Chapter Two

I don't remember thinking much about what would happen if I fell in love. What I would say. Whether I would say anything at all. Love seemed so far away. I had fallen in love with a soldier a few months prior, but when he grew bored of me, I tried to move on. I looked for no other potentials. I never believed you could cure heartbreak with another heart. It never occurred to me that I was, instead, putting myself in a position of so hardening my heart, that I may never love again. I didn't care. 

I was tired of having my heart hurt, and was tired of being alone. This ensured I was constantly out, constantly busy; yet my heart would no longer hurt, for I had no expectations. None other than the cash. And I had hopes that it would come soon. First, however, I was to pretend date with my boss. 

I remember that I wasn't nervous. I didn't have any second thoughts, not even then. My biggest concerns all that afternoon were whether I had shaved thoroughly enough, and whether I could wear my chucks to a hipster bar. I had always taken great pains to never get drunk. It was a personal rule. I knew I could consume a great deal of alcohol without getting drunk. I was determined to never cross that threshold. 

What I called my shpiel was to let the men get sloshed, whilst I remained sober. They would never even be able to judge whether I was good or not. I forgot two important things that night. For one, how long it had been since I had drunk more than a screwdriver, and for another, how powerful a Jackie Cola truly was. Three Jackies and two screwdrivers later, I was fully aware of everything around me, but had the most horrendous case of vertigo I had ever experienced. 

My boss was, after three beers, as sober as ever. I resisted the urge to puke as we headed back to his apartment. I sat on the couch as he mixed another drink. I declined. I really had no desire to hurl anywhere near him. He led me to the bathroom, to explain how I was to go about "getting started". I think it was on the way there, in the hallway, when he first kissed me, saying I had just broken rule number one. No kissing. Ever. 

I had pouted, protesting that I liked kissing. Maybe I really was a bit drunk. He laughed; said to save it for people I liked. I didn't understand until later what he meant. We went to the bathroom and he began to list the things I must have on me, whenever I have a job. Wipes, lubricant, and condoms. And once inside the bathroom, I was to text him. I was to text him again upon departure, or call even. 

I nodded. He further explained that my shpiel was to say I am going to thte restroom for a moment, would he please go ahead and get undressed and wait for me? I would then go to the bathroom, check the lube level, send text, and get undressed, down to the lingerie. 

He told me to go ahead and do that. He left and shut the door. I got undressed and stood staring at the mirror for a few seconds. I was too dizzy to feel self conscious or nervous. And besides, I wasn't fat, nor ugly. The thought of giving a blow job did make me feel queasy though. I hated the taste. And most men tried to make me deep throat. That was always bad, and I was already on the verge of puking. 

I took a deep breath, and went into the bathroom. HE was in boxers, on his stomach, on the bed. He didn't have to say it; I knew to straddle his lower torso and begin the massage. He was explaining that I couldn't rely on kissing and groping to get him hard. At some point, I would have to remove my bra and let my breasts dangle over his body, just barely brushing it, kissing softly while I massaged. 

It seemed to me that was more intimate than kissing even, but I said nothing. I just did. We went through various positions. I began to get annoyed. I felt as if I was being told that I knew nothing abotu sex. I told him to stop ordering me around and just let me work. Even in my vertigo addled state, I knew I had more than convinced him when I was done. 

I hobbled to the bathroom. I pressed my face against the tiles. If only the nausea would end. I laid back on the bed. He gave me an oversized shirt to sleep in. I don't know why, but something about that gesture made me feel warm inside. He pulled the covers over both of us, and then did something I had never expected. He took me in his arms. He hugged me close, and said he was going to take care of me. 

It struck me rather bluntly that this was why I had never felt satisfied. Why I had always felt empty. Everyone had always turned their back toward me, and fallen asleep; without another word nor touch. 

The absurd aspect of our "relationship" did not matter to me. In fact, I didn't really think about it at all in that moment. Here I was in bed, dizzy as a windmill, with my boss, who was getting me jobs to escort men, and inevitably sleep with them. And he was going to take care of me? I don't remember caring about the absurdity of it all. I didn't think about it. And I feel certain, even now, that had I contemplated it at that moment, I still would not have cared. 

Illusion or not, it mattered not. What mattered in that moment, to me, was that someone spent the entire night holding me. I still felt miserable the next morning. I woke up early. I crossed the street to Starbucks. If anything was going to cure my stomach, an Americano would. 

The hangover left; the vertigo subsided. But the emptiness resided. 

Author's Note

Rough draft; please forgive any obvious spelling and/or grammatical errors.

Reviews

[lawrence bear]

interesting two chapters, a good start, that has me wanting more.

[Jonathan De Elvira]

why I'm getting emotional with the main character? I feel...sad for her...
keep it up Ketlyn, you're doing great...