Born to Lose
As he pulled out of her driveway, she thought of all of the places he touched her: nipples, breasts, thighs, hips, ass. Wherever she poked smelled like wet shame. For months, she'd been having that fantasy—bang the new teacher—and why not, he was twenty something and single. Every girl in homeroom said some version of the same thing, how easy it would be to get him naked, but the only men they ever tried to get were fifteen year old boys with acne and abandonment issues. She needed something bigger and more abusive, the kind of man who lived for bar fights and fists, who didn't need to lie about his age to get her drunk. Sure, she was diabetic, sure the vodka he slipped into her orange juice had enough sugar to kill her, or at least make her lose her memory for the night, but maybe that's what you want when someone who's supposed to be your role model strips to his pants, gropes you and calls you his bitch. Maybe that's the only way to get through this ugly thing everyone calls love.
Amanda Harris is a college student who lives in New York. She regularly contributes to the literary group Fictionaut.