She longs to feel something. Anything, even if it's pain, even if it's terror. She longs for the touch of human skin, the sound of a human voice. She is desperately lonely. She goes to clubs seeking shelter, sells herself with short skirts and bare tops and cleavage so pampered it's almost laughable. She hides in her body, a wall of flesh and blood between herself and her innermost thoughts. She has given her thoughts away. She is nineteen.
She came here to learn. She thought things would change for her here, surrounded by concrete walls and the smells of paper and ink. Thought that replacing her small world of prancing and preening with a bigger one would fill the emptiness that had infiltrated her thoughts; instead she found her mind colder than ever before.
That first year was hard. She kept to herself, unable to bear the frustration of relationships no more meaningful than they had ever been, silent things based on complaints and frustrations, friendships made out of the dust of the moon and lovers made from ice like bad vampires, cold and distant and unable to adjust to her warmth. Soon she turned cold herself, her heart beating chill in a body that surged heat. She thought it might melt, but it seemed to be a crime against nature: a frozen heart that vibrated with absurd urgency, screaming contradictions against her hot flesh. So she hid away, and stayed silent under watchful eyes, and pretended sanity as it was slowly leached away.
Now, in her second year, she learns the answer.
Men, she finds, don't trust the anomaly; men know better. Men know the difference between a broken heart and a bruised one, a desperate soul and a sad one. They know she walks the edge between here and eternity. They don't ask for much, only a night or two, and a place to slip between the sheets. She finds solace in their lies and conceits, the flattery wooing even as she disdains. She throws herself into their arms, carving the notch herself. It gives her a purpose, an object. She becomes a Thing.
Men, not boys; men with grey hairs and ridges of skin carved into the plains of their cheeks by time and weathering, men with desires like luxury cars, unnecessary and obscene but somehow alluring, men with precious little to offer and the desire to take. Men who will use her in horrible ways, men who chuckle over her heartaches, men who are willing to hurt her for the price of her pain. Men who know what she has become.
She's become a temptress. It gives her a little pleasure, to find men in public, to pay them attention with soft eyes and sultry voice, to take them home and pretend to sleep when they sneak away in the morning. At first it was better, but now it has descended into a slow ache, a thing to do rather than a joy. It's not enough anymore.
She heads online. So easy nowadays, to find the dregs of humanity: all one needs is an internet connection and a strong stomach. It's enough to watch, for a while, as videos plaster the web; women with gaping holes and hugely inflated tits, men with dicks like engines, an incredible machine that seems impossible but for the evidence. Then, like so many drugs, she demands more, and more, as more does less. She chats with middle-aged men, sad ones who want her so they can feel young and whole; calls up men with gruff voices and swollen egos. She sends them pictures of her naked body, makes anonymous video calls to men with beer guts and weathered faces and watches them jerk off. She pretends to masturbate while they encourage her, putting on a show to feel the spotlight. She moves to threesomes, and role-play; she watches hardcore sadomasochism videos, bondage videos, trying desperately to feel something. And eventually, even that is not enough.
Today, she moves on.
And if she truly, truly asks herself, she knows she may not survive.
Over and over again, she asks herself if this is a good idea; over and over again, the answer is no. She doesn't trust people from the internet. She knows there are psychos out there. She knows she's been lucky enough with the men from the bars. Who knows what's waiting for her this time? What if he hurts her? What if he rapes her? What if he kills her? A part of her is afraid of the questions; even worse is the part that is excited.
Her doorbell rings; too late now.
She peeps through the doorway; that's him. They met online, on a match site she joined out of desperation on those nights when she went home alone. She had no real world connections, and she found a surrogate in the web. She didn't expect him to be as handsome as he was in the photos. Suddenly she feels shy, a strange fluttering in her stomach. What has she gotten herself into?
Smiling, she opens the door. She expects this to go slowly, so she hasn't done anything special. She wears jeans, a tight tshirt, bare feet. Her long hair is down and straightened.
"Hi," she says. "John?"
"Hey," he says, smiling back. She opens the door wider, and lets him walk through. He's quite a bit taller than her, though she is tall herself, and he has the frame to match. He seems like a person on a larger scale, from his massive hands to his broad shoulders. His face is good-looking, with a square jaw and full lips, his brown eyes sparkling mischievously. His hair is long, chin-length, and a faint stubble covers his cheeks. He looks around as he walks in, taking in the decor, the layout of the apartment she lives in alone.
"Do you want some tea or something?" she asks, uncertain. The fluttering persists as she looks him up and down. He is in very good shape for his late thirties, with a physique more like boys her age. She's rarely felt this nervous.
