Dear Mr. L,
What a summer. You opened my eyes to a new world of sexual desire. I might have never taken the darker path if it weren't for you. To this day, I don't know that I have felt degradation and humiliation like you put me through. I still have that first video. It might have only been nine seconds long, but it has affected every year of my life since. To my first mentor.
Thank you,
Ava
Being a lifeguard was amazing--short-lived, but amazing. The pool I watched over was four feet at its deepest point, and thank God, because I was 5"3 and 116 lbs when they hired me that summer.
I turned 18 a few months before this, but someone forgot to tell my body about the birthday. Let's say I was petite, and I'll give myself pretty, but I had not grown into hot or beautiful yet. Honestly, I'm still working on that.
Nope, all I had at that point were big brown eyes and a bit of a booty, only because the rest of me was so tiny. But when you spend most of your day in a one-piece that is riding up your ass, that's all anyone sees anyways.
I used to be so shy. I wanted attention until I got it, and then I had no clue what to do with it except drop it and continue to slip on the mess I made.
Without sounding too arrogant, I got hit on and flirted with a good amount. Boys my age and men of varying ages would give me attention, and I loved it no matter what I seemed like at the time.
I thrived on the attention. After a couple of weeks, started giving my number out, went on a couple of age-appropriate dates, and got the worst fingering of my life. Probably gave my best handjob that same night.
By the time I hit six weeks, I had blown two boys at work, was having sex with my crush from high school, and had just upgraded from texting my manager to borderline sexting, which is probably the only reason I didn't get fired before the end of summer.
It wasn't sex that had become the drug. It was attention. I liked feeling like a good girl, dirty girl, innocent girl, slutty girl because each time I felt like their girl. All their attention was on me, and more importantly, all of mine was on them. Shame eventually hit me; I would look in the mirror and see a Barbie more than a girl, an object. It made me stop the rollercoaster. The high was gone. Then I met Mr. L.
He wasn't that tall and had no actual muscles in sight. His body was covered in more hair than the last three guys I was with combined. I found out later that he was divorced, and his son wasn't a huge fan of him. And no, he didn't have a redeeming personality, at least not one that most would enjoy.
Every time I looked in his direction, his eyes were on me to the point that I got uncomfortable. When he wasn't near me in the hot tub, he was in his seat with a towel on his lap, and I always had my suspicions about why.
This went on for days. I never remembered seeing him before that, but for the next week, I noticed Mr. L every day. When he finally said something to me, I shrunk into myself. I was that awkward little girl again. He just made me nervous with an, I'm going to find you when your sleeping vibe.
All he did was ask me a few questions, and honestly, I was a bitch about it. I shouldn't have been surprised when he left an "anonymous complaint" about my being a stuck-up brat. In my eight weeks there, everyone treated me like an angel, and now all I thought about was the odd guy who called me a brat.
I thought about it all weekend. I thought about calling him names, and other times, I thought about apologizing. It was such a dumb thing to care about, but I did, so much that I was nervous when I got to work on Monday. Then I was annoyed because he didn't even show up. Then, the next day, nothing. Why did it bother me so badly?
That Thursday, he finally showed his face. He sat in that same chair and stared at me in that same way. I yelled "fuck off" like fifty times in my head. When he finally walked near me and our eyes met, all I could muster was an eye roll. My big move.
It was enough. Mr. L yelled at me to get my manager and then at me in front of him. I won't lie. I cried a lot. Mr. L got thrown out, and I got the rest of the day off. That's when our journey truly began, isn't it?
I should have waited longer before leaving. Mr. L hadn't left yet, and I found myself cornered in the parking lot. Once again, he was yelling at me.
"Girls like you get away with everything. It should be you getting fired, not me being kicked out. One day, you'll get treated like you deserve, cunt."
All I did was cry again, say I was sorry five times and shut the door to my car as fast as possible. He hit the door twice and then walked away.
I went home, not mortified but confused. He had scared the shit out of me, but I was pumped up, like an adrenaline high. Not the same high I felt from other men when they gave me attention, but also not that different.
The confrontations with him went through my head so many times the rest of the day, but the feeling behind the memories changed a little each time I went through them. I even went as far as to imagine what would have happened if he had gotten in my car, and the emotion I felt was exhilarating.
I thought of more scenarios of him yelling at me, this time with wondering fingers, more than once. I watched porn that night, which fed into this obsession. It was like he broke something in me. I even looked up PTSD later to see if people have crazy reactions.
That morning, nothing changed. Mr. L was still in my head. I called off work and was given the day without a fight, probably because everyone felt bad for me.
I swiped through Tinder to find guys that fit my sudden fantasy. There were plenty of older men who swiped on every young girl there, but I needed a specific type of man.
After a few hours of chatting with twenty different guys, I found one who stood out. He was 41, his life didn't seem to be going well, and he was just intriguing enough when he talked about me. He was the right mixture of creepy, mean, and cocky, but in a nice way?
It took me a while to convince him I was real. I had to send three different verification pictures, and he was still iffy, but he finally invited me over. When I arrived, I sat in my car for at least fifteen minutes. What was I doing? I would have left, but he walked out his front door and waved. I was going in.
As I approached, I felt a swirl of sharp butterflies in my stomach. I couldn't tell if I loved or hated them. If he shared my nervousness he hid it quite well. He offered me something to drink and then sat on the couch, inviting me to sit beside him. Instead, I walked over to a chair, keeping a little distance between us.
We chit-chatted for a few minutes, but it didn't take long for him to get up and approach me. He put his hands on my shoulders and massaged; every couple of movements went lower, like he was testing me, until his hands were fondling my breasts. He told me how pretty I was and how badly he wanted me. His lips next to my ear.
"Now tell me, Ava, have you been good or bad?"
"Bad."
"How bad?"
"Very." I could feel myself breathing heavily. It felt like his grip on my breasts tightened with every word.
"Do you remember what I do to bad girls?"
"Yes."
"Tell me you deserve it." His hands had been on the outside of my dress but finally slid underneath. The feeling of his rough hands scraping my nipples was intoxicating.
"I deserve it." Before I even finished responding, he squeezed so tightly it made me squirm and yelp.
He tugged back on my hair, so I faced the ceiling and stuck his tongue in my mouth. I felt his other hand maneuver under my dress and push my panties to the side. He was not taking his time.
