“Wear something nice,” you always told me.
It was a casual comment and at first I didn’t think anything of it. You were telling me we were going somewhere fancy and you wanted me to dress up. There was probably a dress code or everyone else would be done to the nines and you didn’t want to feel out of place, so I did.
I picked out a nice dress, often I’d have to go shopping to find a new one. That was never a bother though because I loved shopping. It’s such a girl thing to say but it was true. To have an entire store as your closet and anything in it I could buy? That was a dream. With your help of course. You gave me your card and you told me to burn a hole in it. It always came back smoking.
The shows would match. Often something with a strap-y ankle and a thin heel. You often commented on how much you loved my feet.
“You’ve got delicate toes. They’re beautiful,” I’d hear you say often. Typically when we were at the beach or I was lounging by the pool.
“Do I?” I’d lean and look and hold them up while squinting and making an awful face to try to see what you were admiring.
“Of course. Why would I say it?” Your hand took my heel and cradled it. You’d kiss the balls of my feet and let your lips linger.
There were even times when in the bedroom you would spend an extraordinary amount of time licking and sucking my toes. You would worship them, which was a strange feeling. Having your lips and saliva between my ticklish digits made me squirm but I tried to hold it in and let you enjoy yourself.
Eventually I decided not to take my shoes off when I knew we were going to have sex. It stared off as a thought that I would let you undress my feet as you did the rest of me. Over time it led to us making love with every piece of fabric stripped from my body except my shoes. Those were wrapped around your back or your neck and the heels were hooked tight.
Making love. It’s funny to call it that. Nobody ever makes love. They have sex like its a transaction or they fuck like its lust. Making love is something that’s as fake as a movie star’s smile. You never made love to me. You fucked me in every way imaginable.
So I looked nice. I looked good. I dressed up. You took me out and we met your friends. I hated your friends. I also hate the word pretentious because people use it more often then they should and not always in the right context, which made it perfect to describe your shitty friends.
I was young and you were older. We never discussed by how much but the stares were always there. The looks of judgement. I could hear whispers.
“He’s got another one.”
“Poor dear, thinking she needs to bother carrying on a conversation.”
“I wonder if he has a membership to some company that rents these type out.”
“Look at her, she cleans up well at least.”
And that was it, the last one. That’s why you always told me to wear something nice. It’s why you gave me your credit card and never blinked at the dent I put in it. I was a pretty little play thing for you. An accessory like my Prada bag or my Hermes bracelet. Sweet arm candy that you could suck the sugar out of at the end of the night.
I didn’t mind though. I did but I didn’t let it bother me. We were both getting something out of this relationship and I was mature enough to realize that. If parading me around your stuffy-fuck friends was fine enough for you it was fine enough for me as well. If the comments didn’t bother you then I sure as hell didn’t care what a bunch of 50-year-old men and women thought. Jealousy is a bitch and so am I.
Sometimes I’d have some fun and act the part. I’d play the bubbly, vapid imbecile and ask them ridiculous questions. In my feigned ignorance I’d insult them after hearing their comments upon entering.
“Oh wow, you look so good for being so old.”
“I bet your wife used to look nice some time ago.”
“I’d ask if you want to dance but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
My giggling nature would cover any chance for them to respond and I’d turn and smirk as I walked away.
I should have hated you for leaving me alone with these vultures. You should have been there with me to defend me. You should have stood up for me. But that’s not what this was, you and I. We weren’t a team, we weren’t an item. We were just two people who showed up at the same place together. Two people who went home in the same car at the end of the night.
We always had sex after your parties. That pretty dress I wore so perfectly would be a puddle on the floor in your bedroom. The bracelet would be set carefully on the dresser and necklace would be as well. Sometimes you would let me undo the buttons on your shirt as you looked up at me. You’d toy with my panties or grab my ass. I’d slap your face then press my knee into your crotch and listen to you gasp.
After that it was any guess where it would go. It’d eventually lead to the same place but the path always changed. The woods never quite looked the same and the sounds in the darkness were always different. But always by the end we’d end up naked and laying on the sheets staring up at the ceiling. Both of us would be trying to catch our breath.
“You know you could have hired an escort for the price of my dress and shoes alone.”
“I could have.”
“And you know they think I am one anyway.”
“In a way I basically am, really, if you put it all out in bullet point form.”
You’d grunt a nodding sound on the sheet next to me and fling your arm onto my thigh and give it a squeeze.
“Is that all I am? A prostitute? A pretty girl to fuck after your snobby friends sniff me around for the night?”
“Of course not.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I never pay you.”
Your grip was tighter on my thigh and you pulled at it. You pulled at me and there was a hunger vibrating in your chest that was making itself heard.
The words should have made me mad. They did make me mad. I was angry that you didn’t think more of me than a pretty toy to fuck. I was angry that you didn’t want me around when there wasn’t some soiree to attend. I was angry that you never paid me too.
I knew what this was though, so the anger didn’t stay with me. It faded the same way your friends negativity faded when I turned away from them. You were getting something and so was I. One of us got a lovely evening in a world they would never generally be invited and I got to buy some pretty clothes.