The Thrill of It by Lauren Blakely Read Free Book Online

lodged so far and so deep inside me I don’t even know how I’d get the words out. I’d need more than a shovel to dredge them up. I’d need a bulldozer to exhume them. And even if somehow, some way, the words could tunnel out of me, I know they’d spill out my mouth all disfigured and unrecognizable, a foreign tongue no one could understand. Sometimes when I say the words silently, in my head, at a whisper, I can still feel a fierce red blush covering my cheeks. I was a call girl.
    But yet, the real reason I don’t tell her is this–because I loved it. I loved the crazy burn, the rush, the thrill of the power. Because I needed it, I wanted it, I craved it.
    I still do.
    I’m not cured.
    SLAA hasn’t fixed me.
    If Kristen knew where I really go when I say I’m at the writing workshop, she might not want to be friends with me. She wouldn’t want to have lattes with me or share an apartment with me. I’d be the slut, the sex addict, the whore that everyone would think I am. That Miranda thinks I am. That all those stories – true fucking stories – that Miranda makes me write prove I am.
    No wonder Trey won’t touch me again. No wonder he keeps me at a distance. He’s getting healthy, he’s healing, he’s moving on from his past and he can see me for what I am.
    Dirty. Slutty. Whore.
    Soon, he’ll walk away too. That’s why I don’t tell Kristen about Layla. She’d walk straight the other way. This is what people do. They leave when you get too close.
    “Are you hungry?”
    “Nah, I ate at my mom’s,” I say.
    “Damn. I wanted to split a pizza.”
    “I’ll eat a slice if it’ll make you happy,” I offer. I can do that. Kristen doesn’t like to eat by herself. Says it reminds her of the times when she scarfed on food alone.
    She claps once and smiles widely. See? This is so simple. I made her happy by saying I’d have a slice. She dials her favorite pizza delivery place and orders a cheese pie. I wish I could do the same – have a healthy relationship with love.
    I wish love were like pizza.
    She kicks her feet up on the coffee table. “We should have a girl’s night out Friday. Let’s go somewhere. Meet some guys. There’s no one at this college I like. I want a man. Not some stupid frat boy.”
    “No you don’t,” I say. “You don’t want a man.”
    I’ve had men. Most of them are awful.

Memoirs of a Teenage Sex Addict
Page 107..
I didn’t sleep with any of them. I could lie and tell all sorts of sordid stories about being seventeen and fucking forty-two-year-old men, but I won’t. Because I didn’t do that. My pimp loved me. He took care of me. He would never have sent me on jobs like that. Sometimes, I played the escort role to the buttoned-up guys who wanted the sexy young girlfriend at a fancy dinner function. Or the suit who had a hankering for a schoolgirl on his arm at a bar.
But I was also assigned the middle-aged men with weird fetishes.
Like one of my regulars. His name was Gerald, and he was a banker. We met every Friday at 4:15 when the markets closed. He wanted me to wear my green plaid skirt, starched white blouse, and my good old faithful Mary Janes. Our regular meeting spot was a hotel in midtown because no one knew him in midtown. He liked to hear about my day at school, the things I learned in class, but he especially longed for my stories of what my friends and I talked about in the locker room. I made it all up. I told him we discussed lingerie, and what kind of lacy underwear we preferred to wear when we masturbated.
“ I wore a black bustier when I fingered myself last night,” I told him. “My friend Holly gets herself off wearing her red silk teddy.”
He’d start breathing hard, then ask for more. I served it all up for him, tales of trigonometry and English literature, chiffon and lace, fingers and spread legs.
Then he’d ask me to kiss him once, spank him ten times, and tell him to sit in the corner.
That was all he wanted. Stories and spanking.
I