Living With Boys

prologue // dire straits

I knew my life was traversing a slippery slope toward rock bottom, but even I hadn't considered that when I finally made impact, it would be at the checkout of a sex shop with a 10-inch glow-in-the-dark dildo in hand.

It was the kind of tragedy not even Shakespeare could have imagined. This was not your friendly neighbourhood mishap. This was a disaster of the most epic proportions, a fake-your-own-death-and-move-overseas catastrophe. I was prone to those—they were a biweekly occurrence, and I was consistently and predictably dramatic about them every time—but this time, I wasn't even (mostly) joking.

I winced, and pasted a smile on my face. "Oh, well, that isn't ideal," I chirped, with all the pep and optimism I could muster.

In my most horrific nightmares, I had never contemplated this. And I had quite the vivid imagination.

I thought I'd considered almost every possibility. I'd thought about selling pictures of my feet on the internet and the mortifying ordeal of anyone in my life finding out about it. I'd thought about Zara, my landlord and best friend, evicting me when I once again offered (only half-jokingly) to pay that month's rent in sexual favours. Hundreds of imagined scenarios that I thought, yes, if that ever happens, I'll know I have absolutely hit an all-time low.

But this? Yeah, this was quite the humbling experience, even for me.

"Miss?" the girl behind the counter prompted.

She was wearing a corset and fishnet stockings, blonde hair expertly curled, and her sex appeal only made me feel worse about my current state of dishevelment. I believed in looking hot at all times—usually with thrifted vintage get-ups and manicures I couldn't afford—but of course the one day I was clad in ratty jeans and a gigantic hoodie was the day my card declined at a fucking Sexyland.

The girl behind the counter grimaced the most pathetic excuse for a smile I'd ever seen. "It hasn't gone through. Would you like to give it another go?"

She didn't seem to find my current state of poverty and dishevelment particularly alarming. Maybe sex shops were where most people went through their early quarter-life crisis.

I grinned brightly at her. She stared, stone-faced and bored right back; the grimace was clearly too much effort to maintain. Okay. "Sure!" I said, as if I wasn't completely certain that the second payment would bounce.

"This sometimes happens. It can reject a card if it thinks it's an out of character purchase," the girl offered.

"Yep! Never bought one of these before." (A lie. It was my go-to store for last minute birthday presents, mostly because it was more original than a bottle of tequila, and partially because people were less inclined to know the price tag of a sex toy, and I could disguise just how poor I often was) "I guess my card is just a judgy prude."

She didn't laugh.

Please, don't bounce. Please. If there is a big man upstairs, please cast me a lifeline. I've never kicked a puppy, and sometimes I think about recycling properly. And the only crime I've ever committed is underage drinking, and you guys loved the shit out of that in the Bible. I don't know what your stance on a phosphorescent penis is, but there's like, a Bible verse about giving, right? All Zara wants for her birthday is a giant phallic object, and I am being a good person by trying to do that for her. Cut me some slack. Let it go through.

I wasn't one for praying to higher powers, but they say everyone finds religion in their darkest moments. I hoped whatever god existed was cool with sex shops.

The girl watched with complete apathy as I tapped my card again. I watched the machine whirl and beep menacingly at me, processing my fate, and I'd never felt so nervous about the proclamations of a machine.