Imperfect Beauty

"We're going to pass these pictures around to the whole school, so everyone knows what an easy loose little tramp you are." I knew it wasn't true because the party was top secret, but the words held there sting. "We're going to show the teachers and the dean and they're all going to want to fuck you're used up hole. The only way your going to pass any classes is by letting your professors fuck your ass while you tell them what a cheep whore you are. Tell me you're a filthy little cunt!" She demanded with a sharp yank. I was facing the camera now, and another shot was snapped.

"I am a filthy cunt," I conceded. "I wanted to be raped."

She spit in my face again. "Someone get over here and piss on this slut again!" Two more guys came over and pissed in a grand arch into my mouth while the photographer captured it all. The hands laid me out on my back while men shot cum and piss all over my body and into my hair.

A mean looking butch woman started working at my pussy with her hand until she was stuffing her whole fist up inside my stretched cunt. "Stuff it in this slutty bird!" My tormentor demanded. The guy with the camera moved in for a close-up.

I was surrounded by slutty instant pictures of myself being used and raped, even begging for it with tears in my eyes. The mattress was soaked and my body and hair were filthy. I smelled like a toilet. But they were not threw with me. The butch fisted me while the violent fem squeezed at my breasts. Come continued to splatter every which way on my body. I had lost count of the number of men who had used me.

The camera was out of film, the camera man decided to take his turn, first in my mouth, straddling my face while I was being fisted. The butch was yelling at me now, "This don't stop until you cum for me bitch. You gotta show me how much you love it by coming in my hand."

I was so gagged that it was hard to make any sound, but I could feel my body coiling in preparation. The camera man moved so I could lick on his large nut sack while he drizzled thin pre-com onto my forehead. I was thrashing and coming and the two women were assuring me that I was a whore. I felt my body climax but I was unable to cry out. My pussy was squirting all over the butch's hand and she was ye-hawing like a cowboy. When my climax was complete she pulled her hand out of me, but I was not done.

The photographer pulled out of my mouth and now went down to fill my pussy. Most of the onlookers now were spent but a few continued to beat off and blow there wad over my body. One guy shot off right in my eye before I had a chance to blink. I yelled from the pain, but the audience just laughed.

The photographer was a blond haired freshman, well hung but skinny. He grabbed my legs and fucked me through three more orgasms. "Little rape slut!" he chastised me. "You should be ashamed to be such a whore, to enjoy being humiliated by all these strangers. Tell me no slut, so I can fuck you against your will. Fight me cunt. Struggle bitch."

I did. I cried and struggled and yelled out "No, No, No!" but I wanted it. I wanted it so bad. Each time I yelled no I could feel myself coming again. I fought hard, hoping he would slap me, not knowing where I had gotten this newfound need to be abused. This skinny, pimply kid was fucking me and slapping me around like a rag doll. Under normal circumstances, I could have kicked his ass. But even if I had wanted to, that would have been impossible now. My struggles were only to add to his pleasure and mine. I clawed and scraped at him, but he only held me down by my wrists and spit in my face.

I opened my mouth to yell, and he spit again, right into my mouth. This set him off, twitching and cumming inside of me. And I found myself coming as well. This was the first time in my life I had experienced a mutual orgasm and I apparently had to be gang raped by numerous men, spit on and abused in order for it to happen.

When he had finished with me, someone helped me sit up and gave me a drink of something. Then everything faded to gray. When I woke up, I was alone in my dorm room. My torn clothes were nowhere to be found. I could feel that the message being sent, even though I was still covered in sticky filth was, "this never happened." I took a shower and put on my pajamas and went to sleep. IN the morning it would all seem like a dream.

As harrowing as all that sounded, those where memories I cherished. I unlocked some of my deepest sexual urges that night and started a process of coming to face what some might call the dark side of my sexuality. But for me, I embrace is because I believe that sexuality is who we are and that we should accept ourselves and love ourselves. Shame and repression only lead to actions that damage ourselves and others. So while it's sometimes scary to face my own turn-ons when they seem so twisted, I know deep down that it's healthy and good.

Better that than to be one of those religious crusaders who are so consumed with what they perceive as filth that they let it take over there life, spending all there time scouring the planet for ‘decency violations' and obviously getting some perverse thrill out of the process.

Yes, better me as I am, accepting myself for me- than that.

I collected my college memorabilia and went to pay for it all. I didn't even haggle. Glen was satisfied with his purpose so we called it a day and went to get a late lunch. There was a nice little sandwich shop nearby so we went in and got a seat by the window so we could see the people walking past, going about there business. As you might have guessed by now, I'm something of a people watcher. I think most artists are. Many times we feel more comfortable observing than actually joining in.

Glen leaned in over his fries and said in a stage whisper, "I met someone!"

"You did? When? Tell me about it!" I exclaimed, knowing that he would weather I wanted him to or not. But on the other hand, yeah I wanted the scoop."

"Well, I'm not really that interested in him," he said suddenly sounding disinterested. I knew something was up. He had my attention.

"Why's that?" I asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as he had.

"Well, he's a cop. He pulled me over the other day and when he asked me to step out of the vehicle, he complimented my buns."

"So you don't like him because he's a cop? I thought you liked men in uniform," I said with a teasing smile. "I didn't know we had any gay cops here though- were you out of town?"

"That's the thing, he's not out."

"O-oh." I said, finally understanding. Glen refuses to get involved with men who are in public denial over there sexuality. I can't say that I blame him. Who wants to hide their relationship from the world?

"Well, you know how I feel about that. I just won't. Absolutely not. No way. Ever." He was resolute. Firm. I would say, a little too resolute. "He was kinda cute though," he added softly, almost wistfully.

"OK, so that's the end of that then, right?"

"Actually, no. He's been calling me. He really wants to see me. I told him my policy but he won't give up."

"Don't do it Glen," I warned. "You'll only get hurt."

"Don't you think I know that?" he replied defensively. "Of course I'm not going to do it. I don't need that drama. I just thought you'd be happy for me that he wants me so bad. That's all. I mean, you completely missed the point I was trying to make."

I gave him a steady look. "Glen."

"What?" he droned, putting his hand under his chin and looking away from me.

Despite what Glen may have said, he was a total drama queen. He didn't lie when he said he didn't need the drama, but I knew him well enough to realize the truth. He craved it. Weather healthy or unhealthy, if there was drama to be had, you could bet that Glen would want a part in it. Preferably the staring roll.

"You're not fooling me," I told him. Then I turned my attention to my hamburger to let him off the hook some. In the end, it really wasn't going to matter how much I warned him or what I said. Glen was going to do what Glen was going to do. My job would be to stand by, try to warn him but not too much, and be there to help him pick out the pieces afterwards without saying ‘I told you so.'

"I'm not going to get involved with him. He asked me to meet him for coffee. But I said no."

"Good for you Glen. Stick to your guns." I did my best to sound- I mean to be supportive. That meant pretending that I believed him.

"He sure was cute though." Glen swished a thick crinkle-cut french-fry back and forth in his ketchup. I knew it was time to change the subject.

"Well, at least you found a great coffee table," I said in a chipper tone. This gave me plenty of time to concentrate on my lunch while Glen expounded on art, antiques, design, furniture manufacturing , and interior decorating. It was interesting, I just didn't have anything to add, which was just as well, because there was no way that Glen was going to let me get a word in edgewise. So I just chewed and nodded.

When I had finished my lunch and Glen had finished his speech, I saw that he had barely touched his fries and hadn't even taken a bite of his burger. "I guess I wasn't as hungry as I thought," he said lightly, waving our waiter over. "Could you wrap this up for me? I'm just going to take it home."

The waiter nodded and took the food back to package up. "So Miss Thing," Glen said leaning forward again, conspiratorially. "Tell me about your love life. Did you score with that bartender or what?"

"Aren't we getting a little personal?" I blushed.

"Haa! You did! Your dirty little thing. So, are you seeing him again or is he yesterday's gossip?"

"Actually, he wants to take me to dinner. Even though, as my darling mother would say, he's already gotten the free milk."

Just then, the waiter appeared with Glen's food. "Let's go then, you can tell me all about it in the car," Glen said, heading to the cashier.

Just as I got home, the phone rang. It was Guy form the art gallery, telling me he wanted to show several more of my works if I had any available. This time he was doing a reception show which would feature more works from fewer artists, and the artists themselves would each say a few words and be available for questions as well as mingling with those in attendance.

It was an invitation only thing, so there would be critiques, collectors and many important society people in attendance. These shows, Guy informed me, tended to yield a better than average sale rate and the pieces all went for rather hefty prices. The people who attended these events would be insulted if any painting at the show was going for less than a thousand dollars. And even that was fairly low ball. Plus, he said, a reception was just about the best way to network in the art world.

I told him I was sold. "You had me at hello," I said quoting Jerry McGuire.

Guy laughed. "Oh and bring your friend. He's adorable!"

It really seemed my life was on track. My career was taking off, I had a date with a guy who'd already slept with me on the first date and seen my freaky side, and the girl I was in love with was also in love with me, in a totally non-possessive sort of way.

It was working for me, but there wasn't a whole lot in there that I could tell my mom. Who called me the very next day."

"Seeing anyone?" she opened with.

"As a matter of fact, I'm meeting a really great guy for dinner this weekend."

"What's he do?" again- straight to the point.

"He's a bartender."

"Oh dear lord, haven't I taught you anything Nikki? A bartender? Your really asking for trouble. And the money- they don't make the kind of money you need to keep you up in style." I looked around my apartment, knowing that this was definitely not what she would have considered 'in style' and realizing that I loved it, just the way it was. "Does he have some kind of goal? Is he saving his tips for night classes? Tell me Nikki, please tell me he's got more ambition that to stay a bar tender for the rest of his life!"

"Mom! How should I know?! It's a first date for crying out loud. Slow down. It's a dinner date not a quickie wedding in Vegas."

"Well, you make sure he comes to the door to pick you up. If he's one of those guys who just beeps the horn, you just stay put until he gets the picture, you got it?"

"Chase is definitely not a horn blower," I told my mom, feeling relieved that I could report something positive. "He'll probably bring me flowers and the whole bit." I didn't know about that last part, but it didn't hurt to throw her a bone.

"That's wonderful! I'm so happy for you. I can't wait to tell Aunt Gracie, my baby is dating a real gentleman. Not like that biker your cousin Angela is seeing. Oh! He would curl your hair. He's dirty, he's rude, he's disrespectful. I don't know what she sees in him."

"Probably that he's dirty, rude and disrespectful," I deadpanned. Angela never dated a guy unless he had massive potential to piss off at least one of her parents. If they only realized this and showed every guy she brought home massive love and support, they could have guaranteed her lifelong celibacy. I know Uncle John would have liked that. They would never figure it out though, they were too obsessed with the fact that they couldn't control her- although they never seemed to give up. And reverse psychology was- well let's just say that even if they could have understood the concept, it never would have occurred to them anyway.

"Fresh, you always were fresh."

My mother is in her early 50's with shoulder length hair that she still dies blond. She refuses to cut it, thinking that it would make her look like an 'old lady.' She actually looks about fifteen to twenty years younger than her age, but I can kind of identify with the hair thing. I keep mine longer than shoulder length for fear of having that 'mom' look, or looking like I'm- oh no!- thirty! My mother is particularly obsessed with not looking like a grandma at least until she is one- and preferably not then either.

I consider making a citrus joke, but instead decide to go with a simple, "Yep."

"Have you found a job?" she inquires.

"Mom! I have a job." This is my thousandth attempt to get her to understand that my painting is not just a self indulgent hobby since I graduated from college.

"Sure, but you know- a paying job."

"Well, I'll have you know that someone just bought two of my paintings. And the owner of the gallery wants to show some more of them."

"You know, I always said you had talent. My father was a painter too you know."

"Of course I know that mom." My grandfather Tully Leonard was my inspiration. He was the reason that I started to paint, the reason why I love to paint. Growing up one of my fondest memories was seeing my grandfather sitting at his easel. It always seemed to make him happy. I always thought that someday he would be a world famous artist. Little did I know that painting was his passion, construction was his job. He never sold a single painting or made a penny off of it his whole life. He kept most of his paintings, and gave a few away as gifts to special friends and family members. I think he felt that accepting money would taint his work. Not like it would make him less of an artist, but that it would make him stop enjoying it if it became something he had to do to pay the bills.

Grandpa Leonard painted a lot country scenes, rolling hills, fields of wheat or corn, mountains. He painted animals in his pictures, but never people. Many of his paintings involved homes, small cottages that seemed to be an escape from every day life. I always felt like he was inside the houses in those paintings, maybe smoking a pipe or drinking coffee, or painting another picture. I loved those pictures. I would stand in front of them and imagine that I could hop right inside- to the serenity of the isolated cottage located in some pristine landscape.

His home was adorned with his pictures, and it was my defining memory of him. That and the fact that he would always either take us for ice-cream or give my mother money and tell her to take us for ice-cream. Painting and ice-cream. Two good memories to associate with my beloved grandparent.

And now, here was my mother reminding me, who followed quite consciously in his footsteps- not that I could have stopped myself- that her father was a painter, that artistic talent runs in her family. Now, right after nagging me to get a job. Sure, before it was just a self indulgent hobby. But now that I've made money on it, I have talent. Well- ain't that the way that it always goes.

I decided not to remind her that I was just wasting my time and avoiding the real world. Why not just take the praise while I could get it. Unfortunately, I also had to listen to a long list of everybody down through the family tree who had ever shown artistic promise, from the uncle who started a band down to her own childhood dreams of becoming a singer. The problem wasn't hearing the stories that I had heard so many times over the years, the problem was simply this. The stories did not call for interaction or interruption. Sitting there holding the phone and basically not able to do anything else. I was getting restless.

"Well mom, the muse calls."

"What?"

"That means I gotta go finish this painting I've been working on. Listen, I'll send you some newspaper clippings ok? I gotta go. Love you."

"I love you too, bye."

I quickly hung up before she could think of anything else to add.

The weekend came around and I had made plans with Chase. I was so exited to see him and get to know him on a one on one basis. He was taking me to a nice Italian restaurant, so I dressed in what I considered to be a classy and yet at the same time sexy dress. It was deep green, form fitting, with a long silhouette that touched off just above the ankle. It had a slit in the side nearly all the way up to mid-thigh and had a plunging V neckline, with plenty of lift and cleavage. Besides some leg and cleavage however, I was practically covered from head to toe. The outfit reminded me of the fabled femme fatale from the old mystery movies with the hardboiled detective and the sexy bombshell. I defiantly felt like the sexy bombshell.

My confidence was further boosted when Chase came up to the door (gentlemanly, as my mother had insisted that he should be) and let out a low appreciative whistle. "I can't wait to go out with you on my arm," he commented, making me blush all kinds of red.

There was a long wait at the restaurant but luckily Chase had made reservations for us, so we got a table right away. They brought us rolls and water, even before we looked at our menus. The butter was seasoned giving the bread a very special flare.

I scanned the menu quickly and ordered a fettuccini dish with a rich creamy sauce. Chase ordered lasagna. We had time for conversation while we waited for our food. We talked about our hobbies, our jobs, our fiends and other interests. He seemed really eager to get to know me. I told him about my philosophy on dating and friends and he agreed with me on all the major points. We really clicked.

The food finally came, and it was delicious. Mouth watering. The atmosphere of the place was so warm and friendly that we just couldn't help but have a good time. We gorged ourselves on good food and then at the end of the mean we splurged and ordered a chocolate torte and coffee.

"What's life without a little chocolate?" Chase said, and I laughed agreeably.

"I love a man who loves chocolate," I said.

"I love a woman who loves a man who loves chocolate!" And then we both laughed as we dived into our rich and decadent desert. After dinner, we were having such a good time we decided to go an catch a late movie. The movie was a comedy and it provided plenty of laughs for the two of us. I really love to laugh and find that it raises the passions about as much as a scary horror flick.