by Sloan Archer
The way Grams looked at it, she wasn’t instructing me to hide who I was or where I came from; she was merely engineering the finest possible “me” to present to the world.
I took care of myself, and ate the healthiest way that I could on our food stamp budget. I went jogging every night in my thrift store sneakers, always working hard to take care of my body, a necessity since we couldn’t afford health insurance.
When you reach womanhood, Mercy, you may find that you’re broke at times, Grams would say. But you’ll have your looks temporarily and your brains forever. Your beauty may get your foot in the door, but it’s your intellect that will keep you there.
Grams’ words resonated with me, and as a result, I spent my teens studying while all of my classmates partied. I attracted the attention of several boys in town, but I always remained fearful about the risks of pregnancy. I was called all sorts of unflattering names- geek, frigid, ball buster- for my studiousness. I didn’t have many friends, and townspeople accused me of thinking that I was better than everybody.
No matter what those who didn’t truly know me believed, I never assumed that I was superior to anyone. I only wanted to escape.
And escape I did.
It was the happiest day of my life when I was accepted to Dewhurst. I had to delay my admission for a year and a half because of finances, but I didn’t mind. I had found my way out.
I got a job at the only grocery store in Pelville as a checker, worked as many hours as they’d give me, and saved every penny I made. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
No trust fund. No savings. No inheritance. As an adult, every cent I ever had, every connection I ever made, I earned it myself. That much I could be proud of.
I’d never been outside of Florida until the day I flew to California to begin attending college.
When I stepped off the plane in San Francisco, I was overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the big city. My initial impressions were of the glamorous urbanites bustling around me. Everyone was so polished and important-looking, typing away on high-tech gadgets with upmarket cell phones glued to their ears, like they’d stepped straight out of a magazine. Even the air was different, far chillier than the humidity I’d grown accustomed to in Pelville.
I was scared, an overwhelmed small-town girl lost in a big, bad metropolis. I wanted nothing more than to hop on the next flight back to Florida.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t bear to imagine what it would have done to Grams if I returned to the trailer park a coward. And so I remained in San Francisco, making it my new home.
Four years later, and I could still attest that staying in California was the best decision I’d ever made. Still, in spite of how far I’d come since leaving Pelville, I was ashamed of my irresponsibility and how I’d allowed myself get into such a financial bind.
I’d been living on student loans for the past few months, eschewing work so I could do well in school during my final year. At least my sacrifice had paid off; I graduated as one of the top of my class, summa cum laude.
I’d always naively assumed that I’d land a job as soon as I was furnished with a degree, as if there’d be a fairy godmother waiting for me after the graduation ceremony with an offer for a stellar six-figure job in a private practice.
As a part of this deluded fantasy, I’d accept my fairy godmother’s proposition, later becoming one of the most respected psychologists in town. I’d live in the trendiest part of the city in a sweet little historical cottage. I’d remodel it so finely that my friends would come over and gasp, “You really decorated all of this yourself?” In my home office, I’d have a wall filled with awards and plaques that had been given to me by my fellow scholars. I’d arrive at work each day dressed in designer clothes that, while stylish, were serious enough to show that I meant business. I’d be in such high demand that I’d have to turn patients away because my schedule was just too busy. I’d sufficiently ease the emotional turmoil my patients faced, leaning back in my expensive leather desk chair while noncommittally murmuring, “Hmm, I see. How does that make you feel?”
None of this ever happens to anyone, though, does it? Life never pans out so easily in the same way that it does in the movies. But how I wished it did.
On the days I felt particularly discouraged, I’d question whether I should have just gone to a state school like many of my high school classmates had done. They may not live in San Francisco, or have elaborate diplomas printed on the highest quality linen, but they also probably weren’t in debt up to their eyeballs.
To hell with university bragging rights. And to hell with my fairy godmother. What I really needed was a salaried job with benefits.
The story was always the same each time I went job-hunting. You’re a smart girl, Mercy. You have a great degree, and lots of potential. But… you have no experience whatsoever. Next!
It was time to put on my big girl pants and face reality. I was in serious financial trouble. I needed to find a way to make money. No, not just money. A lot of money.
Immediately.
TWO
Coming in from the chilly air, I yanked open the front door to the apartment and ran into my roommate, Elizabeth. Literally. Our bodies collided, and her pert breasts squashed against my ample C-Cups, knocking me a bit silly. We twittered awkwardly as we pulled apart, making dismissive comments about our clumsiness.
I’d seen Liz naked dozens of times during the past year that I’d shared an apartment with her, so the awkwardness of our chest-bumping did not last long.
Liz used to come into the bathroom each day to shower for work as I was finishing getting ready for school. She’d perch on the edge of the tub, telling animated stories about the clients she had at the salon she worked at as a hairdresser. She’s take her time testing the water with her long, alabaster fingers. When the temperature was to her liking, she’d let her terrycloth bathrobe slide down on her lithe body and crumple on the floor. She’d then step into the steamy shower, leaving behind one awestruck Mercy Montgomery.
That was our unspoken bathroom ritual. It was my ritual, anyway. She would bathe, and I would inspect her glistening curves reflected in the mirror as I blow-dried my long, chocolaty tresses. I examined her objectively as a classic representation of beauty, comparing her figure to mine with a curiosity that was faintly lustful and utterly void of malice.
I’d always considered myself an avid heterosexual, a devoted lover of menfolk and all the delicious treasures they have to offer below the belt. Admittedly, I was envious of Liz’s perfection, but I observed her as one would view a nude Grecian sculpture in a respectable yet inadvertently lascivious museum. No doubt about it, Liz was a living work of art.
Liz always pretended to be completely oblivious to my gaze greedily consuming her physique, but occasionally our eyes would meet in the mirror before we both turned away shyly. She liked to show as much as I liked to watch. Look but never touch. That was the game.
One time, I’d neglected to put my bathrobe in the dryer the night before I had an early morning class. As a consequence, it was too damp to wear, and I had no choice but to get ready naked. While I was applying makeup, I reached for the mascara on the counter, accidentally bumping it. It fell to the floor and hit the ceramic tiles with a whack, causing Liz to turn her head in my direction. I got down on all fours, reaching for the mascara that was just slightly out of touch. The farther away I stretched, the more my hips pulled open, until my intimate region was fully exposed to her. When I got to my feet, the skin around Liz’s neck was flushed, and the tips of her breasts were drawn into rigid points. Apparently, she liked to watch, too.
Liz touched my goose-fleshed arm, coaxing me back to reality.
She’d just made love with her boyfriend, David; that much was obvious. She only wore his t-shirts after sex. I was certain of that, just as much as I was certain that she was also nude from the waist down.
Even after three years, Liz and David still went at it like a couple who’d onl
y just started dating. On more than several occasions, I’d heard them moaning through the wall as they pleasured each other in ways I could only speculate. Their heated lovemaking would be followed by an abrupt silence, and then a few moments later Liz would meander into the kitchen wearing one of David’s tees, her taut little rear peeking out from the bottom hem. She’d lift up high on her tiptoes and reach into the cupboard, grabbing down a glass which she’d ritualistically fill with tart grapefruit juice. Her swollen vagina would flash out at me from underneath the shirt, freshly corrupted and glistening. Most occasions, unless she had swallowed I presumed, David’s pearly liquid would trickle out from the temporary gap his sex had burrowed.
I concluded long ago that if I was allowed only one word to describe Elizabeth, it would be brazen. At twenty-seven, she was a few years older than I was, but I imagined that age had nothing to with it. With the amount of self-confidence Liz had, she’d probably emerged from the womb a vixen. I envied her confidence. And her horniness.
“Hey,” she said worriedly, rubbing my arm. “Are you okay? You look you’ve seen a ghost.”
I bit my lip and looked away, embarrassed, as if she’d been reading my mind. “Not really,” I said distractedly. “I just got a past due notice in the mail for my student loan. The bank is out for blood.”
“Yikes.” Her tone was so gloomy that the debt could have been her own. She ran her delicate fingers through her chestnut tresses, blowing air out of her puffed-up cheeks. She had recently cropped ten inches off her mane on an impulse, and initially claimed that she loathed the new style. Her long hair had been beautiful, but I thought the pixie cut also suited her nicely. “How much do you owe?”
“A hundred and eight thou, plus change,” I said, my stomach churning.
“Shit,” she spat, choking slightly on her grapefruit juice. “Wow. That’s, like, more than what some people pay for their entire house.”
She wasn’t helping matters. “Tell me about it.”
“Wait,” she said, her auburn brows furrowing. “I’m confused. I thought Dewhurst had given you a scholarship.”
“They did, but it only covered half the tuition each semester. Star athletes who put asses in stadium seats are usually the only students who receive full rides,” I said bitterly. “I still had to come up with about twenty-three thousand dollars each year. Plus, you know, I had to pay rent on a dorm room, and had books to buy on top of all my other expenses.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, nervously tugging at the ends of her shortened hair. It was kind of odd how she still played with her tresses like they were still long. She was reminiscent of a person suffering from phantom limb.
“I honestly don’t know,” I sighed. “It’s not like I’m unemployed from lack of trying. No private practice will hire me. There aren’t any state job openings for newbies like me, with California being so bankrupt. I guess,” I said sarcastically, “I could always sell my blood.”
“Yah, right,” she snorted. “You’d look like a raisin before you’d earn enough to make even half of a single loan payment.”
No, Liz definitely wasn’t helping matters.
“Too bad I wasn’t a man,” I lamented. “Then I could sell sperm. It’s so unfair. Donating blood hurts. Men actually derive pleasure from jerking off, and they get to perv at nudie magazines while they do it. And they get paid for their efforts!”
“Bastards,” she joked. “Oh,” she gasped, her snub nose crinkling. “Do you think they get to keep it after?”
“What? Their semen? I think it’s self-replenishing, Liz. I’m fairly certain that they already have a new batch brewing in their balls even as they’re ejaculating. How nice for them,” I quipped sarcastically.
“No, not that,” she laughed, rolling her eyes. “The magazine.”
“Oh.” I chuckled.
“As if any man would want to use it right after another man-” she made quotation marks with her fingers- “did the deed. Bleh.”
“Hmm, I don’t know,” I muttered. Did they? The topic would have made for an interesting discussion in the human sexuality class I took during my freshman year. I could have even composed a paper on the subject, one which referenced the unconscious homoerotic feelings men experience for one another.
She shuddered. “The pages would be all stuck together.”
I guffawed. Such judgment from a girl who had her boyfriend’s sperm dripping down her thighs. I could actually smell the saltiness of it as it heated against her skin. If Liz was anything, it was contrary.
Her pensive stare focused on the bill in my hands. Lost in thought, she rotated the antique rose gold and amethyst ring around her finger. It was a family heirloom that she never took off.
“I got it!” she screeched, snapping her fingers.
“Christ, Liz!” I said, clutching my chest. “I think you just scared a few years off of my life.”
“Sorry,” she grinned. “I just got a tad excited. I have THE BEST idea for how you could earn some quick cash.”
“I already told you,” I said dryly. “We’re not growing pot in the closet.”
“Very funny,” she pouted, folding her arms across her chest. I had mildly hurt her feelings by not taking her idea seriously.
“Okay, gorgeous,” I said, placating her. “What’s this brilliant plan of yours?”
She unfolded her arms. “Wits and tits,” she said cunningly.
“Umm… What?”
“Wits and Tits,” she confirmed. “It’s a wet t-shirt contest they hold every Wednesday night down at that night club near Main. You know, Shwilly Pete’s? There’s a contest tonight, actually.”
I shook my head. “No way. Like I want to go to a bar and flash my rack at a bunch of screaming frat boys. Great plan, but no thanks.”
“Hey, don’t make fun,” she sulked. “I would have done it long ago, but the contest is only open to students.” She cupped her breasts, shaking them. “Clearly, my uneducated titties are not good enough for Shwilly Pete’s discerning tastes.”
She gave me an indifferent smile, but I could tell that she was annoyed. “But with jugs like these,” she said, feeling me up, “you’d be a shoo-in.”
I cleared my throat. The girl simply had no concept of personal boundaries. She dropped her hand with nonchalance, as if she’d done nothing more than passed me salt at the dinner table.
“Hey, you’re more than welcome to go down there and use my student ID,” I smirked. “Have at it, Liz, because I’m not going.”
“Yah, sure, because that would work,” she said flippantly. “We look so much alike, don’t we?”
She had me on that one. I was short, petite, curvy- an archetypical hourglass figure. Liz was tall, exotic, and willowy. My figure was suitable for centerfolds aimed at men, whereas hers belonged on the pages of high-fashion women’s magazines. Liz’s skin was perpetually snow-white. She couldn’t tan no matter how hard she tried. My skin, while also on the lighter side, would at least turn a light bronze in summertime, maybe even olive if I was lucky. My hair was long, wavy, and classic. Hers was bold and trendy. We were very different, indeed.
“I haven’t told you the best part about the contest,” she grinned. “The winner gets-”
“What? A venereal disease?”
“No,” she shot me a steely look. “Five hundred dollars. Cash.”
“Really?” I narrowed my eyes at her suspiciously, but I knew she was telling the truth. Liz wasn’t one to make up stories. She told me once that she thought lying was beneath her, because people who lied had something to be ashamed of. Liz, of course, had no shame.
“Besides,” she added, “I seriously doubt if anyone from your hoity-toity Dewhurst will be there. Shwilly Pete’s has more of a State crowd.”
“Oh, God,” I sighed. I regarded the thick bundle of bills disdainfully. It didn’t take a financial wizard to grasp how much I could really use the money.
“What? What’s wrong?” Her hazel eyes gazed at me
anxiously.
“I seriously cannot believe I’m going to say this… But, okay, I’m in.”
THREE
What transpired during the competition wasn’t at all surprising.
As expected, the tavern was full of drunken students- predominantly male, naturally- all jostling each other playfully in order to get a better view of the tacky, PG-13 show taking place before them. Intoxicated, thanks to a shot dubbed “mind eraser,” twenty other girls and I donned our skimpy Shwilly Pete’s branded tanks, and jiggled, gyrated, and strutted our way onto the stage as the rowdy crowd cheered us on.
Each time a new girl would take the stage, the mob would go wild. As a bell tolled, we would dump a pitcher of icy water down our chests. The applause increased until the hoots and hollers were deafening. No surprise there, either.
What did astound me, though, was when I was handed five hundred dollars in cash and crowned Shwilly Pete’s Top Titty. It was an award I was certain would never grace the “awards and achievements” section of my professional resume.
After the contest was over, I tossed the crown in the trash and changed back into the demure dress I had arrived in, stashing my winnings securely in my handbag.
Liz and I made a beeline towards the bar; I was more than eager to sling back a few drinks in order to block out what I’d just done. Unlike some of the floozies on stage who’d glared at me resentfully when I was announced champion, I didn’t consider winning a wet t-shirt contest my finest moment. I was an honor student with a brain crammed full of some of the best education money can buy, yet I’d participated in a bar challenge dubbed Wits and Tits, for the love of God.
I inwardly cringed, ashamed of myself. If my Dewhurst professors could only see me now.
Liz and I nudged our way through the crowd, ignoring the screaming morons who attempted to congratulate me with drunken high-fives. The dj was playing some insufferable boy band tune from the nineties, making it difficult to hear my self-loathing thoughts.
It was humiliating, hanging out in a college bar when I was no longer (unbeknownst to Shwilly Pete) technically considered a student. Shouldn’t I have already moved on like so many of my other classmates?