purpose (book two)

love of strangers

i.

love of strangers

Crisp, white sheets. Platinum blonde hair spilling across fabric. Feathery down pillows. Soft mattress crumpled by the weight of two bodies. Milky sunlight filtering through clear glass windows. Warm, quiet atmosphere.

My hands skim across smooth, tanned skin. Pure white nails bump gently over ridges of hard muscle. My legs are entangled with his. The sheets are cool against our hot, naked skin. My breath flows out from ruby red lips. I watch him through the folds of crumpled sheets and lumpy pillows.

Him. He whose name I don't know. He whose name I will never know.

I could care less about his name.

He is gorgeous. He is dark-skinned and he is muscular. He is three inches taller than me when I wear stilettos. His cheeks are chiseled, yet flushed by the heat. There is a red and purple mark against the scoop of his neck. It matches the shape of my lips.

He has a physique that could send any girl falling head over heels.

That's the thing. I only care about his physique. I couldn't give two shits about where he comes from, what his personality is like, or even how much money he makes.

I only wanted him for the sex.

I know what you must be thinking. What a slut, only caring about sex. Or, that's disgusting, you're using him for your own pleasure.

Feel free to think what you like. I've never been the type of girl to be offended by insults, whether they're accurate or not. I know a lot about myself, and I have for a long time. Words, spoken or unspoken, have never meant much to me. Action – that's what I care about.

I'm not addicted to sex. In fact, I don't remember what it's like to actually enjoy sex. Do people even like having sex?

Allow me to admit that I can't remember my first time. I was much younger, and I was probably younger than most girls are when they lose their virginity. Am I supposed to feel guilty, or embarrassed, that I can't even picture the boy? I can't recall if his hair was blonde or black, short or long, curly or straight. I can't recall the color of his eyes – but then, I never do. I never focus on his eyes, even from the beginning until the end.

I suppose, in the moment, my first time meant a great deal to me. But as each time became a different boy and each time happened more and more frequently, I lost the appeal to sex. Of course, I still do it. A lot.

Why?

There's only one explanation, you see. When I barely graduated high school and college didn't work out, I understood that I would never be smart. My grades were always sub-par. I never excelled in a single subject or class. For those four years of high school, I convinced myself that I was simply average.

That idiotic mindset didn't last. Truth is, I'm just not good at anything.

Anything except for sex.

Yes, I sleep around. Yes, I get shit-faced on the weekends. Yes, I fuck strangers as often as I can. I don't remember the last time I enjoyed the actual act of having sex. I do it often, yes, but I don't recall ever having felt something for him. The man has never been important to me.

So in that sun-swept room, with the boy who smells of cologne and sweat, I do not linger. The crumpled mattress bends beneath the curve of my back as I sit up. Naked and with bleach-blonde hair in frizzy disarray, I slip out of the white sheets and stand. I will gather my clothes, scattered across this unfamiliar room, and I will leave. Quietly, so he never has a chance to say a single word to me.

You get why I do it, don't you?

No, of course you wouldn't. No one ever does.

I fuck strangers to avoid the inevitable feeling that I'm useless.