She knows what she's doing isn't healthy. It's something the 'girl', now 'woman', understands. You know when you are doing something extremely harmful and dangerous, especially to yourself. And the more harmful, the more satisfying. Michelle's close to graduating, but she can't seem to care. She has everything set up for MIT, with a minimum waged job and money in savings. Yet Michelle can't pull herself away from self destruction. She doesn't know why, there has always been this intriguing and seductive urge, just beneath her skin. She just hasn't had the self abandonment to give in until now.
When she was a child, Michelle remembers being this bright, social girl. Talking a mile per minute to anyone who would listen. About how she wanted to be an actor, how to bring world peace and stop climate change, especially about all the books she read. That was before she learned her place in the world. Each lesson the world gave her, the more she suppressed that brightness, the more that social butterfly dwindled and faded. Michelle didn't mean to kill MJ, she just didn't realize she was suffocating that little girl every time she bit her tongue and avoided making friends, distancing herself from any vulnerability. (“Hey MJ!” Someone used to call out to her, yet why can't she remember who?) And now, all she can feel is this hollowness inside her. It was all consuming, and every day that passes makes it clear. Michelle wasn't a person, she didn't know who she saw in the mirror, all she was is just an alien, a robot, a shell in a human world.
The hollowness wasn't this intense before, but some switch in her mind was triggered. (An unexplained cut on her forehead, a black dahlia with missing petals, waking up in a strange place, a rejection letter in her pocket that she has no memory of). And now she is getting in a car with a stranger. Michelle knows how that usually ends, with her body in a ditch. But who cares. This wasn't a date, they both know that, this was an exchange of pleasures. One to destroy her self worth and dignity, the other to casually fuck a woman in the back of his car.
Michelle has never been on a date, (but why does her heart beat faster as if that's a lie?) Yet she told her foster parents she was going on one, they looked nervous but excited for her. As if they were scared to let her out of the house. Michelle dressed the best she can with what the she had, yet she can't say she felt pretty. Just presentable. Presentable as a person, not a woman, as if she could ever truly be one. She knows she won't remember what she wore. And of course, Michelle didn't even think about make up. Why would she? Why would she doll herself up for some forgettable man she's whoring herself out to? If the bitch knows one thing, all you need to do if you have a vagina is to spread your legs out and any desperate man will push your thighs out further and go to town. No matter how ugly you are. Especially with how society conditioned boys and girls to be desperate, horny men and insecure, polite women. Men winning with each fuck, and women losing more and more respect in everyone's eyes. It helps that an acquaintance who swears they are best friends sets up this hook-up. Sending his snap chat with a wink, saying the slut is just his type.
The curly-haired individual doesn't remember what they talked about as he drove, or if they even talked. His voice wasn't memorable, as the night lights sped past them. Michelle should question where the man was taking her, but she doesn't. Being smart and having self preservation isn't the point of this. Throwing her virginity to a man she doesn't know the name of has nothing to do with safety and sanity. It's about tearing that piece of her out. Anything she can clench her numb fists with and throw into the numbing abyss. Letting those shards of herself cut her hands without a care. The image she had of herself recklessly and without thought ripped and burned.
Unlike the shitty way this society sees girl virginity, the whore couldn't give less of a fuck about it. Virginity was a lie, some social construct putting so much emphasis on first times. Especially with women. The way the sleeve saw it, virginity was something she can lose whenever. No fantasies of who or how, just if the time comes, the time comes. (A faint image of a boy with brown hair and a goofy smile flashes through her mind. An awkward and stammering voice.) And now? She just wants to be done with it. The slut has already given a blowjob to a different man she will never see again, even though they promised to keep in touch. She's 18, an adult for these past few months. No matter how much she wanted it to stop.
A sigh of frustration rips out of her lips as they parked, her eyes glued to her phone.
“What's the matter?” The man spoke up, his attention dragging to the fuck toy.
“Parents, you know how they are.” The whore says distantly, looking at the concerning text from her foster parent. It's frustrating, you try to kill yourself one time and now you cannot be trusted with anything. Michelle knows that's a good assumption, with how much she lied and got out of inpatient in 3 days, a record for her. “Nosey.”
“Right,” he says awkwardly, tapping his fingers against his thighs.
Another sigh, but now, the slut was the one feeling awkward. “How do you want to do this?”
He pulled his shirt off, working on taking his clothes and piling it onto the front seat. “Take off your clothes here and get in the back.”
This destruction of herself was a slow one. It started with distancing herself from Ned, who she had no idea why she even hung out with. (There was someone between them, someone they both hugged, someone they cared about. Someone she must have imagined). Isolating herself wasn't new, it was something Michelle was a master at. The habit began as a young girl, with a poisoning thought 'would anyone notice if I didn't talk at all?' Turning to, 'will they notice if I stop reaching out?' Growing to 'oh. I was only a friend of convenience.' Now, its escalated, this ghost of a person doesn't even realize she leaves messages unread. Ignores notifications as if that's what they are meant for. Intense fear filling her at the mere thought of replying, as if texting too soon exposes her.
“Should I use a condom?”
“No,” the bitch says, with outstretched legs. Relief flooded her by the lack of light, hiding the scars and scabs on her thighs. “I have birth control.”
Like a good girl, she told her school counselor of her serious thoughts of suicide. Michelle has had thoughts of killing herself for a long time, but ever since (holes in her memory, feeling touch starved as if someone just cut off her supply, a promise she doesn't remember being broken.) it's turned to dates and methods. To the hospital she went, but only to go back again time after time. She didn't self harm then, only after giving up on doctors helping her. They didn't care, and Michelle feels like a fool for even believing they did. Throughout history they have shown they never had. Why would it change now? Seeing her thighs bloody did something to her. A thrill up her spine as she wiped the bleeding cuts with her hand, making them red. Physical evidence to herself, saying 'you aren't being dramatic, you aren't pretending, you're really are hurting.'
The whore's moans were fake, yet she can't help pushing them out of her throat as the man thrust quickly into her. It was instinctual to exaggerate her pleasure, when having a male partner. That's true for many women. If anything, her moans turn her on more than the man telling her how good her pussy was. Though something about the man enjoying the sex makes herself feel proud. Like how she swelled with confidence when a stranger's dick came into her mouth, swallowing disgusting cum. The slut can't say she really enjoys sex, but it's an ego boost if others can enjoy her body. A guilty pleasure that makes her stomach turn into knots.
It's not like anyone would love her without sex, what person would willing be in a relationship without sexual gratification? (“I'm asexual.” “Oh.” A voice that she wishes she remembers says. “What does that mean?” Hesitation. “I'm not into sex.” Her heart racing nervously. “Oh.” A beat of silence. “What about snuggles?”) Michelle knows it's acephobic to think that of herself, but she can't help it. It's another piece of her she is stomping, disrespecting and spitting on. And who to say she is even asexual? The sex toys she hides say otherwise. What she is doing says otherwise.
Two rounds in the back of his car, he came twice. The bitch doesn't even know if she was even close to an orgasm. But it doesn't matter. By society's standards, she wasn't a virgin anymore. With a fake smile, she lies about meeting up again. She doesn't expect him to contact her anyways. Turning around, she quickly walks back home. Done with the whole interaction and just wants to go pee. The hollowness didn't diminish in the slightest, if anything it grew. And Michelle can't say she cares about it that much. This was what she was now, a whore addicted to destroying each and every part of herself.