Lola’s Graduation Day

I knew that Yasmin was older than me, but it was hard to tell how much older, because her skin was as flawless as mine. But very few girls in their 20s can put together an outfit like that, so I guessed she had to be about 10 years older than me, which would have put her somewhere in her early 30s.

"So Lola," Yasmin said, sitting down opposite me, folding one leg delicately across the other. "Tell me about yourself, my dear."

"Well, I... I'm a senior at USC," I said, taking a sip of my latte. "And I play tennis."

She smiled at me, saying nothing. For several seconds, there was silence, as we both waited for the other to say something. Then, she gestured with her hand for me to continue.

"I'm from Northern California originally. I have one younger brother, he's still in high school. He lives in Las Vegas with my Mom."

"And what about your father?" Yasmin asked.

"I--I told you, online," I said quietly. "I don't really have a relationship with him anymore."

"But you haven't told me why," she said, sipping her coffee.

"He... he cheated on my Mom."

"I see," she nodded. "This was with a younger woman?"

I nodded, looking down.

"And your mother, she is Asian?"

"She's Korean," I nodded.

"But your father is white," she said.

I nodded again.

Then, there was silence for several seconds. I listened to the sound of dishes being washed in the kitchen, silverware clinking against ceramic.

"So tell me about this man," Yasmin said. "This Coach of yours."

"I don't know what to say."

"Just speak," Yasmin said. "Let the words come to you."

"I was... when he asked me to go out with him, I was really excited," I began. "All the girls on the team really liked him, and I... I was proud, that he chose me."

Yasmin nodded.

"And then, he, like--he took me on a real date. Like, a grownup date," I said. "You probably go on dates like that all the time, but I'd never done that before."

She smiled.

"I was, I dunno--I was excited, I guess," I blushed. "I hadn't slept with anyone in awhile, and the last guy... he had a girlfriend, so it was really messy, and I just thought..."

I looked down, but Yasmin waited for me to continue.

"But then, when we got to the room, there were these other men there," I said, my voice getting quieter. "These three high school boys..."

Yasmin reached out and touched my hand.

"I told him--I told him I wanted to leave, but he... he convinced me to stay," I said, my voice quavering. "And then things, just... it got out of hand."

"Lola," Yasmin said. "Tell me what he said to you. How did he convince you to stay?"

"I... I don't know. He just did."

"Think about it for a minute," Yasmin said, squeezing my hand. "This is important."

"He--he talked about how much money football brings in. About how it pays for my scholarship. That I should be grateful, and... and I should pay it back."

"You felt like you owed him something, didn't you?"

I nodded my head, taking a sip of my drink to calm my nerves.

"Did he say anything else to you?"

"He--he said..."

"Go ahead," Yasmin said. "It's just the two of us here."

"He said... he knew I would like it," I whispered, my eyes cast down into my drink.

"I see," Yasmin replied softly. "And was he right?"

"What?" I blurted, my eyes darting up to look at her.

"Be calm," she said soothingly. "This is not a matter of judgment. I need to understand the nature of your addiction in order to help you."

Suddenly, I felt guarded. I'd come here out of desperation and told this beautiful, older woman lurid details about what had happened with Coach Brett, but other than reading her post online, I knew almost nothing about Yasmin. She was practically a stranger to me.

"I'm starting to feel uncomfortable," I said, pulling my hand back from hers. "You say you want to help me, but I don't really know you."

"What would you like to know?" she said, opening her palms to me as if to suggest that she was an open book.

"I don't know," I murmured. "How... how did you get over your addiction?"

"My dear, we never get over our addiction," she smiled. "But as I say, we can learn to control the cravings, to make them work for us instead of the other way around."

"But how?" I said.

"This is not a simple question," she said. "I can give you the answer, but it will take weeks or months, not minutes or hours."

"But I don't have weeks!" I squealed. "Coach Brett, he--he wants me to go to another hotel with him this weekend."

"So why don't you just say no?" Yasmin asked, matter-of-factly.

"You... you know it's not that simple," I murmured, feeling suddenly defensive. "I try to say no, but he won't let me."

"Lola, my dear, I'm going to speak plainly with you," Yasmin said, her voice softening a touch. "But I need you to trust that I'm saying these things for your own good, and that I speak from experience."

"Okay," I said warily.

"I don't know you well yet, but in some ways, I may know you better than you know yourself, because our lives are more similar than you realize."

I took a sip of my latte as she continued speaking.

"I know what it means to be young and beautiful, to be a girl caught between cultures, trying to make sense of who you are in the midst of so much male attention. Especially for girls like us, who are separated from our fathers and our families, the temptation to let a man tell you who you are can be overwhelming. How can you disagree when you don't yet know who you are?"

I narrowed my eyes, considering her words.

"I also know what it feels like to have fantasies that frighten you," she continued. "Being a woman, we are expected to be chaste and motherly, but we are sexual beings in our own right. We are also entitled to our desires."

As she spoke, I could feel my defensiveness starting to wane, the song of her lyrical accent opening my mind to the truth in her words.

"Our desires are valid, but we need to be willing to acknowledge them, to own them," she said. "If we pretend that they don't exist, we can never understand ourselves. And if we don't know ourselves, then it is easy for men to tell us who we are."

I realized that I was nodding slowly in agreement.

"Lola, this Coach of yours," she said, sipping her coffee. "There is no question that he is a bad man, a man that you must get away from as soon as possible. But the power he holds over you, it comes from a place of truth."

"What do you mean?" I murmured.

"I mean, it's okay to admit that you enjoy being dominated," Yasmin said softly, a twinkle in her eye. "And it's okay to admit that you like being with more than one man."

"I... I never said any of that..."

"Exactly," Yasmin nodded. "You won't say it, but you keep acting it out. If you own your desires, then you can take control of them. But if you deny them, then they will control you."

"I can't do that," I frowned.

"Why not?" Yasmin shrugged. "Your desires are no more shameful than anyone else's."

"But that's not me."

"Let me tell you something," she said, leaning back in her chair. "For several years, I was among the most sought-after, highly-paid escorts in Los Angeles."

"Really?!" I said, my mouth falling open.

"Don't look so surprised," she smiled. "Nice Persian girls from good families have secrets, too."

"I just didn't think... you don't seem like..."

"Do you know why I did it?" Yasmin said. "And please, don't disrespect me by saying it was for something as cheap as money."

"I... I don't know..."

"It was a way for me to take back my power," she said. "You see, it's in my nature to be submissive, just like you. And like you, I spent several years letting men take advantage of me, because I was too young and naive to understand that submission and exploitation are two different things."

I was so enrapture by Yasmin's words that I went to take a sip of my latte only to realize that the cup was empty.

"But eventually, I figured out that there was a way to let a man dominate me without losing my power," Yasmin smiled knowingly. "I just had to charge him for the privilege of my submission."

"So you--you had sex for money?"

"You make it sound so crass," she laughed. "Men who can pay $5000 a night want more than just sex."

"What do they want?" I asked, hanging on her every word.

"To feel like a king," Yasmin whispered. "To feel like a conqueror or a barbarian. To feel like a lion. A dominant man, he needs to feel powerful to feel alive."

"They paid you $5000 for one night?"

"Sometimes more," Yasmin shrugged. "And do you want to know why?"

I nodded my head.

"Because they knew I wasn't faking it," she said. "They knew my submission was real, even though they had to pay for it. You see, that's the real trick."

"What?"

"To make a man pay for something that you would've done for free," she smiled.

"But how do you do that?" I wondered, awestruck.

"I told you, that is not a simple question," she replied. "I can teach you, but not in the time we have today."

"Thanks, but I... I don't want to become an escort," I muttered.

"So then tell me," Yasmin said. "What do you want?"

I sat back in my seat. This was not a question I'd ever been asked before. Embarrassingly, I was so used to men telling me what to want that I wasn't sure I'd ever given the question any thought on my own.

"I want... respect," I said, barely able to get the words out. "And... gratitude."

She nodded but said nothing.

"So maybe I... maybe I like being with dominant men," I said, blushing furiously as I spoke. "Maybe I'm fucked up, but it--it turns me on to... to give them what they want. I just wish... why do they have to make me feel so bad about it?"

She pursed his lips, listening intently.

"It's like... it's like they want me to give in to them, but when I do, they hate me for it." I sighed in despair. "Why can't they just fuck me, but... but still respect me?"

We sat in silence for at least a minute before he spoke. Yasmin tented her long, delicate fingers thoughtfully.

"What you need to know," she began, "is that dominant men demand submission, but they don't respect it. To them, submission is a form of weakness."

She brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

"Some men see weakness and it stirs a protective instinct," she continued. "But most dominant men detest weakness, because to embrace weakness is to weaken oneself. To a truly dominant man, weakness exists to be exploited."

"So... so this will never end," I whispered, choking back a sob. "They're going to keep using me..."

"Stop crying," she said sharply.

I look up at her, bewildered.

"The only thing that dominant men respect," she continued, "is dominance. If you want the respect of a dominant man, you need to show that you are capable of dominance yourself."

"But... but how?" I squealed. "I've tried telling them no, refusing, resisting... but they always get their way eventually."

"You're a natural submissive, Lola," she said softly. "You'll never be able to dominate an alpha male outright. But there are other ways to make him respect you."

"Like making him pay," I said, beginning to understand. "For something he could've gotten me to do for free."

She nodded at me, smiling as she took a sip of coffee.

"But I already told you, I can't do that," I whined. "I just can't..."

"Money is just one way to display dominance," Yasmin said. "There are others."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"There's only one thing that gives a dominant man more pleasure than a woman's submission," she smiled, running her beautifully manicured fingernail around the rim of her coffee cup.

"What is it?" I breathed, feeling as if I was stealing sips from some fount of secret knowledge.

"Dominating other men," she smirked.

"You mean, like... humiliating them?" I whispered.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," she replied. "But there's an art to it."

"So... so how do I deal with Coach Brett?" I frowned. "I still don't know what I'm going to do."

"I'm afraid you've already let things go too far with him," Yasmin said.

"What? But you said--"

"My dear, he's already fit you for a collar," she said, reaching out to touch the golden chain around my neck. "You're wearing it around in public like you're his property."

"It's--it's just a necklace," I protested.

"It's a collar," she sighed. "It's there to remind you that he owns you. You'll never reverse the power dynamic that he's established."

"Oh god," I whispered, touching the chain with my fingertips. "Oh no..."

"Breathe," Yasmin said softly. "Just breathe."

"I can't go to another hotel with him," I murmured, beginning to panic. "I just can't..."

"You don't have to," she said, putting her hand on mine. "Give me his phone number and I'll take care of it."

"What?!" I exclaimed. "How?!"

"I know a few girls who would be willing to fill in for you," she said, pulling out her phone. "For the right price."

"What... what if he won't pay?" I said, my nerves completely shot. "What if he comes looking for me?"

"Oh, he'll pay," she said. "If he hadn't found you, he would've had to hire his entertainment the old-fashioned way. In fact, you probably cost some other girl a few thousand dollars with what you let him talk you into last weekend. I bet he pocketed the money, too."

"That... that bastard," I gasped. "How could he?"

"He saw a chance to fuck a beautiful girl and make money, the two things that men enjoy the most," she shrugged. "So instead of paying for sex, he got paid to fuck you."

"Oh my god," I said, feeling flush with anger and embarrassment and shame.

"Bad men do bad things," she sighed. "Now, give me his number."

"He'll still come looking for me," I said, pulling my phone out. "After yesterday, I don't think he's going to stop."

"Don't worry," Yasmin smiled as I handed her my phone. "I know powerful men all over this city, men who can flex more than just muscles. If I tell him not to bother you, he won't dare."

"But what if he does?" I whined. "Yasmin, what if he tries to fuck me again?"

"Then you have my number," she said, handing my phone back to me. "We're friends now, yes?"

"Yes," I nodded, relief washing over me. "Thank you so much."

"Girls like us, we need to stick together," she said, winking at me as she stood up from the table. "Text me, okay?"

"Yasmin--wait--"

She paused.

"Can you... can you really teach me?" I said, standing up. "How to get men to... to respect me?"

"My dear," she smiled, looking me up and down. "With your body, I can teach you to get whatever you want."

...

SIX MONTHS LATER

...

I took a deep breath.

I'd been watching him in the mirror behind the bar for 20 minutes, and the entire time, he'd been sitting there by himself, playing some kind of game on his phone. He'd barely even looked up, so he probably wasn't meeting anyone.

He looked to be around average height, skinny build, shaggy brown hair. Not handsome, exactly, but sweet-looking in a boyish kind of way. He was paler than he should've been for a guy living in LA, so he probably had some kind of computer job with long hours, or maybe he just spent too much time playing video games.

He was probably at least a year or two out of college, but his clothes made him look young. It wasn't that he was badly dressed, but his shirt was sloppy and ill-fitting, which probably meant he didn't have girlfriend to help him shop for clothes. That made sense, given that he was playing on his phone at a bar, but he had made the decision to come out alone when he could've stayed home.

So maybe... maybe he's just waiting for a girl to sit down on the empty bar stool next to him and strike up a conversation.

I took another deep breath. Showtime, I thought to myself.

I walked quickly up to the bar and sat down next to him.

"Hey, can I sit here for a minute?" I said, turning on the stool to face him. A look of surprise crossed his face, but I didn't wait for him to answer. "I actually need to ask you a favor."

"Um, okay," he mumbled warily.

"Just look at me and smile," I said in a low voice. "Nod your head and talk to me like we're here together."

"Okay," he said, managing a weak smile despite his obvious confusion.

"Touch my knee," I whispered, glancing down at my tan, toned legs, which were crossed in front of me. "With your hand."

"Really?" he gulped.

"Yes," I hissed through a smile. "Do it, quickly."

Cautiously, he reached out his hand, placing his clammy palm lightly on the top of my knee.

"Good," I nodded. "Keep looking at me and smiling."

"Are you okay?" he asked uncertainly.

"There's a guy back there," I whispered. "He's watching us."

"Where?" he asked, turning to look.

"Don't look for him," I hissed urgently, touching his hand. "You'll give us away."

"I don't understand what's going on," he said, looking back at me in consternation.

"This drunk guy tried to corner me over by the bathroom. I tried to go around him, but he kept moving to block my path," I whispered. "When I asked him to let me pass, he got really aggressive and told me that I had to flash my boobs if I wanted to get by."

"W--what?!" he gulped.

"The only way I could get him to let me go was by telling him that I was here with my boyfriend," I said. "If he realizes that I'm here alone, he's going to come after me again."

"Oh, um, okay," he said, fidgeting in his seat. "So, what--what do I do?"

"Just keep acting like we're together, at least until he leaves," I said, leaning towards him. "What would you do if I was really your girlfriend?"

"I--um--I'm not sure," he stammered, breaking eye contact with me to glance back at his phone.

"How about buying me a drink?" I said, smiling a little. "This is a bar, you know."

"Sure, okay," he said, taking his hand off my knee and raising it to flag down the bartender.

...

"So what's your name?" I said, taking a sip of the tequila sunrise now sitting on the bar in front of me.

"I'm Jesse," he said. "What's yours?"

"I thought Jessie was a girl's name," I giggled. "Isn't it short for Jessica?"

"It's both," he blushed, raising his beer glass to his lips to hide his face. "They're spelled differently."

"I know that!" I laughed. "Geez, I was just teasing you."

"Okay, well, so what's your name then?"

"Lola," I said, smiling sweetly.

"I thought Lola was a song by The Kinks," he said. "I never met anyone who actually had it as a name."

"Oh, come on, Jesse," I said, rolling my eyes. "Is that the best line you've got? Sitting by yourself at a bar, I just assumed you knew how to flirt at least a little."

"Hey, you came up to me," he said defensively.

"I'm just teasing you again," I said, shaking my head in mock disbelief. "You know, if you want an actual girlfriend, you need to lighten up a little."

"Sorry," Jesse muttered into his beer. "I'm not so good at this stuff."

"It's fine," I giggled. "Honestly, it's refreshing to meet a white guy who doesn't think he's God's gift to Asian girls."

"What do you mean?" Jesse said.

"You don't know?" I smiled, sipping my drink. "Soooo many white guys in this city are like that asshole by the bathroom. They see a half-Asian girl and just assume that they can fuck me."

"Really?" he lifted an eyebrow.

"Oh my god, yes," I rolled my eyes again. "They think just because they have money or muscles that they can put their hands on me and I'll let them do whatever they want."

"Wow," Jesse said, shaking his head. "I honestly had no idea."

"I'm so tired of white guys who buy me a drink then act like it's the down payment on my pussy." I took another sip of tequila, then shot Jesse a side-eyed glare. "You're not one of those guys, are you, Jesse?"

"No, no," he shook his head in protest. "I don't even know anyone who acts like that."