“I’M SO SORRY, Pumpkin, but I won’t be able to make it tomorrow for the exhibit.”
“Wait, what? Are you serious?” I clutch the phone closer to my ear, my fingers cramping, I’m holding it so tightly. “I only came home so we could go together.”
“I know, and I wish I had a different answer for you, but something else came up,” my father says.
I flop onto the blue velvet couch in the living room, hating how hard it is. How stiff. Like everything else in this cold, sterile apartment my parents live in. “What suddenly came up?”
“I’m meeting with some clients this evening for dinner,” he says, his voice smooth. “You know how it is.”
How it always is. For some reason though, it feels like he’s lying. “On a Friday night?”
“I work seven days a week. You know this.” He sounds irritated, and I immediately feel terrible for even doubting him.
“I know, you’re right. I’m just—disappointed.” I close my eyes, letting the emotion wash over me. The entire week hasn’t gone well and I was so looking forward to seeing this exhibit tomorrow.
For once, I just wanted something to work in my favor.
“I’m disappointed too, Pumpkin. Maybe we can go another time. I’d love to see her exhibit.”
“It’s over at the end of the year,” I remind him. “And this weekend was the best time for me. I have finals to prepare for, and then it’s Christmas. My birthday.”
“Maybe we could go the week between Christmas and New Year’s?” he suggests.
“But that’s my birthday week. I might have plans.” With who, I’m not even sure anymore.
He chuckles. “Right. My little girl loves to string out her birthday for as long as possible.”
Only my father would make me feel bad for something he started in the first place. When I turned ten, he made such a big deal about my birthday, trying to make it special considering I share the day with the one of the most major holidays of the year. He kept my tenth birthday celebration going for days, much to my mother’s not-so-secret annoyance. It’s been a tradition ever since.
“What sort of plans do you have?” he asks when I still haven’t said anything.
“I wanted to go out of town,” I admit, realizing there really isn’t anyone I want to go with me anymore. I was thinking about asking Maggie, but she’s still not talking to me after the Fig incident, so what would be the point? She probably hates me, and she was my last real friend.
“Where were you thinking of going? Somewhere warm?”
“Actually, I was looking at somewhere in the mountains with lots of snow. It sounds cozy, staying in a log cabin and drinking hot chocolate by the fire.” Saying the words out loud, I’m sure I sound like a foolish little girl.
“You don’t want to go somewhere tropical? Most people want to go to the beach during the winter. What about Aruba?”
A tropical vacation means bikinis and lots of skin. Guys leering at me and my chest. I hate having them on display. They’re just so…big.
“I don’t want to go to Aruba, Daddy,” I say, my voice small.
“Okay. That’s fine. How about I have Veronica look up some locations for you? She can do a little research, find a couple of options for you to look over,” he suggests.
“Who’s Veronica?”
“My assistant. She started a few months ago. I know I told you about her.” “Oh. Okay. Yes, sure. That would be nice.”
“Just trying to help you, Pumpkin. I know you’re busy with school with finals and all of your end-of-the-semester projects. Veronica is really great at making travel arrangements. She handles mine all the time.”
“Thank you. That would be great.” I really wanted to plan this trip on my own, but it’s like no one can let me do anything by myself. And I allow it to happen. “I’m thinking I might go to the exhibit tomorrow.”
“With your mother?”
“No. She probably wouldn’t want to go with me.” I tried talking to her about this particular artist a few weeks ago, when I first heard about the showing, but she wasn’t interested.
She’s rarely interested in anything I do lately.
His voice turns stern. “I don’t want you going alone.”
“Why not? I’ve gone to showings around there before. I’m familiar with the area.” It’s in Tribeca, and not in a terrible neighborhood or anything, but for my father, every neighborhood is bad when it comes to me.
“Never by yourself. I’ll arrange for a car for you. You just call the office tomorrow whenever you’re ready to be picked up and they’ll come get you.”
“Daddy. I can just take an Uber—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Absolutely not. You’ll use my car service.” By the tone of his voice, I know he won’t allow me to do anything else.
“All right.” My voice is soft, and I close my eyes for a moment, wishing I was brave enough to tell him I’ll do whatever I want.
But I don’t. I never do.
“Is your mother home?” he asks.
“No. She’s having dinner with friends.”
He makes a harumphing noise. “Friends. I’m sure. Well, I’ll see you sometime tomorrow afternoon. I get in around two.”
“Wait a minute, you’re not even here?”
“I’m in Florida. I’ll be back tomorrow.” A lilting, feminine voice says something in the background, and I can hear my father muffle the phone, so he can speak to her. “I’ve got to go, Wren. See you tomorrow. Love you.”
He ends the call before I can respond.
I toss the phone onto the couch and tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling. At the elaborate and very expensive light fixture that shines above my head. Everything in this house is expensive. Some items are even priceless.
It’s like I can’t touch any of it. Too scared I might break something that’s irreplaceable. Art. Objects. Things are more important to my mother, my father.
Me? Their daughter? Sometimes I wonder if I matter. If I’ve become nothing but another object they like to show off.
A piece of art that still needs plenty of molding.
I push myself off the couch and wander through the house. Down the hall, past the giant paintings that hang on the walls. The ones with the lights shining upon them, illuminating them perfectly so everyone on the street can see them as they walk past. Those who appreciate fine art would die to enter this house. To catch even a brief glimpse of the paintings and sculptures and pieces that fill our apartment.
I don’t even see them anymore. They’re meaningless. Like me.
I lock myself away in my room and try to examine it with a critical eye. There’s no color. My mother did that on purpose, so it wouldn’t clash with any of the art she might choose to show in here. Because yes, even my bedroom is a potential showcase for her art. The piece my father bought me last year for my birthday hangs on the wall. It’s a canvas with lipstick prints, though not nearly as many as the coveted piece I truly want, along with vibrantly colored already chewed gum stuck on it in random spots. It’s kind of gross.
I had to pretend I loved it when he gave it to me.
Turning away from the piece, I stare at the white duvet cover on my bed. The black and steel gray pillows stacked against the silver metal headboard. The white furniture. The black and white photos on the walls, all of them from a different time. When I was younger and had real friends. Before we all changed and grew up and grew apart.
Now we talk on Instagram via comments and the occasional DM. They’ve all moved while I feel stuck.
I catch my gaze in the reflection of the full-length mirror hanging on the wall and I go to it, staring at myself. I changed into jeans and a black sweatshirt before I left campus, and if my mother saw me right now, she’d say I looked sloppy.
Maybe I do. But at least I’m comfortable.
I tear off the sweatshirt first, my gaze dropping to my breasts and I can’t help but frown. I hate the way they strain against my plain white cotton T- shirt. My mother is constantly on me to go on a diet, but I don’t think it’s going to help. In the end, I’ll still have my breasts, which are nothing like hers. She’s flat. Her body is almost boyish, and she works hard to keep it that way.
While I’m over here fighting my curves and trying to restrain my breasts with the most restrictive bras I can find to please her.
It’s exhausting, pretending to be something I’m not.
I whip the T-shirt off and drop it on the floor, kicking it out of the way. I step out of my shoes. Peel off my socks. Then I take off my jeans, flinging them so they hit the wall with a loud thwap.
Until I’m standing in the middle of my bedroom in nothing but my underwear.
Girls my age wear thongs or lacy, sexy panties. See-through bras or bralettes, or sometimes no bra at all. They wear these items for themselves, to give them confidence. To feel sexy. To turn on the boys or girls or whoever they’re with. Whoever they allow to peel back the layers and see what’s beneath their clothes.
I don’t look at underwear that way at all. They’re just daily items I’ve worn for what feels like forever. I started developing at a young age, like in the fifth grade, and it was so embarrassing, having to get fitted for my first bra, the salesperson exclaiming over my large cup size at such a young age. The way my mother viewed me, undeniable disgust flickering in her gaze.
My breasts have always felt like a burden.
Reaching behind me, I undo the snap, the garment sliding away from my body, and I let it drop to the floor. My breasts are free, my nipples growing hard the longer I stare at them. They’re pink, the areolas large and nothing like what I’ve seen on social media, where all the girls have small breasts and pretty nipples.
Not that I check out nipples but…I’m curious. I’ve been curious about a lot of things lately.
I curl my hands around them, cupping them in my palms. Bringing them together so I can make deeper cleavage. I turn to the side, staring at myself. My stomach. The flare of my hips. My legs. I’m so pale. Almost translucent, with faint blue veins showing just beneath my skin.
I think of Natalie with her perfect body and her tiny breasts. Her long legs and obvious confidence when she sat on Ezra’s lap a few days ago, like she belonged there. All while eyeing Crew as if he was a tasty steak and she was craving red meat. What would it be like, to act like Natalie?
I have no clue.
Facing the mirror once more, I drop my hands from my breasts and reach for the waistband of my underwear, yanking them down before I have second thoughts. Until I’m standing completely naked, staring at my reflection. My body on complete and total display, for my eyes only.
I fixate on my dark pubic hair, and what it hides just beneath. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I know what a vagina is good for. I have periods every month. Sometimes I have cramps. When I was younger, I suffered from them all the time, and my period was so irregular, my mother secretly put me on the pill, never telling my father.
“Just because you’re on birth control doesn’t mean you get to have sex with whoever you want,” she lectured me. I was fourteen at the time, and the last thing I thought about was having sex with anyone.
Someday I’ll marry a nice man and we’ll have plenty of sex that I might or might not enjoy and eventually make babies. That’s how my mother explained it to me. That’s what I have to look forward to.
God, it all sounds so clinical. Awful. Boring.
I think of Crew. How he touched my breast when he caught me. His firm grip, his muscular body pressed against mine, his fingers streaking across my chest in a featherlight caress. I felt it.
I can feel it right now. When he touched my lips in class this afternoon.
You have a sexy mouth.
His deep voice washes over me and I cup my breasts. Brush my thumbs over my nipples. Making myself tingle.
I go to my bed and lie on top of it, quickly realizing when I prop myself up on my elbows, I can still see my reflection in the mirror. Slowly, I part my knees. My thighs. Until I can see everything. I’m pink.
Everywhere.
I’ve never done anything like this before, examined myself so thoroughly. I stare at the spot between my legs, really looking at myself, and wonder what it would be like, to have someone touch me there.
Oh, I’ve tried masturbating before—more than a few times. Lots of times. But I can never manage to actually make myself come. My mind would start to wander and I’d think of dumb things, like stuff that worried me. Or the guilt would creep in and I’d feel that hint of shame I’m so familiar with. Like I was doing something bad. Plus, I’d never allowed myself to crush on a boy before. Not really.
Until Crew. I think about him constantly. And he makes me feel all of these…things. Feelings I’ve never experienced before and am slowly becoming addicted to.
The way he watches me with that penetrating gaze. His flirtatious tone when he calls me Birdy. I act like I hate it, but secretly I enjoy the nickname.
It makes me feel like we share something special.
He makes me feel special.
Collapsing on the bed, I close my eyes and reach between my legs, skimming past my pubic hair, until I’m cupping myself. Teasing myself. I stroke the seam of my lower lips back and forth, slowly. Shivery sensations shimmering just beneath my skin, making my breath catch.
It feels good.
I carefully part myself, dipping my finger inside. Encountering nothing but slippery wet heat. My mind fixates on Crew. His face. His voice. His hands.
With tentative fingers, I search, sliding through my folds, tentatively circling my entrance before I slip a finger inside, wincing. Then pull it out.
Push it back in.
Oh. That felt good too.
What it would be like, to have Crew kiss me? He has a nice mouth. Full lips. He smells good too. He’s strong. Muscular. I already know how it feels
to be in his arms, but what would be like if he really hugged me? Held me close and ran his fingers through my hair? Pressed his mouth against my temple in the softest, sweetest kiss?
I tremble just thinking about it.
When my fingers brush against a distended piece of flesh at the top, I realize it’s my clitoris. I brush it again, a soft sigh falling from my lips when I do so. I keep doing it, circling it. Rubbing it. My breath comes faster, and when I squeeze my thighs together around my hand, that feels even better. The pressure. The intensity.
I roll over onto my stomach, my hand still between my thighs, my fingers busy as I basically dry hump the bed. The heel of my hand. I rock against the mattress, my eyes flying open to catch my reflection yet again.
I’m a mess. My hair is in my eyes, my skin damp with sweat, my breasts swinging, my nipples hard. I arch my back and press my hips to the bed, grinding my palm against my clit and a choked sound leaves me.
Have you ever been kissed?
He whispers it in my ear in my imagination, his mouth brushing my skin. I shiver and shake my head, wishing he was the one who would kiss me first. His lips are soft and warm and that first glide of his tongue against mine…
He pushes my hand away and replaces it with his own, stroking me. He’s so confident. So in command of my body and I let him take control. Just like I always do with everyone and everything in my life.
With Crew, I don’t resent it though. I want it.
I’m on my back once more, my fingers frantic, my breathing harsh as I seek out the unfamiliar sensation that I can feel growing inside me. It’s almost scary, how big it seems, how mysterious. Almost as if I don’t know what it is, yet I do.
But I’m not afraid. I chase after it, all the air sticking in my throat, my limbs straining, my legs shaking as I stroke and stroke, faster and faster. A gasp
leaves me when I go completely still.
So fucking sexy, Birdy.
And then I’m quaking, my entire body consumed, a keening cry leaving my lips as the orgasm slams into me. It’s as if I have no control of my body and the climax stretches on for long, endless seconds. Just as fast as it hits, it’s gone, and I’m left a shaking, sweaty mess. Barely able to catch my breath, my heart beating so hard I swear I’m going into cardiac arrest.
That’s what all the fuss is about. Imagine what would happen if someone else gave me an orgasm? Like Crew?
I squeeze my eyes closed, imagining him in this bed with me, his mouth finding mine, his fingers between my thighs, working their magic.
“Oh God,” I whisper out loud, staring blindly at the ceiling.
Maybe there’s nothing wrong with wanting a boy like Crew. Maybe I deserve to fall in love and go out on dates and kiss a boy for hours and let him touch me wherever he wants. What’s wrong with that?
Nothing. Nothing at all. Like Crew said, we’re just normal horny teenagers looking to get off.
I mean, that’s not something I would ever say, but he has a point.
Glancing around my room, I realize I’m not satisfied. I’m still restless. Even a little frustrated. I want to experience this feeling again.
I want it all.
With Crew.
