Debt Page 2

  “Like I said, it’s on the deep web. You use a special browser, a VPN, and you pay with bitcoins. It’s all encrypted. It’s nearly impossible for them to be caught. Discretion is the whole point. It’s a way to safely and shamelessly fulfill your fantasy.”

  “I—I don’t know...” I say, picking up the card and looking at it. “Sex with a total stranger?”

  “How is it any different than a one night stand?”

  “And what if I want him to stop and he doesn’t?”

  “They only exist through word of mouth, their reputation would be destroyed if they didn’t respect the boundaries they put forth. The guy did his thing and then left. We didn’t exchange words. It was anonymous and beautiful.”

  My belly tingles at those last words.

  “You really want me to try this? Huh?”

  “Yes, it’s not cheap, but at least do it once. Before you die, you need to feel what this is like. Also, I get the next fuck at 50% off.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I laugh in disbelief as I flick the card at her. “You’re trying to get me to do this for a discount?”

  “No! I am doing it again no matter what. Just trying to do the full disclosure thing.”

  “Sorry my friend, but I don’t think I am as adventurous as you.”

  “Just keep the card, no pressure. If you do, use the number I wrote on the back. It’s my referral code,” she winks.

  This is ridiculous. It’s been a week since Tiff told me about this rape-for-hire service and I STILL can’t sleep.

  I am disgusted with myself because each day I think about it, I reason with myself more and more. I justify going through with it.

  I mean, it’s my body, right? It’s my sexuality. All we talk about at Alea is empowering women to explore their sexuality, to not be ashamed. But this—this feels so dirty and wrong. And I think that’s why every time I think about it, heat rises from my belly and gives me goosebumps all over my arms.

  I have never seen Tiff so excited about anything before. Not even close. Ever since she told me about it, I have thought about that look of jubilation on her face with such envy.

  That’s what I want to feel. I don’t want a picket fence or some guy to take me to the movies on a date. I want the look that was in Tiff’s eyes. That high, that hysterical lust, that frenzy.

  At least I want that before I might have to settle for something else one day.

  I’ve had rough sex before, but it was always guarded. I’ve been close to that magic Tiff described, but didn’t get to that deep animalistic part of me. And I craved that. The guy I was with seemed unsure, playing a role that he was afraid might cross some line. I didn’t just want rough, I wanted painful, I wanted degradation. I wanted someone to take me out of my head. No—force me out of my head. To violently thrust me away from convention. I am so “together” and I have always wanted to find someone who would make me a chaotic mess. But the level of aggression I wanted was not something anyone I had dated could provide. They just couldn’t–or wouldn’t--go to that place. Maybe you can’t get that with someone who is familiar. Because after all is said and done, you have to face that person in the real world. It’s hard to be both uncivilized and normal with the same person. Maybe that’s why this service exists in the first place.

  I enjoy the kind of porn that would be humiliating to me should anyone find out: spanking, tying, pulling, pinching. Actors pretending to capture women and have their way with them. But that was just pretend. This skirted the line between pretend and reality.

  I toss and turn on my pillow. No. No. No. No.

  What the hell is wrong with you? Are you seriously considering letting a stranger rough you up and fuck you? You have officially lost your mind!

  This time, I sit up in bed, wide awake. I’m just going to look, just browse the site. Just dip a toe into this filthy water.

  I make my way out to my living room, sit on the floor in front of my coffee table and pull open my laptop.

  I type in the url, but it brings me to a parked page.

  Wait, Tiff said something about the deep web. I have heard of this. I need a VPN and some special browser.

  A few Google searches and a glass of wine later, I am up and running on the deep, dark, web. This is the dark alleyway of the internet, where you can order drugs, prostitutes, and find illegal porn.

  It’s 2am and I am lurking on the deep web for a male prostitute to mock-rape me. This calls for more wine.

  I walk to the kitchen, shaking my head at myself as I refill my glass. I settle back down at the coffee table.

  Here I am, staring at this black page in front of me. It’s a survey.

  At the very top it says:

  ABSOLUTELY NO REFUNDS. THIS TRANSACTION CANNOT BE CANCELLED ONCE SUBMITTED. YOU WILL NEED TO USE YOUR DESIGNATED SAFE WORD TO CANCEL THE APPOINTMENT AT TIME OF DELIVERY.

  This is some heavy shit.

  How did you hear about us? Enter referral code here.

  Okay, I am just going to fiddle around, fill it out for fun. I grab Tiff’s card and enter her referral code.

  Please select your preferences in a sexual partner. Select all that apply.

  There are a gazillion checkboxes to choose from and I select with abandon:

  Tall

  Athletic/Muscular

  Dark hair

  Tattoos

  Skin tone: Fair skin or Olive skin

  Eye color: No preference

  Body hair- Trimmed (not fully shaven) or shaven

  Facial hair- Stubble or clean shaven

  This is like building my perfect man!

  Next is the schedule. I select dates from a calendar and then schedule in time slots and locations for the availability of my fake rape. I laugh to myself as I fill out this part. Yes, I’d like to schedule my assault for Thursday at 6pm. Yes, my place is fine.

  Then there is a list of sexual preferences. Again I must select all that apply. This one baffles me. I mean, I know all the normal stuff I like, and things I have fantasized about, but the options are some I had never considered.

  Do I like to be choked/spanked/cut?

  I leave that part blank, select other. In the comment box, I type: I am open, but nothing too painful. And NO KNIVES.

  Unexpectedly, I come across a health questionnaire. It reminds me a lot of the questions one is asked when donating blood.

  In the past 12 months have you:

  Had sexual contact with anyone who has HIV/AIDS or has had a ‰positive test for the HIV/AIDS virus?

  Had or been treated for syphilis or gonorrhea?

  Had sexual contact with a prostitute or anyone else who takes money or drugs or other payment for sex?

  Ha! That last question makes me laugh to myself. Presumably, I might be precluded from this service if I actually used another service. Happy Kitty: Prostitutional Services for People Who Don’t Use Prostitutes.

  Is “prostitutional” a word? Well, it should be.

  The health questionnaire only provides a thin veil of assurance. Clearly Happy Kitty is no street pimp with a cane and feathered hat, but the idea of being that intimate with a stranger, no matter how sexy he is, is panic-inducing.

  I wonder who these men are that perform this service. Do they have day jobs? Are they pillars of their community? How does Happy Kitty even recruit this handsome, supposedly healthy stable of men?

  As I fill out each subsequent part of the form, the idea of me actually doing this becomes easier and easier. It’s no different than applying for a job or donating blood, it’s so...clinical. I’m just putting words onto a web page. I can’t connect that this will actually lead to something real, something potentially life-changing.

  Three wine glasses in, I reach the bottom of the form.

  The button stares back at me: SUBMIT.

  Just below is that same warning that was on the top of the form. This is it, if I press this button, the only way I can stop it is by saying my safeword to my attacker, face to face. I selec
ted the word “rainbow,” certain that is something I would never shout during sex unless I wanted it to end.

  And oh, I will also be losing $900 dollars.

  I dangle my finger above my trackpad. Inching it closer and then pulling it away, testing and tempting myself. Daring myself.

  All it takes is a second. No, less than a second. I just press that button. I take a chance on something crazy. I can just press it, and then it’s over. Once submitted, I leave myself with no choice but to go through with at least coming face to face with this guy.

  This time, my finger lays on the trackpad. I could literally sneeze and accidentally do this, but something keeps holding me back. Maybe it’s the smidgen of sanity I have left.

  “Woah!” I say to myself, slamming down the screen of my laptop, getting up to my feet, and circling away.

  What in the hell am I thinking?

  I run my hands through my hair and my eyes drift back to the computer. It’s almost magnetic. It’s taunting me.

  I’ve done the whole normal thing. I’ve tried it, and I’m not cut out for it. I came from a small town where all anyone ever wanted to do was to fit into a box and I left that shit for a reason.

  I need more. And this is the only thing in my life that might be that: More.

  Besides, Tiff did it, and she would never steer me wrong.

  I run over to my laptop, flip it open and the screen reappears.

  I shut my eyes and wince, as if I am about to rip off duct tape, and slam my finger down on the trackpad, feeling the faint click under my index finger.

  I open my eyes and in front of me the screen says:

  Transaction successful.

  Safeword: Rainbow

  Your secret question: Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?

  Correct Answer: Pineapples.

  Watch your back.

  Sincerely,

  Happy Kitty

  A wave of relief rushes over me, it’s done. It’s out of my hands now. But then, just as quickly, a surge hits my stomach, my head feels spacey.

  I’m not crazy like Tiff, I don’t get into fist fights with men at bars. I design pretty dildos!

  Dear lord, what have I done?

  The surge in my gut rises to my throat and I run to the bathroom to purge the contents of my stomach.

  Today is Dewey’s birthday and we are celebrating after work at the rooftop deck of Cafe Benelux.

  It’s been a week since in a terrible moment of weakness and poor judgment, I clicked on the word: SUBMIT.

  I didn’t realize when I filled out the schedule, that Dewey’s birthday party would also fall on the first day I made available for my mystery rapist-for-hire man to pay a visit.

  My stomach has been swimming all day. The only things that keep me from completely losing my shit is the fact that: 1) I will be surrounded by people pretty much until I go to bed and 2) I doubt that anyone would come after me on day one, that’s just too easy. Tiff told me she waited a week and a half for her attacker.

  So I recite my safe word over and over again. I elect to use it as soon as he lays his hands on me. This whole thing was a terrible idea. I am not Tiff, or that call girl. I am Mia, and while I like to think of myself as sexual and kinky, I am not fucking nuts.

  Oh and Tiff, I haven’t told her anything. I just want to forget this ever happened.

  Laney is crying on my shoulder. She’s hammered. Luke didn’t propose. He took her to this nice restaurant to tell her he got a new job offer in San Francisco. She won’t move unless he commits fully, and well...there was no ring.

  “I don’t know what I’m gonna doooooo,” she says, her face a mess of smudged lipstick and mascara.

  “There, there,” I say, as my eyes scan the bar for any impeccably-dressed, tall, sexy lurkers. I feel like I am being watched, like I am a gazelle being spied on from a distance by a low-lying tiger. It’s just nerves Mia. You can tell him to stop. Then you will be $900 poorer, but still have your dignity intact.

  Alea parties can get a little reckless, as this group likes to have a good time. But it’s getting late, and like Laney, I have had far too many drinks. I am ready to go home and pass out in my comfy bed.

  I have a plan: grab a taxi, slip the driver an extra ten and ask him to wait until I am safely in my home before leaving. Fool proof!

  I idle in the back seat of the cab, relieved that I have made it one day without a freakish erotic encounter. As rehearsed, despite my mild drunkenness, I am able to communicate with the driver that I would like him to make sure I have entered my home and closed the door behind me. He even suggested I switch the lights on and off to signal he could go.

  And so, I followed the exact protocol. I pulled my keys out of my purse and let myself in. I turned the lights on off a few times, watched the driver leave through my front window, and then proceeded to let out a sigh of relief.

  I made it.

  I kick off my shoes and turn on my cd player, suddenly in a gleeful mood. Things are pretty good: I love my job, I have a great buzz, and some time to myself after socializing and partying for hours and hours.

  I dance alone in my living room and have a sudden pang of hunger. I shimmy my way to the fridge, mouthing the words to some classic Backstreet Boys.

  Just as I open the fridge and poke my head in, the music stops. I stand tall, hoping it’ll play again. “Dammit!” I say to myself. The song was just about to get to my favorite part. The cd and player are old and occasionally the music skips. But this time, the song doesn’t start up again. This time, what should be a minor inconvenience send chills up my arms; the fine hairs stand at attention as if I touched static.

  Then the living room light turns off.

  I don’t even have time to get scared, or analyze what is happening. I turn my head to investigate and I see a dark shadow hanging over me.

  He is tall and his shoulders are broad. He might be, I don’t know 6’3” or 6’4”?

  I open my mouth to say something. What? I don’t even know, and he puts a gloved hand over my mouth.

  “Don’t say a fucking word, bitch.”

  It’s already 11pm and my patience is growing very fucking thin. I know she’s at a party, but I don’t give a shit. I want her here now.

  Finally, I hear a car pull up front. A taxi. Perfect. She’s alone just as I expected.

  I watch Mia from a closet as she enters the house and locks the door behind her. She even does this thing where she switches the light on and off. Stupid little bitch.

  It’s tempting to jump out now, but I need to be patient. I have to catch her completely off guard and without warning.

  She’s wobbling all over the place, she must be hammered. I couldn’t have asked for a better setup: drunk people are easy to overpower. Not that I am worried about her tiny ass putting up a good fight.

  She kicks off her shoes and pulls off her sweater, and I admire the curves of her body in her white tank top and tight jeans. Her tits are perfect, full but still perky, and right now her nipples are hard, poking right through the thin material of her tank. Her ass is round and tight. Her body has changed over the years, filling out in all the right places. My dick throbs thinking about the things I would do to her.

  Now if this bitch would just go to the bedroom, I could get started. Her living room window faces the main street and she will scream. Her bedroom, on the other hand, is towards the back of the house and faces the backyard. Wrestling on a bed is much quieter than in a living room full of lamps and bookshelves filled with random bullshit. How many fucking knickknacks does one human being require? Is that a porcelain cat? Honestly, I’m putting her out of her misery. She should thank me.

  Anyway, I want to take my time with her, so I need to wait just a little bit longer. Shit, I’ve already waited fourteen years.

  I cannot believe this shit, she’s turning on her stereo.

  What is this godforsaken tripe she’s listening to? Of course, fucking Backstreet Boys.


  I can’t help but smile a little when she dances. She’s so carefree right now. She thinks she’s safe.

  But she doesn’t understand that tonight is the night she dies.

  Nine Inch Nails – Closer

  I cry out, but the sound is muffled by his hand. He holds me, firmly against him, waiting out my thrashing. My legs flail into the fridge, knocking over a tub of cottage cheese that explodes on the kitchen floor. Another kick dislodges a shelf and Tupperware containers slide to the floor.

  I knew this was coming, but it doesn’t make me any less frightened as adrenaline floods my body. My heart revs up. I feel stronger, like my muscles are supercharged, but even still, his grip on me is immoveable. And while I am more alert, there is a strange fog surrounding my thoughts. I have all this fresh mental energy from the terror, but I am unable to focus on anything other than his hand on my mouth. I just need to get his hand off my fucking mouth. But this guy is made of stone: heavy, massive, dense. I can tell he is only using a fraction of his strength against me, while I am using everything I have, and losing energy with each kick.

  Then my mind jumps to something Tiff mentioned, how she was scared, how she flailed, but eventually she went with it. Suddenly, I realize my only way to freedom is passivity. I can’t say a safeword unless I calm down. Then he’ll move his hand so I can speak. It makes sense, this whole thing relies on anonymity, if a neighbor hears me scream and calls the cops, then our cover is blown.

  I breathe heavily into the stranger’s gloved hand as I try and relax my body. In that moment, my senses become acute. I can feel the bulges of his muscles pressing against my body. I can smell him: slight hints of musk, pine and vanilla mixed with his body chemistry. He is warm, and his warmth spreads to my exposed shoulders and through the fabric of my clothing.

  As I relax, the tension of his grip subsides and I notice we pant in unison, his chest expanding into the curve of my upper back with each breath we take.

  Eventually, aside from my heavy panting, I become still.