At least no one except taxi drivers and the lone exercise fanatic will bear witness to my walk in what’s obviously last night’s little black dress attire. I’m a hot mess, with my just-fucked hair, ruined makeup and too swollen mouth, but I’ll pretend anyone passing by isn’t smug.
I sigh, long and mournful. Last night being the culmination of the gigantic shit storm that’s taken over my life for the past six months.
My downward spiral of humiliation began when the love of my life Trevor Whitmore fell in love with a dancer. Well, in fairness to him, it wasn’t like he cheated on me, because we hadn’t even been going out. It only felt like a betrayal because I’d been stupidly and blindly infatuated with him to the point of obsession.
Which makes me sound like a real idiot, a shame, considering I’m plenty smart in other areas of my life. I come from a good, loving family, I have great friends and I’m the top pharma sales rep in my region.
Only, I’ve never made smart decisions when it comes to men.
With guys, I always turn into that girl you love to hate. I don’t even know why. Maybe because my dad spoiled me too much, or my mom was one of those moms that insisted I was special and perfect. Maybe because in high school, growing up in my small Central Ohio hometown, I was the head cheerleader, and the absolute shit, adored by everyone.
I’m sure at one point I was sensible about men, but Trevor changed all that for me. He was the first boy I’d actually coveted. I’d met him my junior year of college, fallen in lust at first sight, and become completely, obnoxiously infatuated with him. And, like a lot of girls, I confused his desire to use me for sex, with love. The more dismissive he became, the harder I tried to hold on, and the farther he slipped away.
Except when he was too lazy to go through the process of hitting on another girl at the party we were at. Then we’d circle each other like preying tigers before going in for the kill.
It never once occurred to me to say no.
My friend Layla called him my kryptonite, and she was exactly right. I was caught in a vicious cycle. He’d leave me in the middle of the night, I’d get all strong and indignant, insisting I wouldn’t let him use me anymore, but then time would pass, nobody else would catch my interest, and I’d start to jones for him. I’d see him at some bar or party. He’d look at me with those blue eyes, give me that smile, and like an idiot, I’d swear tonight would be the night I’d make him love me.
This cycle lasted for years—far too many than a girl with a high IQ should ever admit to—until the last time we hooked up. A week after we’d been together he’d met a dancer (aka stripper) and had fallen instantly in love. They eloped to Vegas three weeks later. After years of telling me he doesn’t do commitment he married that…that…woman in a month!
Yeah, yeah, I know. Oldest story in the book. I get it. I’m an idiot. It’s my own stupid fault. I got what I deserved. Believe me, nothing you say isn’t something I haven’t said to myself.
But anyway, let’s move on to humiliation number two.
Like any proper scorned woman I seek revenge, because of course I need to make him pay. He needs to suffer. Hurt. If the past months have taught me anything it’s revenge doesn’t lead to the clearest head, so I conveniently ignore the fact that a guy has to remember you exist for your plot to work.
A minor detail that had no effect on my bloodthirsty rage.
Naturally, I do the worst thing I can think of. The day after I find out Trevor’s married, I get his best friend drunk with the goal of seducing him because nothing says fuck you like sleeping with your ex’s bestie. My evil plan worked, but I overestimated the amount of alcohol I fed him and he can’t get it up! And, in typical male fashion, he blames me. Me!
I’m a pretty, long-haired blonde with blue eyes, with 32DDs and a twenty-six inch waist. He’s an overweight, unemployed slacker that’s starting to bald.
And he had the gall to say it was my fault.
I mean, sure I put on a good show and ripped him a new one, but my self-esteem can only take so many beatings. And while I slammed out of the door like the ultimate diva, I’d felt rejected and small. I’d never admit it to anyone but I went home and cried like a baby.
Like I really wasn’t pretty enough to get a guy off.
If only that sorry affair had been rock bottom, but no, there’s humiliation number three.
In a mad rush to find the love of my life as quickly as possible so everyone can stop feeling sorry for me behind my back, I join match.com and go on a series of dates so bad I contemplate becoming a lesbian. I mean, I don’t understand it—I’m smart, I make over six figures, and I’m good looking—but that’s not good enough on a dating site where fives think they’re entitled to nines.
The whole experience was a horrid exercise in masochism, but the last straw was when I went out with a guy that Snapchatted the entire time and barely spoke to me. I’m serious, he said less than ten words our entire meal and pushed the check at me when the waitress placed it on the table. When he pulled up to my building, he told me I was hot and asked me to blow him. I said no. And he had the gall to get all insulted. He called me a frigid bitch and was already opening his Tinder app before I managed to scramble from the car.
I shut down my account before I even took off my coat.
Which leads me right into humiliation number four’s open arms.
I decide I need a proper rebound, someone known I can trust that will help me get a little bit of my dignity back. No commitment. No dating. Just fun and sex. Someone to get me over the hump of Trevor, so I can get my life back on track. After much consideration I settle on a guy named Chad Fellows.
Chad was the perfect choice for a hookup. He was new to my extended group of friends. He’s tall, successful, and unbelievably gorgeous. He’s the rare guy that’s nice and respectful but somehow manages to still have enough sex appeal to send girls swooning. He actually seems to like women.
But best of all he had potential to be something permanent. He was one hundred percent boyfriend material. As a bonus, because our core groups of friends didn’t have tons of overlap except for parties and weddings, if things went south, I’d only see him occasionally. The way I figured it worst-case scenario we had a good time in bed. Best-case scenario we got married.
A win/win, right? Wrong.
He flat out rejected me. What’s worse, he gave me some sad little speech about how casual sex wouldn’t fix what’s broken inside me. A speech that made me want to burst into tears and made my lower lip tremble, which he kindly pretended not to notice. After going home and, once again crying in a pathetic heap on my couch, I assumed he must be gay.
Wrong again.
Five minutes after rejecting me he turns around and hooks up with my friend, Ruby Stiles, and now they’re getting married! Married! I don’t even know how that’s possible? Up until Chad, Ruby only dated unemployed musicians. What could they possibly have in common? Why her and not me? Not that I’m hung up on the guy, because I don’t even know him, but still, what was wrong with me that I didn’t even warrant a date?
Last night was their engagement party.
I put on a big, huge fake smile, a killer black dress, mile-high heels and pretended to be thrilled for them. I thought that was my rock bottom. That attending the engagement party of a man whose last words to me were—no, I don’t want to fuck you—would be the depths of my lows. But again, I was wrong.
I’m sensing a pattern here.
Which leads me to the walk of shame, my latest humiliation.
Because I wanted my stomach to be extra flat, I hadn’t eaten, and to cover my awkwardness, I promptly started downing Champagne.
Naturally, I became overly drunk and flirty. And what do I do?
I flamboyantly hit on and sleep with the groom-to-be’s younger brother! I mean, he’s not like jailbait young, but young enough to be embarrassing. He’s only twenty-seven! I’m thirty-two. We’re not even in the same decade. He’s still in school, for god’s s
ake. Okay, medical school. Well, really, he’s an orthopedic resident, but that still counts and it’s humiliating. And he’s the groom’s brother!
How cliché can I get?
My stomach heats and jumps and my knees wobble a bit at the few memories I have. I think I might be sick so I sit down on a park bench and put my head into my open palms. The night is a series of blurry images, vague conversation and sex.
Lots and lots of sex. Correction. Lots and lots of mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex. The kind of sex your momma definitely didn’t tell you about. The kind of sex that makes you believe in god, because you’ve screamed his name so many times.
When Chad introduced Christopher as his younger brother, it had given me a moment’s pause. But then he’d said hi, with that smile, and it had been game on. We’d flirted shamelessly, and he’d been so cute. Christopher Fellows was boyishly, endearingly handsome with butterscotch hair and light golden-brown eyes. He’d been tall and built. His hands big and hot on my hips. And he’d been so nice. So attentive. He seemed genuinely to like me. Although in retrospect, it probably only seemed like that in my drunken brain.
A guy always seems like he likes you until he screws you, right?
I shake my aching head at the part of the night I still remember. After hours of flirting like we were sixteen-year-olds, he’d dragged me into a storage closet and gone down on me. He’d knelt on the floor, put my leg on his shoulder, and went for it. I’m not going to lie; he has the most talented tongue in the history of tongues.
I’d come so hard my legs shook.
I groan and squeeze my lids tight. If only that was the end of it, but then he’d pinned me against the door and proceeded to fuck me hard enough I saw stars.
God kill me.
The rest of the night is kind of a blur. We drank. I know that. I remember us talking but I don’t remember what we said, all I know was that it seemed like he listened to me. Was interested. Even after the closet.
I’d obviously ended up at his apartment. I remember lots of sex. I remember orgasms. At some point I’d fallen asleep and when I’d woken I’d never been so humiliated.
It was bad enough to have a drunken one-night stand, but no, I had to go have a flirtfest with the groom’s baby brother and make a fool out of myself in front of practically every person I know.
My mind has a brief flash of us rolling around on the bed, hot and sweaty. Me riding him, my head thrown back, his hands on my breasts. I get another image of him pounding into me from behind, his fingers working my clit.
I gasp, flushing hot. Oh, dear god, no. Had I really swallowed his cock while I’d straddled his face?
The image crystalizes. Shit. I did.
I’d really grinded away there, hadn’t I?
I’d also screamed, moaned, and groaned. I’d been insatiable. I hadn’t even cared what I looked like. There was something about Christopher that had made me want to come again. And again. And again.
Just shoot me.
If I’ve learned anything from my long list of humiliations, it’s that when you slut it up with a guy the first night you’ve lost their respect. But, how was I to know he’d turn me into a raving sex maniac?
He’d been so cute! He looked liked he’d be a puppy dog in bed—which is honestly why I’d glommed onto him. I thought he’d be eager and playful and cuddly. I thought I’d have to give him instructions. Show him where the clitoris was. Make him think about baseball so he wouldn’t come too fast.
I thought he’d make me feel good about myself again.
I was wrong.
We’d had super-dirty, porn sex. Like, insane, embarrassing sex. It was the best I’d ever had.
There’s no coming back from that.
So I’d crawled out of his bed, crept through his apartment, and left.
Now, here I am. Clearly, I’ll never be able to face him again. I’ll have to somehow come up with an excuse for why I can’t go to Chad and Ruby’s wedding.
My head is pounding. My body sore from the workout I’d given it last night.
This is wrong. I have to make some changes. I can’t keep going on like this. I can’t keep looking outside myself for validation. For acceptance. I can’t keep expecting some guy to fill me up and make me whole. I remember the words Christopher’s brother, Chad, spoke to me so long ago, a man won’t fix what’s broken inside you. And this morning, after sleeping with Christopher, I finally understand what he meant.
I have to change. I need to find peace.
I can’t keep searching for someone else to fill what’s missing inside me.
I straighten on the bench. A surge of empowerment washes over me despite the strength of my hangover.
Since men are my drug of choice, and the source of all my poor decisions, there’s really only one place to start.
I’ll need to take a vow of celibacy.
The thought both terrifies me and thrills me. If I want to find myself, I can’t keep using guys to distract me. I’ll need to quit them. Not forever, just until I learn not to use them as validation.
How long does it take to find yourself?
I frown. At least a year I’d think. I nibble my lower lip.
Yes, I can do this. A year without men. I’ll be like that Sex in the City episode I’d watched on HBOGo where Carrie decides to date New York.
But instead of Chicago, I’ll date myself.
I’ll take myself out. I’ll read on the beach. Go to concerts. Movies. Spend time with my girlfriends. Discover new hobbies. Concentrate on my career. Go to yoga.
I look up into the sky. The sun is rising, all fiery red orange, breaking across a billboard. A picture of a beach, a tropical drink, and a hotel with the words, Come to Belize, scrolling across them.
I suck in a breath and something niggles inside me.
I could travel. By myself.
That would be daring. What better way to start out a year of celibate, self-discovery than with a solo trip? I could do it. I have plenty of vacation time and my boss loves me. She’s always trying to get me to take more time off.
I could leave tomorrow.
I’d be entirely by myself. I can think. Plan. Look out on the horizon and reflect on my choices. Figure out who I am instead of using some guy to define me.
Yes, Belize, I will come to you.
Ashley May Hill, you are on your way. By this time next week I’ll be a brand new person.
Someone better. Stronger. And, most important, male-free.
About the Author
Jennifer Dawson grew up in the suburbs of Chicago and graduated from DePaul University with a degree in psychology. She met her husband at the public library while they were studying. To this day she still maintains she was NOT checking him out. Now, over twenty years later they’re married, living in a suburb right outside of Chicago with two awesome kids and a crazy dog.
Despite going through a light FM, poem writing phase in high school, Jennifer never grew up wanting to be a writer (she had more practical aspirations of being an international super spy). Then one day, suffering from boredom and disgruntled with a book she’d been reading, she decided to put pen to paper. The rest, as they say, is history.
* * *
These days, Jennifer can be found sitting behind her computer writing her next novel, chasing after her kids, keeping an ever watchful eye on her ever growing to-do list, and NOT checking out her husband.
Pride & Surrender Page 13