Heliocentric - Chapter 2

The Many

When I was thirteen, I learned how to send nudes. How to push my boobs together, make them look plump, how to arch my back, make my ass look bigger, and my waist smaller. This knowledge carried me far. I remember the feeling of sending nudes from my childhood bedroom, how good it felt to be desired. I was an addict, and sexual validation was my drug. I’ve craved that feeling ever since I felt it.

I hoped this would be something I’d grow out of. 

When my dad left, I began to look at my mom through a hypercritical lens – the same lens she looked at herself through. I noticed every wrinkle on her face, every graying strand of hair, how her boobs sagged, her ass flattened, her posture curved. I couldn’t help but compare her to the woman who came to the door – that lady’s shining complexion and tight, thin body. The way her hesitant smile seemed to stretch on for miles, and the same for her legs. I made a vow to always be that woman, to always look my best. My father’s infidelity quickly morphed from simply the reason he left, to my motivation for sexuality. 

If I looked good enough, oozed sex appeal like the woman at the door, then men wouldn’t cheat on me. I wouldn’t be the woman getting left. I’d be the woman coming to the door.

“Who wants to go out tonight?” My friends look at me, exhausted and hungover. 

“Girl, you need to relax. Didn’t you wake up in a random apartment on the east side this morning?” 

And I did. I woke up sweating onto navy blue sheets, neck sore from lying on the bare mattress. About halfway through the night, the one pillow I had slid behind the bed. The lack of a headboard will do that. My phone was on 3%, my face was caked with last night's makeup, and the inside of my thighs felt slick from last night's sex. 

To my right was a man I had no recollection of, but he was decently attractive. I slid out from under the comforter, redressed myself as quietly as possible, grabbed my purse, and was out of there in a matter of minutes.

I roll my eyes at Sasha, “Weren’t you the one telling me to put myself out there?”

And she was. After I found out Connor cheated on me, I spent about three months in active depression. I was barely eating, sleeping away the days, neglecting my schoolwork. I mean, hell, I managed to binge the whole of Grey's Anatomy in that time period. That’s a 22-season show. 

“‘Put yourself out there’ doesn’t mean ‘force your friends to get drunk with you every night,’” Sasha rebutted. 

Layla giggled in response, adding, “Eh, Grey’s Anatomy was making me want to kill myself. I prefer this.” 

“Okay, whatever!” I snapped, feeling attacked. “I’ll go out by myself, it’s fine.” 

But Maeve stood from the couch and hugged me tight, squeezing her cheek against mine, “Oh, stop, you know I’m in.” 

My favorite part of going out has always been getting ready. Sitting on the floor, criss-cross applesauce in front of my floor-length mirror, makeup bag wide open, wine glass balanced between my legs. The mental hype up of it all is very thrilling to me. Who will I be tonight? Will I play hard to get? Pretend I’m not on the hunt for someone to go home with? Or will I give it up real easy?

When I was with Connor, he never really let me wear revealing clothes. Well, “let” feels like a strong word, but he’d always pick a fight, so eventually I learned not to push it. Now, I arrive at the college bar, tits out, short skirt, and soak in the feeling of boys checking me out as I walk in. It feels good to be wanted in this way. To be lusted over, desired. 

When I saw that text message from Erin, I went through the rest of Connor’s phone. As he pleaded for forgiveness, I took in photo after photo, details now burned into my memory. The curve of her waist, the beauty mark near her right nipple, the two small dents at the bottom of her spine. I don’t think I’ll ever forget her. No matter how hard I try. I always thought I was alright, not exactly perfect, but not ugly either, somewhere in between. But this girl was modelesque. She was picture-perfect in a way I had never seen. I remember gagging as I went through the photos, then running to the bathroom and throwing up while Connor tried to hold my hair. I ended up pushing him away from me, locking the door to the bathroom, and crying on the floor until I fell asleep on the plush of the bathmat. 

My Mary Janes stick to the floor a bit with each step into my favorite college bar as the smell of cigarettes and cheap alcohol infiltrates my nose, obliterating my access to all other senses. Instinctively, I grab Maeve’s hand and lead us straight to the bar, ordering us two tequila shots and two tequila sodas. While the bartender makes our drinks, I scan the bar.

“Looking for fresh meat already?” Maeve asks. 

I smile, and with a light punch to her arm, reply, “Shut up, not even.” 

Maeve leans in close to me, whispering in my ear, “The bartender’s kinda hot.” I didn’t have time to reply before the drinks were ready. Before I knew it, we were shooting back tequila, chasing with lime wedges, dropping cash on the bartop, and walking off with our glasses.

Maeve and I take up residency in a booth. The seats are ripped, yellow padding exposed, and the tabletop is wet and sticky. It’s gross, but in a way that feels more like home than it is gross. Maeve looks at me like she could see right through me before kicking me lightly with her foot beneath the table and asking kindly, 

“So, how are you holding up?” 

It had been a couple of weeks since any of my friends truly asked me how I was doing. After a while, I think they just learned that in order to heal, I had to stop talking about what happened. They understood that and obliged. But every once in a while, if the liquor was flowing or the vibe was just right, someone would conjure up the bravery to ask. 

I just look at her for a while before tilting my head a little to the right, answering with a scoff and a quick “I’m fine, Maeve.”

“Are you sure?” She asks. “Because I’m starting to worry. We all are.” 

“Worry about what? I told you I’m fine.” She looks at me with pity. “Just because you aren’t crying anymore doesn’t mean you’re fine. All you want to do is get drunk and fuck, that doesn’t seem fine to me.” 

“Okay, subtle slut shame.”  

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

After that, we sit in silence for a bit. It’s awkward, but not awkward enough to make either of us leave until I needed another drink. 

“I’m gonna get a refill.”

Maeve looks up from her phone, yawns in a way that seems fake to me, and says, “I might head out, are you gonna stay?” 

“Yeah, I don’t want to go home just yet. I’ll be fine”. 

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?”

“Yes, Maeve.”

“Okay, okay. Make good decisions.” 

We both get up from the booth, perform a slightly awkward side hug, and walk toward the door. Maeve keeps walking straight out the door, while I turn left to where the bar stands. 

I’m starting to feel it now; my head feels light and fuzzy, but I’m not as far along as I’d like to be. I catch the eye of the bartender – he is kinda hot – and ask for a refill.

“Tequila soda, right?” he asks. I’m flattered by the fact that he remembers me. I nod. 

The moment he turns away from me, I feel someone slam into my right side, followed by a splash of cold wetness all over my chest. I look down and see a red stain covering my white top. 

“What the fuck, dude?” I start yelling, but then I look up to see a man staring down at me, from at least 6’3.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry.” He says, seeming genuine enough. “I tripped over someone’s bag, that was a total accident, let me help you.” 

He grabs my hand with a quiet confidence and leads me to the bathroom. Once we’re in there, he gives me a soft smile, wetting a piece of shitty brown paper towel.

“That’s really not necessary,” I say, perching myself onto the sink. 

“No, I really think it is,” he replies, starting to blot my shirt. 

As he touches me, I feel the hairs on my arms stand up. I swallow hard, then meet his eyes. “It’s really not gonna work”, I say, smiling, grabbing his hand, and removing it from the stain he created. 

“You gotta let me try, I ruined your night.” He says, locking eyes with me. I watch his adams apple bob as he swallows. 

“No, I honestly think you might’ve fixed it,” I say, and with that, he's on me. Within seconds, his hands are tangled in my hair, and I feel him pressing into me from where he stands between my legs. 

As he pulls my skirt up and my panties down, I feel that rush of adrenaline I’d been craving since last night. My brain goes completely empty, and for the first time since the last time, it’s quiet. I’m numb. I’m nothing. 

The low hum of the dim yellow lights fills my ears along with heavy breathing and the slapping of skin. I count the tiles on the ceiling. 23. The walls of the stalls are covered in graffiti from years of drunk nights out with friends. I count 15 hearts with initials inside of them before I get bored. I want this to be over now.

“Tell me I’m disgusting,” I moan into his ear, clinging onto his back. 

He stops for a second, “What?”

“Just do it.”

So he does, filling the small room with filthy degradations. As soon as the word “slut” leaves his mouth, my body erupts with pleasure, every nerve ending lighting up until I can barely hear, barely see. Until I barely am. 

When I come to, I hear a symphony of banging on the door, drunk girls screaming things like “Hurry the fuck up in there,” and “I have to pee!” 

“We should probably go,” I say to mystery man.

“What? I didn’t even finish,” he slurs, and I immediately hate him. Upon second look, he isn’t even that hot. He’s most definitely in some sort of frat, he has a backwards hat on, and I think I can see the outline of a zyn in the upper cavity of his gums. 

“Sorry”, I say with a shrug, pushing off the sink and exiting the bathroom. He trails behind me, looking pissed. 

As I walk past the group of girls that were banging on the door, one of them mutters, “whore” and the rest of the group laughs. 

I need another drink. 

Approaching the bar feels like coming home after vacation, sitting on the plush barstool, like returning to bed after sleeping on a hard hotel mattress. Having a drink already waiting for me is my dog greeting me at the door. 

“Where’d you run off to? I’ve had this drink waiting for you behind the bar for twenty minutes.” The bartender said to me, with a glimmer in his eye. I took it as flirtation. 

“Oh, you know, here and there,” I said with a smile as I took a sip. I found myself subconsciously leaning forward onto the bar to further expose my cleavage to him. 

He took the bait, looking me up and down before continuing the conversation. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing out all alone?” 

Yep. Definitely flirting. I smile at his compliment while mindlessly playing with the straw of my drink. “My friends are boring.” 

“Sounds like you need some new friends.” “Oh, you wanna be my friend, Mr…?” I trail off, unaware of his name.

“Dylan,” he finishes. 

“Dylan.” I confirm. 

He smirks a little, “Sounds much better when you say it.” 

I bat an eyelash, he bites a lip, and after a couple of seconds of that, he looks at his watch, “Looks like it’s about time for my break. You smoke?” He holds up a box of Marlboro Reds. 

“Absolutely,” I reply, sliding off the barstool and following him out of the staff exit. 

When I come back to my body, I find myself in the alley behind the bar, bent over a silver trash can.

“Is this okay?” Dylan asks in between kisses on my lower back. 

I look back at him, at this man I don’t know, and I nod. I’m not quite sure why I do. 

I don’t even feel his touch. I find myself counting the bottle caps on the floor, analyzing puddles of vomit and cigarette butts. Waiting for it to be over, my eyes slowly fill with tears. How did I end up here again?

It’s dark, and by the time he finishes, I guess his allocated break time had come and gone. 

“You’re incredible”, he says to me, slapping my ass. I flinch. He leaves. 

It is there, in the dark of the alley, surrounded by trash and putrid smells, that I come back to my body. I sit on the floor, leaning up against one of many dumpsters, and hugging my knees, I finally break. My body is wracked with heavy, debilitating sobs, and I cry a cry I’ve never experienced. 

I really hoped this would be something I’d grow out of.