Take as Directed
Chapter 1
He smells like Cheetos.
A grown man should not smell like Cheetos.
A grown man shouldn’t take a teenage girl up on her offer to blow him behind a convenience store dumpster in exchange for drugs when she’s a little short on cash either, but Sean’s never seemed to give a rat’s ass about that. I think he does this on purpose. He probably has a calendar under unwashed boxers and used syringes to keep track of my finances, with the days labeled based entirely on my buying habits, ever the diligent businessman, and in big red letters at least a week before the inevitable, the words DON’T SHOWER so he’s all greased up nastiness for me when I—
Jesus Christ.
I cough, sputter, spit, swipe at my face, and oh God, it’s on my sweater. His cum. Is on. My sweater.
And he’s laughing.
This obnoxious, too-loud laugh that rattles painfully against my skull, which is already pounding with the beginnings of a massive headache. It’s not fucking funny. I’m on my knees behind a dumpster, covered in his cum, surrounded by the smell of him, by the taste of him, and even though I want to hit him in his smug ass face, I can’t do anything. Because the pounding in my head isn’t going to go away and the shakes won’t stop and the cotton of my sweater is ripping my skin to shreds and reality is setting in and I feel like absolute garbage.
I need him.
It’s degrading.
I’m going to throw up.
But I don’t. I smile up at him despite the cum dripping down my chin and seeping into my clothing. Play nice. Keep it together. Let him think you want this.
“Babe…” He chuckles, shakes his head in the most condescending manner and, finally, pulls up his boxers and pants, getting his limp dick out of my face.
Don’t throw up.
He shoves his hand in his back pocket.
Yes.
I shoot to my feet, every bit the desperate addict that I am. Appearances don’t matter anymore. We’re done here. I played my part, I gave him what he wanted. It’s his turn to pay up. In pills. The good shit. I’m salivating thinking about it, the OxyContin, because no matter how many substances I try, I always come back, and… that is the most beautiful baggie I’ve ever seen.
“Cash.”
Right. Cash. Oxy costs a little more than a blowjob. Even when it comes from an aging rock star’s daughter. But, hey, a girl can dream.
This exchange is quick, synchronized. Money for pills, pills for money, and we count, as if we’d ever shortchange each other, but that’s the paranoia engrained in us. My hands shake so bad, it’s hard to keep track of what tablet I’ve counted and I have to start over. Once. Twice. Three times.
Twenty 40mg OxyContin pills.
For three hundred dollars and destroyed dignity.
Worth it.
I pop one in my mouth. Right there behind the convenience store dumpster. No one comes back here. Not till much later, closer to their shift change. Sean and I aren’t amateurs. Still, I shove the rest of the pretty yellowy orange pills in my bra, hide them the way squirrels do with their food. The cum on my face is incriminating enough. Let any sporadic busybody think we’re a couple trying to spice up our love life by banging in public.
I press the pill between my cheek and gums. The relief is instantaneous, and the drug hasn’t released into my system yet. But it’s in my mouth and it’ll softening and that’s enough for now.
“Pleasure doing business with you.”
Shut up, Sean.
I throw him a pretty smile and make sure my voice is soaked in honey. “As always.”
I hate you.
But I hate myself more.
I leave with a wave, wipe my face clean on the back of my sweater sleeve while I trek to the parking lot in front of the store, where my car is parked between two trucks. I smile at a woman and child heading into the store. Nod to the man locking his car. Polite. Friendly. Only slightly disheveled. Nowhere near suspicious, though I doubt anyone would recognize me and, really, that’s half my concern.
I unlock my car door.
I shouldn’t drive. I know I shouldn’t. Getting here was a miracle, and by the time I’m halfway home, I’ll have chewed up the pills, be under the influence, impaired, dangerous, but I get in my car and start it anyway.
Dad will flip his shit if I miss dinner.
A grown man should not smell like Cheetos.
A grown man shouldn’t take a teenage girl up on her offer to blow him behind a convenience store dumpster in exchange for drugs when she’s a little short on cash either, but Sean’s never seemed to give a rat’s ass about that. I think he does this on purpose. He probably has a calendar under unwashed boxers and used syringes to keep track of my finances, with the days labeled based entirely on my buying habits, ever the diligent businessman, and in big red letters at least a week before the inevitable, the words DON’T SHOWER so he’s all greased up nastiness for me when I—
Jesus Christ.
I cough, sputter, spit, swipe at my face, and oh God, it’s on my sweater. His cum. Is on. My sweater.
And he’s laughing.
This obnoxious, too-loud laugh that rattles painfully against my skull, which is already pounding with the beginnings of a massive headache. It’s not fucking funny. I’m on my knees behind a dumpster, covered in his cum, surrounded by the smell of him, by the taste of him, and even though I want to hit him in his smug ass face, I can’t do anything. Because the pounding in my head isn’t going to go away and the shakes won’t stop and the cotton of my sweater is ripping my skin to shreds and reality is setting in and I feel like absolute garbage.
I need him.
It’s degrading.
I’m going to throw up.
But I don’t. I smile up at him despite the cum dripping down my chin and seeping into my clothing. Play nice. Keep it together. Let him think you want this.
“Babe…” He chuckles, shakes his head in the most condescending manner and, finally, pulls up his boxers and pants, getting his limp dick out of my face.
Don’t throw up.
He shoves his hand in his back pocket.
Yes.
I shoot to my feet, every bit the desperate addict that I am. Appearances don’t matter anymore. We’re done here. I played my part, I gave him what he wanted. It’s his turn to pay up. In pills. The good shit. I’m salivating thinking about it, the OxyContin, because no matter how many substances I try, I always come back, and… that is the most beautiful baggie I’ve ever seen.
“Cash.”
Right. Cash. Oxy costs a little more than a blowjob. Even when it comes from an aging rock star’s daughter. But, hey, a girl can dream.
This exchange is quick, synchronized. Money for pills, pills for money, and we count, as if we’d ever shortchange each other, but that’s the paranoia engrained in us. My hands shake so bad, it’s hard to keep track of what tablet I’ve counted and I have to start over. Once. Twice. Three times.
Twenty 40mg OxyContin pills.
For three hundred dollars and destroyed dignity.
Worth it.
I pop one in my mouth. Right there behind the convenience store dumpster. No one comes back here. Not till much later, closer to their shift change. Sean and I aren’t amateurs. Still, I shove the rest of the pretty yellowy orange pills in my bra, hide them the way squirrels do with their food. The cum on my face is incriminating enough. Let any sporadic busybody think we’re a couple trying to spice up our love life by banging in public.
I press the pill between my cheek and gums. The relief is instantaneous, and the drug hasn’t released into my system yet. But it’s in my mouth and it’ll softening and that’s enough for now.
“Pleasure doing business with you.”
Shut up, Sean.
I throw him a pretty smile and make sure my voice is soaked in honey. “As always.”
I hate you.
But I hate myself more.
I leave with a wave, wipe my face clean on the back of my sweater sleeve while I trek to the parking lot in front of the store, where my car is parked between two trucks. I smile at a woman and child heading into the store. Nod to the man locking his car. Polite. Friendly. Only slightly disheveled. Nowhere near suspicious, though I doubt anyone would recognize me and, really, that’s half my concern.
I unlock my car door.
I shouldn’t drive. I know I shouldn’t. Getting here was a miracle, and by the time I’m halfway home, I’ll have chewed up the pills, be under the influence, impaired, dangerous, but I get in my car and start it anyway.
Dad will flip his shit if I miss dinner.