The night ís getting on and I’m still sitting here alone. It ís 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 don’t wind up with a dud.

There are lots of names for my condition. I’m a bar slut, a vamp, or a whore, depending on who you talk to. Really, the whore thing bothers me. I’ve never asked for anything in return for sex. Well, I suppose that isn’t quite true. I’ve never asked for money, but I always get paid in the only tender I’m after.

I’m not a wholly unattractive woman. I’m 29, and sort of what you would call plain. My body is that cookie cutter thin girl shape that doesn’t 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 aren’t enough on nights like this.

There ís a lady on the dance floor, what people call a cougar. She must be in her late forties, and she ís 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 can’t help but feel sorry for.

The problem is that she ís me, or at least what I will be in a few more years. Right now I’m still young enough to be called a slut, but I’m every bit as pathetic as that darling creature there. It’s scary, and I really don’t 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 I’m 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 isn’t 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 isn’t 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 I’m 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.

That’s pathetic, right? Well, we all have our vices. Me, I’m 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 it’s a lot like every other vice. It’s wonderful to do it until you have to, and then it’s 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 won’t happen. I’ve tried it and it’s true that you just can’t 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 guy’s going to get tired pretty damn fast. I’m 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 doesn’t look so great, one who’s with a friend who’s 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. That’s ok, I know how to bide my time.

A guy strolls up to the bar next to me. His posture is bad, that’s a good sign. It means he probably has a body he’s not very comfortable with. Maybe he’s 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 it’s a sure thing they don’t want to let you slip away. He’s standing at the bar a little away from me. Time for my favorite pickup line.

“Hi.”

That’s 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.

“Hey.”

“What are you having?”

“Uh... I’m just getting a beer. Budweiser.”

“That’s too bad. I thought maybe you were trying to get my attention.”

I don’t really talk like this. This isn’t 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. He’s probably quite smart, but he thinks that other people matter more than he does. He can’t dance, and he doesn’t 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, I’m happy that he’s this kind of guy. It’s like giving something back to the community. Tomorrow morning he’ll 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 he’ll find out she’s a boring lay. I’ve seen this game played out a thousand times.

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

He’s nervous as hell. He’s also gloating. Everything I say is laced with innuendo, and he’s eating it up. We’re at a table that’s surrounded by stools and he’s right next to me, talking and sweating. His pants have been tented since I sat down, which is a good sign. It means he hasn’t had sex in a while, but his equipment is raring to go. Here’s hoping he’s taken the time to keep the system running up to par. He’s sort of charming in his needy kind of way, but nobody I’d want to see again. I think he knows what he’s in for, and we’re 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. He’s not used to seeing Jay with a woman, and he’s interested in the situation. He’s got a piece of fluff on his arm who identifies herself as Tammi with an i. I’m fairly certain she’s not old enough to be here, and probably has a position of respect on her Student’s Council.

Time marches on, and we’re still waiting for Jay to make his move. I’m talking like a total whore and it disgusts me. Every move of my body is calculated to arouse him, and it’s working. His friend seems to notice me quite a bit now, and I think he’s 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 doesn’t matter. We’re not actually dancing so much as rubbing crotches. He’s trying to play it cool but I think he’s going through his baseball card collection. I feel disgusting. No, disgusting doesn’t cut it. I feel like a whore sucking some John’s 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. Jay’s friend and I are alone.

“So how do you know Jay?” he asks with his eyes flitting over me.

“I don’t. We just met.”

“Really. I’m surprised Jay had the guts to talk to you. He’s not really very good with women. I try to teach him, but he’s not a very good student.” In other words, why are you with him when you could be with me.

“Well, I think I’ll teach him his fair share tonight.”

“That’s great. He’s got a lot to learn.” Suddenly he moves in beside me, feigning like he’s having trouble hearing me over the music. He leans in close. “Listen, why don’t we split. I have to tell you that I’ve been watching you all night. You don’t need to teach me, and you might learn a thing or two.”

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a friend like this. I see them all the time. If I were to bite he’d have me in the back seat of his shitty little car sweating to the oldies. He’s the kind of guy who hears a sigh and thinks it’s 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. I’m used to selfish lovers, I’ve had plenty in my day.

What sickens me is that this guy is supposed to be Jay’s friend. His interest in me hasn’t been all night, it only came when he realized his friend was going to score. He wants to take that away from him. It’s this strange sort of dominant/submissive big dog little dog bullshit that guys get into. He probably isn’t even attracted to me, but winning the game would make my conquest worthwhile.

“You know, you’re very charming,” I breathe. “And you’re very handsome and I’m really wet tonight. I’m wearing my sexiest panties, and I’ve been crossing my legs a lot tonight. I’m ready for sex. Jay’s not here right now. Why don’t we slip out. You go through the front door and I’ll meet you around the side. We’ll make it quick and they won't even know.”

He smiles and instantly heads for the door. He makes a really great fool. In 10 minutes he’s going to come back in feeling cold from the wind that’s gusting out there. He’ll be angry, he’ll be horny, and he’ll see me stick my tongue down Jay’s throat. That’s going to drive him mad, but he won’t do anything because he doesn’t want to find out whether or not Jay knows anything. Instead he’ll just sit there and frown and make nasty comments. That’s 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.

Jay’s got a nice little apartment a few blocks away. DVD Player. Nice stereo. All the comforts of home. He’s 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 he’s doing his best to hide it by breathing really shallowly. The first round doesn’t 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.

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

I know where it all comes from, but that doesn’t 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 didn’t last long, and the stories about me were cruel, sometimes untrue, and always painted in that teenage boy vulgarity that makes any decent person’s stomach heave. But out of nowhere I suddenly had a string of boys who wanted to take me out.

It didn’t matter that they didn’t 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.

It’s funny, really. Here I am 15 years later. I see through all those lies that I told myself. They didn’t want me because I was special, they wanted me because I was easy. You can’t be close to anyone who only wants to get into your pants. He doesn’t 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 guy’s father’s 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 don’t want this anymore. Look where I am. I’ve 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 Jay’s apartment. He’s a guy I’ll never see again, and for all I know he could be a rapist or a murderer or anything. I don’t even know his last name and already I’ve made him cum. What’s wrong with me? I am not like this. I have to stop, I have to figure this shit out and get over this because it’s killing me.

Jay’s 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 can’t 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.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 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. Send correspondence to shirogomi@hotmail.com