Purity and Punishment

Friday evening: I race through the house and up the stairs.

"Hey Dad, it's me, Maxi", I call. No reply. That figures: Dad's still on tour and Cindy probably went on another of her spa breaks. Suits me: no awkward questions from Dad about where I'm going and no bimbo step-mum to piss me off. Tonight's a big night and I'm already running late.

I wriggle out of my DMs in the doorway and kick them across my bedroom floor. They help me look taller and they look kind of sexy on me too, like a mischievous pixie.

One boot collides with my guitar, I get a little pang of guilt as the discordant clang of the detuned strings reminds me I haven't played it all summer but I haven't got time to worry about it as I pull down my fishnets and search my cluttered desk for my hairbrush: I find the brush under a copy of Kerrang, stuck to Dave Grohl's face with bubblegum. Fuck me, I'm going to have to do a drug-sweep so I can start getting Anoushka to clean in here again.

I drag my feet across the floor, trailing the fishnets in their wake, shuffle to the mirror and mould my jagged bangs into a boring haircut that won't attract too much attention. This time last year, it would have been dyed jet black but that was before The Ring. I grab a couple of scrunchies to drag the back of my hair into a couple of ponytails: innocent enough for Grayling, sexy enough for anyone interesting.

Hair sorted, well, sorted enough, I pull my Clash T-shirt over my head and throw it on the floor, "Mick Jones gave me that!" I hear Dad whinging but too bad, I'm in a rush. My leather miniskirt's already unfastened and sliding down my legs to join Mick and the boys on the floor. I'm wearing just my black thong and matching bra.

Make-up next: can't find the remover but there's an inch of vodka left in the half-bottle on my desk: it'll have to do. The cotton pad next to the sink doesn't look too used so I grab that too. Lipstick off, eyeshadow off, foundation off. Re-apply, different shades this time: make-up that doesn't look like you're wearing make-up but you can still catch boys' eyes. Girls too.

Check my look in the mirror just like Bruce Springsteen in Dancing In The Dark. The makeup looks OK though, good even. My breasts look OK too, they might actually still be growing a bit, I smile to myself.

I slip my thumbs inside the straps of my thong and slide it down my thighs. I think my thighs are alright, they're not fat or anything. They're a bit hench but all the girls who ride end up with hench thighs and mine are a bit slimmer since I don't really ride that often these days. Well, not horses anyway! I could do with trimming my pussy and I normally like to finger myself before a meeting but there isn't time. Bra undone, drop it on the floor.

My breasts bounce a little and I allow myself to run my fingers over my nipples. They're alright, my breasts, I wish they were a bit bigger but they're pretty round and what dirty old men call pert, not flat like Clare's or pointy and droopy like Sarah's so I guess I don't mind that they're not that big.

White bra and white cotton panties on. Unlikely anyone's going to see them tonight but you've got to get in character if you're going to convince people. White blouse, white knee-length socks, eggshell blue ¾-size cardigan and, since I'm pretty sure Grayling's attention will be elsewhere tonight, I risk a grey, pleated skirt that rides just above the knee: respectable enough for The Ring but I can still 'accidentally' flash a bit of thigh as I sit down if I spot anyone I like the look of.

Now the bit I really fucking hate: sticking my fingernail under the edge of the lens, I peel one of my contacts off. Always makes me feel sick. Now the other; like peeling off the surface of your eyes. For a second, I'm lost in the blurry fog -- always useful if you meet an ugly boy you reckon will still be a good ride -- then I reach for my indie specs: they look like sensible glasses to old people but you can still do sexy geek girl if you peer over the top of them.

Push my feet into sensible, strappy little black shoes, enough of a heel to do slutty convent girl if I need to and I'm down the stairs, just enough time to get to the meeting.

I'm almost out the door before I remember my nose ring. Shit. Something like that could completely blow my cover. I mean, it's not like it's against the rules or anything but turning up with it out of the blue after keeping it hidden so long would attract a lot of attention I don't need tonight. I pop the stupid thing out and shove it in my pocket.

I don't have time to find my concealer but as luck would have it, there's some of Cindy's foundation on the kitchen table. Stupid bitch always leaves her stuff lying about like she belongs here. Still, it'll do the job. Fuck me, this shit's bright orange, what is she, an Oompa-Loompa or something?

I don't know what Dad sees in her: I mean, he's like, a major league rock star and she's like, some slut off reality TV. I work a tiny bit of her stupid Oompa-Loompa juice into my nose and it just about covers the hole then I spit in the jar and stir it in with my finger. Now I've got a bright orange finger. Well done, Maxi, good thinking. I run out of the house as fast as the Convent Lolita shoes will let me, scrubbing my finger with a tissue. This new girl had better be worth it.