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The two-star establishment is home to many wonders. Roaches are the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of this cesspool of a home. There’s the moss growing at the bottom of the pool and the unlucky guest that finds themself staying here for a night.
This motel is home to the abundant number of hookups generated from every hookup app under the sun. Darien is small but not so small that it’s only populated with straight people. My family is a perfect example.
Not everyone has the confidence my siblings have. Leon and Ella don’t care what people think of them, and I care too much.
I knock on the door and hear the shifting and squeak of the motel bed. The door opens, and a man, probably ten years older than me, stares back at eye level. I’m not even wearing heels right now.
He shifts awkwardly, letting me in as I make my way over to the bed and take a seat. I take a second to look around the room, seeing the same motel décor. A single light on the wall keeps the room lit, a single nightstand, and the curtains are pulled closed already.
I bring my gaze to my conquest tonight. He’s wearing a blue collared shirt and a tie. Looks like he just came back from work. Guilt forms as I imagine this being his escape from a potential spouse. His fingers lack rings. It is stupid, but not seeing a wedding ring makes me feel less dirty. I’m not a homewrecker, but I’m not so delusional to think I’ve never helped ruin a marriage.
He walks over to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. I let out a soft chuckle. It might be hard to believe, but this is normal. All of this is normal—at least for me, it is.
I get up and make my way to the old mirror on the wall. Nerves start to bubble up as the man takes longer in the bathroom. Staying out too late is going to make Ella worry.
This was only supposed to be an hour ordeal, but it’s been fifteen minutes, and now I’ve had time to criticize my appearance. My lips feel raw from the three different shades of pink I’ve layered and wiped off. Don’t get me started on the fact that my right eyeliner is uneven compared to my left eye, which looks perfect. I’m not bad at makeup, but eyeliner is the bane of my existence.
With an annoyingly loud squeak, the bathroom door opens.
His gaze runs over my body, and he walks over to the bed, plopping me down on the mattress. He nervously rakes his hand through his hair.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.” It isn’t a total lie. I turn nineteen at the end of July. When the men I hook up with are in their mid-twenties and suffering a quarterly life crisis, that little number change makes them feel better.
“Are you home from college?”
Small talk? He must really be nervous about what’s happening.
“My name’s David, by the way,” he says.
I hate small talk.
Making friends is not the point of this hotel. We are both here because we crave things society hates.
“Yeah.”
“Where do you go?”
His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked. With a glance, I notice the tie left on the bathroom floor.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” he continues before patting the bed next to him.
Let’s get this over with.
I take a seat next to him, turning myself slightly so we are facing each other. “I go to Grace Hill University.”
That, again, isn’t a total lie. I am going to Grace Hill, but that won’t be until August.
“Wow,” he says, then stares at me and forms a smile.
“What?”
He rakes his hand through his hair and then takes a shaky breath. “You’re actually really pretty.”
A frown forms on my face, which causes his happy demeanor to be replaced with confusion. Does he think that is a compliment? He’s surprised that a trans girl could be pretty. The fact that I’m pretty makes sleeping with me easier.
“Did I say something wrong?”
