by Sky Corgan
I sometimes wonder who my real father is, not that I suppose it matters in the grand scheme of things. The only father figures I had growing up, besides my uncles, were the occasional flavor of the month that flitted in and out of my mother's life. Men came and went for her throughout most of my childhood, though never more than one at a time. The only one who ever stood out was this guy named Jason who was a gas station manager. I was ten when my mom started dating him, and for a while, I thought they would get married, as he was the only one who lasted for more than a few weeks. He was the most handsome man I'd ever seen, and I was determined that if she didn't marry him, I would. Kind, and always with a smile on his face, I thought the world of him. But five months into their relationship, he disappeared. Mom later told me it was because he liked men, too, and she couldn't deal with that. Whether that's true or not, I'll never know because I never saw him again. I can't help but think it wasn't, though—that she fucked up in some way and scared him off. I was resentful about that for a while. He was my first real crush, and I quickly realized once I started becoming interested in boys, that I wanted to find someone just like him.
Not very lofty ambitions. Find an older, handsome gas station manager to settle down with. My standards got raised a bit as time progressed. I still like older men, but as my teen years hit, I really began to understand the meaning and power of money.
High school wasn't particularly kind to me. My mom wouldn't waste money on new clothes, so my entire wardrobe came from thrift stores, and she set a price limit per item, so I rarely walked away with anything trendy. With my large discount round-framed glasses that made me look like an owl and my faded tops and jeans, I was not very popular. It was easy to resent those who had more money than us, to be jealous over all the things they took for granted. It's said that money can't buy happiness, but it damn sure looked like it could from my vantage point.
Maybe that's another reason why I gravitated towards older men—why I had no interest in boys my own age. Older men had jobs. Older men had money. Perhaps thinking that way makes me a gold digger, but I don't really care. I want security from a man. If I was half as pretty as my mom, I might have had a chance of becoming someone's trophy wife. But that's not the case...so I chose this method instead.
When I read the ad on the fetish website at the library, I couldn't believe my eyes. I read it in chunks, bits and pieces, constantly glancing over my shoulder to make sure that no one else was looking at the screen. Public computers aren't meant for pornography, but I've already read every BDSM book in the sex section, and I figured that if there was a handsome, older, rich dominant man somewhere out in the world for me, I'd find him by looking online.
A quick Google search led me to DaddyDoms.com, a website that connects willing submissives to older men in the lifestyle. The profiles I went through weren't very impressive. Most of the men either weren't attractive or had fetishes that were major turn-offs for me, like skat play or making me wear diapers. The few guys that I did message were either catfish or not interested. The handful of guys that messaged me first, I definitely wasn't interested in. It wasn't long before I began to get discouraged.
And then the ad popped up.
On any website dealing with sex, there will be a ton of ads in the sidebar. Usually, they're targeted at men. Images and videos of women with perfect tits overlaid with text talking about how they're ready to get fucked. Just click here, and you can have pussy galore. This unrealistically attractive women is waiting for YOU. Sometimes, they even have a made up distance so that the guy will think she's nearby. It's designed to draw them away from the dating site they're on and onto another. I've seen them so many times I practically have automatic blinders at this point.
But that's not what catches my eye. There's a solid brown bar at the bottom of the screen with simple white text that says, “Virgins for sale. Buy her once. Own her forever.” It's an ad meant to lure men, but I click on it anyway.
The screen that pops up is no more tasteful than the ads in the sidebar of the website I was on previously, but I find myself scrolling down to the footer where there are links to navigate to other less flashy parts of the site, specifically looking for a link to apply as one of the virgins. I find it, click it, and am taken to a black screen with a wall of text and another link at the bottom for the application. Reading through it as quickly as I can, dollar signs flash across my eyes when I realize how much my virginity might be worth, up to $100,000.
Interested girls must send in several photos, both nude and fully clothed, a list of their measurements and shoe size, and a photo ID that clearly displays their date of birth. They must also fill out the application in its entirety. The people who work at the site will assess all the information and decide on a fair asking price. They will submit the amount to the girl, and she can accept or decline to continue with the process. Once that's done, the girl just sits back and waits until an offer comes in.
Even though I couldn't help but feel like it was some kind of scam to trick girls into giving them nudes, I still printed out the application and took it home.
Now here I am, filling it out, which is kind of fun. There's a section of questions on what I will and won't do, and what type of man I want to be with. Instantly, an image of Jason flashes through my mind, his large blue eyes and curly blonde hair.
Reading the long disclaimer page is less fun. Chills run down my spine from some of the things they require once you're sold off—things that would make most girls click away from the website. I will not see my buyer until after I accept the contract, nor be given any information on him. That means I'd be selling myself to a complete stranger. If I decline the first offer that comes in, I will be disqualified from future offers. This is a one chance opportunity. Also, once I'm sold, I give up all consent. The man can do whatever he wants to do with me inside legal boundaries. I must obey his every command, or I'll be forced to return the money. If I let him deflower me, I'll only have to return half of the money.
At least there's that, I think with a sardonic smirk.
My chest feels heavy as I sit back on my bed and think about if I really want to do this. For something that I can easily walk away from, the contract seems to carry a lot of weight.
Brushing my concerns away, I sneak my mom's phone from her purse in the middle of the night and take a bunch of naughty pictures of myself, sending them to my email account before deleting them from her phone and putting it back in her purse.
The next day, I submit my application with all the required information. When a nosy woman standing next to me at the fax machine asks if I'm applying for a job, I simply smile and nod, though I can feel the heat of embarrassment climbing up my neck. No, I'm being an idiot and giving all my information to a porn site.
Weeks pass, to the point that I forget all about submitting my application to VirginsforSale.com. I knew it was a sham to begin with, to be honest.
I fall back into my regular routine, trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my life since it's obvious that no handsome billionaire is going to come sweep me off my feet. I either need to try to find a grant program so that I can go to college or get a job like my mom has been pressuring me to do ever since I graduated from high school.
I spend most of my days at the library, flipping through job ads with a frown on my face before turning to the personals to seek out men who are looking for a housewife. Everything feels hopeless.
But then I get an email.
At first, I almost throw it away thinking that it's spam. I get a lot of spam from the dating sites I've signed up for in the past. The subject line is on par with the rest of them. We found you a match. The only thing that makes me hesitate and click the open button is the sender, VirginsforSale.
I expect to be presented with some naughty graphics of women. I'm not sure why all these websites think I'm a dude when they send me spam. Aren't cookies better than that these days? Then again, I am searching on a public computer.
&
nbsp; But the email is plain text with an attachment, and once I begin reading, I realize it's from that website that I submitted an application to so long ago.
Dear Miss Althea Ellis,
We here at VirginsforSale.com are pleased to inform you that we have found a buyer for your virginity. The agreed upon amount of fifty thousand dollars has been transferred into an escrow account. As soon as you accept the buyer's contract, we will send you his picture and name, along with a cell phone. You are not to reach out to the buyer for any reason. He will contact you when he is ready with further instructions.
If you accept these terms, please sign the attached contract and email or fax it back to us, and we will overnight your items to the address you provided. The funds will be deposited into your account once the buyer has informed us that he has made contact with you and that you have fulfilled the terms of your agreement.
If we do not hear from you within seven business days, we will assume that you are no longer interested in working with our company.
Thank you and have a wonderful day.
Sincerely,
The VirginsforSale.com Team
I finish reading, and then my eyes fly up to the fifty thousand dollars part, going over it, again and again, to make sure I'm not seeing things. I remember agreeing to the price initially, but seeing that it's actually being offered to me is an entirely different thing. Is this for real? Does someone actually want to pay fifty thousand dollars...for me? Even if I don't let him own me and just walk away after we do the deed, that's still twenty-five thousand dollars for my virginity. That's enough to put me through trade school or pay for community college. Whether I stay with this guy or not, it's a ticket to a better life.
I know myself well enough to realize that if I take time to ponder, I'll change my mind, so I decide to print the agreement out right away, sign it, and send it back before I have a chance to second guess myself.
I sit at the library for two hours after, waiting for a response from the website, crossing my fingers and praying to God that the man I got matched up with is at least as attractive as I am, which isn't saying much. I'm willing to settle for a little below average as long as he treats me well and I don't have to wait tables for the rest of my life.
The email never comes, and I find myself torn up inside, wondering if it was just a sick joke. I walk home from the library with a nervous buzzing in my stomach. I'm so upset by the whole situation that I don't even eat dinner. There's no way that life can possibly be that easy—that someone would be willing to buy me and make all my problems go away. For someone who looks like a nerd, I'm pretty damn stupid.
I sleep in the next day. My mom is working a double, so I don't bother going to the library. She'll never know that I didn't go job hunting. It makes me feel kind of guilty, but some days I just don't have the motivation to do anything, and this is one of them.
I lounge around in my nightshirt and underwear, eating a bowl of cereal while I sit on the sofa watching what few local channels we get on our small television. Court TV is one of my favorite things. I've always found listening to the cases fascinating. I once thought that it might be fun to be a court stenographer. Maybe if I had the money...
Just as I begin thinking about the bullshit website, the doorbell rings. I'm so startled by the sound that I jump, though I quickly settle, frowning as I set my nearly finished bowl of cereal down on the coffee table. I pull myself off of the sofa and walk over to the front door, briefly thinking I should grab a robe but then deciding against it. The shirt is long enough to cover my unmentionables, and maybe if whoever is at the door sees that I'm still in my night clothes, they'll go away faster.
I open the door and find a delivery man standing on the other side. He doesn't make eye contact as he asks for my name, then makes me sign before handing a small package over.
“But I didn't order anything,” I mumble as he starts to walk away.
Reading my name on the parcel, I close the door and take it inside, noting that there's no return address. The box is relatively light, and as I tilt it over, I hear no noise coming from inside. There's only one place it could be from, but I dare not hope. The website was a scam, after all.
I sit on the sofa and begin peeling the tape that's sealing the box. After I unfold the flap, I tip the box onto its side, and a tray falls out. Inside is a small cheapie cell phone and a card. I set the phone down on my lap and pick up the card, my eyes scrolling across the print.
Dear Miss Althea Ellis,
You should find within this box your new cell phone, which you must keep on you at all times. Your buyer's number is already programmed in for your convenience. You will also find a picture of him in the photos folder.
Your buyer requests that you contact him as soon as you receive this package. Failure to contact your buyer within 72 hours will result in termination of your contract.
Sincerely,
The VirginsforSale.com Team
My eyes flit from the card to the phone, and my heart skips a beat when I realize that unmasking my mystery man is just moments away. All I have to do is turn on the phone and look at the photo.
I inhale deeply as I power on the phone, having a hard time believing that this is starting to seem legit. There's still a part of me that feels like I might have been had—that as soon as I flip to the photos, I'm just going to find a meme calling me an idiot. I doubt many people would go this far for a prank, though.
My hands shake slightly as I navigate through the phone to the photos app.
“Don't be disappointed, Althea,” I tell myself. “You can't be upset if this is a scam, and you can't be upset if he's not the man of your dreams.”
I close my eyes as I tap the bottom to launch the photos app, knowing that Mystery Man's picture is going to be the only thing on it. One at a time, I open my eyes, expecting to see some grotesque creature whom I couldn't even imagine laying his hands on me.
“Oh, my.” I draw the phone closer to my face to make sure I'm not seeing things.
Like what you've read so far? You can get the rest here: VirginsforSale.com
