I am a virgin.
But there’s no way I’m admitting that to my shithead little brother.
“What makes you think that?” I demand.
He rolls his eyes. “I know you. Don’t bullshit me.”
“What if I am?” I laugh, more at the absurdity of it all than at anything actually funny. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well—it might just be our way out of all our problems.”
“You’re making no sense,” I tell him.
“I heard about something,” he says. “An auction where they sell women. I mean, sell their services, if you know what I mean? They pay big for virgins, Camille, and all you have to do is open your legs. Anyway, it’s better than losing your v-card in that piece-of-shit Civic you drive to some dude who works at Denny’s, or—”
I slap him across the face. Hard.
The sound of skin hitting skin echoes in the room, along with the tinny chirping of whatever late-night TV show is following the basketball game. Rob looks stunned, then sad, then angry, all at once, like a rainbow of feelings.
He starts to stand, face reddening. I feel bad immediately. What he said was fucked-up, sure, but slapping him was probably a step too far. “Rob, I—”
Mom lets out a cry from the bedroom. I’m immediately on my feet, rushing so fast I almost trip.
I yank open the door. She’s on the floor, panting, her whole body twisted.
“Rob!” I cry. “Call 911, now!”
The next few hours are chaos: the ambulance arriving; sitting in the back telling Mom everything will be okay as she stutters and dribbles and waves her hands in agony and I wrack my brains wondering how we are ever going to pay for all this.
In the waiting room, as I nurse my third cup of shitty hospital lobby coffee, Rob takes out a small slip of paper and hands it to me.
There’s a lawyer’s office address written on it.
“This is the man who will arrange it,” he says. “Just think about it. Otherwise …”
“I don’t need to hear about ‘otherwise,’” I interrupt, snatching the paper.
“But you’ll think about it?”
I shake my head, not giving him an answer.
But I’m running out of options.
A week later, I’m sitting in the lawyer’s waiting room.
I’m cursing fate, cursing my situation, cursing myself for not being able to dream up a better way to climb out of this mess.
When I checked in, I was fidgety, wondering if the smiling, put-together receptionist knew the reason I am really here. I force my hands to be still in my lap and take a deep breath.
This is for Mom, I remind myself. Everything I do is for her. This will be no different.
“Mr. Johnson will see you now,” the receptionist calls over.
I stand up and walk into his office, trying and failing miserably to look confident. The lawyer, Mr. Johnson, glances up at me through stylish hipster glasses that don’t match his Mr. Potato Head mustache and combed-over gray hair.
“Thank you for coming,” he says brusquely.
I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice, I almost say. But I bite my lip.
“We have a few details we need to clarify before we can continue.” He slides a thick document across the desk. “But first, you’ll need to read through this.”
I flick through the pages, laughing cynically. None of this feels real.
As I read through, I start to get at least a vague understanding of what I’m getting myself into. The whole thing seems so implausible, so brazen. How can this be a real thing? Shouldn’t someone be onto this by now? The cops, the president, Chris Hansen on To Catch a Predator? I was always told that the adults in the room would never let anything like this happen. And yet here I am—an adult, and helpless to do anything but play along and try to get out unscathed.
The papers in front of me are describing my ‘position’ as an ‘auctioneer’s assistant.’ As far as I can tell, I’m basically supposed to stand on stage with a piece of art that’s ostensibly for sale, but only in a wink-wink-nudge-nudge kind of way.
Everyone in the audience will know what they’re actually bidding on: yours truly, untouched by the hand of man.
The job requirements pay special attention to my ‘fitness’ and my ‘willingness to work hard’ in presenting the finest art to the finest clientele.
The veiled language is clear:
I must be fit enough to open my legs for the type of man who would buy a woman’s virginity.
I must work hard in this endeavor.
I must ‘please my employer.’
I swallow back the rising tide of nausea in my throat as I finish. When I’m done reading, I sign and initial where the lawyer indicates and slide the papers back over to him. I haven’t really processed what I just did yet, but I’m also not sure that I’ll ever really process it, so nothing to do but soldier on and bury my anxiety deep down inside, far from the light of day.
That’s healthy, right?
Mr. Johnson clears his throat. “Do you have any history of depression, anxiety, schizophrenia?”
I shake my head.
“Your responses must be verbal, Miss Greene,” he intones.
“No,” I rasp, my mouth far too dry.
“And you have never engaged in amorous activity with either a man or a woman?”
I shake my head.
“Words, please—”
“No,” I say, louder now, finding my voice.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Miss Greene, if some of these questions may make you uncomfortable.”
All of them do.
“Unfortunately, they are all mandatory. Shall we proceed?”
I nod again. He sighs and keeps going.
Do I have, or suspect that I have, a sexually transmitted disease?
No.
Do I anticipate ‘absconding’ on the night I ‘begin employment’?
No.
On and on like that, veering back and forth from weirdly formal to creepily implicating.
As we move through the questionnaire, he has me sign the forms with the suggestive language inside. I feel an odd pride when I am able to scrawl my name without my hand shaking.
I’ve chosen my course. Now, I have to walk it
