“Like a prostitute? Oh. My. God. You’re a prostitute? You make those girls that jump through your window, pay you?” she shrieks.
“Fuck no. That’s for pleasure,” I say frustrated as I look around the restaurant. “Look, it’s a long story. Just drop it okay.” All these questions are starting to give me a headache.
My eyes snap back to hers as she slaps her hand over mine and leans forward. “Like hell I’m going to drop it.”
I stare at the top of her hand while she squeezes mine. “It was one person. That’s it. When I lived in the apartment building with my mum, the landlady would pay me to scratch her itch you could say. It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal. That’s disgusting.” Her judgemental tone is starting to piss me off and I pull my hand out from under hers. Who in the fuck does she think she is?
“Whatever,” I snap. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’ve always had everything handed to you on a silver platter. So, until you’ve walked a day in my shoes, don’t fucking judge me, okay, Princess?”
Crossing her arms under her chest, she lets me know she’s not happy with my comment. “That goes two ways. Don’t judge me either. You have no idea what kind of life I’ve had,” she says with a hurt look on her face. I feel like a prick now.
“Okay. I was out of line.” Even though I’m pretty sure her life’s been a hell of a lot better than mine. This isn’t a competition about who’s had the shittier life. We all have struggles that we handle differently, I guess.
“Do you still do it? Like, get paid to have sex I mean?” she asks. I roll my eyes, because I thought this conversation was over. Obviously not.
“No. It stopped the day I moved here.” Why do the answers keep coming out of my mouth when I don’t want them to? I’ve always been a private person. It’s like my brain and mouth aren’t even a part of me today. I wish I’d shut the fuck up.
“How old were you when it started?” Jesus, what’s with all these damn questions? I should’ve known she wouldn’t understand. “How old Carter?”
“Fifteen, I guess,” I answer, rubbing my hands over my face in frustration.
“Fifteen? How old was your landlady?”
I squeeze my eyes tight before taking a deep breath. “Fuck, I don’t know, in her early thirties.”
“What? You were just a kid. What a sick, twisted bitch,” she snaps. “That’s child abuse.”
“Keep it down! It wasn’t fucking child abuse. Jesus. It wasn’t like that,” I angrily whisper, glancing around as I run my hand through my hair silently willing her to drop it. I look around for the waitress. Where is our damn food?
“Like hell it isn’t. The legal age for consensual sex in this country is sixteen. You were a minor and she was an adult. She should’ve known better. Does your mother know?” Her probing has me exhaling an exasperated breath.
“Fuck no,” I answer. Now it’s my turn to speak a little too loudly. “She’d have a fit if she knew.”
“Of course she would, because what that woman did was wrong on so many levels. How dare she do that to you?” she says in a disgusted tone.
“It was more like me doing her,” I chuckle. I watch her shake her head.
“This isn’t a joke, Carter.”
My eyes lock with hers. I expect to see judgement, but I don’t. She looks upset. I sigh. I have no idea why I even told her. I’ve never confessed that to anyone. It’s not something I’m ashamed of, but I’m not proud of it either. I did what I had to do.
It started not long after my fifteenth birthday. I was mowing the lawns for the landlady. Prior to that day, I did things like the lawns, putting out the bins on trash night, changing light bulbs, weeding gardens, painting fences. Shit like that. It was hard work, but she paid me well.
That particular day was hot. When I was done cutting the grass, I removed my shirt and wiped the sweat from my brow. I’m well built, so even at fifteen
“Fuck no. That’s for pleasure,” I say frustrated as I look around the restaurant. “Look, it’s a long story. Just drop it okay.” All these questions are starting to give me a headache.
My eyes snap back to hers as she slaps her hand over mine and leans forward. “Like hell I’m going to drop it.”
I stare at the top of her hand while she squeezes mine. “It was one person. That’s it. When I lived in the apartment building with my mum, the landlady would pay me to scratch her itch you could say. It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal. That’s disgusting.” Her judgemental tone is starting to piss me off and I pull my hand out from under hers. Who in the fuck does she think she is?
“Whatever,” I snap. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’ve always had everything handed to you on a silver platter. So, until you’ve walked a day in my shoes, don’t fucking judge me, okay, Princess?”
Crossing her arms under her chest, she lets me know she’s not happy with my comment. “That goes two ways. Don’t judge me either. You have no idea what kind of life I’ve had,” she says with a hurt look on her face. I feel like a prick now.
“Okay. I was out of line.” Even though I’m pretty sure her life’s been a hell of a lot better than mine. This isn’t a competition about who’s had the shittier life. We all have struggles that we handle differently, I guess.
“Do you still do it? Like, get paid to have sex I mean?” she asks. I roll my eyes, because I thought this conversation was over. Obviously not.
“No. It stopped the day I moved here.” Why do the answers keep coming out of my mouth when I don’t want them to? I’ve always been a private person. It’s like my brain and mouth aren’t even a part of me today. I wish I’d shut the fuck up.
“How old were you when it started?” Jesus, what’s with all these damn questions? I should’ve known she wouldn’t understand. “How old Carter?”
“Fifteen, I guess,” I answer, rubbing my hands over my face in frustration.
“Fifteen? How old was your landlady?”
I squeeze my eyes tight before taking a deep breath. “Fuck, I don’t know, in her early thirties.”
“What? You were just a kid. What a sick, twisted bitch,” she snaps. “That’s child abuse.”
“Keep it down! It wasn’t fucking child abuse. Jesus. It wasn’t like that,” I angrily whisper, glancing around as I run my hand through my hair silently willing her to drop it. I look around for the waitress. Where is our damn food?
“Like hell it isn’t. The legal age for consensual sex in this country is sixteen. You were a minor and she was an adult. She should’ve known better. Does your mother know?” Her probing has me exhaling an exasperated breath.
“Fuck no,” I answer. Now it’s my turn to speak a little too loudly. “She’d have a fit if she knew.”
“Of course she would, because what that woman did was wrong on so many levels. How dare she do that to you?” she says in a disgusted tone.
“It was more like me doing her,” I chuckle. I watch her shake her head.
“This isn’t a joke, Carter.”
My eyes lock with hers. I expect to see judgement, but I don’t. She looks upset. I sigh. I have no idea why I even told her. I’ve never confessed that to anyone. It’s not something I’m ashamed of, but I’m not proud of it either. I did what I had to do.
It started not long after my fifteenth birthday. I was mowing the lawns for the landlady. Prior to that day, I did things like the lawns, putting out the bins on trash night, changing light bulbs, weeding gardens, painting fences. Shit like that. It was hard work, but she paid me well.
That particular day was hot. When I was done cutting the grass, I removed my shirt and wiped the sweat from my brow. I’m well built, so even at fifteen
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