Part 30 (1/2)

But when I touch back down, I start to worry. Is this the same Bryn who valued my almost-virginity?

I Also Worry About him spending more and more time away from me.

Talking more and more about ”the girls,” and I'm starting to wonder if the girls he's talking about are really pageant hopefuls.

If he's getting paid to photograph models, he's not getting paid well.

Our money seems to come in spurts, and some of that seems to be from the webcam spurting going on.

He doesn't want me to work, though, except for private webcam spurting.

Some guys like to watch girls getting off all by themselves.

Make it look good for the camera.

I was never into touching myself, but it isn't so bad, especially when I'm high. Besides the occasional H, Bryn supplies me with bud- mediocre seeded Mexican- and prescription downers. Not sure where he gets them, and I really don't care. As long as I'm buzzed, the things he asks of me are easy to do, and hey, anything's better than wasting away in Santa Cruz.

G.o.d, if I were there, I'd be starting my junior year of high school.

High school is so not me anymore.

Wonder what Paige is doing.

Wonder if she hooked up with that guy after that night at Lucas's party. s.h.i.+t! Why did I have to think about him? Wonder if he likes it in San Diego. Wonder ... stop it. f.u.c.k. Where the h.e.l.l's my stash?

I locate it under the coffee table. Two tokes of half-a.s.s pot, a bigger question hovers: Where the h.e.l.l is Whitney?

It's Almost Midnight When Bryn comes in. He's not alone. The guy he's with is Latino, I think. Olive-skinned. Dark-haired.

Okay-looking. Dressed well.

Bryn comes over, kisses me.

Hey, babe. This is my buddy, Oscar. He nods toward the stash box, sitting on the coffee table.

Oscar's been very good to us, if you get my meaning. Now I want you to return the favor and be very, very nice to Oscar.

Very nice? Does he mean what I think he means? Play hostess.

”Uh, nice to meet you, Oscar.

Can I get you something to drink?”

Maybe after. Oscar comes over, touches my face. You're right, Bryn. She's very pretty. Tight little body, too. Yes, she'll do.

His hands slide over my front, reach up under my blouse.

The skin of his fingers, seeking my nipples, is calloused. Cold.

”No, wait. I can't. You're not serious ... Bryn?” He can't want me to do this! I jerk away from Oscar, turn to Bryn. Search his eyes.

They are deadly serious, and so is Bryn when he says, Yes, you can. And if you love me, you will.

You do love me, don't you?

”Of course I love you! But this isn't ...” Isn't right, is what I want to say. But what is right, anymore?

Is this really what loving him means?

Bryn's hands press down on my shoulders. Do this for me, Whitney. Do this for us. He kisses me. But it is the kiss of a stranger.

I Beg for a Buzz First Pot won't do. It has to be smack, and three long pulls of the acrid smoke barely take me to the place I need to be.

Oscar watches. Waits impatiently for the H to kick in. You should use a needle. Smoking the Lady is a waste of good dope.

Fear-queasy, I stumble down the hall, into the bedroom.

Oscar follows, shedding clothes.

His body is lean, muscular.

Another time, another place, I might find him attractive, but attraction is about choice.

I have no choice here but to take off my own clothes, lie on the bed, wait for him to come, and do whatever it is he has paid to do. I hate you, Bryn. I hate you.

Within Seconds I hate Oscar, too. He breathes beer, sweats onion, and there is no love, no kindness, nothing but greed to his s.e.x. He grabs my wrists, holds them over my head so I can't move when he bites my neck, and lower. I'll wear his teeth marks for days. ”Stop. You're hurting me.”

You think that hurts? You ain't seen nothing yet. His teeth close even harder and his hand squeezes my arms like a vise and now his knees force my legs apart and there is no pleasure to what he does down there. Only pain.

Bruising pain. I give myself to the morphine shroud, denying the pounding between my thighs.

Something makes me look toward the door. Bryn stands there, staring.

A Poem by Ginger Cordell

Staring

Into the midnight sky, starlight defeated by the scream of neon, truth is hard to discern.

Does it sparkle?

Does it burn? If a weightless moment transcends the gravity of time, what proof is there of its existence?