Growing up in a small homogeneous town leaves its mark on a girl. A mark that only becomes visible after she leaves Lilly Whiteville, that is. Which maybe goes some way towards explaining why so many in her situation never want to leave their peaceful little place, the one that looks so much like them, for any reason ever. And why they languish in a sort of permanent state of nothing much until death takes mercy on them.
Sophie hadn’t really meant to leave her comfortable white middle-class town. It was an offer of a scholarship at Concordia University that lured her away. She was studying English Literature in Laval University, not a particularly challenging program in which she excelled. A professor had been impressed with her grasp of Henrik Ibsen’s influence on Oscar Wilde. He suggested she applied for a switch to Concordia, and work with a Wilde specialist there. There were grants available, he’d said. Nothing spectacular, but enough to cover rent and living expenses if she were prepared to do research work. That’s how Sophie wound up in the big city, living in a dinky little apartment off Guy Street and surviving on buck-a-slice pizza and Van Houtte latte.
She didn’t know it when she first started exploring the bar scene on Crescent Street nearby, but her charms would be noticed by the visiting salesmen and suburban dads on weekend benders, enough that she rarely had to pay for drinks and late dinners. She’d still be there the next weekend, and soon got offers of more benefits in exchange for more time spent with her new acquaintances. A lucrative sideline was thus born. But we’re jumping too far ahead, and it wouldn’t do to make you all dizzy with an unduly non-linear narrative.
Not having had the benefit of growing up in a diverse community meant that Sophie wasn’t accustomed to the differences between the races when it came to sex. But in Montreal she began sampling a more multicultural brew, as it were, and her universe expanded faster than… Well, you know what too much alcohol does to suburban dads.
“I’m not a racist!” she protested when her girlfriend asked why she’d never had sex with non-whites before. “I just had sex with whoever was around, that’s all. There was, like, one black guy in the whole school. What was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. Go look for something different? Why were you so afraid of variety?”
“You know I have no problem with that,” Sophie said as she leaned over to kiss those voluptuous lips. That was the signal Eva wanted, and they soon found themselves in bed again.
She was thinking about that episode as Charlie (not his real name) dropped his pants. She’d heard somewhere that a lot of Asian guys weren’t particularly well endowed. She had no idea whether this stereotype was true or not, but if it was true she knew Charlie was responsible for it.
It was barely two inches. At attention. When she first saw it, before the work began in earnest, she didn’t. See it, I mean. It’s like it wasn’t there. This was such a small dick it might as well have been a clit. Good thing she was used to playing with those, too.
“How does he manage to pee?” was all Sophie could think. “Does he have to sit down?”
She’d never seen anything so small. Barely visible, like the man it was attached to. He was gentle and sweet, for sure. But very shy. And no wonder.
Sophie remembered the shame she felt changing into her gym clothes in middle school because she wasn’t yet wearing a bra. Her chest didn’t start popping out until high school, and never went very far out at all. She had no idea how to broach the subject with her mom, but one day she did anyway.
“When do you think I’ll need a bra?” She felt terribly vulnerable asking that question. When you’re 12, everything is so dramatic. And her mother, perhaps because she was at the time busy with her own depression, didn’t help her one bit.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” She couldn’t insist. She had no clue how to do it. She didn’t even know how to ask, When will my tits grow? How will they feel? And why can’t I ask my mom about this? She considered wearing a bra anyway, even though it would be holding nothing but air. That’s what a few of her classmates did. But only until the other girls started throwing kleenex at them. Apparently it’s less shameful to not have tits than to pretend you do.
Middle school is such a minefield.
Charlie reminded her of her 12-year-old self standing there, naked and vulnerable. She thought of Eva’s body and wondered if he’d like a dose of, er, modified lesbian sex, but quickly dismissed the idea. She’d been in the sex business long enough to know that’s not why he was here with his money and tiny toy. Like all her clients, what he was buying was fantasy. To make himself believe he could, in actual point of fact, fuck a woman the old-fashioned way. She straddled him and rocked back and forth more or less on top of where his penis ought to be if he had one worthy of the name. He closed his eyes, and drooled a little. In his dreams, he was big and strong, and the sounds that came out of her mouth were entirely caused by him and not his money.
Nothing personal, Sophie thought to herself. Just business.