Milked

Meghranush | make love.

Shane had texted me every day since our night at Hazed and Dazed when I ditched him. And I ignored him, every single time.

My interior materials instructor pulled me aside after class on Tuesday. "I see a lot of students, Meg," she said. "I know that when a student goes from excelling to performing very poorly, it's usually an indication that something has happened. Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm just going through a rough patch," I managed. "But I'll be better soon. Can I have an extension?"

She nodded, though she still looked like she wanted to talk about it. "You have a week to turn in your paper. I will also accept your missing assignments from the past three weeks."

Nodding, I said, "Thank you." But part of me knew I wasn't going to have the motivation to do any of that classwork, that it probably wouldn't get done. That other girl who had taken over me, who was me, didn't care about her bright future in interior design anymore, even when she wasn't drinking liquid apathy. She could attend class but not participate. Her body engaged while her mind shut down.

I looked at myself in the mirror again. I used to see a picture of perfection: a girl with perfectly blown hair and great makeup and a pageant-worthy smile. Though my body went through the same motions every morning, and my hair and makeup looked the same as always, I didn't see that girl anymore. That other girl who did shameful things in the name of money looked back at me.

I knew I wasn't the only one with these shameful demons. Loren did much worse things for money. And though Lizzy claimed her time with her own companion went well, she probably harbored some shame.

Even Angela had revealed that she had sex on camera for money, but she didn't seem ashamed.

What had she called her site—Exposed to the Soul? I decided to search for it on the internet.

I found it quickly. They called themselves "a creative collective." You had to pledge a certain amount of money each month to unlock certain levels content. If I pledged one-hundred dollars, I would gain access to the first level of content, which included original artwork and musical compositions, nude portraits, and a couple of videos. One of those videos was called, "Angela and Trish Make Art."

My bank account was full, as Richard had just replenished it with my monthly allowance.

I thought only about the fact that my bank account had more than five-thousand dollars in it. It didn't seem like a big deal to pledge one-hundred dollars to my friend's collective, especially considering some of that money would feed and shelter her.

The transaction went through PayPal, and then I had access. The video was right there, and all I had to do was click on it.

I did.

It took a few seconds to load, and then it started playing.

Sensual music decorated the background, and I assumed it was one of DJ Trish Trash's originals.

Angela and Trish, who I remembered was the redhead from the other night, started out sitting on a white cloth, which covered the floor. They were naked, and next to each of them was a palette of paint. Both were facing the same way, with Angela sitting behind Trish, beginning to paint on her back with a medium brush. Her painting was done quickly, with Trish laughing and telling her the strokes felt good, the two of them conversing like they weren't on camera. When Angela finished with her painting, Trish's back was covered in thick paint, greens and pinks and blues oranges, reminiscent of a sloppy Claude Monet with no discernible water lilies.

Then Angela scooted closer, until her stomach and chest were against Trish's back. She dropped the paintbrush from her right hand, and put her hand in between Trish's legs.

I exited the web page then. It felt too private for me to be watching. Even though it seemed beautiful, I couldn't get past the fact that they were using their bodies as commodities, just as I had been doing. I felt like my parents as I thought to myself, what is our world coming to?

How can we stop objectifying bodies without stopping the commodification of our bodies? Something bought is something that can be devalued and broken. 

Even with these strange thoughts, I found myself going back to the website, where I saw the artwork: the white cloth covered in their paint, which was now being sold in their collective's monthly auction. Bidding went on through the month, and the current offer was at $2145. The painting was called "Angela and Trish's Love."

I imagined if Richard and I painted each other and had sex on top of a white sheet, our paint marks would be devoid of color. My paint marks would be devoid of movement, as I'd be stuck, frozen, unable to move. And his paint marks would be all over, inconsiderate, dominating, terrible.

Though I had only given him a hand job, I couldn't help but think each encounter with him would be progressively more sinful.

No. I couldn't live like this. I couldn't be a blotch of colorless paint in a world I once believed was so colorful. I couldn't spend my youth sinning.

I would get through this. I could be proactive and get myself back in order; I knew I could.

I dialed what I hoped was still Angela's number. She answered, "Yes?"

"It's Meg."

"Meg! You disappeared the other night. How are you?"

"I've been better. Listen—do you want to have coffee? Like, tonight?"

Caught off guard, like an invitation to coffee was the last thing she expected, she said, "Um...sure. Yeah!"

She agreed to meet me at Cups that evening. Though I didn't like that cafe, it was close to campus, and they did have good lattes. Skylar wasn't working, so I didn't need to worry about her interrupting us.

With our in-house mugs steaming with flavored lattes, we sat across from each other.

"Why did you want to meet me?" she asked. "It's never really seemed like we've been...friends."

Putting my hands around the porcelain mug, I said, "Remember when you quit Tahiti Toms?"

"Of course. One of my finest moments."

I stirred the froth atop my latte with a wooden stick, not looking at her. "How did you get the courage to talk to that man the way you did?"

"It was easy. I finally refused hold my tongue. Those words that had been trying to escape me ever since my first interaction with him were set free." She leaned back in her seat, taking another sip of her latte. "Man. I hated that motherfucker. Seriously, he seemed to think he just had a right to touch me. Always touching my legs and saying gross things. What a sexist asshole."

My eyes went up. "But he had power over you."

She sighed. "He did. That's why I got fired. But that's the world we live in."

I sighed, looking down, agreeing with her and wondering why: why is this the world we live in? Then I asked, "Was it worth it? Getting fired?"

Without hesitation, she said, "Totally."

"But what if something worse could have happened?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Weren't you ever scared of him?"

Angela got a serious look on her face, and lowered her voice to a whisper. "All men scare me." Then, she looked at me inquisitively, and came close to my face, saying, "Are you okay, Meg?"

"I will be," I told her.

"You want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

She grabbed my hand. "Whoever this guy is who's bothering you? You can stand up to him. And if you're scared, you can get help. Please, let me know if I can help you."

I squeezed her hand back, smiling. "You already have." I hoped it was true.

As I walked back to my apartment, I decided I felt good about Angela's advice. It was certainly better than Loren's advice to just take it.

Because next time, I wouldn't take it. I had my own body, and my own voice, and I wouldn't let some skeezy lecher steal them away from me.