Little Mermaid Ch. 03

I'm lost, she knew. Everything she feared, had happened. Like a silly moth, she'd let herself be drawn to the candle, hadn't she? She'd fallen for a line, a lie. He said he cared? Ha! He'd fuck her and dump her like the tit-less, ugly horror she was. Would he, even? No, he wouldn't even fuck her. He'd just tell everyone how she'd begged to be fucked and how he dumped her ugly ass. And would she? Beg? They kissed for minutes. His big hands roamed her body as if there was something to be found. His fingers slid under the little shining camisole, running over her skinny rib cage and her hollow stomach. She was unable to think. Sucking on his tongue, she made her moist lips slide over and around his. Maybe she moaned into his mouth. There were no thoughts, just feelings. Her body floated as did her mind.

I'm lost, she thought. He'll destroy me. But there was no panic, not even embarrassment. Just confusion. He was so... greedy, as if he really... The woman Anna must have been right; boys didn't care who or what you were. Beautiful or ugly, tits or no tits, Barbie or punk, dream or nightmare, they just wanted a girl, any girl, didn't they? Just a willing, warm hole. But then, why did he suddenly stop kissing? Was it because her hands had pushed against his chest? They hardly had, had they? So why did he pull away from the kiss, after long, wet minutes? Because she'd moaned into his mouth? Did he think she protested? She'd just hung in his arms like a weak, spineless creature, hadn't she? Willing she'd been, though hardly aware of what she was willing of -- or why. But he stopped, and he looked... nervous, uncertain. No crooked smile now in his flushed face; no spark in his eyes. Just... confusion, and it was a perfect echo of hers.

"I.. I'm sorry," he said with a hoarse voice.

"W.. why?" she asked, suddenly sinking back into her old abysmal uncertainty. Or was it a certainty after all? The certainty that this was all just a cruel prank?

"I mean," he said, blinking, "Maybe you might not... I mean, just kissing you like this, I mean..."

'My God,' she thought, 'he's as nervous as I am.' But how could he be? All these arrogant girls swoon over him. They all want him with their big tits and fat asses. Is he mad? Or... She didn't know why she took his hand in hers. She didn't know why she put her other hand on his glowing face. All she knew was that 'knowing' had nothing to do with it. They kissed again, and the overwhelming feelings returned, feelings that had no name, no face; they just cleared the way for an all-filling emptiness.

After two more wet, sweaty kisses, he left. Her make-up was ruined, her top hung askew, and her silly little shorts pinched harder than ever. She saw a huge run in her nylons, how punky. Ariel pulled and pushed at her outfit. Her mind was in chaos, but it felt okay. Her skin tingled all over, and she loved it. All her reservations were shot. Maybe, in the end, she'd pay for all this, but not now. Tim Bradlee had kissed her for real, and she'd kissed him back, and it had been incredible. It had been like all the little pieces fell in place, whatever that might mean.

"I'll leave you with your tests," he'd said, rubbing the messy mop on his head, his crooked smile back in full force. "I have to study too, but I'll pick you up at seven, is that all right?" She'd hardly heard what he said, her head was still spinning, and her face was in flames. All she could do was nod and smile. Looking at her papers, she knew she wouldn't be able to read a word; not for a while.

***

It took a long shower to clear her mind. She'd returned home after he left and had tried to study in her room, but her head was too crowded; her eyes simply couldn't register what was in her books, let alone process it. After two hours of desperate trying, she shoved them aside and went to the bathroom. The tall mirror caught her reflection. Studying herself in it, she took off her rings and placed them one by one on a ledger. Then she shrugged out of her jacket, watching herself in the flimsy camisole. She let her hand slide under it, just like his hand had -- watching its contour through the shining fabric. Touching her left nipple, she remembered how sensitive it had been. It was hard now too, and very prominent. The touch made her tremble. Pulling up the camisole, she felt it slither past her cheeks and forehead. Its silkiness made her skin tingle where it touched. Only wearing her micro shorts, her ruined nylons and the crude Dr. Martens, she wondered why her body felt so excited. Hugging herself, she stared into her smudged eyes.

"What happened, Ariel?" she whispered, her voice sounding secretive, intimate. The shorts were so tight that they took her black lace thong with them when she pulled them down. Stepping out of them, she once again looked at herself. She was naked now, but for the torn nylons and the massive boots. Nothing had changed about her pale, skinny appearance, but she watched herself with a new fascination. There was the white clown's face with smudged colors and a messy black crown of spikes, her fragile shoulders on top of her narrow rib cage. Her flat belly had a slight curve from its button to the small, hazy cloud of blondish pubic hair, underscored by the black tops of her stockings. What she saw didn't repel or disgust her. It didn't make her feel pity, or enragement. It was a new emotion; it didn't even have a name, creeping into her mind and making her shake. Her teeth rattled and so did her body. Unshaped words careened through her skull, bumping against never-expected buttons that carried tags like 'fragile', 'lonely' and 'vulnerable', until they finally fused into an overwhelming, nameless feeling. It made her eyes leak and her heart race. Kicking off her boots, she tore the stockings off her legs and ran to the shower stall, melting away under a scalding waterfall.

The shower yet again did its magic, relaxing her muscles while untangling her mind. Her heart stopped racing, and the stress seeped away, allowing thoughts to develop again, old confusions too, and with them, fear. Wrapping her wet body in a huge, fluffy towel, she felt the short hair in her neck rise. How could she have agreed to be picked up tonight? What did picking up even mean? And, most of all, what should she wear?

She wondered why she thought that, and then grimaced. Not much to choose from, had she? She'd shocked her mother by bringing most of her pre-goth clothes to welfare. What she still had, beside her track gear, were basically three outfits -- all black and to most eyes: all freakish. Sitting down on her bed, she started rubbing her feet, watching her black painted toenails slide through her fingers. Would picking up mean he'd fuck her? The thought caused her stomach to flip. She'd never really visualized any concrete meanings of the word 'fuck'. It had been just this... thing everybody talked about. Boys fucked girls, because, well, that was what boys did. And girls were supposed to crave it, but it had never concerned her, personally, had it? As a reality? It was just what you heard in school and at the mall. You saw it on-line, almost an abstract thing. Besides, she would never actually be fucked, would she?

But now, at seven o'clock, the boy she'd kissed would ring the doorbell and 'pick her up.' He'd sucked on her wet tongue and tweaked her nipple. What would he expect? What would be next? Of course, there was dating: taking a girl to the movies, to MacDonald's or some hazy destination called Necking Hill, which was about sitting with a boy in a car at the edge of town. Was this a date? She'd heard boys brag about bases; just silly and awful references to what they'd do with a girl. Reaching first base was kissing, she understood. Well, they'd done that. Second base, what was second base? Kissing and feeling tits through a bra, Von had told her. Okay, what tits? She again felt his fingers on her nipples. Second base... well they'd done that too, in a way, hadn't they? She had no idea what third base might be.

Fourth was fucking, obviously: the boy sticking his cock into a girl's pussy. When it happened on a first date, they called it a homerun, Barb said, but then you'd be a slut. Between fondling and fucking, though, what was there, she wondered. She'd heard about hand jobs and blow jobs. The thought made her shudder. Would Tim expect to reach that base with her? An ancient fear overwhelmed her. She should call him and beg off. But she didn't have his number. Von might have it, or Liz, but she couldn't very well ask them, could she? She could hide in her bedroom when he rang the doorbell. Her mother would open the door, though; she'd been talking about Tim forever after his first and only visit. Ariel might try and beg her not to open, but she would anyway. She'd just yearned too long for the day her daughter would be picked up. 'Picked up.'

Drying her short hair with a blower, Ariel considered telling him she was sick and couldn't go out. It might even be true; she felt nauseous already. Squeezing a dollop of gel in her hand, she started modelling her hair into shining spikes, watching the result with a grimace. Then she spread out her three goth outfits on the bed, musing about just wearing some of her baggy track suits instead. 'Boys don't care how you look,' she recalled Anna saying. But Tim wasn't just 'boys,' was he? The thought shocked her, triggering a flash of... fear? Arousal? She swallowed and touched the stiff lace of a black, multi-layered petticoat. She'd worn it here, in front of her mirror, but not yet outside. It was very short and standing out in a ruffled circle. The skirt came with a tight leather-like cupless bustier or corset, a wide waist cincher really, also black and adorned with rows of metal buckles. She remembered finding it in the goth vintage outlet in the mall, where the woman urged her to buy shining over-the-knee boots with it. "They'd look excellent," Ariel remembered thinking back then, "On a street corner whore, that is." But she did buy the bustier thing, and a set of black, transparent nylon stockings. She also added a dark silk blouse to wear under the cincher.

Returning from her memories, she felt the flimsiness of the stockings between her fingertips. Why, in heaven's name, had she decided to go into that shop and buy all this stuff? There must have been a point to it, she knew, but which one, and why? Tim had kissed her while she wore some of it, the thin silk camisole and the ridiculous shorts. Nobody ever kissed her before, not really. So, did these outfits make her less ugly? Or, rather, did they make her ugliness more attractive? Sexier? Could you be ugly and still sexy? Could ugliness BE sexy? She chuckled, feeling helpless. Tim was different, she remembered thinking. She also recalled how that thought confused her, as she played with the metal buckles. It was a dangerous thought. Why had she not chosen the blatant Barbie-gear of the cheerleader gang, stuff that was all over the mall? Or the pseudo-chic fashion rubbish of Dell and her entourage? Well, for one, those Dell things were crazily expensive, weren't they? And you did have to have tits, at least for the Barbie stuff, and an ass, too. No one wore goth anymore, not at her small town, prissy school, at least; if they ever did. And Ariel knew very well that being different had been exactly the point she wanted to make; well, most of it. Plus, the simple fact that the little shop happened to have this crazy close-out sale, of course. Fifty to seventy per cent off.

She slipped into a black lace thong, pulling it high up her slender hips -- her skinny hips; her no hips. She let go when the string cut into her crack. It felt weird; it felt scary. But she couldn't very well wear her cheap old flower-printed panties under this, could she? More so because she'd thrown them away. Sitting down, she inspected the weird black garter belt with the dangling, elastic flaps. The woman at the shop had insisted it was the only way she could wear the dark nylon stockings. And that it was fun. Of course, she'd seen them on the Net, on the thighs of porn stars. How could she ever wear them? But she couldn't very well go with bare legs, could she? Not in this outfit. And not on a chilly night out. Her stay-up stockings had been ruined. There was no time left to buy pantyhose and her mother's stockings wouldn't even go halfway up her thighs, would they? She noticed all kinds of hooks and clips on the belt. It took her minutes to get it right. Four black garters hung on each leg, long, dangling and elastic. Then she had to do it all over again, as she realized that the thong should go over the belt, or she would be in trouble when she had to go to the toilet.

'Fucking nuisance,' she thought. The stockings were dark, but sheer, and had an old-fashioned seam down the back. The saleswoman had given them for free with the belt. At the top was a wide, re-enforced band. Turning and twisting in front of the mirror, she at last got the seam straight and the wrinkles out. Her face felt hot from the effort when she reached for the next piece of garment. The petticoat-skirt rustled as she pulled it up her legs until it spread out from her hips. She caressed the ruffles, instantly wondering why she did that. Next, she put on the silky, sleeveless blouse, watching the shivering highlights of the black fabric as she closed the buttons. The bustier closed below her non-existent breasts. There might be a slight illusion of tits if she tied the buckles as tightly as she could, making her waist even slighter. Panting, she looked up into the mirror, her face flushed even more. She saw that the skirt was too short to cover the garters when she moved. 'Cartoon,' she thought, 'Japanese cartoon.' She undid the upper buckle and sighed with relief.

The fake leather creaked as she reached down for her ankle boots. They had platform soles and high plump heels. They were like hooves, she thought; she looked like a break-leg vole in them, with her long, exposed legs. Ah, yes, legs she had, however skinny and knuckle- kneed they might be. Stumbling over to her littered desk, she sat down and inspected her face in the improvised make-up mirror she'd put against the wall in front of her. Until this goth-experiment she'd only used the desk for homework. To check her face and hair, the bathroom mirror had sufficed; there was nothing important to be seen anyway, was there? But ever since she installed the make-up mirror, shoving aside her books to create room for brushes and pots and pencils, the changing process into this black-and-white cartoon persona had intrigued her.

It must be the comfort of gradually slipping into someone entirely different, she guessed, the freedom of the mask. She dabbed her face with puffs of powder, inhaling the sweet scent. She liked watching how the sleek, white skin appeared. Yes, it was a mask, wasn't it? But the real magic happened when she painted her eyes, conjuring up this demonic creature that watched her from a mysterious, adventurous world behind the reflecting glass. It was like making a whole new reality, way beyond mere concepts like beauty or ugliness. Actresses must feel this way. After doing her lips in a color of dried blood, she pulled away the white tissue that protected her blouse and frowned at the result.

"Yes," she whispered, and she knew this was what the whole goth-charade was about: she'd be able to send someone else to the date.

***

Just before seven, Ariel lingered by the front door. It wasn't the right thing to do, she knew. A woman should make the man wait, even if she were ready. But sitting at her make-up desk, in a cloud of perfume, staring at the alien face while feeling the strange clothes squeeze her body, had made her nervous -- just as walking back and forth from her bed to the window on her punk hooves. Besides, she didn't want her mother to beat her to the door. Coming down the stairs, she'd seen the terror in her eyes. Ariel knew she would protest at the way she looked, if she dared. She didn't, but she found a way around that, offering that it might get really cold, later-on, and a coat might be an idea. The suggestion caused a wave of new nervousness to wash over her. A coat would spoil it all, wouldn't it? She owned an anorak and imagined how the stiff frills of her skirt would make it all bulky around her hips. She also knew the shoes would look silly. She might try on a short jacket. That would leave her petticoat free, but she didn't own one.

'Fuck you, mom,' she thought, being nervous enough as it was. Then her mother handed her a wide shawl. It was black and silky, with lots of little white polka dots strewn over it. Her first reflex was to push it away, but she knew it was perfect -- covering her blouse and naked arms.

"Thanks, Mom," she said, draping it over her shoulders. "It's beautiful." Her mother's smile was more of a nervous tic; she turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Ariel might have wondered how she looked in her mother's eyes: the outrageous clothes, the crazy hair, the doll-like make-up. But she was too absorbed by her own claustrophobic reasoning. Living inside a shell of her own making, she waited, all kinds of vivid thoughts and memories filling her head; they even touched her body. Her lips relived his kisses; her nipples felt his slow caresses again. And her mind swam with shapeless, scary expectations. Then the bell rang.

It was a sound she'd heard all her life, but now it was shrill and alarming. She leaned against the wall, pressing the shawl to her chest. It seemed impossible to move, new doubts entering her skull. She looked ridiculous, didn't she? He would laugh in her face; he would run away when he saw her. She'd end up too embarrassed to go on living. The doorbell rang again.

"He's here, honey," her mother yelled from inside the house, causing a wave of irritation.

"I know," she muttered, "I know." Her black-nailed fingers reached for the doorknob; it felt cold and indifferent to her touch. The door was heavier than she remembered; pulling it open made the hinges whine. Tim Bradlee stood dark against the evening sky. He wore jeans under a red jacket, and a crooked smile on his face. It didn't waver when he saw her.

"Sexy," he said, grinning even wider. "Did you do this for me? I'm honored."

"Ha!" she said, at once grabbing at the reassuring irony he offered her. "Tim Bradlee, you're so full of yourself." He kept grinning.

"Of course," he said. "And it's all yours."

***

So, Ariel Moore had a date. With a boy. And he really seemed to like being with her. Something wasn't right about that, she knew. But that was an unwelcome thought now; something you best tuck away in the cobwebbed attic of your mind.

The things they did that night might be nothing special. Yet, simply sitting next to him in his car was an event of major proportions. So were nibbling at a burger or standing in a queue for a movie, or eating an ice cream afterwards. The car was thirdhand and looking it. The burger they ate was at the local Burger King's. The movie was special, though, in a way: a subtitled French contraption playing in nineteen fifties' Paris. Her brain told her they had a thirteen in a dozen teenage date, but the rest of her knew better. Everything felt enhanced: what she saw, what she tasted, and what she felt. She knew that every experience would be a memory forever. She also knew that it was the boy who caused it. Tim Bradlee was big and warm and smelling good. And most of all: he was overwhelmingly there. Whenever she looked up, his eyes were on her. His arm was around her when they waited in line at the cinema. His shoulder supported the side of her head as they watched the incomprehensible movie, making silly comments or imitating the French lines. He was funny, and he really didn't seem to be embarrassed with her.