White Rabbit Chapter 22

22.

Fifteen. Filthy…

Shortly after the funeral it was time for Delores to be sent back to school. Her mother affirmed that she would go to Boston, to St. Anne’s with the stern threat that if it didn’t work out there she would send Delores to a juvenile delinquent center in Colorado for rich kids. The Devlin Foundation, it was called. She showed Delores the dreadful pamphlets. Her birthday was somewhere miserably in the weeks between and the progression from fourteen to fifteen was nothing worth noting. Humdrum, she called it. She spent most nights on her break in chatrooms talking to horny boys and pedophilic men who were always trying to molest someone without having to do it in person.

Rehearsals.

What are you wearing??? A smile.

The sight of symbols on a LCD screen makes their little circuits go haywire, exploding like fireworks, those explosions responsible for releasing the shit that is manufactured in their warped brains as they become sexually stimulated. The progression, rather, the digression floods any common decency they possess with overwhelming euphoria. Sex is a schedule I drug, undoubtedly. Typing with one hand rubbing herself with her other became second nature the way some people learn to ride bicycles with no hands. Same questions different name, different cartoon icons to represent someone new each night. Searching for someone special in a pile of dog shit over and over. Thousands of miles away, sometimes closer. A terrible waste of a life. White Rabbit sat on a corner table with a pen in it, bloating the dead body cover. She hadn’t written in it for a while. Nothing new. Writer’s block, she complained. She’d get it published and move to Paris. The green four inch metallic replica tower reminded her. Tomorrow she’d start. She was fluent in French. She achieved some proliferous satisfaction in confessing all her desires for cocks being put here and tongues there to anyone willing to listen, with or without a picture, to stimulate herself through the fantasies of what they would do to her. Utterly playing house with live rounds. But she was hoping to meet someone that could pluck her from her desolation and plop her into happiness. But everyone seemed content to jack-off and make-believe. When it was over they regretted everything and swore they wouldn’t return left feeling the worst intolerable feeling of desolation possible. She was no different but even still she wanted a hot-air balloon.

Delores had been promised by many boys via boxes like coffins of private messages that sex will do wonders for her and they went bananas when they read in 12-point pink Arial font that she was a virgin. The V is so beautiful. With that revelation they tried even harder. She was a dodo bird to an ornithologist who had his fill of warblers and orioles. But somehow, by a matter of luck, no one was close enough to her to ever take advantage of her precariousness, her fragility that hit hard since she was lost on the border of fourteen and fifteen steamrolling fast to sixteen. Are you waiting for marriage? Triple question marks if they were insistent. She never said yes, though she thought to. She would like to wait but she didn’t have confidence that she would be able to resist if someone made a solid case in person. Someone with a real life penis that was in pursuit of her V.  If pressured correctly with a manner of discretion, yet vigor, a certain degree of primordial masculinity that she in her doe-like brain craved. She gets too horny to keep saying no and all she lacked was the right opportunity. She wasn’t lame, after all. Her husband probably wouldn’t be a virgin either. She should be experienced for him. Him! She made such deliberately blind and imprudent excuses. Feminism! Live Free or Die! She was a slut in the chatrooms waltzing through Cybervile like one of those street whores she had seen in New York in the vinyl boots, only she didn’t do it for money. She was a whore for the attention, neglected by an absentee father and driven mad by a mother that was far too domineering. Her mother would kill her if she knew. Fuck my mother, she said, every time she turned on the laptop. FMM was her password to log on.

Her birthday party was her chocolate cake with fifteen ordinary candles and a vim talk about life from her mother. The candles dripped in torturous waiting and she stared at the flames. Moth girl. Blow them out. Her mother squawked stupidly. Don’t forget to make a wish. Think wisely for what you wish, Delores. She wished for a giant cock. There were no friends, balloons or party streamers. No magician and no presents. She never had any of that. Usually, her mother took her on a vacation somewhere and each year the cake and candle was provided by a different restaurant where the servers were forced to sing a birthday song for her. She could tell they dreaded it, every word. Fake smiles. Phonies! She wanted to scream. This year her parents offered to take her to a movie but she said no. She had one of her mother’s famous migraines. Her mother looked at her cynically but didn’t contest. Her father disappeared to another room indifferently as always and Delores ran up the stairs and locked the old white maple door. They would have made her watch something terrible she was sure. Some G rated shit movie like a child. Instead, she had a gangbang with a boy from New Jersey, a boy from Florida, two boys from California, one from Kansas, and one really hot guy from Michigan, who was twice her age but the most capable of constructing complete descript sentences of sexual acts, positions and desires. He was an associate English professor at UM. Published somewhere. He got the better part of her. The others waited staring at their screens and got only mmmmmmm and mhm or “tell me what you would do to me” with one line replies while they wrote long clumsy passages with an inept left hand. Practically accidental haikus. Real fucking poetry these days. But Delores and Professor Michael’s exchanges were absorbing, passionate and descript. Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning like. He understood her, she felt. He talked her into a phone call and she shed her clothes and slithered under her quilt on her cell and moaned for him while she drilled her aching V with one, two, and then three fingers. She couldn’t do more, she confessed and he groaned at the thought of her tightness and the beautiful sound of the suction.  

Hot bath.

The next night she fucked a guy from England who begged to meet her. I don’t know, she said. She would like to visit. She’d meet Mr. Michigan, she pledged, if she made it there for college. It was on her shortlist, she promised him. At least, she’d visit. He made every plea possible at his disposal from the argument and compellation of carpe diem to the logical probability and mathematical facts of the Mayan calendar. Andrew Marvel was quoted like a motherfucker. But she soon forgot him and he became infatuated with a girl from Canada.

TOUT le monde est remplaçable.

She had been to St. Anne’s on a visit with her mother months before. Her last school in Augusta didn’t work out. Neither did the two before that. But at the last one she was expelled for cutting and for wearing black clothes that were not the school uniform. She was a black sheep. When she gave in and wore the uniform she still wore thick eye shadow and everyone pegged her for a slut but she was only that way at home on her computer, and she kicked a boy in the balls who slapped her ass (though she was unsure whether she would have blown him had he asked). Then she sold her Adderall for money to buy a dildo and a webcam.   

Circuits exploded across the globe.

            Mother found cam along with dildo. Kaput!