by Lulu Pratt
Just like that, the overhead lights in the theater went down. For a moment, we were in pitch darkness.
Then the room behind the glass was illuminated and the lights in the theater rose a little so we could see who else was bidding.
My eyes took a second to adjust to the sudden change in light. Through the spots in my vision, I could make out a woman standing in the middle of the room, on some kind of podium, her milky skin bare except for a bra and thong.
And that’s when I saw it:
A forest fire of bright, true red hair.
My heart caught in my throat, and with a start, my vision finally resolved.
Beyond the glass, selling her virginity to the highest bidder, was Kiki.
CHAPTER 16
Kiki
“SIT! Still!”
It was Friday evening, around ten, and Sonia was helping me get ready for the auction. Or, rather, she was morally supporting me for the auction. I’d gone out the evening before and had a full… grooming. I usually only got my eyebrows done, but I had taken the man’s advice to heart and blew a week’s worth of tips on everything he said I should do. I’d never had so much done, but at the end of the evening I felt that I looked good — and confident, which was what I really needed.
Though Sonia was bustling around me with fan brushes and different shades of foundation, her make-up hand was a little wobbly. I was turned away from the mirror, partly so that she could have the satisfaction of a big reveal, and partly so I couldn’t complain about every misstep.
“You moved again!” she cried, lowering the eyeliner pen with a frustrated sigh. “Your wing is gonna be stubby if you don’t stop fidgeting.”
“Sorry, sorry, I know. I’m just anxious.”
She threw the pen into her enormous but theoretically portable toolkit, which rested atop my desk.
“I know you’re nervous, sweetie,” Sonia said, crouching down to my eye level and putting a hand on my shoulder. “It’s an intense thing you’ve got yourself into.”
“It’s for my father,” I replied mechanically, more of a reminder for myself than for her.
“Yeah.”
“Without this, our house will get foreclosed on.”
“You told me.”
I scrunched up my face. “I just… honestly, I wish there was some other way to make this amount of money this quickly.”
“It’s unfair,” she agreed. “You didn’t get into debt. This is in no way your fault. And I’m sorry it’s become your responsibility. Kiki, you deserve better.”
“Thanks,” I replied, putting my hand over hers. “I only hope it doesn’t make me feel cheaper.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You mean, you hope they bid enough? Girl, look at yourself. I bet you pull in one hundred thousand, easy.”
“No, no, I mean… never mind. It’s fine, it’s only one night, right? I can feel not great about for a night. This isn’t how I imagined losing my virginity, but virginity is just a thing, it’s not like it defines me.”
I paused, and looked to Sonia for reassurance.
“Right?”
She nodded vehemently. “Duh.”
“And at least this isn’t online,” I continued. “It’s in-person, so it’s not like anyone needs to know.”
In the interim between last Friday and this one, I’d done some research on virginity sales, as a kind of precautionary measure. I suppose I was searching for some kind of reassurance that I’d be the same person afterwards. Instead, I found a whole litany of Google articles about young women, like myself, in piles of debt selling themselves on the World Wide Web in the interest of saving their families. While it was comfortingly familiar, there was no “before and after” piece, nothing following up with the girls to see how they felt once the deed was done.
Despite all the information at our fingertips, nobody could give me a simple answer on what happened once you sold yourself.
“I know what’ll make you feel better,” Sonia said brightly. “I’m gonna turn you around.”
“Sonia—”
“Shh. Just look at yourself.”
I closed my eyes as she spun my creaky old swivel desk chair around with a flourish.
“Ta-da!”
I looked into my mirror and my mouth dropped open.
Okay, so, I’d been wrong to doubt Sonia’s skills. While I’d fretted that she was making a hash of my face, she’d actually been painting with the broad yet furtive strokes of a master. My contoured cheeks sat high and rosy on my face, and my eyes burned out from a smoky haze of eggplant eyeshadow and black winged liner. My lips, carved with the definition of a Greek statue, were a perfect rosebud in blossom. And my hair! It was flipped over to one side and pinned back, so on the right hand it was sleek and tight and on the left, flowing with barrel curls. Jessica Rabbit, eat your heart out, I thought with delight.
“Oh, Sonia. I look…”
“Beautiful,” she finished, satisfied at her work. “Okay, stand up and show me the lingerie.”
I did as I was told, rising to my feet and discarding the robe on the floor.
Sonia had brought me one of her lingerie sets, back from when she was stripping — she quit because of back problems, in case you’re interested. The bright red number included a satin balconette bra, matching panties, a garter belt, and those thigh high stockings with a thin black line up the back.
“You are so fucking hot!” she shrieked with glee. “Oh my God, forget one hundred thousand, you’re making two hundred thousand tonight!”
I slipped on some black pumps I’d shoved under the desk, and moved to look at myself in the full-length mirror.
Sonia was right — I was a bombshell. I gasped at my reflection, running my fingers down my neck and over my décolletage. Could I really be the woman staring back at me, this mysterious, erotic minx with a knowing smile? How had I changed so very quickly?
“You’re gonna be a legend,” Sonia said, smiling at the figure I cut. Then, more seriously, she added, “And if at any point you decide to back out, even if it’s five minutes before, remember to call me and I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
“Thank you. Seriously, it means a lot to have a friend like you.”
She pulled me in for one last hug.
“Okay,” she said at last, breaking free. “Let’s call that Uber.”
Within half an hour, I was being dropped off on the curb of RES. I stepped out of the car, my legs quaking with such gusto I worried they’d snap. My stomach was flipping about half with delight that I looked incredible and then with what I was about to do.
As instructed, I made my way inside the casino, my usual trench coat wrapped firmly around my body. It felt so naughty, walking through a public space knowing that I was dressed head to toe in fine lingerie. A strange, foreign part of me suddenly wished that Tate was there to see me now. I wanted to watch his mouth drop open as I unbelted the coat and revealed myself.
You’re being silly, I nagged myself. Fantastical, even.
That was true enough. But the stares I was getting from surrounding strangers were as real as the nose on your face. People turned to glance at me with shock and barely concealed envy. I wondered, Is this what it’s like to move through the world as a beautiful woman? Constantly revered and hated?
The experience was new, to say the least. Maybe it was my make-up, or maybe the surge of confidence. My hips began to swivel as though to an unheard beat. I stuck out my breasts and lowered my shoulders. Either way, I was giving off vibes that made people openly stare with lust. I had to admit, it wasn’t a horrible experience. If this was what it was like to sell my virginity, perhaps I’d actually have a bit of fun.
I finally got to the back of the casino, where as promised, I found a dimly lit bar, glowing with a faint orange hue beneath the long stretch of countertop. There were a couple of worn leather bar stools, a football game on TV, and little else. Compared to the rest of RES, it felt forgotten, a backwards glance into a di
fferent era of casinos, when everything wasn’t quite so polished and Insta-pretty.
The bartender was one of those old-timers, who had more liquor in his blood than water. His nose was bright red, a feature I was familiar with from the faces of many other devoted drinkers who passed through Dazzlers. These ancient sea dogs were good at getting their daily tipple in while still managing to serve other people drinks. It was a precarious balance, but the town was built on their backs.
“What can I do for you?” he muttered, wiping a glass with a rather dirty rag as I slid my elbows onto the countertop.
“I’m looking for a pink Bugatti.”
He didn’t even look up from his polishing.
“Elevators behind me and to the left. Thirtieth floor, Door C. Knock three times.”
“Thank—”
But he’d turned around before I could finish. Whatever, I thought with exasperation. Guys like him had seen everything, and were determined to let you know as much. A girl going to sell her virginity was just a normal Friday night. Hell, a dull one, at that.
I left him a dollar bill in appreciation. Coming from the service industry, I knew that even the smallest piece of assistance ought to be rewarded with some payment. If it weren’t for tips, I’d be practically on the street.
After pushing back from the bar, I followed his instructions with care: Elevator. Thirtieth floor. Door C. Knock three times.
Soon enough, I was standing in an unassuming empty hallway, my closed fist wrapping on a door. I took a step back, waiting for someone to open it, and tried not to bite my fingernails. What if the bartender had given me the wrong instructions? This certainly didn’t look like an entertainment spot for the rich and famous.
And then a door opened.
“Kiki?”
It was the man I’d talked to on the phone. Though his voice was bland, I recognized it immediately. Maybe my adrenaline had imprinted his sound on my brain.
“Yes.”
“Come on in.”
He flung open the door and I walked inside.
It was a backroom, not unlike a coat closet. There was a mirror, a few errant beauty supplies — cotton pads, a hairbrush — just touchup materials. A hanger, presumably for my jacket. A bottle of tequila, definitely for my nerves. On the opposite side of the room, no more than ten feet away, was a door.
“I’ll leave you to get ready,” he said. “You’ll hear me over the speakerphone when we want you to make your entrance.”
I nodded. “How do I enter?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You move those two nice legs of yours and walk inside. Don’t slump. Not complicated.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Oh, and you’ll be behind glass, so nobody’s gonna come prod you or nothing.”
“Great,” I said, though up until then the possibility that the guys would want to touch me hadn’t even crossed my mind.
“Good luck.”
He walked out the door, slamming it behind him and leaving me alone in the room.
I stepped further inside, taking a deep breath.
“Relax,” I instructed myself. “You’re ready for this.”
I was too cold to take off my coat, so I just traveled to the mirror to inspect my face, hoping that would kill however much time needed to elapse before the sale could begin.
As I was leaning down to examine myself, I caught a decorative feature of the room I hadn’t noticed upon walking in.
Above the mirror, stuck into the tiny gap between the glass and the wall, were a series of Polaroids.
I saddled up closer to the mirror to get a good look at the pictures.
They were a series of young women — certainly younger than me — in lingerie. All the photos were taken in this backroom — I recognized the mirror. The girls were making a whole array of expressions — some were smiling and posing, others had their arms across their chest and wore blank looks. None appeared frightened, but rather, nervous.
I recognized that they were the girls who had sold before me. Without thinking, my fingers went up to their pictures and skimmed across the white edges. I was joining a secret society of women I would never get to meet. What an unusual feeling.
As my eyes scoured their faces, I realized that besides being younger than me, they were all prettier than me, too. My heart, which had been soaring on the RES casino floor, suddenly sank. Had I gotten too cocky for my own good? And what would these men think, when after so many Amazonian vixens, they got little old me, with my big mouth and boring life?
Feelings of inadequacy descended upon me. What if I didn’t sell at all? That would be humiliating. Or would it be worse to sell, but for a low price? Ugh, even after a week of fretting, none of this had even crossed my mind. The closer I looked, the more complicated and nuanced the situation became.
Then a truly unwelcome thought flickered across my brain.
If I weren’t doing this, I could’ve hooked up with Tate the other night.
Sure, I’d given a litany of other excuses, and all of them were accurate enough, but the ultimate truth was that I hadn’t taken it further with him in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be able to keep my pants on. Hell, if I’d turned down this sale, I could be cozied up with him right then, sitting in front of a fire and eating my favorite Ritz crackers.
Well, maybe no fire — Vegas is way too hot for fireplaces. And with a body like that, Tate probably ate nothing but Soylent.
Still, you get my drift. If I wasn’t so busy trying to save my father, I could be pursuing my own real romance.
For not the first time, I cursed my dad and the life he’d thrust upon me.
And for better or for worse, I couldn’t reflect on that any further, because a voice came over the speaker phone.
“Thirty seconds.”
I leapt into action mode, breaking out of my funk and ripping off the coat, not even bothering to hang it up, just tossing it on the nearby bench.
“This is as good as it’s gonna get,” I said to myself, regarding my reflection.
I trotted to the door and placed a hand on the cool knob, willing my heart to stop racing.
“You can go on in,” the voice said. “Lights will be up shortly.”
I opened the door, and entered a cool, dark room. In the dim light, I was able to make out a podium that presumably I was meant to stand on.
Here goes nothing.
I stepped onto the platform, and turned to what I estimated to be the glass. Fuck, how was I supposed to pose? Hands down at my side, or a leg out or—
Just do something, I told myself.
So I put a hand on my hip, stuck out a leg and shook my hair.
The lights went up before I could instruct myself to smile.
As the room was illuminated, I saw a sea of men looking back at me, all pretty much old and white. The shock of the impact left me momentarily breathless, but in a moment I regained my balance.
Anddd that’s right about when I saw Tate, sitting smack dab in the middle of the theater.
Oh my God.
I was gonna kill him.
Listen, I’ve been angry before. I have a gambling addict for a father, a man who incidentally landed us in one hundred thousand worth of debt. So, yeah, I know mad.
Believe me when I say, I’d never been so pissed in my life.
How dare he! What the fuck was he doing at a place like this?
All fantasies I had about meeting up with him post-virginity loss evaporated. I had been right the whole time. He was as smarmy as those posters made him out to be. In a way, I was grateful the sale had come along before I could do anything as stupid as fuck a guy like that.
“Let the bidding begin,” I heard through the glass.
Paddles flew up around the room, and I became too preoccupied by the flurry of action to focus quite so much on Tate and how severely I was gonna kick his ass.
Focus, I thought. If you don’t make as much money as you need, it’ll be your own fault. Don’t let Tate and
his idiocy distract you.
The auctioneer started to say numbers in that quick-patter way of his people, so fast I couldn’t even catch them. I concentrated on making eyes at every man in the room save Tate, willing them with my stare to drop a ton of cash. Men were, fundamentally, not brilliant. They think that if a woman makes eye contact, she wants to bang. Little do they know we often have a million other schemes afoot in that single glance.
I tried to smile, but I was worried that it would look like a snarl given what I was thinking about Tate, so I practiced detachment instead. I was in my forest in Washington.
But try as I might to avoid his stare, my eyes went back to Tate, and the expression I saw was haunting. He looked terrified, not for himself but for me. His eyes flicked to the men on his right and left, who were raising their paddles at every number the auctioneer called out.
Finally, I was able to make out a clear bid over the intercom.
“Five hundred thousand,” the man said.
If I hadn’t been in my underwear, in front of a room full of billionaires, I probably would’ve shit my pants.
Five hundred thousand?!
When I’d walked into the coat closet, I’d derided myself for not being worthy of the group of women who’d come before me. Now, I was making way, way more cash than I’d ever even dreamed of. I wanted to shout to the auctioneer that five hundred thousand was fine, that it would more than cover my dad’s debt, that this could all be over now.
But the bidding continued.
And this time, Tate raised his paddle.
“Six hundred thousand,” he said casually, as though that’s what he’d spent on lunch.
What the fuck was he up to?
A bald man near him raised another paddle. Tate appeared to resent this — he looked at the man as though he were a cockroach.
“Seven hundred thousand,” the bald man sneered.
Tate came back. “Eight hundred.”
The bald man raised a curious eyebrow and doubled down. “Nine hundred.”
My blood was boiling. Everything was happening all at once and in proportions way too large for me to fathom.
