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“I didn’t know my dad. His name wasn’t even on my birth certificate, so he can be anyone, really,” I settle against her body, needing even more of her now. “My mom wasn’t even sure who he was, from what I was told. She was into drugs when she got pregnant young, and I got taken away from her when I was six years old. I ended up in foster care for a while. She got me back once, and then I went back. I lived in a house with seven other kids, and I shared a twin bed with a girl twice my age for a while. It wasn’t bad – I’ve heard of a lot worse – but it wasn’t home, either.”
She kisses my shoulder, and I smile a little.
“My aunt lived here, and we lived about a thousand miles away. She didn’t have much, but when she heard that my mother wasn’t going to try to get me back again, she took a bus and came to get me. My mom filled out whatever paperwork you fill out when you give up your kid, and my aunt and I took the bus back here. She was ten years older than my mom and had her life together. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment for a while, just the two of us. Then, she met her husband, and we moved into his house and made it our home. When he died about five years ago, it was just us again. A few years ago, she got diagnosed with cancer. She called my mom to tell her. They’re sisters, after all. I hadn’t seen my mother since the day they took me away from her, but my aunt always sent her pictures of me and kept her updated on my life as if she cared. Anyway, she visited when my aunt was sent to the hospital the first time, saw me, and acted like she didn’t even know who I was. I didn’t have the energy to deal with her – my aunt had cancer, and she was my real mother.”
“Yeah,” she says softly.
“I was dating someone at the time. It was still new. Normally, I wouldn’t have introduced someone I’d only been on a few dates with into my chaos, but we were together when I got the call that she’d been admitted. My mom took one look at our joined hands, called me a dyke, and then said she was glad she gave me up. She did that all in one breath while her sister lay dying.”
“She sounds awful,” she says.
“She is,” I say. Then, I add, “I wish it was her.”
That’s bad. I know that’s wrong, but it’s how I feel. One woman chose her drugs over her child. She chose mental, emotional, and sometimes even physical abuse because it was easier than taking care of her kid by giving up her addiction. For just a second, I think that maybe the addiction gene was passed onto me, but my drug of choice is sex with the woman currently sitting behind me. I toss that idea out because we’re not having sex right now. We’re just talking.
“Wish what was–”
“I wish the cancer had taken her. My aunt was a good person; she didn’t deserve this.”
And as bad as it sounds, to wish that my own mother got cancer instead of someone else, my aunt should still be here. My mother hasn’t contributed anything to the world. My aunt raised me. She put food on the table, made sure I had lunch for school, took me to practices, and went to all of my games. She helped me pay for college. She told me that love is love and that she just wants me to find it and be happy. She should still be here.
“No, she didn’t,” she says.
“She beat it once, but it came back worse. I gave up my apartment and moved back into her house. There was no one else to take care of her. My mom sure wasn’t going to offer to move here to do it. I have a job – I mean, I don’t just do this. She couldn’t work anymore, though, and the bills started to pile up.”
“That’s why you started doing this,” she says.
“My friends tried to just give me the money. They’re loaded. I said no, and they tried to loan it to me, but I know I’d never be able to pay it back. She’s my aunt. It’s my responsibility.”
“Pride is a dangerous thing.”
“I’m here, though. I thought I’d do this a few times just to get to a point where I could take care of the existing debt, and I’d quit. But… I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting to actually want to come here.”
She kisses my shoulder again and moves her hands over my stomach.
“Want to come here, huh?”
“Yes. It’s crazy. I know how this is supposed to work. I’m supposed to show up, someone picks me out of a group of escorts, and we just have sex. My sole purpose is to give someone pleasure at these things until they’re done with me or the party is over. That is not at all what I thought I’d be doing with my life. Then, I saw you, and we’ve…”
“Connected?”
“Yes,” I say and laugh. “I love connecting with you.”
She laughs as well and says, “I love connecting with you, too.” Then, she kisses my cheek. “How are you?”
“Right now, I’m pretty good. I can feel how wet you are through that thong of yours.”
“Not what I meant.”
“It’s hard, but it’ll be okay. At least, I knew this was coming. She also had a chance to take care of her affairs: she left me the house and her car. I’ve sold the car, but I haven’t decided about the house yet. Right now, I’m still living there, but I might sell it for the money and move into an apartment or something. It’s hard, being there without her. It’s quiet.”
“Do you think she’d want you to stay?”
“I don’t know. I think she always wanted me to be happy. When I told her I was gay at sixteen, freaking out that she could disown me because I’d only known a mother who wanted nothing to do with me, she just asked if I had a girlfriend. I said yes, and she invited her over to dinner.”
“Who is this girlfriend? Should I be jealous?”
I laugh a little. How did we get here?
