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She Asked for It
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Don’t judge a book by its cover.
You have no idea.
And no, it’s not because my skirt was too short or I was drunk at a party.
They’re judging me as I sit in the front row, my eyes drawn to the man on trial.
I wanted to feel his lips kiss down my neck.
You still think you know what happened? You don’t.
Let me tell you my story … all about how I asked for it.
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Whore, slut, an easy lay … I’ve been called a lot of things. It turns me on most when a man says it while he’s fucking me. I like being called a dirty whore. Is that so bad?
I don’t know at what point I stopped caring about what people thought; I know it was more from hate than anything else though.
They want me to change, but I don’t. I like who I am; sometimes I even love it. Those moments are fleeting, no matter how hard I try to hold on to them. It’s like a drug, easing my pain. Giving me a moment, just a moment, to forget everything and be the person I want to be. Guilt free.
I used to wonder why I’m this way.
They say there’s a reason, and sure, some shit happened to me. Some fucked up, horrific shit I’d never wish on anyone. But I’ve had these thoughts and urges since I was young.
Back when I still wore baggy sweaters and listened to my mother. Back when I hit puberty at thirteen years old and only one of my friends went through the change with me.
Sam liked what I liked too. Well, some of it. And even she said I was dirty.
Nice girls don’t watch gangbangs and porn labeled “brutal.” At least that’s what my mother spat out when she ripped the computer away from me that first time. Disgust was quick to replace the horror that was on her face when she caught me watching.
Back then, there was no reason for me to be like this.
I used to lay awake and pray to God to make the thoughts stop.
It was shameful to feel wet and needy when the dirty scenes crept into my dreams.
It took a long time for me to just accept that I like what I like.
Even still, I’m ashamed but not at all because of anything that’s obvious.
One night changed my world forever. It made me pray harder. But God never answered my prayers to make the dirty thoughts stop at night.
I simply prefer sex to be rough, nearly violent. I like the idea of being easy, too easy.
I have a favorite color too. It’s purple.
Ask me why it’s my favorite, and I can’t tell you. Same goes for what I like to do in bed.
But that’s not what this story’s about.
There are moments that define you. And as I stand outside of the house I’ve rented two blocks from the university’s dorms, the one night that made me who I am keeps coming back to me.
And that one night five years ago is what brought me here.
In one day, a life can change. Or more than one.
Sometimes it’s a single moment that alters everything in existence.
Sometimes it’s the fall of dominoes, lined up in a pretty little row and designed so that each one will cause more and more pain.
In a single day, it’s all changed, and there’s no way to take it back.
Five years ago
* * *
“’Suck my dick?’” Principal Talbot asks as she stares at me with a serious expression. “Did you really tell Mrs. Pearson to suck your dick?” She’s pissed, and that makes her question all the more thrilling.
Not that I wanted to cause problems, but come on, is it really that serious? They’re just words.
She slams the window down in her office, hushing the sounds of the students walking just outside the room. The bell rang only a minute ago, but everyone’s already running from class and eager to get the hell away from Stewart High, a private school on the east side of town.
My fingers itch to be out there too, so I can sneak in a smoke before I have to go home. Everyone says it’s so damn bad for you, but it’s the only break I get. If I have to keep on going through the motions, I’d rather do it stoned.
My lips twitch with the threat of a smirk but I make sure I keep a passive expression. I shrug and lean back in my chair as I glance over my shoulder and toward her office door.
“Do you think this is funny?” she asks me, her nostrils flaring as she stands up from her desk. She slams both hands down on her desk and leans over it to glare at me. “Do you think this is some sort of game?” With every word, her voice gets louder.
My spine stiffens and I feel the anger rising. But it’s not for her. Or Mrs. Pearson. It’s just that I’m so used to being screamed at. My body’s ready for what’s next.
I scratch my shoulder blade and try not to show anything but a relaxed posture. I won’t let any of them get to me.
“It’s school, Miss Talbot. School is certainly not a game,” I answer her and square my shoulders, folding my hands in my lap although my foot taps on the floor anxiously. Maybe I’m baiting her, but then again, maybe I don’t give a fuck.