by Skylar Cross
"Well, I've never heard of working for free!" she says. “Plus, you’ll never meet a nice Christian boy that way. Only those of the devil. You should come with me to the Kingdom Hall. That’s where you’ll find one.”
“Okay, Mom,” I say.
No, thanks. I did the whole dress up and preach the Bible thing door-to-door when I was fourteen. When I was sixteen, I was labeled as a non-believer for questioning basic Bible teachings using scientific method after learning about Charles Darwin. My mom has never quite gotten over it.
“Okay you’ll go with me to the Sunday meeting and Watchtower study?” she says.
“No Mom, I told you. I'm never going to one of those meetings again.”
"But then you won't get into the Kingdom of Jehovah when He comes to cleanse the Earth! You'll be destroyed!"
I walk to my room, take out the purple bag, and stuff it under my bed.
My mom appears at the door.
“What was that?” she says.
Fuck, I can’t get away with one damned thing in this tiny little house!
“What was what?” I say.
“That crinkly sound. It was like a bag. Did you buy something?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, I bought a new printer cartridge from Walmart.”
“Oh.”
When I hear her back in the kitchen putting more groceries away, I take the purple bag out from under the bed and shove it in a portable file I use to keep organized.
I don't bother to file it under D for Dildo. Maybe I should put it under N for Never-going-to-get-used.
I pour myself a drink. Cheap Gordon's vodka over ice with lime-flavored tonic water.
Why? Because this night would be like most nights.
I help my mom prepare dinner, hear a few thousand Bible quotes about how we’re all sinners and need to be redeemed, then eat while watching television with her while sitting on the couch.
If I get up, she tries to guilt me into staying to watch straight through to the eleven o'clock news. I’m twenty-two years old but she makes me feel ten.
Maybe that’s why I drink. When she starts with the Bible stuff, I can’t help myself. Vodka is the only way I can tune her out properly.
It’s not that I don’t love my mom. I do. But I told her a while back that I rejected the Jehovah’s Witnesses. It’s like she never even heard me, though. According to her, she is right and that's that. If we don't convert, then we're all going to die.
Tonight the vodka helps keep my mind off the eight-inch wonder waiting for me.
My plan is to go to bed early, then sneak the bad boy into my room. Once I’m under my sheets, I have a modicum of privacy.
Although on the weekend when she washes them, she’ll ask, “What were you doing here? Why are there stains on these sheets?”
See, according to my mother, sex is only to be shared when you are in love and already married. It is something only men enjoy and women “put up with.” She believes most men just “use” women, completely dismissing the fact that women have a sex drive at all. Her most famous phrase is Go stick it in a light socket! Supposedly she used that line on my dad a lot.
He left.
So why don’t I move out? Credit card debt. College loan debt. A job at a hotel that pays $9.87 an hour, which in Miami isn’t even enough to afford rent.
Isabella keeps asking me to be her roommate, but I can’t live with roommates. I'd start to hate her. I had one for a while at UMiami, but I ended up destroying our friendship. I don't want that to happen with Isabella.
Plus Isabella lives on Miami Beach in an ocean-view apartment with a balcony. She comes from money and doesn’t understand those of us who don’t. Her answer to most things is “Just take the money out of the account, that’s all.”
I so want to reach out and strangle her when she says that and say, “That’s the problem, Isabella. There’s no fucking money in the account! Don’t you get it?”
So, for now, I’m biding my time. Betting on myself. Investing in myself.
Like that’s going to get me anywhere.
So tonight, after finishing dinner and "ooohing" and "aaaaahing" over the dramatic turns in my mother's favorite TV show Downton Abbey, I get up from the couch.
“Don’t you want to watch Mr. Selfridge?” my Mom says.
“No, one English costume drama a night is enough for me,” I say.
“Are you saying you don’t like Downton Abbey?”
My mom just doesn't get it when others don't think exactly like she does.
“No, mom, I’m not saying that at all. It’s very well done.”
“But you don’t like it.”
Oooh, I hate that accusing tone. Like there's something wrong with somebody if they don't like it.
“Well, it’s not something I would pick out at Redbox," I say. "Have you ever seen Scandal? I like that.”
“Yes, but not for long," she says. "They take the Lord's name in vain too much. And they all sleep with each other. Tramps, all of them. I wish things were like they were back in Downton Abbey days.”
“What, women at the beck and call of men?”
“Well, a woman’s place is a woman’s place.”
Don't go there, Annika. Just let it ride. Keep your mouth shut and go to bed.
“Good night, Mom.”
“Good night dear. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
Oooh, I’m seething. I want to be free. I want to enjoy my life. But I’m trapped. Trapped by bills. Trapped by this house.
Shit, I really wish I hadn’t gone to college. If I’m not going to be able to earn that money back, it’s hardly worth it to pay it all back, isn’t it?
I climb into bed, listening to my mp3 player. I have it on shuffle and on comes Darkest Day by Eon Sphinx.
Shit, I forgot about my new dildo. My mom completely put my sex drive on hold. She has a tendency to do that.
But here now in my bed, with Damien Cage’s powerful vocal cords gunning lyrics into my ear canal and heart, I’m wet again.
In the dark, I sneak over to my portable file to retrieve my reward.
Ah, come to mama.
I sneak it into the bathroom to wash it off, then back to my bedroom. Surprised my mom didn't shout out "Is everything all right?" like she does whenever I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
I get under the covers, placing the big blue monster on my belly.
I move it upward until the tip pokes out of the top of the sheet.
So far, so good.
Then I let it come up to my mouth where I lick and kiss it.
In my mind it becomes Damien Cage's cock. Ding. Pussy activated. Faucet flowing.
Soon the big toy is in me, stretching and filling me up with a big happy heft of rhythm.
I get into a good tempo, thrusting with my left hand. With my right, I draw little circles on my hood.
"Annika," says my mom standing in the hallway outside my room.
I freeze.
"Uh-huh," I say.
She proceeds to tell me about a scene from Mr. Selfridge, completely ignoring the fact that I already told her I wasn't interested. But it's her house and she'll speak when she wants. I swear she senses when I'm having any kind of pleasure and must try to stop it.
The big dildo just rests inside the wanton chamber inside me that used to be my pussy. Not sure if she's there anymore. She may have gotten up and walked away, mad that I can't even masturbate in peace.
My mom finishes describing the scene, urging me come watch it because it's so "good", then finally says good night. I watch her through the space between my nightstand lamp and the wall. She returns to the couch and sits back down.
Why don't I just close the door to my room?
Good question. I don't have an answer for that. Maybe I do need a therapist.
I take the chance and begin fucking myself again.
It's about time, says my pussy.
Thanks for not giving up completely on me, I
reply.
Three minutes later I come.
Silently.
Chapter 6
"You got yourself some mother issues there, girl," says Isabella as she sips her margarita.
"Yeah, I know," I say.
Isabella and I are enjoying happy hour at the Sunset Lounge. Older crowd, but classy. Not my favorite place, but you can't beat the view at sunset. The sun is beginning its descent behind the Miami skyscrapers in a spectacular variety of oranges, reds, and purples.
I always feel like I'm on display over here. I know I'm semi-hot, but when I'm not on a Damien Cage-fueled adrenaline high being pulled over by cops for masturbating in my car I'm more of a prefer-not-to-be-ogled girl. Isabella, on the other hand, thrives on ogling. The more eyes on her, the happier she feels.
And there's no shortage of eyes. Isabella is... how shall I say this?... the most gorgeous girl I have ever seen in my life. Part Brazilian, part Colombian. Black curly hair in wild streams. Thick eyelashes. Big full lips. Big brown eyes that slant upwards a little. Hypnotizing. Amazing perky breasts. The most perfectly shaped round ass. Long legs that shine and glisten.
But what I like best about Isabella's stunning appearance is that it draws attention away from me. I'm happily invisible when I'm with her.
Don't get me wrong, though. I am wearing my tight one-shoulder blue floral mini-dress with Jimmy Choo pumps and matching blue alligator purse.
Hey, it is South Beach! Well, close enough anyway.
A paunchy fifty-ish man wearing a blue blazer with a white shirt open at the collar saunters up to our table. A gold chain hangs over a tuft of gray-and-black chest hair.
"May I buy you ladies a drink?" he says.
"No thanks," I say. "Private conversation."
My tone is probably a little too nasty. The oldster snorts and drifts away.
"Annika!" says Isabella. "Why so nasty? He was nice."
"He's a fossil," I say.
"You're too picky. Not to mention a little nasty. I spent a night with a sixty year old guy once. He did things to me with his tongue that no man or woman ever did before. I'm getting wet just thinking about it now."
"You're sick, Iz."
"You have to let go of your rules. You have too many damn rules. If there's one thing Tristan taught me, it's to let go and enjoy life."
Tristan is a billionaire who Isabella can't stop talking about. He has some sort of weird sexual training thing in Boston. I say that, even though part of me is considering going to one of Damien Cage's ass-fisting parties.
"So why didn't you stay there with him?" I say.
"Because he closed up shop," she says. "Fell for this girl named Meghan. Who was gorgeous. I wanted her myself, but she was all about Tristan."
Oh, did I mention Isabella is bisexual? Probably trisexual, omnisexual, quadrisexual, and pansexual too.
She used to be a little weird about it but since coming home she's proud and puts it out there. Tristan must have been quite something indeed.
"Well, I gotta hand it to you, Iz," I say, "you're living your life, that's for sure."
"I have sex with the person inside," she says, "not their physical representation. There's a beautiful human being inside many ugly or old people, male and female."
"Wish I could get on board with that, Iz, but unlike you I'm a mere mortal. Now Damien Cage, there's physical perfection."
"I'm so jealous, Annika! You sat at a table with Damien Cage. Did he invite you to one of his parties?"
I take a big swig of my Strawberry Daiquiri.
"Actually," I say, "yes."
Isabella squeals, then puts her hands up to her mouth to squelch it. Several eyes look over at us. I'm used to it. She's done it ever since middle school. Yet another patented attention-grabbing device.
"You know what goes on at the private after-party with his select guests, don't you?" she says.
"Of course," I say. "Who doesn't know?"
"What is it he calls it again?"
"Training girls in the Deviant Arts of Pleasure."
"That's right. And you know what his favorite thing to teach is. Have you ever been ass-fisted before?"
"Isabella! Keep your voice down. No."
"Sorry. I'm just... wow... Damien Cage... hmm. Have you been practicing?"
"Practicing what?"
"Stretching out your butthole."
"Iz, I'm not getting ass-fisted! Not by Damien Cage. Not by any man."
"Annika, this is Damien Cage we're talking about here. Damien. Cage. Remember you licked your arm where his sweat fell on you?"
"Yeah, I know."
Isabella's eyes go wide and she stares into me.
"You've never had anything up your butt, have you?" she says.
"Once with my old boyfriend Jeff. It was awful. Painful and messy."
"Honey, that's why you clean yourself out ahead of time and open yourself up a bit. Once you get that out of the way, it's almost better than vaginal."
"Oh, Iz, come on!"
"Seriously, you have so much to learn. It's not like a regular orgasm. It's more like a plateau that you hit. A plateau of nonstop pleasure that just goes on... and on... and on... I sometimes wonder how long it could go on."
A bead of sweat has formed on my upper lip. I lick it off. I take another sip of my drink and stare out at the water over to Star Island.
"No, Iz," I say, "that's just something I won't do."
Even though I actually want to try it with my new blue dildo. Not ready to share that with Iz yet, though.
She folds her arms and leans back, giving me a frown with a harsh stare.
"Annika, you're a living contradiction," she says. "On the one hand, you're this vibrant sexual being that wants to experiment. A wild girl dying to get out and party. But on the other hand, you won't actually let yourself. Maybe you still have too much Bible left in you. It's like your mom still controls you. Have you considered talking to somebody?"
"What, like a therapist?" I say.
"No, not like a therapist. An actual therapist. Somebody who might be able to help you free this fun happy girl from the clutches of that woman who lives in that dingy little house."
I look down.
"My mom and I have been through a lot," I say. "She depends on me. Don't talk about her like that. And it's not a dingy little house."
Isabella reaches into her purse and pulls out a card, handing it to me.
"This is my girl," she says. "I don't see her much anymore because I'm a lot less confused than I used to be. Although Tristan helped with a lot of that. Wish I could send you to him, but he's off the table. Delphina here is my girl. She'll help you out. Put you on the path of sexual freedom."
I take the card. There is a photo of the Venus de Milo. The card reads:
DELPHINA DIAMOND
A sex positive and kink aware counselor specializing in shame reduction, guilt emancipation, and deviant leisure... all in a safe, shame-free, open-minded environment.
"Deviant leisure?" I say with a laugh. "Who gets enough deviant leisure, really?"
"Dont knock her," she says, "she's very good. She'll cut right down into the problem."
"Yes, but can she belt out Sweet Caroline with passion?"
"Stop being a little bitch and call her. Now, on to more pressing matters. Damien Cage. Friday night. Let me check my calendar. Oh, look. I'm free."
"You are not free on a Friday night. You are never free on a Friday night."
"I can be free to go to an ass-fisting party at Damien Cage's house."
"You would let Damien Cage ass-fist you?"
"You wouldn't believe who I've let ass-fist me."
"No, I probably wouldn't. But yes, I was going to invite you anyway. There's no fucking way I can walk in there alone. Besides, you'll draw attention away from me so I can hide and take notes."
"Take notes? Girl, this isn't about writing a story for that epic fail website you write for. This is about Damien Cage. We're going shopping tom
orrow and get you the hottest outfit you've ever worn."
"Yeah, I don't know..."
"Sister, you're going to look fabulous. Just don't forget to clean your ass out in the morning and try not to eat much throughout the day."
"Oh, ew."
"Honey, an old perv once said sex isn't good unless it's dirty." She picks up her martini glass. "To dirty."
I clink her glass. I'm feeling the alcohol now.
"To dirty," I say.
Chapter 7
My heart starts its steady pounding drumbeat long before we get anywhere near Damien’s estate. I spent the night at Isabella’s shiny new apartment with valet parking and an ocean view.
Must be nice.
Can’t deal with my mom tonight. She had already left several messages on my cell phone worried about me. She thinks Miami Beach is “unsafe.” Hasn’t gone there in years. Stays within a strict confine of roads within Coral Gables because it’s “safe.”
Little does she know where I’m going.
Or what I’m thinking about participating in.
Fuck, Annika! Shut up! You’re not participating in one goddamned thing. You’re just going to have fun at a party, that’s all. You’ve been to a million and one parties. Relax, for Christ’s sake!
But never a party at Damien Cage’s house, that’s for sure.
A new round of fast heartbeat hits me, this time accompanied by some hyperventilation for good measure.
“Are you going to be okay?” says Isabella at the wheel of her new racing yellow Porsche Cayman S with mad rims.
Must be nice.
“Once I throw up I’ll be fine,” I say.
“Oh shut up, chickenshit! You’re fucking fine now. Want a Xanax?”
“No! I want to drink so that’s out.”
We had a friend Freddie back in high school who died from mixing benzos with alcohol. At the candlelight vigil in his memory, we promised each other we would never make that mistake.
“Maybe we should stop and have a drink before getting there,” she says.
“No,” I say, “I want to walk in sober.”
“Suit yourself.”
She turns onto Main. We’re in Coconut Grove.
