Chapter 5

They both scrambled for discarded clothes and belongings before scurrying off like cowardly assholes, and I only realized my bag was with him after I slumped down on a closed toilet and cried my eyes out. Completely betrayed by two people I should have been able to trust, with more heartache to add to my ever-growing memory album. I sobbed until this numbness took effect and wiped me out. Although I’m still feeling fragile, I’m mostly just empty.

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. Always keep my cell phone on me if 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 upscale 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, which is why I always call Arry to come to 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 from falling off the edge of the cliff I’m dangerously walking along many times. 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, the endless, backstabbing, shallow assholes that befriend me and 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 to 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 I don’t know how to get out of it 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 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, I’m so consumed with needing to sit down and put my head on something to stop it from spinning. I need to sit and breathe before he gets here.

The tears that dried on my cheeks have made my skin tight and sore, and my heart is bruised, but it will still beat to fight another day. Neither Terry nor Dionne means 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 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 force myself. If I have to endure it for whatever guy I’m seeing, 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 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 and learned not to let those scars control me. But touch down there ignites some deep-frozen fear that impulsively sends me into a defensive rage. I know 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 regarding sex.

The truth is they all soon drop off my radar when they realize the 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 daring and bold and use my body to showcase the season’s sexy trends. I don’t have any body issues anymore, any lack of self-esteem or confidence concerning my appearance. Therapy made sure of that, the best my family could get me, and the support from my family, Emma and Arry. I have no vulgar thoughts when I see how I have grown into a woman’s figure, and I can pull off outward confidence like any girl.

I have no problem attracting men of all sorts, but I 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.