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WE COULD get more for you, Allie said. We were sitting on the curb behind the Baptist church eating a hot-n-ready. She picked me up in her mom’s Audi and we decided to grab a pizza and park. We were devouring pepperoni and cheese, wiping the grease from our chins with our palms. Allie was talking with her mouth full, telling me about how that Sunday she found herself in the back of a cab at Bathurst and King with a wad of cash in her hands. About a hundie, she said. It was morning and most people were meeting up for brunch. Allie was wearing last night’s dress. She had her heels tucked under her arm, her feet were black and bloody from walking around the club barefoot. The cash took her by surprise, the guy thrust it towards her stomach after he flagged down a car, ready to be rid of her. But I’ve thought about it before, she said, pulling another slice from the box. I’ve thought about taking shots of my feet, posting them on a forum. A teaser, then webcam and wired cash if you want more. I could PayPal it, I’m sure. I’ve looked at those Cupid’s Babes sites. I could be one of those girls, she said. Me too, I said.
Back then we didn’t inhale. We let smoke sit on the edge of our mouths, let rollups burn out between our fingers. We pulled lines from whatever show was playing on Thursday at eight. She gets laid in the name of a vague sexual loneliness, we mouthed back, into the screen. We quit the basketball team and had lots of afterschool time to kill, our stomachs perpetually coated with peach schnapps. Allie set up LonelyGirl2 and we posted some sideboob pics. We took them in Allie’s walk-in closet standing against her old figure skating costumes, a backdrop of sequined pink and gold. Then we started getting hits. Lots of old guys, lots of ball sack, lots of cumshotz taken with smartphones. The audio was always out of sync with the action. The delayed thwack of skin, the fuzzy groan. They went right to Allie’s school mail. She fielded their offers, negotiated our price. We could get more for you, she reminded me when I saw numbers so big they made me feel sick. She opened one proposition in Geo and tilted her screen towards me. A red cock standing at attention. I almost fell back in my chair. You’re going to get pummeled so bad if we take one of those, she laughed. I felt something tug up from my crotch to my belly. A wire hooked tight between my legs.
The night we did it Allie pulled up to my mom’s house and honked once. She was still in her kilt and knee-highs. The guy, Seb, lived in Old Towne, glass condos built on top of original red brick façade. He seemed like 30, worked in social, he said. He had these little hands and splayed his fingers wide when he spoke. He kept passing us glasses of vodka and ice while Allie stood on the couch and rocked back and forth, demanding more music more music until he smiled rows of little white teeth and obliged her, switching up playlists. You like EDM baby? You like trance? I left them to it and wandered around, drunk and staring at my bare legs, wondering when I lost my pants. I opened closets and drawers checking to see if he hid anything weird. Any ball gags or studded paddles, anything Allie said they sometimes kept under beds, under pillows. Only to come out when you were compromised and it was too late, you had no say. I didn’t want any surprises. His apartment was half empty, every drawer had an invisible line drawn down the middle, shirts pushed to one side like someone had taken their shit in the dead of night, balled it all up into a bag and left. The shoe rack, the bookshelf, the closet, half empty. All his coats lined up beside a rack of empty metal hangers.
Later, he kept trying to look at me while Allie knelt on the bed beside us. You’re the one, he said. I couldn’t speak so I tried to make a face, but he kept looking and looking until he pressed his mouth into my neck. When he sighed it was far away and when he opened me up I knew how much I was worth.