Tousle Me

by Lucy V. Morgan

  “Archer told me earlier. Thought I’d let you sleep it off for a while.”

  “Oh yeah. I was, um, sleeping.” I blush horrendously. I was not sleeping—I masturbated for three hours straight. My foof is sore.

  “So how’re you feeling?” she asks, resting her chin in her hand.

  “Oh, Enid. I can’t believe what he did to me!”

  “Archer said he’s gone to the pork side,” she says sympathetically. “It’s like you made him fall on his sword. Only it was someone else’s sword.”

  “Whuh?”

  “Nothing.”

  I sigh deeply, and outwardly. “I don’t know what to do, Enid. Labron called earlier and said Hunter’s going crazy since I left. He said it was all a big misunderstanding—”

  “But you’re not falling for that bullshit, right?” She grabs my arm across the table. “Right?”

  “I don’t know,” I mumble.

  “Listen here, Cammibelle Hicks. You’re my best friend, and I’m not going to let you mope over a cock captain like Hunter von Styles. I even figured out how you’re going to get over him.”

  I glance up with a mouth full of cheese fries. “Really? How?”

  “Well. Normally, it takes loads of time to get over a broken heart—at least three chapters, and they’re often rushed and full of dull stuff that just gets summarized. None of that crap here, oh no. I asked myself, how else do you show the passing of time?”

  I give a clueless shrug.

  “A montage!” she exclaims, holding up the iPad. “So I totally put one together on Powerpoint. It’s all the things we’d do over a few months to help you get over Hunter, conveniently condensed into four and a half minutes. I found this app that turns us into cartoon characters and I set it all to I Knew You Were Trouble by Taylor Swift,” she adds smugly.

  “But…but Taylor…” I collapse into random bleating sobs. “Taylor is his ex, Enid. She wrote that fricking song about him!”

  “Oh.” She recoils, deflated. “I guess I’ll just switch that around, then. Give me a sec.” She begins to tap away. Then pauses. “Taylor Swift? Seriously?”

  “You know he used to be famous.” I lower my voice. “And a manwhore.”

  “He’s still a manwhore.”

  “Yeah. Not helping.”

  “Sorry, sorry.” She holds the iPad up again. “Okay. I changed it to that Britney Spears medley by Cognac Façade. Better?”

  I manage a weak smile. “Much.”

  Enid hits Play, and we watch through the montage together. There are cartoons of me and Enid going travelling to Europe, Eat Pray Love style; we skydive, we dance at random nightclubs in Amsterdam, we ride camels in the deserts of Arabia. We watch Gone with the Wind on loop for a whole day whilst eating popcorn and drinking whiskey sours. We see musicals on Broadway. We cure cancer and AIDS, and then we get makeovers at Sephora. Wow. Getting over Hunter seems like fun! And yet…

  “So now how’re you feeling?” she asks, looking proud of herself.

  “I…that was cool.” I try very hard to keep the tears in. “But somehow, I don’t really feel like I’ve moved on.”

  “Well yeah. None of that was real, so you just have to pretend you’re over him. Keep pretending until eventually, you are.”

  “What if eventually never happens?” I say, panicked. “What if I’m just stuck in a cupboard of heartbreak and desolation forever, with nope of escape?”

  “We’ve talked about this, Cammie. Just stop getting into cupboards.”

  “Stop being so helpful and supportive!” I snap. “God, Enid. I’m sorry. I just…I feel like I’m falling apart…” And then I collapse in sobs all over again. Sparkles looks up from his plate of eggs and glitter to nudge me with his warm purple muzzle. I give his horn a stroke until I realize it looks like I’m giving him a hand job, and then I carry on because I kind of like that, and it makes my sore foof feel a bit better.

  Enid puts down the iPad and exhales heavily. “I do have one more idea. But you’re gonna hate it.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Feminist Society are having their sex slave auction tonight at the sorority house. There’ll be loads of hot guys there who’ll totally want to bid on an epic slab of virgin like you.” She nudges my foot under the table. “What do you think?”

  “You think I should squander my purity on the notorious FemSoc SlaveAuc?” I say, dubious.

  “It’s for charity.”

  “I suppose that does make it okay.” I cock my head. “But what if Hunter finds out and goes berserk about me being with another guy?”

  “Fuck Hunter!” She winces. “You know what I mean.”

  I fiddle with my plate. “I’ll think about it. I don’t know. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat…I don’t even want these fries.” I push them toward her. “Want to feed them to Sparkles?”

  “You can stop pretending about the unicorn now.” Enid pats me on the hand.

  “I’m not pretending. He’s right there.” I nod toward him.

  Enid peers sideways and blinks. “You can see that, too?”

  “What do you mean? Of course I can see him. He’s mine! Hunter bought him for me.”

  Enid takes a huge gulp of her coffee. “No, Cammie, that’s a unicorn. They don’t exist. I’m hallucinating after all the weed I did last night at the frat house, and you’re too grief-stricken to see sense.”

  Sparkles von Fancypants gets to his feet with a clop of hooves, grunts at Enid, backs up and proceeds to pee all over her leg. We both just sit there as the yellow puddle widens between us. The air reeks of urine. And Gatorade. Sparkles shakes his tail in Enid’s face and gives a loud snort.

  “Huh,” she says blankly.

  “Jesus, Enid. How much weed did you do?”

  “Not enough, apparently.” She stares at the unicorn and clears her throat. “Not enough.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I spend the rest of the afternoon alternating between uploading a book review, messing around on Goodreads, and gazing forlornly at Squid Patrick Harris. He brings back so many wonderful memories of Hunter; the cage fight, our first kiss. And he reminds me of the black abyss my heart has become now that Hunter is gone. I’m alone and awash in my own fetid misery.

  Well, alone with a snoring unicorn. Sparkles sure does take up some space.

  Turns out there are some reviewers who don’t like what I’m doing with Goodreads. You’d think they’d appreciate that I just want to have a little fun at this sad time in my life, but noooo. Apparently I should be responding to admin emails, dealing with complaints and not fucking up the listings for my own petty amusements. Well sheesh. Have a heart, you harpies!

  I think a lot about Labron’s phone call. Maybe I could text him, just make sure that Hunter’s doing okay. Make sure that getting his stomach pumped hasn’t aversely affected his chiselled abs—priorities, people. Le sniff. Le sigh.

  Suddenly, the door falls open and Enid bounces in. She’s done her blond hair in fancy ringlets, and she’s wearing her pleather mini. Sticky red gloss coats her lips.

  “You’re looking very dolled up,” I say, which is basically Girl Code for who are you trying to impress, Enid? Hmm? HMM?

  She does a little pirouette. “Thanks. New top—you like?”

  “Yeah.” My face falls in realisation. “You’ve come here to drag me to that FemSoc SlaveAuc, haven’t you?”

  “There’s no way we’re missing it, like last semester. I can’t go without you.”

  “Why not? I’m not even dressed—”

  “Yes, you’re doing that thing where you pretend you aren’t remotely attractive. I see right through those geek glasses, Cammie Hicks.”

  Why wouldn’t she see through them? They’re made of glass.

  “Come on,” she says matter-of-factly, arranging her hair around her heart-shaped face. “We have twenty minutes. Archer’s expecting us. And hey.” She leans in, all conspiratorial. “We might even get you laid. Finally.”

  I ro
ll my eyes. Then I roll them again in the opposite direction. Enid stares at me as if I just stepped in dog poop.

  “I’m not going to a slave auction just because you think I should have sex,” I mutter.

  “But but but. You’re at college now, you’re a grown woman. There’s nothing to stop you having a little fun.”

  I cock my head. “My parents are conveniently absent.”

  “Precisely.” She snorts. “Anyone would think you were waiting to fall—um, Cammie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Haven’t we had like, this exact same conversation before?”

  I pause, tapping my chin in thought. “Now that you mention it, I do remember something very similar occurring in the first chapter.”

  Enid’s upper lip twitches in disgust. “Oh my God. We’ve been copy-and-pasted!”

  Oh, come on, author! How lazy are you? “Is Archer even waiting for us?” I ask.

  She folds her arms. “Nope. In fact he said he might not come.”

  “And do we have to leave in twenty minutes?”

  She checks the time on her phone. “It’s like five p.m. We’ve got three hours. Jeez—you’d think we could at least have some consistency.”

  I pat my face, and snort with laughter. “I’m not even wearing glasses. I only wore them in that first scene so the author could make that pun!”

  “Too funny.” Enid nudges one of Sparkles’ hooves out of the way and sits on my bed. “So…three hours to kill.”

  For a moment, I’m tempted to suggest masturbation. But that would be wrong; with Sparkles taking up the bed, there isn’t space for us both to lie down. “Want to binge on Tumblr with me?” I offer.

  “Nah.” She sighs, looking crestfallen. “Archer’s too busy sulking to be good company, either. I might go knock on Anonymous’s door and see if he wants to do some ninja roleplay, or something.”

  “Go for it. I’ll have a bath and get ready for the SlaveAuc.” I seriously need to take my mind off Hunter before I do something stupid, like jump on a Greyhound bus and just ride, riiiide through the night.

  “Okay. See ya in a bit.” Enid heads for my door. “Oh, and Cammie?”

  I look up from my laptop. “Yeah?”

  “Can I borrow the unicorn?”

  I look from Enid to Sparkles. And back to Enid again. “No, you cannot borrow Sparkles von Fancypants for your dirty sex games with Cap…Anonymous.”

  “Pfft. Fine.” She sighs on her way out. “Worth a shot.”

  I’ve only been in the bath for about ten minutes when a rocking, creaking sound begins to emanate from Anonymous’s room next door. I roll my eyes toward the ceiling; secretive bossy guy in Madonna/Whore complex shocker.

  “BANANAS!” he screams as the rocking gets harder, “I CAN’T LOOK AT BANANAS!”

  “H-h-how about mangoes?” Enid whines.

  “Mangoes? What the fuck?!”

  A long, shimmery horn emerges slowly around the door, followed by the purple muzzle of Sparkles von Fancypants. His black eyes are wide and bloodshot. He looks traumatized. “Neeeeigh?”

  * * *

  The FemSoc SlaveAuc is held at the sorority house for Alpha Iota, which is a terrifying pink behemoth built of breeze blocks that taste like candyfloss and the bitter tears of chauvinist sacrifices. I always feel funny walking through the front entrance because it looks like a vagina. Enid likes to ram herself through the doors when she gets drunk and screech, “There’s no place like womb!”

  Enid has not been asked to rush for Alpha Iota.

  Inside, the walls are lined with portraits of famous feminists like RuPaul, Shakira and Geri from the Spice Girls. I feel empowered just looking at them. Maybe coming to the FemSoc wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  I was going to wear my usual baggy pants and tee, but Enid convinced me to dress a little more…attractively. So I’ve gone for the classic college girl look in Ugg boots, a slouchy tunic, and leggings that are slightly transparent around my ass—all topped off with a stylish tote bag. The tote is maybe a little too big since it’s the same size as my bedroom window, but Enid says it’s very “on trend.” (Don’t worry—I checked it thoroughly for weasels).

  The SlaveAuc is being held in the basement, what with it being all underground and illegal and whatnot. It’s like the cage fight I went to with Hunter only nobody gets pounded—you have to take your slave to your room for that. The dark, shadowy space is already filling up with students and old men in trench coats. My pulse thumps in my ears when I realize that somewhere in this room is the man I’ll lose my virginity to, but then I feel kind of romantic about that because it’s like, you know, I’m letting fate decide.

  The feeling quickly fades when I hear some of the other slave girls whispering about Hunter out back.

  “I heard he’th coming tonight, and he’th bringing a trillion dollarth,” a redheaded girl hisses with a lisp.

  “I heard he’s relapsed after…you know…and he’s locked up in an asylum,” another insists.

  “I heard he’s gay,” a brunette with pigtails weeps. “Gay! Life just isn’t fair sometimes, right?”

  “Shut up, Candath,” lisps redhead. “Of courth he’s not gay. He wath in a German rock band, for chrithaketh.”

  I want to barge right into their little pow-wow and scream at them like a banshee—shut up, shut up! But I cower in the corner, alone and ashamed and afraid (and other words beginning with A that denote similar emotions). Maybe I don’t want to be with a stranger. Oh God. All I want is Hunter and that cute Jekyll and Hyde thing he has going on.

  “Ladies!” trills a butch lesbian in a tux, “we’re about to start!”

  As we queue up to go on stage, I find myself wishing that Enid was here. She never did come back from Anonymous’s room and I figure something must have happened after the banana incident. Still, she put up a weird Facebook status earlier about the Russian mafia, so she’s probably okay.

  The first girl, a blond sorority chick in a Hogwarts uniform, is sold to Robin Thicke for $23. He slaps her on the ass and winks for the photographer before leading her off stage somewhere vile and seedy. How exciting! I count down the queue: three more girls until it’s my turn.

  The slaves are passing hipflasks up and down the line.

  “You want?” says the redhead, holding it out to me.

  “Oh, no thanks.” I wave the flask away. “Romance heroine—notoriously poor alcohol tolerance.”

  She nods knowingly. “Fair enouth.”

  A blast of applause ripples from the echoey basement as yet another young filly is pawned off to the highest bidder. I want to throw my hands over my ears, but I’m scared of an Archer’s eyebrows situation.

  “Aren’t you, like, a bit nervous?” I ask the redhead in a low voice.

  “Of courth not. Where elth can you find a forced theduction thenario in contemporary thothiety? It’th every girl’th dream.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I mutter. “Come to think of it, I do quite like to say no when I really mean yes.”

  “Precithely.”

  Then redhead gets called up, and she’s auctioned off to a group of three frat boys who are carrying a large tub of Schaffer’s Helmet Polish. Looks like somebody’s in for a super fun night.

  “Next to go under the hammer—if you know what I’m sayin’—is our very own Cammibelle Hicks!” announces butch lesbian in a tux.

  I guess that’s my cue. Holy unicorn crap, I’m so nervous, I think I might pee.

  Hmm. So I’m peeing. Just a little bit.

  Good thing my Uggs soak it up. Hey—now I know why they’re so thick and absorbent!

  Walking on to the stage of a slave auction is a little like being a cheeseburger at a Weight Watchers meeting: my buns are kinda sticky. Also, a bunch of dudes are staring at me with ravenous glints in their eyes.

  “Now Cammibelle is a very special snowflake,” Butch goes on, “because she’s a virgin. In fact she’s both kinds of virgin—front and back.”
<
br />   “And mouth,” I add, brightly.

  “And mouth!” Butch yells. “So three kinds of virgin. Like fifty shades of grey, but with forty seven of them missing.”

  “How about her arm pits?” yells a guy who looks suspiciously like one of my professors.

  “And her nostrils?” calls another.

  “Oh. Well.” Butch turns to me. “Ever had a cock up your nostril?”

  I take a deep breath and put on my best Miss America voice. “I’m pleased to say that I have not.”

  “So five kinds of virgin, technically,” Butch announces. “What a bargain. Gentlemen—we’re going to start the bidding at $5.”

  $5 for my virginity? What? That’s like the price of a plate of nachos, or a bag of sparkly unicorn feed. Please, God in heaven and Yeezus on the Throne, let somebody bid more than $5 for the chance to pop my cherry.

  For a moment, the basement is silent, bar a few coughs and the sound of Robin Thicke saying something in the back about hashtags. Then a hand goes up at the back.

  “A hundred bucks,” says a familiar voice.

  It’s Archer! What the chips is he doing here?

  “Two hundred,” says the Prof.

  Okay, ew.

  Archer clears his throat. “Three hundred.”

  “Three hundred and two,” the professor counters.

  Archer winces painfully. “Touché.”

  “Do we have any advance on $302?” asks Butch.

  “Uh…three hundred and three?” says Archer, sounding desperate.

  My professor gives a dark chuckle and adjusts his cravat. “Three hundred and seventeen. Trololololol!”

  The crowd erupts in a haze of oohs and aahs.

  Butch looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Looks like this is about to get interesting.”

  “You’re bloody right, it is,” says a thick, creamy British accent.

  I jerk up. The crowd snap around in their seats.

  Standing right at the back and suddenly glowing in the halo of a random but poignant spotlight…is Hunter von Styles. He’s wearing a Burberry trench with the collar pulled up, and his hair is tousled so tastefully that I could eat it. He’s like sex flu Sherlock.