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Jim Martin

The night Ūs getting on and Iím still sitting here alone. It Ūs an off night, I guess. You get those sometimes, and all you can do is either go home or ride out the storm and hope for the best. Tonight is one of those nights where you hold out for hope and you pray that you donít wind up with a dud.

There are lots of names for my condition. Iím a bar slut, a vamp, or a whore, depending on who you talk to. Really, the whore thing bothers me. Iíve never asked for anything in return for sex. Well, I suppose that isnít quite true. Iíve never asked for money, but I always get paid in the only tender Iím after.

Iím not a wholly unattractive woman. Iím 29, and sort of what you would call plain. My body is that cookie cutter thin girl shape that doesnít quite offer enough curvature to be sexy. My hair has always had a mind of its own, and spending time brushing it into whatever style is currently considered cool usually leaves me more frustrated and pathetic than leaving it to hang down to my shoulders. My face itself is quite striking, but in an odd sort of way, like someone pieced it together from other women taking their best features but not thinking about how they would blend together. I do have devastating eyes, almost gray and very magnetic, but they just arenít enough on nights like this.

There Ūs a lady on the dance floor, what people call a cougar. She must be in her late forties, and she Ūs wearing a shirt that shows off her midriff and pants that were fashioned out of latex to display her camel toes. Her hair is styled in classic 80s motif, with the bangs teased and sprayed and threatened into a ridiculous swoosh that looks like something out of a surf movie. She is grinding her body against some college kid who is far too drunk to realize what he is up against. She is totally pathetic, the sort of person that you canít help but feel sorry for.

The problem is that she Ūs me, or at least what I will be in a few more years. Right now Iím still young enough to be called a slut, but Iím every bit as pathetic as that darling creature there. Itís scary, and I really donít know what to do about it. I find myself wondering whether of not she had the same creepy inner monologue some 15 years ago. Am I fighting destiny?

There is a reason that Iím out every night looking for something to cling to until morning, but it has nothing to do with what the rest of the girls I know think. When they look at me they think that I just like to get laid, and that isnít entirely true. When they look at that old haggard cougar, they think that she is just trying desperately to cling to her earlier party years. This isnít true either.

What I need is for one moment to feel close to another human being, to know that they are thinking of me and me alone. When Iím with a man I know that I have his full attention, and that for a split second when he is on the brink he will hold me close and grunt and sigh and swear and what we are doing will be special, if only for that instant.

Thatís pathetic, right? Well, we all have our vices. Me, Iím addicted to the sensation of having another human being need me totally and completely. It really is an addiction, and it has its ugly side. That moment might be beautiful, but you pay a terrible price for it with your dignity. I guess itís a lot like every other vice. Itís wonderful to do it until you have to, and then itís just another master.

Night after night I find myself out trolling. I bide my time and I wait and I watch. In my heart I want a relationship, but that wonít happen. Iíve tried it and itís true that you just canít rush into sex. Maybe the guy sticks around for a while, but all you are is a walking talking vagina to him, and when you base a relationship around that the guyís going to get tired pretty damn fast. Iím not trying to find a beautiful man, they usually have girlfriends or are looking for the total package. What I need is a guy who doesnít look so great, one whoís with a friend whoís picking up women but gets the job of sitting at the table while his friend dances with the girl.

Usually those are pretty easy to find, and I do all right. The guys usually wind up being timid and nervous, and more often than not we have to take our time because they wind up blowing after the first few seconds. Thatís ok, I know how to bide my time.

A guy strolls up to the bar next to me. His posture is bad, thatís a good sign. It means he probably has a body heís not very comfortable with. Maybe heís got a nice pair of bitch tits and love handles. Whatever the reason, poor posture usually means poor confidence. Guys like that do the trick pretty easily. When they think itís a sure thing they donít want to let you slip away. Heís standing at the bar a little away from me. Time for my favorite pickup line.


Thatís all it takes. Guys put so much effort into finding the right line, but for a girl all you need is a cute hello. Even in this light I can see the color steal from his face. His body almost seems to crumple inwards to hide his body. Yeah, definitely bitch tits. He smiles and I notice that his smile is sort of lop-sided and awkward.


ďWhat are you having?Ē

ďUh... Iím just getting a beer. Budweiser.Ē

ďThatís too bad. I thought maybe you were trying to get my attention.Ē

I donít really talk like this. This isnít me. God, this is so humiliating. His pants just inflated. Taking candy from a baby feels disgusting. I can tell you right now a whole lot about this guy. Heís probably quite smart, but he thinks that other people matter more than he does. He canít dance, and he doesnít know how to talk to ladies. He comes to the bar with his friend, probably the person he would call his best friend. That friend is at least marginally more attractive than he is, and a damn site more confident. When they go to the bar he always hopes that the girl his friend finds will have a friend of her own, but she never does. He watches his best friend divide and conquer night after night, and goes home feeling more and more dejected.

In a way, Iím happy that heís this kind of guy. Itís like giving something back to the community. Tomorrow morning heíll call his friend and tell him about the incredible night of wild sex that he had, and his friend will be jealous. The girl that his friend is going home with will make him wait weeks before she lets him get a piece, and at that point heíll find out sheís a boring lay. Iíve seen this game played out a thousand times.

I let him buy me a drink. Now heís got this desperate, fanatical grin on his face thatís sort of scary, but Iíve seen it before. He hangs on my every word. If I were a woman I would tell him to pound sand, but Iím not. Iím a hole tonight, a hole that needs filling. Itís grotesque to think of yourself in those sorts of terms, but addicts are realists. When we know whatís wrong with us, we know what we are and we donít mince words. A heroin user is the first one to call himself a junkie.

Heís nervous as hell. Heís also gloating. Everything I say is laced with innuendo, and heís eating it up. Weíre at a table thatís surrounded by stools and heís right next to me, talking and sweating. His pants have been tented since I sat down, which is a good sign. It means he hasnít had sex in a while, but his equipment is raring to go. Hereís hoping heís taken the time to keep the system running up to par. Heís sort of charming in his needy kind of way, but nobody Iíd want to see again. I think he knows what heís in for, and weíre just biding our time until we can sneak away. His name, I find out, is Jay.

His friend comes back to the table and seems not a little surprised to see me sitting there. Heís not used to seeing Jay with a woman, and heís interested in the situation. Heís got a piece of fluff on his arm who identifies herself as Tammi with an i. Iím fairly certain sheís not old enough to be here, and probably has a position of respect on her Studentís Council.

Time marches on, and weíre still waiting for Jay to make his move. Iím talking like a total whore and it disgusts me. Every move of my body is calculated to arouse him, and itís working. His friend seems to notice me quite a bit now, and I think heís feeling a little jealous. We order more drinks.

I pull Jay up on the dance floor. Jay is every bit as uncoordinated and awkward as I thought, but it doesnít matter. Weíre not actually dancing so much as rubbing crotches. Heís trying to play it cool but I think heís going through his baseball card collection. I feel disgusting. No, disgusting doesnít cut it. I feel like a whore sucking some Johnís bulge for $20 to buy crack. I feel like everything dirty and sleazy in the world.

Why do I do this to myself?

We go back to the table. Jay excuses himself to go to the bathroom. As he leaves the fluff sees someone she knows and runs over to give her friend a hug. Jayís friend and I are alone.

ďSo how do you know Jay?Ē he asks with his eyes flitting over me.

ďI donít. We just met.Ē

ďReally. Iím surprised Jay had the guts to talk to you. Heís not really very good with women. I try to teach him, but heís not a very good student.Ē In other words, why are you with him when you could be with me.

ďWell, I think Iíll teach him his fair share tonight.Ē

ďThatís great. Heís got a lot to learn.Ē Suddenly he moves in beside me, feigning like heís having trouble hearing me over the music. He leans in close. ďListen, why donít we split. I have to tell you that Iíve been watching you all night. You donít need to teach me, and you might learn a thing or two.Ē

If thereís one thing I hate, itís a friend like this. I see them all the time. If I were to bite heíd have me in the back seat of his shitty little car sweating to the oldies. Heís the kind of guy who hears a sigh and thinks itís an orgasm, who will spend no more than 10 minutes on top in total self-gratification. Guys are funny. They think that if they enjoyed it, you must have too. Iím used to selfish lovers, Iíve had plenty in my day.

What sickens me is that this guy is supposed to be Jayís friend. His interest in me hasnít been all night, it only came when he realized his friend was going to score. He wants to take that away from him. Itís this strange sort of dominant/submissive big dog little dog bullshit that guys get into. He probably isnít even attracted to me, but winning the game would make my conquest worthwhile.

ďYou know, youíre very charming,Ē I breathe. ďAnd youíre very handsome and Iím really wet tonight. Iím wearing my sexiest panties, and Iíve been crossing my legs a lot tonight. Iím ready for sex. Jayís not here right now. Why donít we slip out. You go through the front door and Iíll meet you around the side. Weíll make it quick and they won't even know.Ē

He smiles and instantly heads for the door. He makes a really great fool. In 10 minutes heís going to come back in feeling cold from the wind thatís gusting out there. Heíll be angry, heíll be horny, and heíll see me stick my tongue down Jayís throat. Thatís going to drive him mad, but he wonít do anything because he doesnít want to find out whether or not Jay knows anything. Instead heíll just sit there and frown and make nasty comments. Thatís even better, because Jay will start getting uncomfortable. The more uncomfortable he becomes, the more likely he is to want to get me out of there.

Sure enough.

Jayís got a nice little apartment a few blocks away. DVD Player. Nice stereo. All the comforts of home. Heís on me almost instantly, kissing me in the way he thinks is passionately. His hands go to my hair for all of about 10 seconds before they slide down and start to hitch up my dress. His breathing is that sort of trembling wheeze that desire brings. Like most guys heís doing his best to hide it by breathing really shallowly. The first round doesnít last too long. We spent too long in the bar working on him. Between rounds I have a few moments to reflect while he babbles about how great I am.

Iím so sick of this. Every night another face between my legs that I will never really know. Every night another pursuit-and-capture if Iím lucky, all for one sickly sweet moment that usually makes my skin crawl. Iím an incredible person deep down. Iím intelligent, Iím witty, Iíve got a good job, and Iím not afraid of being honest. So why is it that every night Iím overpowered by a lust I hate to be the person I hate being? Iím not a whore. Iím not a slut. Iím Shelly, and thatís something, isnít it?

I know where it all comes from, but that doesnít make getting over it any easier. My first boyfriend pushed me into having sex with him, and then threatened to tell the school what a slut I was unless I kept on doing it. I was fourteen. I learned that no matter how you feel, sex makes the guy want to hang out a little while longer. He didnít last long, and the stories about me were cruel, sometimes untrue, and always painted in that teenage boy vulgarity that makes any decent personís stomach heave. But out of nowhere I suddenly had a string of boys who wanted to take me out.

It didnít matter that they didnít want me so much as what I had to give them. I taught myself to believe that they wanted me because I was special, and it worked. I figured out that the way to get close to guys was to take your panties off.

Itís funny, really. Here I am 15 years later. I see through all those lies that I told myself. They didnít want me because I was special, they wanted me because I was easy. You canít be close to anyone who only wants to get into your pants. He doesnít want closeness, he wants wetness. I contracted cervical cancer two years after I became sexually active. My doctor told me flat out that it was brought about by sexual activity. I was lucky it was operable. I had to wait until the scars healed to have sex again. The night the doctor said I was fine I tore a stitch getting bent over the hood of a K-Car in some guyís fatherís garage. There was a lot of blood and he asked me how the hell he was going to explain that to his dad. I sat there bleeding into my balled up sweater, helping him clean up the mess and feeling like it was my fault.

I donít want this anymore. Look where I am. Iíve lost jobs, friends, and nearly my life from this crazy desire. Every time I do it, I feel like crying and a part of me never seems to stop it. And here I am in some guy named Jayís apartment. Heís a guy Iíll never see again, and for all I know he could be a rapist or a murderer or anything. I donít even know his last name and already Iíve made him cum. Whatís wrong with me? I am not like this. I have to stop, I have to figure this shit out and get over this because itís killing me.

Jayís hand runs down my back and across my buttocks, finding my hole. It needs filling tonight. I spread my legs and moan with pleasure, but he canít see my face. I feel him brace against me for another bump in the night. When he enters me, a tiny trickle of puke burns the back of my throat and floods my mouth. I swallow it and start to move with him. The thought that circles the back of my head is terrifying but satisfying. Just one more fix.


Jim Martin is a 27 year old writer, computer programmer, bass player, father, husband, political activist, and freak. He has published several works of both fiction and non-fiction. He lives in Calgary, Alberta, Canada.

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