Okay, this is scary, but I think it’s time to start telling you the truth. I have a novel I’m working on and it’s based heavily on my life. The working title is Virtual Mercury. Here is a very honest opening into the story.
I’m 27 years old. I’m pretty. I have supernaturally perfect skin. My friends are influencers and sometimes they take me on expensive trips around the world in exchange for taking pictures of them. I model, sometimes, enough to make people ogle, but not enough that I make a living from it. I’ve been on some TV shows and I have one of the best management firms in town. But the only acting jobs I get are for Lowe’s Home Improvement. But I’m not complaining, Lowe’s pays well.
You would believe I lead a beautiful and successful life. You would think I have a boyfriend or maybe several. You would think I’m a fucking sex goddess. That I have men waiting at my door. That I’m not afraid of them. That I use tampons effortlessly and I can put my own finger inside of my body. That having sex doesn’t make me scream from absolute pain. That I want to get married and have children. That I’m debt free and have a perfect credit score.
The reality is I hate my friends. I hate how much money they make. I hate their designer bags and their shoes. I hate their luxury electric cars. I hate their “get ready with me’s” and vlogs. I hate their fanbases and commenters. I hate how they’re polluting the world and my mind with their content. I hate them for doing something I would never do, that I also hate myself for not doing. I hate that I won’t be an influencer.
Because even though I booked another Lowe’s commercial, the money ran out. Because it always runs out, because I don’t save well, and I’m back to receiving unemployment money again. $450 a week for the next few months.
The truth is, I don’t understand my beauty. I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t understand a thing. Nobody told me I was beautiful until it was too late.
Men think I’m beautiful, but I’m only able to enjoy that brief stint of power during the first rush of dates. Before we get into bed with each other — if they’re lucky. But not so lucky, because I won’t fuck them. Not now, not next month, not ever. And it’s not because I’m religious or saving myself for marriage, or because I have standards of any sort, but it’s because my vagina won’t let a penis inside of me. It can barely handle a finger, and if it does let a finger in, it’s never my own. I can’t even enter myself. I can’t even get a tampon in. Makes me queasy even thinking about it.
There was only one boy who managed to partially fuck me. Last year — Benjamin. He got 3/5ths of his dick inside of me. His words, not mine. And it wasn’t completely painful. I felt a small percentage of what might be described as pleasure. But pleasure is maybe not just the absence of feeling pain, maybe it’s a totally different thing. I’m not so sure quite yet.
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