by Ana Sparks
If I did auction off my virginity, it didn’t mean I would have to humiliate myself. I could do it anonymously, invisibly. It could be a secret, seamless transaction—one meeting, one night, one huge deposit of cash and nothing more. After all, hadn’t I suffered enough? Wouldn’t this solve all my problems, my perpetual running from bills that just kept building up, scaring away potential boyfriends when I admitted the truth of my virginity to them?
I took one last look outside, took a breath of fresh air, and then shook my head. No. No matter how auctioning off my virginity would help me; I couldn’t bear to actually do it.
As I hopped off the windowsill, Gillian’s voice echoed in my head: “You big sensitive soul you”.
I froze. Then, in one fluid motion I slammed the window shut. Romeo and Juliet jumped off the beanbag and fled to hide under my bed. In the dark window, I gazed at my reflection.
I was tired of being a big sensitive soul, of letting the world hurt me while I sat around and did nothing. Yes, I was ready to do something—something rash and stupid that would maybe hurt me too—but at least I’d be getting hurt on my own terms.
I marched to the kitchen to get out another bottle of wine. If I was really going to do this, I was going to need to be drunker.
In the bathroom, I tied my ponytail high and got to work with some makeup. My hand moved so fast it was a blur: slashes of black eyeliner, gobs of black mascara and slaps of red lipstick. Black and black and red. It was ironic, these smears of chemicals I had saved for the special occasions that never came, the date with the special someone I’d never gotten around to meeting. The dress was the same, a sad hope, a come-in-handy-later. Well, now, yes now, this tight red fuck-me dress would come in really handy. A pose with my finger between my red lips, hips out, ass up.
I took out my phone and gazed at the image on the camera, the image of red-dress-me in the mirror.
It wasn’t bad—maybe this would work. A snap here, a snap there, no flash. I could do this. I paused, looked at the photos I had taken, and sighed. This was not going to work.
I changed my pose: hands on hips for the next one. I got more wine, took more photos. Red wine and red lips and this dress, this dress that was going to make me thousands of dollars. This dress was going to save my life. Because this was all Clark Denton’s fault, really. He was the one who ruined my life, who made me the laughingstock of the prom and scarred me for all my future relationships. He’d ruined my life, but tonight, I was going to save it.
Another few poses, and I was good to go.
Next was the easy part; making websites was part of what I did for a living. A black background was obvious, what font to use less so. Red would be too much, especially with the dress. White would do just fine.
I took another swig of wine and began coding. Website after website after program I flicked through. My hands were fused with the keyboard, and the page was growing by the second. I had planted the seed, watered it and fed it all at once. It was growing now—the black background, the white font, the red-dress pictures—just those red lips of mine visible, the rest of my face cropped out. The words I typed in a mad frenzy, as they rose from someone else, saucy and devil-may-care:
You don’t know me. But you could.
This is how I look; this is what you could get…if you dare. I’m untouched material, unbroken ground. You could be my first. The only question is, what can you do for me?
Then, the form at the bottom, where buyers would enter in their bids.
I took a last swig of wine; somehow, I’d finished the bottle. Through bleary eyes, I surveyed my creation victoriously. This was the best website I’d ever created, the bravest, most out-of-character thing I’ve ever done. This, right here, this sexy come-hither finger of a website, was going to change my life.
Chapter Two
Clark
I woke up at dawn, when my workday began. When did it end? When my head hit the pillow. That was the price of success. That was the price of this life I led.
I reminded myself of that as I ate my protein-bar breakfast in the car that was taking me to my office. Denton Tower was a recent purchase, one that was, unquestionably, my best one yet. Seeing the hulking tower marked with my logo as my car glided its way through downtown Sacramento’s near-empty streets was the best start to my day that I could ask for.
I was early enough this morning that even Carla wasn’t at the front desk yet. I shook my head. I knew I shouldn’t have slept with the old girl—Jules, wasn’t it? She had been good at her job. Good in bed, too, but not so good that it was worth losing a secretary over.
I let myself in and flopped into my ergonomic desk chair. I wheeled myself to the window that made up one whole wall of my office. Another day, another set of challenges I would have to rise above. That was what business was about: seeing the obstacle, and learning how to beat it. That’s all there was to it.
I glided back to the hardwood desk, turned on my computer and got to work. Decisions and calls, little meetings and big memos filled my day until it was bursting at the seams.
“Sandra wants to know if you are still on for tonight.” Carla buzzed me to ask, a note of judgement in her voice. At this point, she’d fielded texts from Sandra, Rain, Cassidy and God-knows-who-else.
“Tell her ‘yes,’” I said, with a hang-up for goodbye. If Carla wanted to keep her job, she had better learn to keep her opinions to herself.
I wheeled back to gaze out the window. After all, who else in my position would behave any differently? I was the billionaire CEO of a booming company; I didn’t have time for girlfriends. Just a quick meeting here and there, a nice night of luxury for us both—and I was generous, wasn’t I? Really, what red-blooded 28-year-old would do anything differently?
Frowning, I stepped out of my office and made for the elevator. I could always ask Carla to get me the chocolate bar I was craving, but I wasn’t in the mood for her. Yes, it had been my express request that Eugene find me a homely, unattractive sort for my secretary, so history wouldn’t repeat itself, but that hadn’t meant I wanted an actual gargoyle.
Downstairs, the café was out of my favorite snack.
“One question,” I told the skinny dweeb behind the front counter, “Who owns this building?”
“Uh, you?” he asked.
I nodded. “Right. And so, who, out of everyone in this building, who would you say is the most important?”
He gulped.
“You?”
Another big nod, a flash of a $40,000-veneered smile.
“Exactly. So, if this person has a favorite chocolate bar, wouldn’t you say it was pretty fucking important that you got it for him?” My voice has lowered to a deadly hiss and the skinny dweeb looked like I was holding him by the throat.
“Y-yes,” he choked out.
Leaning in, my face inches from his, I continued.
“So if I came back here and it wasn’t here again, I wouldn’t want to be whoever was responsible for that.”
Turning and walking away was the period to my sentence. In the hallways, people parted, the men nodded and the women smiled. Busy, busy. I walked over to my personal elevator, which came faster than theirs, naturally. I was the only one riding it after all.
Back upstairs; I stopped at Carla’s desk.
“Has my mother called?”
She shook her head, her brown perm ruffing with the movement.
“Do you want me to call her?” The question was innocent enough, and yet that tone, coming from that self-satisfied face, told me exactly what she thought.
I stormed off, back into my room. Flopping back on my chair, I had a dozen or so things to do, but found myself plagued by the one thing I didn’t have to.
Really, why should I call my mother? She and I had been on and off for years. The pattern was like the seasons, inevitable and expected. I gave her things, she asked for more, rinse and repeat.
My brother’s voice echoed in my head: She just wants you to spend time
with us.
I smiled as I remembered my response: “Eugene, don’t I spend enough on you all?”
Because really, I did. Who’d bought the big house on Sunnydale Avenue they all enjoyed? Who bought them that trip to Hawaii? Sure, maybe I hadn’t visited the house quite as much as I’d said I would, but couldn’t they see that this was all for them? Ever since that night of the prom debacle, all of this work, this empire building, it was all for them, for us. So we could breathe easily for once and enjoy some success for a change.
“It’s Eugene on the line,” Carla’s voice buzzed from my phone.
“Put him through,” I said.
A click, then “Clark?”
“Eugene! What did she say?”
A sharp intake of breath, then “Well, she doesn’t really want to talk to you.”
“What? Doesn’t want to talk to me, my own mother? Ludicrous, put her on the line now!”
Silence, then “I’m sorry, Clark, I… I’m not at home. I promised her I wouldn’t talk to you anymore.”
“Eugene, seriously. She can’t be serious. I mean, it’s my birthday.”
“I know, Clark, I know. But this latest thing…this not coming to Sam’s birthday party.”
“Pfft, that was a busy time, I told you all that. And, truth be told, I’m pretty sure Yvonne already hated me, let’s be honest now.”
A sigh. “Maybe she would if she ever saw you. As it is, Clark, it’s been months since any of us have seen you.”
“Oh, come on now! I just saw you a few weeks ago.”
“Yes, for fifteen minutes in between meetings so you could ask me to find you a good, but unattractive secretary.”
“And I took your suggestion, didn’t I?”
“Clark, I’m not calling you to argue. I’m just calling to tell you to stop calling the house. It upsets Mom. If you want to do anything, show up for a change, but don’t call. Not anymore.”
“Eugene, I think this is a bit over the top, don’t you?”
“Sorry, but I’ve got to go. Bye, Clark—”
“Eugene—”
Dial tone.
I stared at the little black phone, anger flaring within me. I chucked the box at the wall. The crash of the electronic device as it hit the wall spurred my secretary into action, and Carla’s voice buzzed over the intercom.
“Mr. Denton? Mr. Denton? Is everything all right?”
I wheeled back on my chair over to my view of the city.
Why was my family so insufferably stubborn? I could negotiate with any other businessman, millionaire, billionaire or otherwise. But not them. No, a quick Christmas video chat wasn’t enough; I had to be curled up in front of the fire with them, literally bleeding bills out of my ass in the process. They didn’t understand because they’d never been successful.
I took the family portrait, the one taken when we were kids, out of my desk drawer: Eugene, Yvonne, Mom and me. Our happy faces stared back at me.
And why did they think I’d even want to see them, when every time it was the same questions, the same insinuations: “So, anyone special yet? Eugene says you’ve been seeing someone, so give us details!”
I shoved the picture back in my desk drawer. A bunch of bleeding hearts, the lot of them. So what? Let them abandon me. Let’s see how they did without their yearly trips and ski-doo birthday presents. They had just been dragging me down with them anyway.
Striding over to the corner, I picked up the phone, whose flashing green light indicated that it wasn’t quite broken. Pressing the button on the top, I told Carla “Tell Sandra to come at 8. And then text Jane and have her come at 10.”
I strode back to the window to look out at the city once more. Let everyone judge me all they wanted, I would still have my fun.
The rest of the afternoon was a write-off. My family and their selfish rashness distracted from any more tangible productivity. On the drive home, there was more traffic than usual and the driver kept choosing stupid radio stations. When I sarcastically informed him that the only station I wanted to hear was a Hungarian one, instead of snapping the thing off like I had expected, he actually found one, which he then subjected me to for the rest of the trip.
Dinner was peach-glazed rabbit with a slightly unsettling arrangement of baby tomatoes, but Ursula had already left for the day, and I was in no mood for one of the drawn-out yelled phone calls her considerable deafness demanded that I employ.
Luckily, I only had to pace around for an before Sandra arrived. She turned up wrapped up in blue and gold like a present. One which I wasted no time unwrapping. She moaned during it, about how good it felt, and moaned after it, about how I never responded to her text messages.
I glanced at the clock. It was 9, I still had some time. I made a mental note to fire Carla and then I consoled poor, poor Sandra. I confessed that I was busy, I didn’t always know what to say, I was sorry, horribly sorry, I was going to make sure it never happened again. Then, I showed her a pretty dress that I’d bought her, and that shut her up. Hell, I got her out of the house at 9:30, still with thirty minutes to spare.
So, I returned to my room to find my cat Nala lounging on the bed. At the sight of me, she jumped up and walked away. I watched her go with a weird pang of regret. Mother had bought her for me, convinced I had needed a “companion” of some sort, but would it kill this scrawny tabby to stay in the same room as me for more than five seconds? I’d had her for months and I hadn’t so much as touched her. Cats were notoriously independent, sure, but this was a bit much.
I flopped on my bed and waited for Jane to arrive. She was ten minutes late, of course, full of excuses (“The traffic was horrible, darling, you know how it is”) and blame (“If you didn’t always tell me last minute!”), but when I got that shirt off her she quieted down soon enough. It was nice, good—I think it was always nice and good with Jane. It had been weeks, but I couldn’t be sure. Lying in bed afterwards, she looked up at me and said “How long has it been since we saw each other?”
I smiled, patted her head.
“Too long, my darling,” I replied, but she slid away and sat up, surveying me with a lipstick-smeared half-smile.
“I’m serious, Clark. How long has it been?”
Avoiding her gaze, I shrugged.
“I don’t know, a few weeks?”
She laughed coldly.
“Three months, Clark. It’s been three months.”
My head whipped around. I studied her face but it was clear enough that she was telling the truth.
“You really had no idea, didn’t you?”
I slid my arm around her.
“Well, darling, you know even a week feels like a month to me, and are you really sure—”
Another laugh.
“Don’t bother, Clark. I gave up all illusions with you weeks ago.”
Silence, then she asked, “Have you ever really had a girlfriend?”
I pulled her closer to me.
“Darling, if you wanted to have this talk…”
She pulled away, but she wasn’t smiling. In fact, she didn’t even look angry.
Touching my arm gently, she asked, “Have you ever been in love?”
Now, it was my turn to laugh. “Come on, Jane, I—” But she was shaking her head.
“You poor guy.”
And then, with one pat of my arm, she was rising. She got up and dressed in silence. At the front door, she cast me one last look, one slight smile, a nod, and she was gone. I stared at the open doorway for a minute, then got up and slammed the door shut.
That look she had given me. I could have understood if it was pleading or bitter or angry or anything, really, except for what it had been. What she had said, the way she had looked at me, it has been sad, sure, but with a sadness that came from pity. Jane actually felt sorry for me.
I stared at the closed door for a minute, and then laughed.
Women and their assumptions of knowing what was best. I was perfectly fine—better than fine, I wa
s fan-fucking-tastic, without a time-sucking demanding girlfriend or otherwise, so Jane could take her big fat pity and choke on it.
I took out my phone and started scanning through some news site. The news itself was pretty boring, rehashing old terrorist attacks and predicting new ones, and yet, wait—there was a juicy piece of news after all.
Sacramento Woman to Auction Virginity, the headline read. I stared at it for a minute, while the different possibilities slid through my mind. I was 28—it couldn’t actually be someone I knew, could it?
And that’s when I saw the picture.
Chapter Three
Kristin
I woke up to a splitting headache throbbing behind my eyes. My body was one crunched-up, crumpled-over ball of pain. One lunge to the bathroom got me some painkillers and, hopefully in a few minutes, relief. Back in bed, it took a good half hour before I could drag myself out from under the covers and into the kitchen.
It was a disaster-scene: practically every wine glass I had was scattered around the apartment, many of them filled with differing amounts of liquid. Meanwhile, my mint ice cream was on its side and streaming down into a sticky puddle on the floor, while chunks of cookies were sticking out of the dirt in my potted plant. The most insulting part of it all, sitting very primly in my dish rack, was my red lipstick.
And that was when I remembered the website.
“Shit,” I mumbled as I staggered back into my room.
I opened my laptop to find last night’s drunken activity staring back at me. The website was good, really good, there was no doubt about it. The background and font, that message, those pictures—it was all really, really good. Too bad I was going to have to take it down. My stomach lurched.
Breakfast first.
