Page 5 of Baby Girl

“Girl, sit down. Sometimes I wonder about you. You just need to get a boyfriend. This jumping from guy to guy has got to stop. And he’s old. That’s kind of gross,” she finished her beer and raised her hand to the waiter as she set down the bottle.

“If you fucked older guys, you’d understand. Boys will always treat you like shit, Heather. Men will treat you the way they treat you, but you almost always know what’s going to happen, they don’t make up ridiculous lies just to get in your pants. They will tell you from the beginning what they want. And you get to choose if it’s what you want or not,” I began to sit as I was finishing my sentence.

“Girl, you crack me up,” Heather took a drink, and continued, “You talk like you’re educated, which you are. Good for you. But I always thought, and kinda hoped, that when you went to college, you’d quit cussing. You say fuck and cock and cum more than any man I have ever met, and you always shave. It’s because a man raised you, isn’t it?”

I don’t know that I actually will ever know the real story, but I know what I was told. It may be what happened, it may not be. When I was about one year old, my mother left. I was an only child, and was left to be raised by my father. My father, for my entire life, never remarried. He did have female friends, and always went on dates, but he never allowed another female to move into the house. He never really had a steady girlfriend either. When I was young, I hoped that he would one day find someone that I could call mother, but as I got older, I was appreciative of the fact that he never did.

Some people told me that their parents had told them that he “paid” my mother to leave. That she had become a drunk when I was young and that he gave her money and asked her to leave and never return. Either way, she was gone.

My father was attractive, wealthy, and owned the BMW dealership in town. He always had attractive women in his life, and I often wondered, especially now, why he never had a permanent woman in his life. I had begun to recently wonder if he still truly loved my mother after all these years. It was something that he never spoke of, and that I never tried to bring up. The few times when I was younger when I tried to ask questions, he would respond in short responses, and change the subject.

“I just like to cuss, it makes me feel good. I think, deep down inside, if I talk really dirty, I will get dirty results from a man. The older and dirtier, the better.”

“Fucking old men is gross,” Heather said as she took a drink from her new bottle of Bud Lime.

“Fucking men makes me have repeated orgasms. Fucking boys makes me angry. Boys always end up doing everything that they say they won’t ever do. Eventually, they all do it. I don’t want someone to appreciate me for who I am, I want someone to fuck my brains out, and that’s it.” I said, looking at the melted ice in my glass.

You have always said that you wanted someone to appreciate you for who you are, not what you look like, what about that?” Heather asked dryly.

“I did. But. But. But. There’s a difference. I want someone to appreciate me for who I am. For the person that I am, and the person that I am able to be; not for what I look like. But, I do not want them to appreciate me and want to marry me. I want them to appreciate me and fuck me. Fuck me because they appreciate me. Not appreciate me because they fucked me. If a man appreciates me for who I am, and then fucks me, he’s going to fuck me like he appreciates me. Get a boy to do that,” I responded as I finished my drink.

“I just want someone to love me,” Heather said as she finished her beer.

“Oh. My. God.” I said in a loud, exaggerated tone. People turned and looked our direction to see what happened.

“Heather, seriously? Love? Love is something that is created by the Hallmark card company to sell shit on Valentine’s Day. Love isn’t real. Love is what people say to you so they can keep fucking you. So they can keep your interest. I don’t want lies; I want my ass slapped, my hair pulled, and treated like a little whore,” I held my glass up to the passing waiter as I finished speaking.

“You’re a little closet whore. That’s freaking gross. I can’t believe you’re like that. It makes me puke just to think of it. I remember when we were in high school, and you figured out you had no gag reflex. That word passed quickly. Jesus, you were sucking everyone’s cock in our sophomore year.”

“I love it,” I tilted my head back and stroked my throat with the palm of my hand. “Feeling a cock slide in and out of my throat makes me so wet. I love my eyes watering and acting like I am gagging, even if I am not gagging naturally. It’s so easy to own a guy. All you have to do is suck his cock really good, and he’s yours forever.”

“Quit rubbing your throat, you tramp,” Heather said, laughing.

As I sat at the table and waited for my drink, I began to feel the tingle. I was so wet from talking about sex. The thought of it just made me wet. The talking combined with the tattooed guy at the bathroom was more than I could take. I felt that I may have to text one of my old boyfriends and have them meet me in the parking lot. Generally speaking, if I was awake, I was thinking about sex or some form of sexual act. I often fantasized about men even when there were no men around. Boys, on the other hand, got me out of the mood quick. I started thinking about the douchebag that pointed at me when I went to the bathroom. I crossed my legs and started to speak.

“So. Tattoo guy. Where does he live?”

“I don’t know, Kelli. Bel Aire, I guess. In a shitty house. His mom died, and he lives in her house. I think she died the year you left for college. You’ve been at KU so long, you’ve missed him. He’s just some biker. He drives a nice car, though. One of your dad’s. My dad said that he filed a lawsuit against the insurance company or something, I don’t know.”

“Well, I have always said, if you want something bad enough, you can make it happen. I am going to find him. I am going to find him, and I am going to have a summer of insane sex with him. And then, I am going to go to grad school,” I said, smiling.

“Are you still serious about that? Running your dad’s dealership? That’s retarded,” Heather said, looking into the neck of her beer bottle.

“Yes, I was accepted at Columbia, and have done everything to go in September,” I said as I finished my drink. “Let’s get out of here before they get busy.”

The waiter quickly brought the tab. I reached into my purse and got my credit card from my wallet. As I was handing him my card, Heather spoke.

“You don’t have to do that, Kelli, let me pay for mine. You never let me pay,” She said, waving a handful of bills in front of me.

“I know I don’t have to, but I can, and I will. So, get over it, bitch,” I said, smiling.

When the waiter handed me my card back, I reached into my purse and got out my wallet. As I dropped my wallet back into my purse, I saw my little vibrator in the bottom of my purse. Staring at it I began to think about masturbating in the parking lot. I didn’t say anything to Heather, but I wondered. How many girls truly have this insatiable desire to have sex? A desire from deep within that can never really be satisfied, only put on hold. I looked at the vibrator, and mentally drifted away. Thoughts of the Bel Aire motorcycle guy began to fill my mind. As I started to wiggle in my chair, Heather brought me out of my comatose state of mind.

“Are you ready?” she asked as she stood from her chair.

“Yeah, let’s go,” I said, standing and placing my purse over my shoulder.

As we walked outside, I could hear the music playing. The guy had an amazing voice. He was doing a Sublime cover.