Trapper and Emmeline (21 page)

Stace says the partners at the company are too terrified of Dad to bring it up with him. Dad saw the picture right away, of course, but he couldn’t exactly tear it off the bulletin board. If he did that, then that would mean the picture really was what it looks like. He couldn’t have that. It couldn’t
possibly
be what it looks like. So it’s not that! It’s not me lying naked with four of his friends. It was actually very innocent, right? Dad is in a foul mood but he’s not changing his story, and nobody’s calling him on it.

So the picture is going to stay up. All his co-workers, employees, and friends get to see it every day. I have high school friends who work there!! There are gross old guys in accounting who try to trap me every time I visit. They were creepy enough without any encouragement--now they’ve seen me looking like I’ve just been gang-banged.

I swear I must be going nuts. Because I just find this hilarious. Scary and sexy, yes. Humiliating, definitely. But also hilarious.

I just don’t understand why we’re not sharing this together. Why the fuck are you dodging my calls?”

On Monday, I skipped classes.

She texted me a picture of her dress that day. A floral-print thing with an open front and chain straps. Nothing distinguishing about it, except how short it was on her thighs. When I scanned down I saw how she had perfected the outfit.

She was wearing her knee-length, scarred leather boots. They changed her legs from something diverting to something fascinating. What I wouldn’t give to see her stomping down the street.

After the picture, she texted, “I can’t believe you missed the first no-underwear day!”

She texted again during her first class. “By the way, going without panties feels no different. It’s hard for some people not to notice, though, since the stupid skirt flips around. Wish you were here to give me confidence.”

I didn’t answer.

A minute later, she wrote, “How can I tempt you out? I have an idea.”

Ten minutes after, I received another picture. She was standing in the middle of the fountain in Washington Square Park. The fountain was dry that day as it usual y was, and she was surrounded by students, tourists, and regular New Yorkers sitting on its scal oped, circular steps. There was a generous sprinkling of the usual park rejects, too—the drug dealers, the marginal hipsters, the questionably employed. A crowded city trying to be normal in spite of itself.

Some man I didn’t know had Emmeline in his arms. Apparently another person was taking the pictures. I got a few snaps of her kissing the guy, her skirt gusting around.

She was tempting me, al right.

I wanted to be there to see that. I wanted to see the man fal a little in love with her. I wanted to see the sideways looks Emmeline generated in the crowd. Then the open gazes as she escalated. Then the aroused stares that always seemed scary until you got used to them. I wanted to see Emmeline whip a little fantasy and longing into the world, the same way

the wind mercilessly whipped her skirt. I missed seeing that magic happen.

“Greg says he’l replace you if you decide to break up with me.”

“Oops. His name is Craig not Greg.”

“He’s holding my dress down for me.”

Another picture. They were laughing like newlyweds, into each other’s mouths, after an interrupted kiss. He had the front of her skirt pinned to her thighs with his thumbs—and the rest of his fingers on her thighs. The back of her skirt had no such help; it was up over her ass at the time the picture was taken. They were laughing at the sil iness of the situation. No doubt he believed she was innocent and impulsive and ful y alive—and not a manipulative bitch.

An hour later she sent another picture. She was kissing another guy. An African-American bike messenger, stil on his bike. He leaned over to her, his lips on hers, his hand on her cheek. Shit—he had sparkling blue eyes. They looked amazing together.

She texted: “Does this hurt, Trapper? Am I picking at a scab?”

It kil ed me. Each picture twisted a knife in my stomach. My erection was packed tighter than a stick of dynamite, and I knew if I touched myself, I would explode and kil my roommates. Or at least ruin a tissue.

“Last one for today. To keep you busy.”

She was on the street again and I recognized the location

She was in front of the door to my fucking apartment building.

And who but Andy, my roommate, was with her! They must have met on the sidewalk as she approached my street.

Emmeline stood in front of him, a Marilyn Monroe look of innocent surprise on her face, as Andy lifted her dress up past her hips. He was making a “what the fuck, dude?” face at me. Her pussy looked amazing and bare in the fading light, and her boots made her legs look spectacular. The fact that it was on the street—my street in particular—was icing on the cake. I mean, what happy stranger, drafted off the sidewalk, was holding the camera phone during that picture? Andy would have a lot to answer for.

Emmeline knew I’d be at war with my cock over this.

I sprinted to the window and leaned out. She was already distant, stomping up the street—it wasn’t possible to just walk in those boots. Her dress was agonizingly short. I noticed two pedestrians trailing behind her, men of course, who had slowed to keep her in front of them. That always happened when she walked around. There were times when I joined the pack that fol owed her, just so I could experience discovering her al over again.

Emmeline reached the corner and the wind gusted over her. The skirt went flying and I caught a much-too distant glimpse of her perfect ass. She twisted around, hair netting her face, and peered back at me until she saw me in the window. She gave a wave, and then disappeared.

On Tuesday, I skipped classes again.

She sent an email with a picture attached. She was wearing baggy jeans and a turtleneck.

If you don’t write back, I’m wearing this to class. Total social suicide, right?

What self-respecting wanna-be slut would do this to herself? JK ROFL WTF IANAL RTF

TTFN.

I didn’t write back. She even looked good in grandma clothes.

She emailed again, later.

Well, I did it. I’m actually proud of myself. It was a different kind of humiliation from my regular days. Would you believe nobody looked at me? Nobody knew it was me at all!

Apparently my tits and ass identity has overwhelmed everything else. Do people even look at my face anymore? Nobody talked to me. I leaned toward somebody for a kiss, and he said, ‘Oops, my bad,’ and gave me room to pass! Humiliating. I wish you could have seen it.

I’m going to try an experiment.

On Wednesday day I received another self-photo of Emmeline. She was wearing black lipstick and bright purple eye shadow. The rest of her outfit looked normal, as far as I could tel —she held the camera a little above her head so she could do her ironic upward duck-face look. As a result I had a commanding view into her cleavage.

Not a single boy commented on my ugly make-up. They just don’t care, so long as they have tits to look at. Also, I have the sniffles again. Someone must be carrying a toxic superhero virus.

It was a standing joke that she never got sick for more than 24 hours, even though she now had a never-ending list of men to kiss at each class, at her main coffee shop, at the library, and regular locations in-between. She didn’t back down when mono swept through the student population, even though I said she should.

She claimed that her immune system was invincible. She teased that she could swal ow anything she wanted off the student population, with no il effects.

Thursday.

I wasn’t right when I thought people weren’t noticing. Some guys finally cornered me before the prof walked in and asked what was going on. I said I’m playing around with theme days while my boyfriend is sick. I’m trying new looks.

I’m finding what works best for me.

Would you believe, by the end of the hour, I got a list that had been passed around the class? A list of their favorite outfits! That was a fucking kick in the crotch. I got so turned on when I saw that. These boys are so into me!

Later on Thursday:

I had lunch with Stace. After classes I wasn’t going to see you, so I killed time at Dad’s construction site. I saw The Picture, very embarrassing, and hung out with all the drooling off-shift guys. They treated me like a queen. Stace pretended to defend my honor from them (I was getting hit on mercilessly).

He offered me lunch, I said yes, and we hustled to his car. We drove around the corner from the work site, got out, and fucked in an alleyway. Since apparently you hate me now, I did whatever he asked.

Does that hurt you Trapper? I hope it does. Because I felt nothing. If you’re not part of it, if you’re not cheering me on, if you don’t fucking CARE -- then it’s not a special experience anymore. It’s just sex.

I felt a little happy because Stace was happy. I had a great orgasm. But I didn’t have that crazy drunk feeling I get when you’re there. I didn’t feel like the universe was talking to me. Because you weren’t there. You couldn’t share it, so it didn’t matter.

I know you understand what I’m saying.

On Thursday night:

I know perfectly well why you’re not talking. And you know that after three minutes of talking to me, you’ll feel better, and we can be a couple again. I just wanted to be sure someone told you that. So twenty years from now, you have no excuses to hide behind. Your unhappiness is something you’re working very hard to achieve.

At this point I’m just a pushy friend who is projecting a relationship onto us, which doesn’t really exist. I’m grateful for what I learned about myself. I’m grateful to you.

That made me quail inside. She had just acknowledged that we weren’t a couple anymore. It was true. It felt like shit.

Like I deserved.

Friday morning, 3 am:

You’ve mentioned this before, but now I think I agree. I love being perfect. I don’t see it as an impossible achievement. I think for brief periods, an hour here or there, I can be a perfect woman, a perfect every-woman who can provoke things in every man. We all have common triggers since we’re all human, and I’m learning to pull those triggers one by one. I have the usual tools to entice men. Hair, body, fake breasts, a young face. I’m also enthusiastic.

Being perfect is all about being what the man wants most. I don’t care about

‘being myself’ or ‘being unique.’ The me I want to be is the fantasy girl they didn’t think really existed on earth. Here I am, boys! Ask me something and I’ll say yes to it. I love watching your faces as you realize what I am. What I can be to you.

When I get really good at this, I will be a dream-catcher for every man’s wet dreams. I will fascinate and disturb them. I will ruin these men for other women.

Because those other women don’t have my life mission, so they won’t be able to unlock the men I’ve locked up.

And the thing I see in these men’s eyes is what gratifies me. It’s what makes me achingly hot and wet, like a black hole of sex, so that I want cock after cock going into me, filling me up, forever. What I see is that the men realize, even as I satisfy them, that they are STILL NOT SATISFIED. They always want more. They will never have enough. Even after I’ve worked them up and they dump the best orgasm of their lives into me. But how can they get more than everything? They simply can’t want me enough. It’s not possible. I make them insatiable. Me. Emmeline.

I realized this when I went on a date with Billy. Because what do you care anymore?

Turns out, he is the worst sort of guy. Bossy, patronizing. He did everything possible to turn me off, including telling his friends to put their hands up my skirt. He bragged that I wasn’t wearing underwear, and I had to let him prove it. I was so turned off and disengaged that I was able to turn my full attention to turning him on. I didn’t have any personal distractions from finding his buttons and pushing them. I didn’t have any feelings. I was acting and watching.