After leaving the seamstress’ shop, with an hour to spare before the start of my shift, I decided to pay a quick visit to Lilith and give her the few souvenirs I had brought her back from California.
It wasn’t our normal Big Sister day, so she looked surprised to see me when she joined me out on her porch.
“You came back.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I bet Jasper a dollar that you would, but he wanted to make it five. I told him that was too much because I thought I might lose.”
“Thanks for the one-dollar vote of confidence, Lil.”
“Is there something for me in that bag?”
“There are several things in this bag. Two new work outfits for me, and there just might be a few things for you, yes.”
She adjusted her glasses. “Let’s see.”
“Okay, technically, Landon paid for these gifts, because I didn’t have any money with me.”
“I like him.”
“I didn’t know what to get you, so we bought a few different things.” I took out the smaller gift bag that contained all of her presents.
She opened it and sifted through the gifts: A Venice Beach key chain, a California T-shirt, a replica of the Landon’s Lunch Box truck, and a fake Academy Award that said Best Friend.
Lilith inspected each item. “You did good, Toots.”
I laughed whenever she called me “Toots.” What person under the age of eighty used that term? She was getting more and more like a little old lady every day.
While she wasn’t jumping up and down or anything, she really did seem to like the gifts. I let out a relieved breath as she gave me a hug.
“When are you gonna see Landon again?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Will I ever get to meet him?”
“I hope so.”
“Did you bring anything else back?”
A massive case of lady blue balls and a bit of a broken heart.
IT’S THE ONIONS
The next few weeks went by in a flash.
I kept looking for a new apartment during the day but wasn’t having any luck finding anything in my price range. That, along with looking in on my father who was recovering from knee surgery, meant my life was unusually hectic.
Even though I’d talk to Landon every night, I avoided getting into any serious topics because I felt like I couldn’t handle it mentally. Sensing that, he was letting me drive all of our conversations.
Everything came to a head one night at work when I had what felt like a panic attack during one of my dance routines. I was able to ride it out but felt totally exhausted by the time I got home.
During our nightly phone chat, I opened up to Landon about what happened at the restaurant.
“I had a bit of a panic attack tonight while performing. That’s never happened to me before.”
“Are you okay? What did it feel like?”
“I’m okay now. It just felt like I couldn’t breathe, like I was trapped in my own body with nowhere to run. I think I’ve been bottling my feelings up, and they finally turned against me.”
He didn’t immediately respond.
“Your feelings about me…about my past?”
“Yeah, I think so. I’ve been really trying hard not to think about what you used to do, but it’s been like an ever-present ghost following me around anyway.”
“As much as I don’t want to, I think we really need to talk about it.”
There was no other answer for me to give him except, “I agree.”
“Please, just ask me whatever you want to know. Rip the Band-Aid off. Let’s just get it all out there so we can deal with it. That’s the only way you’re going to know whether it’s something you can look past or not.”
I knew the questions in my mind; I just didn’t want to necessarily know the answers. But this limbo couldn’t go on forever. So, I took advantage of the open floor he was giving me tonight and just started shooting off my questions.
“You said these women were all married?”
“Yes. Each one. But for the most part, they were in bad marriages, either open relationships, or the spouse was cheating, too. Sadly, I’m finding that’s pretty common among some of the wealthy people here—so many getting divorced or having affairs.”
My next question was perhaps the hardest one to ask, but I still had to know. “Did you ever…enjoy it?”
He exhaled. “I love sex. You know that. There’s probably nothing more that I love doing. But there’s a big difference between having sex with someone you choose versus someone who’s using you and vice versa. The idea of the latter repulses me now. But at the time, I would just zone out, detach myself from the situation. While I can’t say I enjoyed it, I can’t say I hated it, either. In the moment, it never felt like I was being used, never made me sick like it does now.”
“Were they all attractive…like Carys?”
“These were wealthy women who knew how to take care of themselves, so yeah, they were all attractive, not women I would have chosen for myself, but they were attractive, nonetheless. I couldn’t have done it if the person repulsed me.” When I stopped talking for several seconds, he asked, “Are you okay?”
My emotions were all over the place, and at one point, I lost my composure a bit. “God, Landon, how could you let them take advantage of you like that?”
“I was lost—depressed. Some people turn to drugs or cutting, other forms of self-harm. I turned to using my body but managed to convince myself it wasn’t that bad because I was benefitting financially. The way I saw it, I was doing it in fancy, private places on my own terms, not selling myself on the street to just anyone. On the best day, I had myself convinced that it wasn’t really prostitution, that it was something else. I didn’t account for the fact that a little piece of my soul was being stripped away each time, and that it would all eventually hit me at once. I also didn’t take into account that I would have to look into your eyes someday and admit to you that I sold my body. I wasn’t thinking…period.”
I pondered whether what he did was really all that different than my having sex as a teenager with boys who were using me. Sure, they weren’t paying me, but they were using me just the same.
Over the next hour, as painful as it was, I kept asking Landon question after question. I didn’t want to have to talk about the details ever again, so I made sure every bit of morbid curiosity was satisfied. He was being so amazingly open with me, even though I knew it was really difficult for him.
Among other things, he told me that most of the women wanted more than just missionary sex. They asked him to play into their bad boy fantasies, things like being slapped, sworn at, called a slut, or screwed from behind while having their hair pulled—things their husbands didn’t do. One woman even asked him to piss on her. I couldn’t believe he was admitting all of this to me, but in a way, it was a relief to know I wouldn’t have to wonder about any of it anymore. It was basically the ugly truth, but at least it was the truth.
It freaked me out a little, because as he was telling me some of this stuff, I found myself getting turned on. It was a natural reaction to my imagination putting Landon into any kind of sexual scenario.
I refused to block out the sexual images, though. It was the only way I could rid my mind of them, to let them be there and to let them pass.
At a certain point, the woman in my mind morphed into an image of myself. I imagined Landon doing some of those things to me, striking my ass, pulling my hair, lashing at my skin with his tongue. Under the circumstances of our talk, though, it was disturbing, and I could never have admitted that to him.
We’d stayed up talking late into the night.
The following morning, I woke up feeling like I was hung over, even though I hadn’t been drinking. I realized the feeling was a direct result of finally unleashing all of those bottled-up questions to Landon. Because he’d been so forthright with me, there truly wasn’t a need to ever have to revisit any of it again.
It had been mentally exhausting, but there was no other choice. You can’t put out a fire by dancing around it. You have to deal with it, douse it with water until there’s nothing left. Once the fire’s out, you can either choose to rebuild or abandon the rubble.