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What a Way to Lose It

Jon Brunette

    I wondered a lot in the years that followed: how could women sell her bodies and not feel dirty or used? Naturally, they enjoyed sex, but women didn’t have to sell their bodies—men naturally offered theirs. There must’ve been other benefits, I figured. I just couldn’t think of any until she came, and finally, I had sex with her.
    I decided I shouldn’t care. I wanted it badly; it didn’t matter who gave it up as long as she was actually a she. Like I had planned since childhood, I dialed the number in the Yellow Pages (it surprised me that prostitution was a crime yet a lot of hookers advertised in the “Escort Services” page), and I got a woman who had thick yellow hair, a complexion that had never seen sunlight, and a body built for sin—exactly what I had always wanted.
    It took quite some time, but finally, her headlights beamed into my room, and she was wearing the clothes I had wanted like she should’ve for the wad on the nightstand. Below yellow lace and little black heels, her body felt as chilly as ice, her hair as brittle as straw, and her teeth seemed as yellow as rust, but still, I had a girl in my room, and I didn’t complain. Not the person to whom I had hoped to lose my virginity, but I looked as ugly as a sea lion, so I didn’t argue. I had a girl in my room—finally; why should’ve I cared about anything else? I took my clothes off, exposed pectoral mounds as big as her breasts, and put my body where it belonged—at least where she told me it did. It didn’t take an hour to shoot into her body, which smelled like Lysol, but I got what I wanted—why should’ve I complained?
    Finally, I stood in the shower to wash off. I didn’t worry about my virginity, but I did about something else that had bothered me since she first knocked on the flimsy wood door of the motel. What seemed weird was that she didn’t have heat in her body, she stared rather distantly, and she flopped around the bed in a manner that made me wonder why people got so excitable about sex in the first place. What seemed really odd, though, was that I would’ve stood below that hot spray eternally had pressure not shot out of my body like a vent that couldn’t be turned off.
    Like a sliver below my nail, I couldn’t concentrate on anything else; I could just focus on her alone. And I couldn’t help but hunger for a taste like alcohol only thicker and more pungent. With a wet hand, I massaged two holes on my neck. Like never before, I could feel an urge that I couldn’t quench. What I figured was that her fluids had mixed with mine until I became like her: a creature of the night obsessed with sex and the habits of people who walk the shadows of eternity.
    It might be called blood lust, but whatever one called it, I would have it eternally. What else should I call it? She had wrapped me up in a vortex which I couldn’t resist. What a way to lose one’s virginity, huh? I didn’t think so at the time, but as the years passed, I really enjoyed life as a vampire. Although I probably shouldn’t have, I touched women a lot, whether they liked it or not; as the years passed, I really think they didn’t, but I hardly ever thought twice about it. Why shouldn’t’ve I? They had never wanted me before, and eventually, they had no choice whatsoever. Why shouldn’t’ve I enjoyed it? Why wouldn’t anyone in my place?

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