Dionne played the role of girly best friend for weeks. Looking back, I now see that she was milking me for anything she could get; a never-ending stream of money on tick with promises to pay it back. My clothes, my shoes and now my man. Luckily, my cell was in the back pocket of my denim skirt, a habit Arry drilled into me from an early age. To always keep my cell phone on me in case I ever need him … no matter what. My lifeline to my boy.
My other friends seem to have vanished as quickly. As soon as I stumbled out of the ladies’ room, tear-stained and lightheaded to find them, I realized I’d been abandoned. We all came here to get drunk before our main event; a huge party in some exclusive bar across Manhattan, and my time in the bathroom was long enough to get ditched. Again.
This isn’t the first time they have all gone on to the next place and left me to it. None of them cares about me, they only care that I pay my share, or more, of the booze, and don’t cause drama. No one bothers even looking for me and it’s why I always end up calling on Arry to come find me. He’s the only person I ever really count on. He never lets me down.
Whenever I feel this way, he’s all I want, all I need to feel better. That hero coming to rescue me and take care of me for a while, that guy who never abandons me, even if he is pissed at me for calling. It’s stopped me falling off the edge of the cliff I’m dangerously walking along many a time. My haven of calm, my island in a storm, and I miss him so much since our lives started to take different paths.
I’m so tired of this scene, tired of the endless, backstabbing, shallow assholes that befriend me and just don’t give an actual shit, and generally tired of life. Tired of being the one left wandering alone and relying on Arry to come find me when I need him and knowing that I’m only pushing him away every time I do. Tired of the way my friends are only around for the party but never the aftermath, and even then, only around as long as my allowance doesn’t run out. Tired of being used and discarded by men when they move on to someone else, as though I’m worth no more than a cheap night out when I am no longer a lure for them. I’m just sick of everything, sick of the life I’ve made for myself and don’t know how to get out of anymore. I feel spent inside and tired, to the point that I know it’s no longer alcohol related. I’m not happy living this way and chasing this life to make myself happy just doesn’t work out at all.
I manage to push and claw my way through the last crowded expanse to the empty back seats of the club, into the darkest and quieter shadows, despite Arry telling me never to venture back here alone. Into the depths, but I’m so consumed with needing to sit down and put my head on something to stop it from spinning. I need to just sit and breathe before he gets here.
The tears that dried on my cheeks have made my skin tight and sore, my heart is bruised, but it will still beat to fight another day. Neither Terry nor Dionne mean that much to me in the grand scheme of things. This isn’t the first cheating asshole I dated, and the constant nagging to have sex with him won’t be missed any more than he will. I held him off for a month, and I guess not giving him what he wanted is why he clearly found it in someone else.
Story of my life.
Sex is not an option for me, not now, not ever. Sex is something I doubt I will ever have the urge to share with some random asshole I hook up with. Especially when all they do is pressure me and paw me, even when I tell them I’m not ready. I’ve no idea if I ever will be, and therein lies the problem.
What man will want a girl who doesn’t ever want to have sex with him?
Years of being abused by my father until I ran away from home at fourteen made sure that it’s only repulsion when a male gets his hands anywhere near my body. My skin crawls with what feels like fire ants running all over me. My stomach turns at the mere thought of hands or body parts down there, touching mine. I can handle kissing, and minor upper body petting, when drunk, if I really force myself. If I have to endure it for whatever guy I’m seeing, but anything below the waist sends me into a panicking mess of fear and fire, igniting that bitch side who lashes out and becomes violent.
I don’t really suffer from the flashbacks or memories anymore, rarely anyway. I dealt with those demons a long while back with Arry’s help. I know how to control letting that sick fuck back in my head, learned how not to let those scars control me. But touch, down there ignites some deep-frozen fear that sends me spiraling into defensive rage impulsively. I know that it’s partly because I trust no one to go down there. So afraid of the memories.
What hope is there for any sort of relationship with that as the outcome?
I’ve dated so many men in the last months that to an outsider I’m just a slut who switches men, like her underwear, jumping from one handsome guy to another. On the surface, I can flirt, kiss, and dance sexily with any guy. I’ve become amazing at behaving like a mentally normal person who can function in the real world when it comes to sex.
The truth is they all soon drop off my radar when they realize feisty girl about town Sophie, does not put out. Ever.
I look the part, blonde and blue-eyed with a slim curvy body and a dress sense that’s sexual because I’m obsessed with clothes and shoes. I love to be both daring and bold and love to use my body to showcase the season’s sexy trends. I don’t have body issues anymore, any lack of self-esteem or confidence concerning how I look. Therapy made sure of that, the best my family could get me, and the support from my family, Emma, and Arry. No vulgar thoughts when I see how I have grown into a woman’s figure, and I can pull off the outward confidence like any girl around.
I have no problem attracting men of all sorts, but I just want one decent guy, someone like him: My Arry. Someone to take care of me and understand that sex isn’t everything between us. That without it I’m still worthwhile. Someone to see beyond the outer shell and treat me like I matter. Someone who doesn’t see a meal ticket or a quick fuck, or who isn’t abhorred by the past and all the dirty little things that asshole did to me.
I sigh heavily, head overcrowded with thoughts and feelings and I know I’m just running my mind ragged, pushing myself into anxiety, making myself depressed and more exhausted. I lean back and rest my head against the padded seat back; the thumping noise and smoky atmosphere are grating on me, even this drunk. I just want to go home, for Arrick to find me soon and take me anywhere but here.
I close my eyes to block it all out, stay sitting up so I’m less of an obvious target and start counting down the minutes till he gets here.
I am so done with this scene, this life, and it’s never ending bullshit.
All I do is party, drink, and have fun. If I can even call it that anymore! It’s been losing its sparkle for weeks. After the first burst of independence wore off; and sitting here for the millionth time alone, tear-stained, and exhausted, I wonder why I ever hungered after this at all.
Why I ever thought shallow friends and meaningless relationships were worth more than genuine love from my family. The emptiness inside of me, which pushed me down this path, is still very much there, growing wider by the month and sucking me inwards like a black hole with no way out. You can’t drink away the sense of emptiness that plagues me, God knows I have tried. There is no curing this with a wild lifestyle anymore.