Little Fish Big Pond

The town that I grew up in had one stoplight in it. It also had one library, one school, one gas station, and one grocery store. After eighteen years, having one of everything was, to put it mildly, driving me crazy. I wanted out. I needed out.

I decided to go to college in a big city. I decided on (where else?) New York. Sure, I'd never lived in a city with more than two thousand residents, I'd never used public transportation, and I'd never been in a building with more than three stories, but where better to learn, if not the Big Apple?

I was a virgin in every way but one. I had a boyfriend, Evan. After prom, on a blanket in the bed of his pickup truck behind the library. We struggled out of our fancy clothes together, left them crinkled around us, clumsily touching each other, feeling each other breathe. He was awkward and a little jerky, but gentle. It didn't hurt much, just a little bite. We didn't look each other in the eyes--we were embarrassed to be naked together. We'd never seen each other naked, and at first we were afraid to look. I still didn't know what good sex was, but it was good to be together.

Mama and Daddy waited up for me when I didn't come home on time. My wrinkled dress gave me away, and the storm hit. My parents were good Christians, and so was I, but good Christian girls are virgins. Nobody wants a slut, my Daddy told me, and only sluts sleep with their boyfriends before they're married. You'll get pregnant, Mama told me, and she wasn't ready to be a grandma. I cried, Mama cried, and Daddy turned red.

We didn't have much money, but Mama and Daddy had a little set aside for my college. That is, until I came home from prom not a virgin anymore. Daddy said that I had to stay home and marry Evan, that he wouldn't give me a dime for college unless I did.

I told him I would go to school whether he hated me for it or not. He told me to pack up and get out. And clean up my face. Good girls don't wear makeup, and my mascara was running.

Six months into my freshman year at school, I needed my parents. I didn't know the city. I wasn't prepared to live in a city. I still misread train schedules, missed connections, got lost, even after six months. I was perpetually confused in the city, small fish in a big pond--or the ocean. Between classes and working part-time, I wasn't sleeping enough--or at all--catching catnaps between class and daily shifts at a nearby drugstore. I had found a cheap apartment, cheaper than staying in the dorms, but not cheap enough. I was behind on bills, behind on rent, behind on food. I had nothing. Between stress and not having a way to afford food, I was losing weight. My full-figured form, once a source of pride, was shrinking in all the wrong places. My chest was smaller, my curves melting off my body. My once-thick, once-dramatic, once-shiny auburn hair grew dull, and I found more of it falling out into my brush. I looked sick, sad, pained, and I was.

I thought it couldn't get any worse, and then it did. A notice from my landlord on the door. Behind on rent for the last time, he said, so he was going to kick me out unless I could pay within the week. Tears welled up. I couldn't take any more. It was too late to drop classes and I couldn't take any more shifts at the drugstore without working myself to death.

Blindly, unthinking, I drifted down the hall to my landlord's apartment. Knocked on the door. He opened up wearing boxers and a t-shirt. I gave him a once-over. He was older than I was by fifteen years, at least. He was kind of slimy, in cheap-apartment-landlord; years of making up reasons for keeping cleaning and security deposits, reasons for refusing to fix the plumbing or the shower again had changed him. He wasn't awful, though. He took good care of himself: he worked out to keep the little poofs and puffs of fat that come with adulthood away, had a little well-kept facial hair, and a carefully shaved head with just a little bit of stubble.

He smiled easily. "Diane."

"Greg," I greeted weakly, holding up his notice.

"Ah." His eyebrows went up. "Your rent. You said last Friday."

"I meant last Friday, but then someone stole some of my books. You know how expensive science books are," I offered a weak excuse.

"Sorry about your books, Diane, but I need your rent."

"I know."

"I'm giving you until the end of the week, Diane," he said sternly.

Shit. Shit! "Shit, Greg, I don't get paid until next Friday."

"I hate to be a hardass, Diane, but this happens too often."

I cringed internally at my next words. They sounded pathetic, desperate. They meant exactly what I didn't want them to mean. "Please? I'll do anything."

Greg's eyebrows went up again. "Why don't you come in? I'll fix you coffee. We can talk." He turned and padded into his apartment.

I followed him uneasily. Greg was divorced. I hadn't seen him come home with anybody in a long time. I looked around. He had nice things--simple, functional, but not ugly. Greg wasn't a bad person. He just liked to be alone. But everybody needs somebody, I knew that.

Greg led me to his kitchen, where he stopped. Stretched his arms above his head, behind his back. Slowly, lazily. "You know," he drawled. "I'm just tired of your rent being late."

"I'm sorry, Greg, I really am. I'm doing my best, but there's a lot to pay for."

"You're still a little girl. You're not ready to be alone on your own, are you?"

I didn't answer. What he said was true, but I didn't want it to be.

He turned. He was tall; I was short. He stared down at me; I stared up at him. I was still holding his notice, and he took it from my hand and read it over.

"What can I do, Greg? Please? I don't have anywhere else to go."

"You're a beautiful girl, Diane, and you can't think that I haven't thought of you."

"No, I..."

"I have, Diane. And I think you're a nice girl. You're a good girl, too. How many men have you been with?"

"Greg, I don't think--"

His face changed from curious to angry. "Yes, you do think, Diane. You're a smart girl. You know what it means when a girl who's down on her luck says 'I'll do anything,' don't you?"

I ducked my head, avoiding eye contact. "Yes, I do. I had one boyfriend in high school. We slept together after prom, and my parents kicked me out."

He traced the shape of my jaw with a finger, then turned my head back to his. "One boy. And was he good enough to be worth getting kicked out over?"

I glared at him. I didn't like him asking intimate questions about my first time. It was surrounded by too much pain. "No. It wasn't."

"I won't kick you out for sleeping with me," he remarked.

"Thanks, Greg." I scowled.

He slid his hands down my arms and pulled me to him. He wasn't angry or sarcastic anymore. He was gentle. He pressed our bodies together. He guided my hands to his t-shirt, lifting it over his head and revealing the body of a man who was once very muscular, now only a little less toned and with a little more softness. I lifted my own t-shirt over my head. My bra embarrassed me. It was old and worn, graying, fraying a little at the seams. I couldn't afford new clothes. Hesitating, I unhooked it in the back and slid it off my arms.

For the first time since Greg opened his door, I made eye contact with him, long and steady. He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. He was gentle, then more intense, more insistent. He bit my lip, and I bit his. I was angry at Greg and his rent, at my job for not paying enough, at New York for being so big and me being so small, at school for costing so much, at me for fucking Evan and ruining everything. Angry. I bit harder and Greg moaned into my mouth. He liked it.

My arms were dead at my sides. Greg took my hands in his as he walked forward, backing me up into a wall. He lifted my arms above my head and held them there with one hand. With his other hand, he deftly unbuttoned my jeans. I vaguely wondered how he learned to do that with one hand. He made it feel easy. He patted my hands above my head--he meant for me to keep them there while he pulled my jeans off. I did, and he did. I kicked them away and he pulled my panties off.

"You're wet," he told me.

"I know."

"You want this?"

"I don't know." He was being vulgar. I'd only been with Evan, and we didn't talk. Me laying back in the truck bed, both of us making little noises, not looking at each other. Staring up at the stars in the sky. I could see all of them.

"Talk to me, Diane."

"I'm naked in front of my landlord because I can't pay my rent," I said. "Someone stole my books. I don't know why. They probably could have bought their own, but instead they stole mine."

"Tell me about yourself."

The first words that came out of my mouth were, "I'm a good girl, but I want you."

With that, he leaned down and kissed me roughly. He pressed his waist to mine and I felt him, hard, through his boxers. His tongue slipped into my mouth. My hands went down to feel him, his shoulders, his back, his hair, his face. They went down farther and pulled down his boxers.

I stared down at his penis. His cock. (Learn dirty words, Diane, you're a bad girl now.) It was bigger than Evan's, a lot bigger. "I want you inside of me," I told him. He didn't move.

"Not yet."

I looked up questioningly. He put his hands on my shoulders and pushed down, down, and I understood. He wanted it in my mouth first. I was down on my knees in front of him. His cock looked even bigger at eye level. He leaned on the wall over my head as I took his cock in my hand and guided it into my mouth. Slowly, carefully, trying not to let my teeth touch it. Closed my lips over it and... what? I'd never done it before. My mouth was full.

"Use your tongue, Diane."

My tongue has to play, too. I licked his cock. Took it a little further in my mouth and swirled my tongue underneath. He moaned. I swirled a little more. It went out, in, out, in, as he started to grind slowly. I found a rhythm with his grinding, reached my hands up to explore him. His cock was hard and slimy from my spit. I took his balls in one hand and gently stroked. He groaned a little more, letting out little grunts of pleasure. As he enjoyed himself, so did I. I was making Greg feel good, feel hot. As his thrusts sped up, went farther, I took his cock deeper. I looked up into his eyes. Is it good?

He stopped suddenly. Not good? He pulled me up so I was standing against the wall again. He guided his now-wet cock in between my legs. I tried to relax as he entered me. His cock was bigger than Evan's cock, and it hurt more. He wasn't being as gentle as Evan. He entered me slowly but steadily, not slowing down even when I whimpered a little in pain. I didn't stop him. I wanted this. This was paying my rent so I could live here. I needed this. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he sighed. All the way in now. He started grinding against me, and I ground against him. Harder. I felt so full. I moaned a little, moaned louder. He thrust in and out, slowly, then faster. He was getting close to cumming. His breathing was getting quicker.

"Diane," Greg whispered. "Look at me."

I stared up into his eyes. They were brown. He thrust harder, shoving my back hard against the wall. So full, so good. My arms were around his neck and he was watching me watching him, feeling him inside of me. Evan and I didn't look at each other, but Greg and I did. My back arched into him. I watched his face as he came. His eyes rolled back and he let out a long, low, guttural moan.

Greg leaned into me. His breath was hot and stick on my back. I rested my head on his shoulder, and he rested his on mine, and we panted together. A few long minutes passed.

I broke the silence. "Greg," I said.

He stood back from me and looked at me quizzically.

"I didn't cum."

Greg smirked. "We'll talk when you pay your rent."