Lauren Blakely: The Thrill of It

No one except Trey.

It’s weird that one person can know your before and your wish for after.

And that’s not Kristen.

Because I haven’t told her a thing about my mom’s habits. And, honestly, there is nothing I want to say. My mom is my mom. She needs me. I need her. She took me to every doctor’s appointment, tended to every scraped knee, and read to me every night before bed. So what if she had men over all the time? She wasn’t cheating on anyone. She was the one left. She was the person abandoned, and she finally found a way to be happy again. It doesn’t matter that I knew all her boyfriends, that I heard her late-night moans and groans, that I know what it sounds like when my own mother has an orgasm, that I’m too familiar with the things she says when she’s getting turned on. No one, no one, no one in the whole wide world can be privy to the fact that my mother, who has done more good for society than most people, has another side. The side that turned her daughter into a prostitute.

Those secrets are lodged so far and so deep inside me I don’t even know how I’d get the words out. I’d need more than a shovel to dredge them up. I’d need a bulldozer to exhume them. And even if somehow, some way, the words could tunnel out of me, I know they’d spill out my mouth all disfigured and unrecognizable, a foreign tongue no one could understand. Sometimes when I say the words silently, in my head, at a whisper, I can still feel a fierce red blush covering my cheeks. I was a call girl.

But yet, the real reason I don’t tell her is this–because I loved it. I loved the crazy burn, the rush, the thrill of the power. Because I needed it, I wanted it, I craved it.

I still do.

I’m not cured.

SLAA hasn’t fixed me.

If Kristen knew where I really go when I say I’m at the writing workshop, she might not want to be friends with me. She wouldn’t want to have lattes with me or share an apartment with me. I’d be the slut, the sex addict, the whore that everyone would think I am. That Miranda thinks I am. That all those stories – true fucking stories – that Miranda makes me write prove I am.

No wonder Trey won’t touch me again. No wonder he keeps me at a distance. He’s getting healthy, he’s healing, he’s moving on from his past and he can see me for what I am.

Dirty. Slutty. Whore.

Soon, he’ll walk away too. That’s why I don’t tell Kristen about Layla. She’d walk straight the other way. This is what people do. They leave when you get too close.

“Are you hungry?”

“Nah, I ate at my mom’s,” I say.

“Damn. I wanted to split a pizza.”

“I’ll eat a slice if it’ll make you happy,” I offer. I can do that. Kristen doesn’t like to eat by herself. Says it reminds her of the times when she scarfed on food alone.

She claps once and smiles widely. See? This is so simple. I made her happy by saying I’d have a slice. She dials her favorite pizza delivery place and orders a cheese pie. I wish I could do the same – have a healthy relationship with love.

I wish love were like pizza.

She kicks her feet up on the coffee table. “We should have a girl’s night out Friday. Let’s go somewhere. Meet some guys. There’s no one at this college I like. I want a man. Not some stupid frat boy.”

“No you don’t,” I say. “You don’t want a man.”

I’ve had men. Most of them are awful.

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I didn’t sleep with any of them. I could lie and tell all sorts of sordid stories about being seventeen and fucking forty-two-year-old men, but I won’t. Because I didn’t do that. My pimp loved me. He took care of me. He would never have sent me on jobs like that. Sometimes, I played the escort role to the buttoned-up guys who wanted the sexy young girlfriend at a fancy dinner function. Or the suit who had a hankering for a schoolgirl on his arm at a bar.

But I was also assigned the middle-aged men with weird fetishes.

Like one of my regulars. His name was Gerald, and he was a banker. We met every Friday at 4:15 when the markets closed. He wanted me to wear my green plaid skirt, starched white blouse, and my good old faithful Mary Janes. Our regular meeting spot was a hotel in midtown because no one knew him in midtown. He liked to hear about my day at school, the things I learned in class, but he especially longed for my stories of what my friends and I talked about in the locker room. I made it all up. I told him we discussed lingerie, and what kind of lacy underwear we preferred to wear when we masturbated.

“ I wore a black bustier when I fingered myself last night,” I told him. “My friend Holly gets herself off wearing her red silk teddy.”

He’d start breathing hard, then ask for more. I served it all up for him, tales of trigonometry and English literature, chiffon and lace, fingers and spread legs.

Then he’d ask me to kiss him once, spank him ten times, and tell him to sit in the corner.

That was all he wanted. Stories and spanking.

I can only imagine what sort of fucked-up shit he was dealing with to want that every Friday afternoon.

Then I would find my pimp and tell him everything. He’d grin, pat my shoulder, and we’d toast. Like we’d conquered the fucking world.

Harley

A needle clicks. Joanne is cradling her latest creation, an earthy looking brown and yellow mass of yarn that appears to be transforming into a sweater. She knits at meetings because it became her hobby in recovery. I suspect she transferred addictions – sex to knitting. But I’m pretty sure knitting is healthier.

She begins the meeting with an affirmation. I despise affirmations, so I look down and fidget instead as the others join in. It’s Chloe, Ainsley, and me – only the girls today. The guys are in a guys-only meeting a few doors down.

“I release the fear of rejection, the fear of pain and all the past beliefs that have led me astray. I am comfortable with who I am. I think before acting. I seek honesty, truth and trust in all my relationships.”

I feel all squishy inside as I mumble a word or two with the others. Sometimes, it’s too much therapy, too much insight, too much introspection here. Sometimes I want to rage against the calm, healthy, boundaried, love-is-not-a-battlefield-it’s-a-quilt attitude.

Why can’t love be a battlefield?

Life is a fucking battlefield. Who said love was supposed to be any different? Maybe there’s no truth or honesty in love. There doesn’t seem to be much in life. Not what I’ve seen. Not from Miranda. Not from Phil. Not from the assholes my mom busts with her investigative pieces. Maybe everyone, everywhere is an addict of some kind.

At least some of us admit it.

Chloe says all the words, loud and proud, not missing a single syllable. Chloe is one of those super involved people, sharing every detail of her recovery from having slept with twenty-two guys by the time she was the same age. Sometimes I think about all the stuff I know about Chloe from these meetings, but how we’ve never once hung out, and, frankly, I don’t think either one of us has the desire to. We just don’t have that much in common, to be honest. She admitted a few weeks ago that she’s had three STDs, and one pregnancy scare.

Yuck.

I didn’t sleep with any of my clients. I drew lines, a lot of lines, and I didn’t cross them. Before Trey, I never came close to going all the way. I never even almost did it. I stuck to north of the border. To places I could control. Mouths, tongues, lips, words, names. When I was with a man, I was in control, complete and total control, because I didn’t let go. I didn’t want someone’s hands going there, drifting down, traveling to places on my body where I might start making sounds too.