with the little dick.

  Dr. Brian Russell is my first shrink, my sex doctor. He is a sex therapist who is basically my gossip buddy. His website’s photo shows a thin, bald white man whose photos absolutely shriek gay, even though he is doing nothing but smiling into a camera with a business suit on. I wanted a gay shrink so I wouldn’t have to worry about turning him on when I describe my sessions. I talk to him about my customers, and he tells me their sexual motivations and how I can best connect with them. That is the official description of our relationship, but mostly we just giggle about what goes on during my cam sessions. I have no one else to talk to about this, and due to our doctor/patient relationship, he is a vault.

  Dr. Derek Vanderbilt is my second shrink and has been on the payroll for eighteen months. He’s the closest thing to a friend I have had in the last three years. I can’t find a photo of him online, which irks me no end. For some reason, knowing what the person on the other end of the line looks like makes me feel I have the upper hand…at least in my mind. We talk once a week, on Wednesdays at two p.m. He has strongly suggested that I increase my sessions to twice weekly, but I have ignored that suggestion. He doesn’t know I have a second shrink. If he did, he might not worry about my psychological health so much. I talk to Derek about my murderous inclinations and the effects of my isolation. I don’t mind being killer-crazy, but I don’t want to be loony-bin-crazy. That would probably be bad for business—a bit of a turnoff.

  “Tell me about your most recent fantasy.” Derek’s voice is smooth, deep, and masculine. I could listen to it all day long, though at $150 an hour, I limit myself to hour-long sessions.

  “I enter a house at night. It’s quiet. All I can hear is the occasional chirp of a smoke alarm. The sound drives me crazy. I can’t find anyone downstairs, and as I climb the stairs, my heart is beating erratically. I am wet.”

  “Wet—from rain?” Derek implores.

  “No. Wet, as in aroused,” I clarify.

  “Are you often aroused in your fantasies?”

  This was taking us off topic, and I wanted to finish telling him my damn fantasy. He often did this, jumping on a random thing I’ve said and chasing it down till we’ve exhausted the poor little subject to death.

  “Sometimes.” I knew he wanted more, but I plunged on. “I start to go upstairs, and the third step squeaks—loudly. A dog from above me whines, and I know I must kill him to keep him quiet. I don’t want to kill him, so I almost turn around. But the need has taken me over, and is drumming so loudly in my head, along with the damn smoke alarm, that I have to satisfy it.”

  I pause, but thankfully Derek stays quiet, and I continue. “The top of the stairs is lit by a small Santa Claus night-light. I am confused, because it is not winter. I stare at it for a moment, before I hear a scratch on a door. It’s the dog. I reach for the handle, and suddenly I have a knife in my hand. I open the door slowly; the room is dark inside. The dog looks up at me. It is an old golden retriever. His back is swayed, and he is looking up at me with eyes of cloudy blue. His tail wags, and I start to cry. Not sob, just small streams of tears that leak from my eyes. I don’t kill the dog, but my thirst for blood is angry at me for my weakness.”

  I shift, the memory of the dream filling me with renewed urges. “The pounding in my head increases. It’s like that feeling when you are really aroused; when your body is consumed with the need for release—you would do anything, and are in such a blind fervor that you lose all rational thought. The need overtakes my rational, compassionate side, and I rush into the room, worried that they are awake and that I have lost the advantage of surprise. I stop by the bedside, and wait for my eyes to adjust. I am mad at myself for leaving the dog alone, and I hear the soft pad of his old feet on the carpet as he walks over to me. He sits at my side and pants up at me. The soft pants of his happy breath increase the maddening chorus of my mind, and I know the only way to shut it up.”

  I stop for a moment—breathing hard—the description of the fantasy making me excited, making the need stronger. It was a double-edged sword, talking to Derek. He helped me to calm the urges, but getting to that point often gave the urges strength.

  “My eyes have adjusted and I see the room: a master bedroom. There are two bodies on the bed. The man has thrown the sheet off and is lying on his back. The woman is on her side, facing away from me. I go around to her side of the bed and do her first. Then I—”

  “How do you kill her?”

  I pause, clenching my hands, trying to stop the flow of excitement that is building in strength. “I use a knife. I stab her neck. She struggles but can’t speak. I watch her die.”

  “And how did you feel as she died?”

  “Empowered.” I close my eyes as I say the word, knowing that it is not the answer he wa
nts. He keeps thinking that something is going to change. That the emotion of regret will start to enter my fantasies.

  “Then what happens?”

  “I go to him. I take more time with him and start with his chest. I stab him there, which instantly wakes him up. I wait for him to see her, then I finish him quickly.”

  “Why wait for him to see her?”

  I rub my forehead. “I don’t know. Because I’m psychotic.”

  “You don’t seem happy with this fantasy.”

  “Do I ever seem happy about my fantasies? It’s just so fucked up. I hate that I enjoy the thought of this disgusting shit. Lately, it’s been depressing me more than usual.”

  “Do you want me to prescribe you something?” There is something in his voice, in his question, but I can’t tell what it is.

  “Fuck, no. I want you to find the magic key that will make me normal.”

  “No one is normal. Everyone is just pretending to be normal.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. I used to be normal, and I liked it just fine.”

  “Did your mother seem normal?”

  I sigh, blowing out a huge whoosh of air, and close my eyes. I had been wandering around the loft, my cell to my ear, so I plop down on my real bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah, Mom seemed normal. It’s not like I had a second mother to compare her to, but she was great. She had fresh homemade cookies every Wednesday when we’d get home from school. And she loved coupons. Dad made more than enough money, but Mom was obsessed with couponing; she did it every night after the dishes were washed, while we did homework. She seemed happy, maybe a little detached from Summer and Trent, but as normal as anyone else.”