Page 45 of Shamed
“Are you ever going to tell me why you always demand it this way?” Reaching for the key, she starts undoing the cuff on my left wrist.
“I can’t go giving away my secrets, Trix.” I grin at her, but she’s no fool. Even if she weren’t looking at me, she’d know the smile didn’t reach my eyes.
I’m sure she’s sensed from the very beginning that there was something wrong with me and there has never been any true enjoyment for me in doing this.
“If it’s a fetish, you can just tell me. You should see some of the weird shit people are into.”
“I’d rather not.”
She opens the cuff on my other wrist. “Don’t you worry. I wouldn’t go spilling anyone else’s secrets, either.” I rub my wrists, and she unashamedly looks over my body while she slips on her heels. “I also don’t understand why you pay me when all you have to do is crook your finger and every person within sight would lose their underwear and bend over for you—fetish and all.”
Reaching for the drawer on the side table, I pull out the envelope and hand it to her. “Maybe I just like your company.”
Trixy laughs lightly, stuffing the envelope into her purse after counting the cash. “Nobodylikesmy company, honey. I’m just an orifice used to help people cope or have a little fun.It can be a horrible world out there, and I’m just a tiny band-aid for their broken lives.”
I consider how true that is for other people as I reach for my boxer-briefs, laying them across my lap. “Well, maybe I just need a tiny band-aid,” I lie.
I don’t think there’s a band-aid big enough to fix a broken soul.
Trixy’s bright blue eyes lose a little of their sparkle, and she gives me a sad smile, thinking she understands completely. She doesn’t.
Seconds later, she lets herself out of my apartment—she never hangs around long, which I appreciate. Our interactions last no more than half an hour, and always with limited conversations.
The moment the door clicks shut, something a lot like shame forms a pit in my stomach, like it does every time. It hollows out my insides, leaving me feeling empty.
I rush to strip the sheet and pillowcases off the guest bed and throw them into the hamper before crossing the hall into my bedroom and grabbing fresh clothes. I need to get clean.
The shame won’t wash off in a shower, but at least her perfume and any other remnant of her will—not that much touching happens during her visit, anyway.
With my palms pressed flat against the tiles, I keep my eyes squeezed shut as the hot water pours onto the back of my head,soaking through every part of me before I reach for my body wash.
I only meet up with Trixy once in a while—sometimes months go by between visits—but it’s the same procedure every time. She serves a quick purpose, one I feel is necessary, and then she leaves me to get on with my day.
After scrubbing every inch of my body, I watch as all the soap and evidence of the past half-hour circles down the drain, along with my dark thoughts and self-respect.
Feeling clean enough, I shut off the water and roughly dry my hair and body before stepping into my underwear and sweatpants, then I head to the kitchen to make some lunch.
“Hey, Mom,” I greet when she answers my call, my previous thoughts drifting into the background. “How are you feeling today?”
I pull out one of the containers of chicken and rice I pre-made and quickly throw it into the microwave.
“Mase, my sweet boy. I don’t think there’s another patient in here who has children that check on them as much as you do with me.”
“You’re not a patient; you’re a resident,” I correct.
It’s been four years since my mom moved into the special assisted living facility. Her condition progressed to the point where she needed to have a nurse on hand twenty-four-seven.And since I was finally able to pay for it, I made sure she went to one of the best places in Chicago.
They check in with her every day, bring her food, help her bathe, go for walks, and assist with other basic needs, and all while treating her kindly.
“And I don’t think I’ve been a sweetboyfor quite some time.”
“You just wait until you have kids of your own. They’ll always be your little boy or girl, no matter how old.”
I huff, my lips twitching, because I’m twice the size of my mother and hardly look sweet.
“Anyway, you should be busy with friends. Or maybe even someone special . . .”
“How do you know I wasn’t out with friends all night and just getting home now?” I take a seat at the table with my food, watching the steam rise as I lift a spoonful and blow on it.
