Super Whore

(An amusing attempt to write a story from the perspective of a woman.)

I dedicate this book to all the “working” women of the world.

An inspirational story about forgiveness, redemption, and “happy endings” that cost $150.

“Everything in the world displeases me: but, above all, my displeasure in everything displeases me.” — Friedrich Nietzsche.

—–

Dear Diary,

I am sad today. Daddy told me that our cousins in Oklahoma were killed in a tornado. The whole family. Eight of them. All dead.

We used to visit our cousin’s farm in the summer. It was just a lot of wheat and a few horses, but it was fun.

The first boy I kissed was Kevin. It was a few years ago. We were eleven. I didn’t keep a diary back then.

He said we were second cousins so that made it okay. All the other cousins watched in the barn as we kissed. No Frenching, just lips. It was the first time for both of us. We laughed hard. We made the other cousins promise not to tell.

The kiss made me feel older. Eleven years old and I was convinced I was a woman. I was so proud. I wouldn’t stop bragging to my older sister about it. I made such a fool of myself.

The last few summers mother sent my sister and me to all-girl camps. I hated learning to canoe and sing campfire songs. Other girls there taught me all sorts of dirty things about boys, periods, and how to make babies. I learned that kissing thing with Kevin was just the opening to a world of gross bodily stuff I wasn’t sure I wanted to experience.

Of course, none of it will be with Kevin. Not now.

That kiss might have been the only kiss Kevin ever got. I don’t know for sure. I hadn’t seen him since. And now he’s dead. I can’t ask him if he ever kissed again. And I can’t imagine that I’ll never see him again. I guess my kiss was a kiss goodbye.

Mother always said only those who sinned got punished. Was Kevin’s sin kissing me? But instead mother said their deaths were a test.

My big sister Clara called tonight. She’s a freshman in Bloomington University. She said that she talked to our other aunt who said the youngest boy was “impaled” by a piece of lumber. He died of an infection after surgery eight days later. He died from little tiny things called bacteria. The mother, pregnant with my newest cousin, also survived the tornado with injuries, but miscarried, then died herself two days later. Clara thinks she died of sadness. Is that possible?

After the mother died, there was no one left. I still sort of can’t believe it. An “F3” Clara said…an “F3” tornado killed them all.

I told Clara what mother said. “Who was the test for?” I asked. Clara said she didn’t know, “but don’t ask mother. Never question her explanations.” Clara seemed stressed about this point.

Clara also pointed out that things like the tornado happen all the time, all over the world. Whole families starve to death, or get diseases, or get crushed by earthquakes, or hurricanes, or fires. Sometimes people will just trip and fall for no reason, hit their head and suddenly they’re dead. Wow.

I asked mother if I could stay home from school…forever, and just hide under my bed with my stuffed animals, trying not to die.

Apparently that’s not an option.

I miss Kevin. All the cousins were fun. They took us for hay rides. They kept our kiss a secret.

 

“A car accident?” With my cell phone pressed to my ear, I stumble into the bedroom. “I can’t believe it!”

Joe stopped snoring and groggily rolled over to see what all the fuss was about. It’s two in the morning and he’s half drunk.

My voice raised several octaves. “Are you sure they’re dead?”

Joe sat up, checking the time with blurry vision. He moaned grumpily. Nice of him to finally wake up and notice my plight. He found me pacing back and forth in front of the bed and asked, “Who are you talking to?”

Ignoring him, I pleaded into the phone, “Tell me it’s not true.”

I’m sure some people would have expected me to break down into tears at this point, but tears for my parents wouldn’t be easy. We hadn’t spoken much in the last few years. I had been a disappointment to them. They didn’t come out and say, “Is it too late to trade you in for a cat?” but if you have parents…well I guess you’d have to have parents wouldn’t you — no other way to really end up stuck on this planet is there? For some reason parents universally have an inherent ability to rip their children’s hearts out with casual innuendoes and quaint little sayings meant to sound like parental guidance.

“What’s wrong?” Joe finally asked, trying to sound concerned while wiping sleep out of his eyes.

“I’ll be out on the next flight,” I said, only glancing briefly to Joe to acknowledge he spoke. “Okay, I’ll call you when I know when I’ll be landing.”

I hung up and stared off into the far wall over by Joe’s baseball trophy collection. What is this guy…twelve years old? He’s an investment banker – so he claimed last night at the bar — but his apartment is a childish junkyard of macho jock memorabilia. On the wall was a poster of a well-endowed woman laying across the hood of a Porsche. I eyed the misogynistic poster, trying to contain my disgust, wondering if there was any kind of redeemable artistic value. My years studying art made me a bit snobbish when it came to what qualifies as art, but I tried to keep an open mind. Maybe the poster was a commentary on modern desires — something about lust, greed, and materialism. I guess, like any piece of art that intentionally provokes us, I could say that the artist might be trying to demonstrate how a few simple shapely objects can be arousing to the male ego. Or something about what men see as the ultimate success — a hot babe and a hot car. Or maybe it was just commercial crap.

“What happened?” Joe demanded, trying to snap me out of my shocked appearance.

I didn’t look at him. “My parents are dead. It was a car accident.”

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry,” Joe offered sincerely.

I shook my head to focus. “I gotta get on the next flight to Indianapolis.” I plopped down next to him, trembling slightly. I gripped my phone with both hands to hold it steady as I dialed.

“Is there anything I can do?” He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“No, I just need to get home right away.”

On my back he rubs a small soft circle, hoping to comfort me. How sweet.

I pretend to dial information and race the cell phone to my ear. Over the next five minutes I faked arguing with an airline sales rep. Then, with long, detailed dialogue, I faked getting upset with my credit card company.

Joe continued his mild back rub, turning his head away to yawn when he could no longer resist. The struggle to seem alert, attentive, and supportive, when hung over, exhausted, and male, was never easy. I commended him for trying, but it wouldn’t change anything.

I slammed the cell phone closed. “I know I sent that last payment in!” I’m so upset at this point you’d almost believe my little performance was about to send me into real hysterics. I should be recording this for posterity. If there’s ever an award contest for being a lying whore, let me know.

Scooting next to me and wrapping his whole arm over my shoulder to hold me back from flipping out entirely, Joe comes to my rescue. “Don’t worry, I can loan you the money.”

I covertly breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn’t going to have to produce tears this time. I keep muttering “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Without any prompting from me, Joe pulls away to get his wallet off the nightstand. “See, don’t worry, I can help.” He fumbles for his credit cards. Surely he knows that since it’s a last-minute ticket it will be pricey, but he hides any apprehension like a good little knight in shining armor.

I pretend to suddenly realize that if I have cash, I can put the ticket in my name, then get a bereavement discount when I show the airline a death certificate when I’m back in Indianapolis. That way, it will be easier for me to pay him back. Plus, I can just go to the airport and pay any airline that has a spare seat on the next flight out.

It’s two in the morning, he’s half drunk, he’s dying to get rid of me, and he fears he’ll have to stay up all night comforting me. He agrees…praying it will fulfill some archaic male duty and relinquish him from any further responsibility. He promises to stop by an ATM in the morning and drive me to the airport on his way to work…which I know is in the opposite direction.

Ta da! Five hundred bucks, all mine. I really should get an Oscar for this. Maybe a little female statue holding a long golden penis in a tight controlling grip.

Not that my style of deception is particularly unique. It’s just a social tool. Men have their muscles, tempers, power. Women got flexible, pliable, usable emotions. While still very young, girls learn the tricks to manipulate friends, seduce lovers, and cry our way out of traffic tickets. It’s all a big social game with everyone seeking different goals and rewards. It’s all a pack of lies.

 

Dear Diary

I hate liars. Britney asked what I thought of her new band uniform. She insisted I be honest. So I was. She looked like a bloated marching nutcracker. Well she did. The next day at school I found out she started spreading rumors about me. She told people the real reason I decided not to join the band this year was that I hated her and the other girls. Everyone believed her, just because I haven’t been hanging out with them as much.

The only reason I haven’t been hanging out with them as much is because I’ve just been a little distracted this year. Miss Potrelle assigned everyone lab partners and I got Jake, the school hunk. I thought I was going to faint. Every day in science we work elbow to elbow. Yesterday he offered to sharpen my pencil when he went to sharpen his. He’s so nice. And cute. He wears those new jeans mom says are “inappropriate.” Me and half the class watch him as strolls across the room. Mother would dunk me in holy water for admitting that.

I really didn’t think I was being mean to Britney, I was just being honest, like she asked. Besides, I’m…“chubbier” than she is. If I wore that outfit I’d look worse. Like Santa, if he designed his own military uniform. That’s why I stopped going to band. You can’t hide your ass in bright red and blue polyester slacks. Besides, band is lame. No one Jake hangs out with would join band. Why should I?

Then Maria told all the girls in the yearbook club what Britney said I said about the band. I told Maria the truth. She pretended to believe me, then I found out she was passing notes saying I was bitch who hated everyone in the yearbook club too. She just did it cause she likes Britney more than me.

I hate liars. I hope a big vicious tornado comes and sweeps them all away. I know I shouldn’t say things like that. But they just made me so mad. Mother says liars go to hell. Apparently that’s a more appropriate wish.

Everyone claims to want the truth, but all they really want is to be told how pretty they are, how smart, how entertaining. Not the truth. Anything but the truth.

“Are you sure?” I asked Joe several times in a humble, thankful, well-played feminine tone. His enthusiasm increased every time I asked, seeing my calm demeanor returning, tempting him with the hope of escaping further hassle with my little drama. Men love to cure problems with one single gallant stroke. It segways so nicely into their plot to get women to shut up.

I accepted his offer and embraced him like any rescued damsel in distress should. Plus, it emphasizes his promise, his commitment, his financial obligation to me. In the morning when he’s sober, he won’t question the logic of giving me cash – at least not out loud. He repeatedly begged to help me, specifically with cash. The deal was done. To get me out of his apartment and his life, and to free him from guilt and further inconveniences, five hundred dollars cash was a small sacrifice compared to the lofty expense of dealing with some upset stranger he had the unfortunate luck of banging the night her parents died.

I swore over and over to repay every penny as soon I got to my parents’ house and got settled. He assured me that whenever I could get it to him was fine and I didn’t need to worry about it. I wasn’t; he wouldn’t see me or that cash again. Months would pass before it would even occur to him that I might have ripped him off. For the first few weeks he’ll give me the benefit of the doubt, guessing I’m too overwhelmed with funeral arrangement and sadness. Then, once or twice he might consider how convenient and cunning the whole situation seemed. He might even notice that all the calls, from the people reporting the deaths, to the airlines and the credit card company, were all on my cell phone, never his home line. He had no way to have his phone company confirm a single call I made. In the end, no matter what he suspects, good old-fashioned arrogant denial will keep most men from really believing that they got scammed.

A sociologist I ensnared in my booby trap outside of Memphis told me that two out of three Americans think they qualify as a genius in some aspect or another. Two out of three! Amazing. I know I’m not one, nor do I think I’ve ever met one. And yet, most people are so conceited and self absorbed they really convince themselves they actually somehow qualify as a “genius.” They bask in the assumed brilliance of their computer or automobile skills. Or they think their deep – yet common — thoughts they have about the universe, politics, business, the ideal sports team line up, whatever, makes them a genius. Or maybe it’s their supposed insight into the merits of the latest box-office flop, or latest reality TV show. They’re all armchair Einstein’s apparently.

It’s absolutely mind boggling. Leonardo da Vinci invented the designs of machines that never existed before, but I guess that’s nothing compared to the grand intellect needed to critique the local diner or formulate an opinion about which politician is selling the best lies for your votes.

What’s more amazing is that most don’t really have any skills to validate their inflated egos. They just assume that if they were the film director, the head chef, the president, the parent, the CEO, the author, the inventor, or whatever, they’d surely rise to the occasion with minimal hands-on experience and produce genius-level results. Talk is cheap, but not nearly as cheap as the arrogance behind it.

But I guess I should be thankful. Such inherent arrogance in humans is what keeps most men from admitting to themselves that I’m ripping them off.

 

Dear Diary

Today was my first day at high school…as a blonde. I thank god for Trideceth-2 Carboxamide MEA, Butoxydiglycol, Propylene Glycol, Alcohol Denat., Oleyl Alcohol, Ammonium Hydroxide, Oleic Acid, etc.

I’m also thin now, so I thank god for long fingers to facilitate puking…another little trick I learned at summer camp.

It’s my senior year and I want to be a new girl. It’s my last chance to be someone…to make an impression. No one cares about grades. No one cares about the honor roll. This year I’m going to have cool friends. This year I’m going to make Jake really notice me. This year I’m going to be beautiful.

 

I don’t hate Joe, personally. And yes, except for his immature wardrobe, Joe’s not a bad-looking guy. His cologne is a little…aggressive, but at least he tried. His hair is thinning a bit, but he surely exercises regularly without obsessing about it. No, I don’t hate him, nor did I hate the sex.

However, he’s clearly not my type if I was truly looking for a companion. Not very well-read or very cultured….he couldn’t even remember which artist Van Gogh was. Every man should know Van Gogh – the ultimate romantic as far as I’m concerned. He cut off his ear as a gift to the woman he loved.

The most generous thing I ever got from my husband was a twenty-four hour notice to pack my stuff because he was selling the house and running off to live happily ever after with his bimbo dental hygienist. (Sorry, that’s not nice of me to say; I don’t know her. She’s probably very nice. I hope they are very happy together, and they have lots of cute little children – the one thing I couldn’t give him. And I hope the kids grow up healthy and strong…so one day they can become psychotic teenagers that will strangle their parents as they sleep. Just kidding….I think.)

I know, I can sound like a real bitch. Sorry. I hate being hateful. It’s the one thing I hate the most about myself.

Anyway, my point about Joe is…he may not be a bad guy, but I refuse to acknowledge any instinct to actually like Joe. I sternly clinch my feminine feelings, making sure I don’t ever get tempted to stray from the whore path that I’ve chosen. I refuse to be enslaved by instincts or insecurities. I will not bond, in any romantic way, with any male again.

For all I know, Joe is probably not a bad guy. Other than his blatant attempt to get me drunk, and telling me he prefers blondes, his worse “crime” against me was a relentless attempt to charm me with exaggerated flatter. I do NOT remind anyone of Marilyn Monroe. Nor do I have Bo Derek’s body when she did the movie 10. And on and on and on. He even had the nerve to eye me up and down and say he thought he was “in luuuuve.” I tried to laugh him off several times, politely giving him a chance to escape. His horny pestering is what got him “jerk” status. Any guy who can’t tell the brain in his little soldier to shut up and move on deserves to be robbed. Is just a little honesty, or at least sincerity, too much to ask? (sorry, stupid question)

I am a hooker. Well, a hooker by proxy that is. I rob men after pleasuring them. Yes, technically I’m not a traditional hooker like my new friend Kati. I met her in my hotel yesterday. She was a sweet-looking young lady who apparently learned the English language studying the walls in the men’s rooms at truck stops. Out of some twisted curiosity on my part, I took Kati to lunch to make friends. I guess I wanted to know what made her. It’s hard to believe anyone can get so low in life that whoring seems like a reasonable solution. And yet, here I am. I’m doing what Kati does even if my approach is different. I’m more like a modern gypsy. I get men on a hook…I bait them and I lure them in. I hook jerks. So I think I’m entitled to use the term hooker. Besides, “thieving maniacal whore” has such a dirty ring to it don’t you think?

Believe it or not, I’ve got a college degree. I’ve even been married. I had a house and all the exacerbating bills, maintenance, and hassles that come with it. But…simply put, I prefer to travel the country robbing men. I never considered being a real hooker; I really feel I get a better selection of men, willing to shell out more dough, by picking targets that have know idea they’re about to get screwed, literally and figuratively.

Plus, I get to have one of those bumper stickers that says: “I love my boss – I’m self employed.”

And don’t even ask me if I feel guilty about being so unethical. There is no way a thief who pleasures her victims first is any worse than a typical man who lies and pretends to be interested in a women’s personality just to get her into bed. Well…not a lot worse.

I like to think of myself as a sexual vigilante. I don’t target just any man. Besides looking like they’re at least employed, before I rob them I look for some clue…proof they’re a jerk…some verification that they’re a deceitful man that should be robbed – what I call “Jerk Tax.” Sometimes it’s just a hint in their exaggerated enthusiasm revealing they’ll say anything to get me into bed. I’ll test them with questions like, “Don’t you just love my shoes, roses, Janet Austen books, or don’t you think sports are barbaric, we need more women in government, big breasts are overrated?” Men trying to get laid will agree enthusiastically to just about anything.

Sometimes it’s just the fact that when I bring up going back to their place, they make up excuses and insist we go to a hotel — revealing they’re probably married or have a girlfriend. Other times I’ll be going through their stuff while they’re asleep and I’ll find proof the wife is out of town, or I’ll find a sticky stack of porn that clearly degrades women. In my own way, I find what I need to assure myself that this too is another self-absorbed “jerk” deserving of a little exploitation. Who am I to judge them, you ask? Who am I to exact revenge for character flaws or for having desires that offend women? Well…I’m the one who owns the hoochie coochie they’re dipping into, that’s who.

As the great and wise Pat Benatar said, “Love is a battlefield.” Every night in bars, nightclubs, and other venues all over the world, the battle is fought with charm, deceit, and alcohol. And it isn’t over till dawn.

 

Dear Diary

I hate this town. Mother says this town is mid-size, but I think it’s SMALL. A primitive small town. Everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows Jill went all the way with Jake. Now it seems official. They weren’t just flirting anymore, Jake and Jill are a couple, going out, or going steady as my mom says.

But mother was wrong. Jill’s reputation wasn’t ruined. Jill didn’t fall from some kind of imaginary good girl grace from which she’ll never recover.

Jake’s mother told my mother that none of it was true. She insisted her son was an innocent young gentleman.

Unfortunately, I knew it was all true. Unfortunately, I was there.

The whole gang was “camping” at the lake. No one was staying the night; our parents believed we were all at the movies. Everyone was there around a campfire for a make-out session. Most of our little group of friends was able to convince our parents to let us see a particularly late film. Tonight we didn’t just bring the usual picnic blankets. Tonight, we actually brought tents for our little social “camping” event.

Brad wasn’t the one I wanted, but he was all over me. He was my date…because he was Jake’s best friend. All semester it was clear if I didn’t date Brad, I couldn’t tag along to all the cool parties. I couldn’t tag along and flirt with Jake every chance I had. Brad was okay, nothing gross about him, but he was no Jake either.

In the open tent next to Jake and Jill’s tent, I let Brad up my shirt as I struggled to act romantic while trying not to gag on Brad’s sloppy tongue that seemed to be searching for any crumbs from my last meal. I think he was trying to distract me while his hands aggressively milked my boobs. I think he thought the harder he squeezed the hornier I’d get…like they were hormone pumps or something.

I kept peeking toward Jake and Jill’s tent. They had a flashlight on the floor that was projecting inflated silhouettes of them on the tent wall. I couldn’t make out details, but I was sure I was witnessing Jill’s big head bobbing up and down below Jake’s waist.

I cringed in anger, praying she’d choke. I imagined her throat swollen with a large sausage blocking off her airway as she turned blue.

I tried to look away, regretting what I knew I had to do. I didn’t want Brad crying to his friends later that I didn’t give him anything, or that I was cold, or the all-dreaded “prude.” I couldn’t let a rumor like that get back to Jake. I wanted him to know that I was a fun girl too. I was just as wild and willing to make Jake happy as Jill was.

So, yes, to fit in, to not seem prude, to stay in the game, I gave Brad a “blow job.”

There was an awkward moment when Brad needed to point out that there wasn’t any actual blowing involved (excuse me for not attending Fellatio 101 first), but then Brad whispered that it felt good. This actually made me happy. I wanted to be good at it. I wanted to be the best. Or at least better than Jill.

After Brad’s sticky show of approval, so to speak, I truly questioned the necessity for such an act. Romantic movies really mislead girls about what is all involved in keeping a man happy. It wasn’t the taste, though it was no thanksgiving banquet – snot is what came to mind — what really bothered me were his testicles. I knew what they were, I’d seen detailed medical illustrations of their insides in health class, but I couldn’t help thinking…What the heck are those things? They were like dangling growths that should be removed with immediate surgery. They had fuzzy, wiry little hairs you’d see on creepy moles. There just had to be something wrong going on there. I wanted to put on some plastic gloves and gently squeeze them, like testing tender plums. I wanted to stuff them back inside him and then tie off the ball sack (or “scrotum” as they say in the books) to keep them there.

But the night got worse.

While trying to act dignified after pleasing Brad and trying not to imagine billions of little confused tadpoles tormenting my taste buds in search of an egg to inseminate, I peeked back at the tent of the competition. Jake was moaning, frantically pounding his hips into Jill’s. Then suddenly he fell to rest on top of her. I knew instantly what had happened. I lost.

 

After a little whimpering as my latest conquest cuddled me, trying to comfort me, I pretended to doze off. Joe quickly followed. I peeked at him as he drifted into a relieved slumber, snoring softly.

I have to confess, not every jerk has paid out as well. A few actually listened to my sob story and offered nothing more than a little sympathy. With them I pretend to calm down and agree to try calling some of my other relatives for help in the morning. But as soon as the jerk falls back asleep, I get up and find something, anything of minor value that he wasn’t likely to notice missing in the morning on his way to get rid of me and get to work. I’ve swiped cameras, cell phones, music cds, MP3 players, a nice watch, and other trivial items I thought I could sell on the internet or in a pawn shop. If they took me to a hotel, sometimes I wouldn’t get anything if they didn’t offer me some cash for my performance, but that’s the gamble I take.

And I have to confess that a few times I was so drunk I simply forgot to try to swindle them at all. By morning it is too late. You have to con them while they’re still drunk or rob them while they sleep. Unfortunately, I can get a little carried away with the freedom-from-reality juice sometimes. If it keeps happening, I should probably go to AA. Of course, I’m not sure what I’d say. “Hi everyone, I’m an Alcoholic. I keep passing out before I can steal from the random men I’m sleeping with. By the way, any rich men here need a date tonight?”

And I have to confess I’ve “pity humped” a guy or two. One was a nerdy guy I heard his so-called friends harassing him for being a “wuss with women.” I was pretty drunk, I wasn’t getting too many serious leads, and I needed a free place to crash, so tossing him a freebee seemed reasonable. But for the most part, few men have escaped my booby trap. Just about all men who’ve hit on me in a bar or other social gathering have qualified as jerks worth stealing from, bolstering my growing distrust of the Y chromosome.

Yes, women often aren’t much better. There are surely a lot of women unworthy of respect (including myself perhaps). But I just don’t get that sinister, manipulating, “I just want you for sex and will lie or do other evil things to get it” vibe from women.

And yes I know I’m not much of a contribution to the women’s movement. While others are busting their asses to earn respectable positions is society, I’m a slutty thief. But the way I see it, even with all the progress women have made, men still treat women as a subspecies – earning less, “bitchy” instead of bold and assertive, I could go on and on. I like to think that it’s my duty to provide a little payback. Yes, things are better for women. Yes, we’re a long ways away from the days of legalized wife selling (yes it happened, look it up) but there is still a lot of callus abuse and disrespect going on. Besides, it’s not like I’m chopping off penises in the middle of the night like Lorain Bobbitt, or shooting guys who pick up prostitutes like Aileen Wuornos. Tempting, but I faint at the sight of blood.

Did you know that in a recent survey a large portion of college men surveyed admitted acting in a manner which would be defined legally as rape, and most of them saw nothing wrong with what they had done. And, around thirty percent of college men confessed anonymously that they would perpetrate a rape if assurance was given they’d never be caught or prosecuted. And only about half of all men would turn in a friend who committed rape. A female is sexually assaulted every two minutes in this country because of this. A college campus security guard told me this and I downloaded the actual study online. Shocking.

As far as I’m concerned, the real fight for equality has barely begun.

I’m not saying all men secretly want to be rapists. No, technically lying and cheating to get women into bed isn’t considered rape. Yes I know there are a few saints out there, but far as I’m concerned, the sexual predatory behavior of many men – like the “jerks” I ensnare — are surely worthy of a little financial retaliation.

At least this is what I’ve been telling myself for over a year now to fend off any longings to live a more conventional life. Please kill me if I ever stray down that overrated path again.

 

Dear Diary,

There were a few nasty remarks around school about what Jill did with Jake, but most comments had a strange tone of respect, as if Jill was now a real woman. I can’t stop imagining her on some invisible mountain above the rest of us naive children. She even seemed to walk with an air of confidence. She had stepped into a new, larger, better world where there was real power.

Jake was of course getting remarks about being a stud…but I already knew that.

I never heard the word “slut” uttered about Jill. All the virgins around her seemed to admire her courage. Even I asked what it was like. She made it sound wonderful, like she’d been injected with some magical maturity potion. Oh yeah? Try tasting it. Then tell me how magical it seems. That’s no sweet pixie dust.

I hate Jill and I hate myself for not being good enough for Jake.

I tried to hide my jealousy, but tonight I broke down when dad asked what I learned in school today. I ran from the dinner table sobbing. I learned that being cute and flirty is not enough. Being smart and offering to help someone with their homework is not enough. You can do everything right, and all it takes is one girl, who’s just a tad more aggressive, and the game is over.

Mom followed me to my room and I couldn’t help but cry full stream. I didn’t tell her about the BJ I gave Brad, but I told her I knew what they were saying about Jake and Jill was true. Mother insisted Jill would regret it. She insisted “good girls” don’t do that sort of thing.

Yeah, well I’ve never seen Jill so happy and proud. It’s like she won some unspoken beauty contest.

“Marriage has always been women’s calling and salvation,” my mother announced righteously.

I stopped crying and stared at her. I wanted to ask her what *#!x?!ing repressed planet was she from. I read that for hundreds of years girls were usually married and impregnated by fifteen years old or less. Often to men ten or twenty years older. Often against the girl’s will. So, raping a young girl is okay as long as there is a ring?

Talking to my mother is like talking to my stuffed animals – they have nothing to offer but happy expressions that refuse to acknowledge the horror of reality. I finally took them off my girly princess bed and put them on the upper shelf in my closet. Too bad I can’t do that with mother – there’s a perfect spot for her in the attic between the broken sewing machine and her collection of antique butter dishes.

 

The next morning, after a wonderful night’s sleep and a hot shower in Joe’s apartment, which was a lot nicer than the hotel I had been staying at, Joe dropped me off at the airport with a sincere hug. Cash in hand, I thanked him emphatically then pretended to hustle inside, playing up my sense of urgency. When Joe was gone, I headed for the taxi line…smiling.

Five hundred bucks for one night’s performance. Not bad. I work about one or two days a week, unless “aunt flow” is visiting, living hotel to hotel, owning only my car and a few possessions, touring the country one penis at a time. Since I only pay for hotels on nights I don’t find a jerk to foot the bill or let me stay at their place, my expenses each month rarely encroach on what I earn.

Later I planned to have lunch with Kati again, pick out some new audiobooks for my long car rides, treat myself to a nice dinner, and pat myself on the back for coming closer than most women to feeling truly content in life.

Yes my standards for happiness may seem a little lower than most, but that’s half the fight. Eliminate the need for a spouse, a cute house with a white picket fence, keeping up with the neighborhood clones, a prestigious job, etc., and you’re halfway to happiness. Things like property and social status just lead to stressful obligations, conflicts, confrontations, and eventually disappointment. Expectations of any kind are the enemy of happiness. (Wow, I almost sound like some kind of zen monk. Well, a slutty zen monk – with some slippery moral issues I probably should confess in long-term therapy.) I have found that if all I need is a few bucks, a box of condoms, and a road map, the world is my promiscuous oyster.

To reaffirm my vigilante persona and chase away any twinge of guilt, I remind myself, once again, to screw passionately — without robbing them after — the first guy with the guts and honesty to just come out and say, “My dick wants to buy you a drink. Then he wants to talk you into coming back to my place.” It will be an interesting day the day I meet that man. Regardless of looks, I’m going to drain that man so to speak (excuse my vulgarity). It just wouldn’t seem right for me not to. And this promise is how I’ve lived with myself. I’m a thieving, manipulative whore, but I’m fair. I am karma. I am sexual justice.

Maybe I should get a superhero outfit. I could be “Superwhore,” with a big vagina on my chest. Or maybe that would make a good title for this story. “Able to leap on a giant pecker in a single bound. Emptying their bank accounts faster than…” Well, you get the idea.

And there, waiting for a cab, in my moment of inflated confidence and misanthropic bliss, I got the call that changed everything.

“Hello?” I didn’t recognize the number.

A manly voice asked for me by my real name.

I hesitated to answer. “…yes.”

“My name is officer Darenson.”

Oh no, they finally found me, I thought. I’ve technically robbed nearly sixty jerks in the last year (try to contain your judgmental gasp), so I always knew, no matter how careful I was, one day the cops might come looking for me.

I glanced around wondering if the police would call me just before pouncing. I prepared to chuck the prepaid cell phone in the gutter if all they had was my phone number.

“I’m with the Huntington Sheriff’s department.”

Huntington? My home town, just outside Indianapolis. I never robbed anyone there. Wait, there was that candy bar I shoplifted when I was little, but mom made me go back and pay for it. It was the first day, of many to come, that I would question her love.

“I’m calling about your parents.” There is a gentle pause, as if to ease into what was to come next. “There was a gas leak…”

“Oh no.” I knew what they were going to say next. The police would only be calling if they were looking for the next of kin.