My sex drive is a fickle creature; it comes and goes, like a half-tamed cat, sometimes deigning to warm me with its elusive presence before slipping away to god-knows-where.
Fantasizing about professors isn't such a stretch.
Dr. Fields was surprised when I admitted to her that I masturbate. It's like cutting, it helps take the emptiness inside away if only for a little while.
I wasn't foolish enough to confide to her that.
I've dated before, had sex before. Look, as long as you put out, the guys will still come up to your door no matter how fucked up you are, although how long they'll stay is anyone's guess. I didn't like a lot of them and I was attracted to even fewer. The reasons I slept with them were more varied but there was always some motive, always to my benefit.
And because I knew that they would eventually leave me, I always made sure to dump them first. Less likely to get hurt that way, though some of them said some pretty nasty things. They were just angry that I'd taken all the power for myself.
The last person I remember fantasizing about in real life was this guy at Cherry Hill. He was in there for torturing small animals or some fucked-up thing like that. His diagnosis was Conduct Disorder, the psychological precursor to Antisocial Personality.
In addition to being a psychotic dickhead, he was also doing drugs and that was what landed him on his parents' radar. He had track marks running all up and down his arms because he did the hard stuff. Not pot or alcohol, or even cocaine, but heroin. Meth, too. He'd try anything once, he told us. And if he liked it well enough, and if it didn't kill him first, he would try it a second or a third time, as well.
He was hot, though he didn't really have much competition in the looks department. Cherry Hill was full of people who wouldn't think twice about farting in public or drooling, after all. Even by the standards of ordinary society, he would probably rate an eight.
I knew this guy would probably only hurt any girl stupid enough to let herself get too close…but I kind of wanted him to hurt me. At least a little.
Bite me. Scratch me. Cut me. Break me open, until I crack and all the ugly things fly out of my body to drench us both in sated lust. Yes.
When I touched myself that night I did it hard, the way I imagined he would. Rubbing at that bundle of nerves until the fireworks exploded in showers of white light behind my eyeballs, until my legs felt like rubber, and my nipples were hard exclamation points of arousal beneath my standard-issue hospital gown.
That was the night I added 'whore' to my left breast. It was my penitence and my absolution. The staff at Cherry Hill weren't as good at prevention as they thought they were. It's hard to stop someone who is determined to cause themselves harm with single-minded obsession, and I was no exception. I found a way and they had given me the opportunity.
The culprit: a button. I'd found it on the floor just a few weeks before. I think it was from the front of one of their uniforms. The irony of that tickled me, that the iconic symbol of their institution—the clean white uniform of the staff—had provided me with the implement I needed to self-harm.
I'd hidden the button under my mattress for just such an occasion. It snapped fairly easily when I pressed it hard against the tiled floor at an angle. I used the jagged edge to cut into my skin.
Security cameras being what they are, someone rushed in within two minutes to stop me. By then, though, the damage was done. I'd beaten the staff to the punch by flushing the two halves of button down the john just as they came running in, practically tripping over themselves to get to my room.
“Excuse me,” I said, “a little privacy, please?”
Although my sarcasm went unappreciated, I did them a favor in a way. Learning that reality sucks ass is a valuable life lesson.
The sooner we're disillusioned, the less likely we are to get fucked over. Simple as that.
I receive an email saying that the billing statement for my classes has gone out. Twelve units is a decent course load, the amount required to be considered a full time student by most insurance companies. I'm sure Mom and Dad are clinking champagne glasses.
Seeing those black and white words pixelated on the screen only heightens my ambivalence; it makes me see red. I'm not serious about academics and I'll probably drop half my classes before the quarter is through. Who cares if that means I'm not a full time student? It's not my money being flushed down the toilet. They can expel me, if they want.
Lots of people hear my blasé attitude about school and get offended. Like my parents, they think school is the only good option for someone like me. They always add that “like me.” As if I'm so personally repugnant to them that I deserve a special class all my own. “I worked two jobs to put myself through college, blah, blah, blah,” they say. “I moved here from another country for the opportunities, blah, blah, blah.” Ignorant. Over-entitled. Spoiled.
I heard these words a lot.
Once the person or persons in question finish their sanctimonious lecture the inquisition begins. “What do you want to do with you life, then?” is often the question I'm asked, usually with a heaping dose of sarcasm that makes it sound as if whatever answer I give won't be worth hearing.
To be honest, I don't know. I really don't.
Mainly because I don't see myself living long enough for that to make much of a difference.
Life is a single Roman candle that burns in a single-second blaze of brilliance, only to be engulfed by the all-encompassing darkness surrounding it.
I want to be eternal; and that is why I want to die. But only sometimes. Other times, I'm afraid of the void, and the darkness that it offers.
Being depressed and suicidal doesn't mean wanting to kill yourself every moment of every day. That's what makes it such an insidious disorder. Suicide is a fixed obsession but sometimes it gets relegated to the back of your head.
Rather, it means the world takes on the very cut and dry, black and white, unilateral aspect of a flowchart. Where all questions, instead of yes or no, end with “to be or not to be?”
Today, do I want to live or die?
That all depends.
Have a good day?
Don't kill yourself.
Have a shitty day? World show no signs of immediately getting better?
Kill yourself.
It's just that simple.
I don't want to get out of bed.
I don't particularly want to die, either.
What I want is to go to sleep and never wake up. Again, not die, necessarily. Not today. Just remain indefinitely suspended in stasis. They can thaw me out whenever they discover a cure for what's wrong with me. Or when they develop a new drug that's just as euphoric as cocaine, only not addictive.
It's ridiculously hot outside but I am a cocoon of warmth in the midst of the glacial cold wrought by the AC. I half expect snow to start falling from the ceiling, which I have been staring at unblinkingly for the last few minutes because it's got a watermark soaked clear through the popcorn nubs of asbestos-laden plaster that's shaped just like a knife.
Where does the blood come from? It springs to the surface so quickly when the serrated edge cuts, whereas previously it remained unseen. How do I know it's really mine? How do I know that I'm not really dead or dreaming, unless I slice past that first layer of lies to get to the answers under the skin?
Truth tastes an awful lot like old, dirty pennies.
Two hours pass before I'm able to muster up the energy to get out of bed. I have to go through all the pros and cons.
Staying in bed:
Pro: I don't have to think, move, feel, or care.
Con: Carnivorous guilt.
Getting out of bed:
Pro: Being able to do fuck-all later.
Con: Requires getting out of bed.
The cold is ruthless against my bare legs. I hop across the wooden floor to get to the thermostat. As soon as I shut off the AC, I feel the heat creep in beneath the door and through the unsealed windows. I shrug off my swe
atshirt and slide my nightshirt over my head, tossing them both on my bed for later.
My unpacked clothes are still in an untidy pile beside the cardboard box I opened yesterday. I sort through them and settle on a pair of jeans and a halter top. I add an unbuttoned chambray shirt to hide my arms. It looks bright out so I dig my sunglasses out of my purse. They look like the kind celebrities wear on the street, when they're pretending that they don't want to be noticed. I got mine for $2 at a drug store. The plastic is so cheap that it blisters a little when it comes into contact with my sweat, flaking off like dandruff, but the frames look like Chloe.
I don't feel like showering—and I think I can hear my neighbor in the bathroom, anyway—so I pull my hair into a ponytail and hide it beneath a baseball cap. My hand feels slippery when I've finished, like I just dunked it in a container of greasy fast food. How gross. I slide on extra deodorant, spritz myself with perfume, and hope nobody stands too close to me.
Unlikely. I've got my bitch face on, and thanks to cherry Chapstick, my mouth is a crimson slash of rampant disapproval. I look mean. I am mean.
Perfect.
Fielder's campus is still crowded. I thought it'd have died down by now, but no. Most of the students look like freshmen, running around like ants cut off from the hive facing imminent extinction. I guess upperclassmen are sensible enough to put things off to the last minute. I knew I should've stayed in bed.
A lot of the freshmen have their parents with them. This would be humiliating enough on its own, but a good percentage of these kids also have rolly backpacks. Rolly backpacks. Are they that determined to brand themselves as dorks? Clearly.
However freakish I may look, at least I'm not a dork with a rolly backpack. I'm pretty gross, though. The sun is merciless and I'm covered in a drippy coat of sweat; it runs down my back and into my butt crack, pools in my flip-flops, and makes my armpits feel like a slip-n-slide.
I adjust the brim of my hat to ensure that my dirty hair is securely covered by the brim. It is. I examine my sunglasses, and a few paint chips flake to the ground. I snap them in half, right at bridge. The plastic cuts me but I don't care. I throw both halves of the broken sunglasses into the trash and try to ignore how naked my face feels without them.
Is this the way Superman feels when he transforms in that telephone booth? When he changes into skintight spandex and whips off those magical glasses? What does he do now that telephone booths have become obsolete relics from a bygone age?
I shake my head and blink into the dazzling glare from the pavement. Society is crumbling, and as the dregs sink lower and heavier, it becomes easier for the sparkling bubbles to fizz to the top. For every geek with a rolling backpack there are ten revoltingly attractive people with great hair, perfect teeth, and flawless bodies. Like they were put on this earth to make me feel like a disgusting sweaty pig.
Thanks a lot, God.
All the sororities and fraternities have set up tables trying to indoctrinate the oblivious into Greek letter cults. It must be Rush Week. There are more beautiful coeds floating around here than there are on the backlot of the set of a Hollywood teen movie.
There is a lump of loose skin in my cheek. I tongue it nervously. When I smile I can feel it there and it feels like my skin is sloughing off slowly, one fleshy chunk at a time. I might consider joining a sorority but I know they wouldn't have me. And let's be honest, I'd only be joining for the parties, the sex, and the drugs. I'm not exactly Miss Rah-Rah.
A man in a wife beater that looks spray-painted onto his abs hands me a flyer for a Go Greek party. He's handing them out to everyone—except maybe the kids with the lame backpacks—but I'm flattered.
“It'll be a great time,” he tells my breasts, without exactly explaining what's so great about it. The party is tonight according to the hastily-printed out paper, still warm from a copier, and though the flyer does not mention this explicitly, it'll probably be a kegger.
I fold my arms, pushing my boobs up for his easy inspection—an opportunity he takes advantage of—and tell him I'll be there. I'm going for sugary-sweet, but my nasal voice doesn't really do sweet. But the frat guy smiles vaguely, even though he doesn't respond. He's already sizing up a gaggle of giggling freshmen girls, all of them prettier and happier to be here than I am.
I wonder what he would do if I offered to let him do things to me, things those idiot girls probably couldn't even imagine. I've seen porn before. I know what men like. Would he clumsily try to pay me, the way other men have, forcing me to slap him for the insult? Or would he halfheartedly offer to be my boyfriend while secretly hoping I wouldn't accept?
Would he say no?
I'm tempted to try. Call it a social experiment. But now he's talking to the girls and one of them is putting her hand on his bicep to steady herself from her laughter, marking her territory, staking her claim, and saying “Ha ha ha, you're so funny! Oh! Wow! Do you work out?” and I chalk it up to a lost cause.
Tonguing that little flap of loose skin in the back of my mouth, I decide he wasn't all that cute anyway. There's bound to be someone better at the party.
The frat house looks like a Victorian manor that's taken a couple of knocks with a sledgehammer. There is a whole row of them, miniature mansions, all identical in structure and facade. Luckily I brought the flyer with me and I match the Greek letters on the top with the ones of iron mounted over the garage.
I wear the same outfit from earlier, just without the baseball cap. I took a shower with soap from the hand dispenser. Now my head smells like piña coladas and that reminds me of a song, which I find myself humming over and over because I can't remember anything but the first line, If you like piña coladas… And to be honest, I don't. I like my rum neat.
Head high, I walk in through the front door. There's a man stationed there to greet me, but he doesn't look like a frat boy even though he's got the letters printed out on his shirt. He must be a loser if they've got him relegated to door duty at a party.
Probably a frosh stoolie who's not allowed to have any fun until he finishes all his hazing.
He says something to me about coats, which doesn't make any sense because it's far too hot to even think about jackets, unless he's inviting me to make out with him in the coat room, in which case, fuck that. I hook out my elbow and shove him aside.
I want to be where the action is.
All the furniture has been pushed up against the wall for an impromptu dancefloor. I pick my way past the grinders and twerkers and the dozens of people too shy to dance, standing with the furniture and checking their phones in the semidarkness while the light turns their facial features grotesque.
There is a huge plasma TV tuned to a sports channel no one seems to be watching. More people on their cell phones. Lots of drinking games. In the back is a rambunctious game of beer pong. Lady Gaga is blasting from the amplifier someone's brought from their electric guitar, and I make a face when I see the ball roll through the dirt and dead leaves, only to be retrieved and plunked back into one of the red plastic cups filled with cheap murky beer with a splash.
“Want to play?” someone slurs at me.
“No. I'm overdue for a tetanus shot.”
Somebody else says, “Tetanus? I don't think we have any of that, though there's Patron and Absolut.”
Want to know the sad thing? They aren't joking. They think they're being helpful.
“Aww,” I say, “but Tetanus is my favorite brand.”
And when I hug myself, squeezing up my boobs as I look all hangdog and pathetic, one guy actually runs out of the room to check.
I lower my arms and leave the backyard.
Losers.
Users are usually in some secluded area, far away from the front of the house just in case the cops come by to check things out. That's how they get you, cops. They can't come into your house without a warrant unless they see something that gives them probable cause. That's why when cops “just check in” or ask you to turn down the bass, they try t
o snoop over your shoulder. They're looking for a reason to bust you, is what they're doing. A beer can. A baggie of spinach. Anything to drag your ass downtown.
I make rounds and happen upon all the usual party drama. I see a girl screaming at a boy I assume is her boyfriend, although maybe not for much longer because she locks herself in the bathroom and then refuses to come out in spite of his pleading and cursing. I go back outside and sidestep the beer pong table to find myself at a large tool shed.
I cup my hand over one of the dark frosted windows and catch a gleam of a filter in the gloom. It's a group of guys and a couple girls, all lighting up in the garage, talking and laughing, though they freeze like rabbits when they hear the creak of the door. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at their paranoia.
“Hello?” one of the guys says. He's using one of those fake-deep voices, the kind boys in junior high use when they're calling up a girl for the first time.
“Relax,” I say, stepping to where they can see me. I see their shoulders sink a little in relief when they realize I'm not a cop. I nod at one of the guys because girls tend to be more selfish with their weed. “Can I bum some?”
“I don't know,” he says. “What?”
His friends giggle, like this is the best joke they've ever heard. I feel like they're laughing at me, at least a little, and that makes me mad. “I want some of your weed,” I say, forgetting to use my nice-girl voice.
He thinks about this, losing the jackass grin. We're starting the serious part of the negotiations now. Predictably he says, “Do you have any cash?”
“No.” My parents left me with a debit card. That way they could track all my payments, since my mom and I share a joint account. “No cash.”
The guy sighs. “What else you got?”
“I'll suck you off and let you play with my tits.”
His eyes nearly goggle right out of his head. “W-what?” he stammers, like he can't quite believe what he's just heard. Neither can his friends, who are silent.
Tantalized Page 3
