I've been told that I have a complex.
I think about that this evening as I zip up the sanguine red dress that I keep hidden in the back of my closet. It's the dress with the dangerously low neckline in the front, the one that suggestively plunges to reveal the skin all the way down to my belly button. It's held in place with a gold chain. Still, I have to wear pasties to keep from popping out although there's nothing to 'pop out', really.
"You guys think too much," That's what I always tell them because they do think too much. What I do or not do in my spare time is absolutely none of their business.
The door slams shut behind me. The sound of my stilettos click clacking against the old linoleum of my apartment complex echoes eerily. Loose tendrils of straightened almost black hair free themselves from the high unruly bun atop my head. I pass by a mirror and see a stranger: a woman with black plum lips, black rimmed eyes, golden bangles, and skin the color of roasted chestnut shells.
My cab awaits. The driver drums his brown fat dirty fingers against the steering wheel. Sirens from a nearby police car zoning in on a drug transaction, glass shattering from the revenge of a wounded lover, curses from a dissatisfied husband, and joyful shouting from a group of teens grace the night like an urban orchestra.
"How can we help you?" They ask, because I must have a problem.
"Dover street please?" I shout over the Tejano music blaring from the satellite radio and wrap my hand around my clutch bag.
"By leaving me alone."
They worry about me, but I don't think there's anything to worry about. So what if I pretend to be someone else when day falls away? Don't they pretend to be other people every single day of the year? Every hour? Every minute? Every second?
At least I do mine for fun, for release. They can't take that away from me.
I drink in the scene outside the window as the minutes pass by. Black globs of trees, and scanty ribbons of light from the street lamps evoke a genuine smile. I fan my fingers against the cold glass, press the balls of my fingers against it to feel the contact. I've always loved the way the world looks when it's dark...so mystical...darkly ethereal.
Soon, the cab halts to a stop in front of the most magnificent mansion I've ever seen. It's nothing like the house I crashed last month. Last months was a social for a charity event. This one is much bigger. I can nearly smell the money. I know without a doubt that it's elite and teeming with socialites.
"I do it for fun."
I thank my driver and tip him as best as I can, but it's not enough to get more than a grunt. I get out and fix my dress, feel the hot smoke from the passing cab hit my legs as I think about what my friends say and what I think.
I do...I do pretend.
I pretend to be this high class woman, contrary to my choice of attire. For a night I am Lydia Claire, the mysterious woman in the red, the socialite no one knows about, the woman hidden behind a flute of white wine and red lips.
I'm a liar.
So what.
What are you?
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And yet...I never do like these things as much as I claim to. No one hardly ever speaks to me, and if they do, I always manage to feign being tired and slip away. It's one thing to pretend to be a shy wealthy socialite...but to actually prove it?
Nope, that's not what I'm going for.
"Alex Dunbar, and you are?" a fair hand reaches across the bar, the other holds a glass of wine as the owner smiles at me serenely.
My heart thumps, but that's not very hard to do considering my personality and current situation. I feel a shy smile pulling at my lips and immediately acquiesce it into a hard thick line.
I should be nice, but these parties are never free of guys looking for a quick feel. Not that I've had too many issues with that...mostly with them trying to figure out if I actually belong there.
This one is working the bar and drinking, I wonder what his boss thinks of that?
He's cute though. Actually, he's pretty hot...nope, he's very hot.
It's obvious he has the best of both worlds: enough African ancestry in him to create full lips and enough European ancestry to give him the palest color in the room.
I zone in on his cropped hair; I wonder what it would look like if it were longer. Hair doesn't lie.
His smile wavers, and his hand balls into a loose fist, and I feel a pang for what I'm about to do. Ihate to run away right now when I don't want to because it's seldom that I get cute guys like him to actually approach me. Most watch me from afar.
I uncross my legs and set my glass of wine on the bar table with an apologetic smile and look into his pretty grey-brown eyes. He looks like trouble.He looks like another heartbreak.
I continue to disregard his hand and slide off the stool, " Just leaving."
I gather my clutch bag and walk away as fast as I can given the size of my heels and my inability to adequately walk in those heels.
But I always have the bad habit of drinking too much when I crash these things, so my walking is a little off as I saunter away. I make it outside, wobbling and nearly teetering to the left and right with only the wall and the pillars to aid me. I gather enough sobriety to make it to the curb without falling when I hear light steps behind me, "Hey, do you need a ride home?"
Should I lie about my chauffeur being late? Is there a point now that I'm out of the house?
I can't walk home. There's no telling what will happen to me while i'm in this dress. Here at this party I could be considered classy, high fashion, but on the streets in my neighborhood I'll be flagged as a prostitute. I look the part.
I should be ashamed. But I'm not.
"No thanks."
But the stranger with the grey eyes doesn't know what 'no' means, "I insist. Look...I hate to be frank like this with someone I don't know, but you're drunk off your ass. And look, you're freezing. "
And I am. I already have my arms wrapped around my waist with my clutch bag pressed against my pelvis. But there's fire in me yet, "I am not drunk off my ass "
"Lady," he laughs as he takes off his tan coat and takes it upon him to get close enough for me to smell his aftershave and his cologne as he drapes it over my shoulders, "you're cold. Admit it."
My eyelids flutter. My lips part. Both completely involuntary reactions to him being too close. I know I want to say no, but...
"Fine."
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I avoid giving him my address. He can't know where I live.
"Where do I take you?"
His car is nice. He's not a bar tender. He's a son of someone wealthy. He knows what it's like not to struggle everyday.
I want to bask in this for a moment. I want to feel what it's like to be wrapped in money...to snuggle in its embrace...to fall asleep in its atmosphere.
"Take me to your place."
He looks over at me, his hand stilled over the wheel, the car paused while we wait at a red light. His eyebrows raise, and his lips twitch into an unsure smile, "Yeah?"
I nod, "yeah."
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I don't do this. I don't do this.
But tonight, I do.
I don't know how I lose myself so easily, so intoxicated by wine that I forget that outside of tonight I have morals. That I'm a good girl, that I'm a recent college grad with a great day job. I don't understand how I forget?
Or how I coaxed him to drive to what looks like this massive art studio with paintings and murals and a couch and dining room table swallowed up by the avant gardness of it all. Or how I let him lead me to his bedroom just beyond the faux art gallery. Or how I went from feigning a lack of interest in him to shivering euphorically beneath his wild touches.
"You like that?"he's not so kind with his words, but his lips and hands are gentle. The harshness of the question brushes against me as my eyelids flutter, and I mutter something incoherent. I can't answer clearly, not while I'm in the throes of Lydia Claire's fantasy. It's not wise...not when I'm ashamed of what I'm doing, and our pile of clothes have been kicked to the other side of the room.
I don't do things like this. I don't sleep around. I don't have sex with strangers, and I don't act like this.
Something is wrong, and I can feel the wrongness of it building up in my center. I feel like I'm burning. I feel feverish, and I feel alive. I feel confused, and my brows deepen into a frown even as a wave of euphoria takes me over.
It's my complex, I tell myself. I'm just being silly. It's my thoughts working against me. I'm just thinking too much.
His satin sheets feel cool against my back, his hands gentle as they cup my face, and his smile warm as he spares a moment to appreciate the woman he's only known for, at the most, three hours.
But I don't smile. I cringe. He frowns. His teeth worries his bottom lip as he looms over me.
This isn't me. I can't smile back.
I close my eyes and bite my lips as he buries his head in my neck, as he grabs hold of my body and fits it against his like a key to a lock.
It's not rape...it's purely consensual, but I feel something inside of me being loosened. Dread, so much dread collides with the euphoria and it makes for a very confusing experience for the both of us.
"You do this often?"
He pauses, out of breath, "You wanna real answer?"
Do I?
I shake my head and chide myself for being stupid and hormonal and weak and lost.
When was the last time I did this?
Never. In the history of ever.
I don't know this guy. I don't know how old he is, though looking at his face I can bet he's not a day over thirty at the most. He has this smooth youthful boyish look about him.
But that doesn't matter. It doesn't excuse how dumb I am. How I think my friends are possibly right now. How I've reduced myself to a free prostitute just because he nipped my neck for a few seconds and rove his hand under my dress.
It's over before I want it to be, and I feel like I've lost something that I can't handle to lose or keep. He looks confused as I roll away from his touch. He doesn't look like the type to cuddle, but his eyebrows furrow again. I clutch part of the sheet to my chest and look away from him.
A hollow cough breaks through the still air, and the bed rises. I hear him moving behind me.
"Give me a minute to shower, and I'll drive you home."
I slip my dress on and shyly look down at my bare feet. My stilettos and clutch purse are in my hand, and I'm nervous.
I don't think I want him to take me home, as a matter of fact, I know I don't want him to take me home.
His back is still bare, sculpted and perfect under the dim light, but he wears boxers now as he pads across the floor and disappears into his restroom, "Your money's on the dresser."
My brows wrinkle in confusion. Money?
I don't want to believe it, but I know what he's thinking now. What he thought. What he's ok for thinking. As I inch closer, I spot two hundred dollar bills neatly stacked on top of each other.
I look at my dress and cringe both inwardly and outwardly. Shameless one night stands are bad enough, but a guy having sex with you because he thinks you're a prostitute? What did I think?
"Two hundred ok?" He calls from the bathroom, "I don't know your rate, so I assumed..."
Honestly, this is great. Just fuck-tastic.
I don't answer him, but I do rifle through his drawers until I've found a pair of jeans and t-shirt. I don't care that they're sizes too big for me. I put them on as quickly as I can and ball the dress under my arms.
I can't walk home dressed like that...not clothed in that shame. I eye the money warily, but leave it where it is. As much as I could use the money, I am not a prostitute.
I gather everything I came with, and cringe at the bathroom door. Too bad, I would have liked to share something besides my body with him. I can't blame him. He didn't ask me to throw myself against him...but how...what made me give myself up so easily?
It's like there was a pull or something.
Whatever.
I shake my head at the two bills and leave out of there as fast as I can.