Red-Headed Trollop

It’s Friday Fiction with Tex again this week. Don’t forget to visit her.

This week it was Tex’s turn to suggest the prompt and she chose red-headed trollop from one of her search terms. You just never know where those crazy search terms are going to turn up.

With a big thank you to Paisley’s Secret Secret blog for giving me the idea for the story.

I’m not a virgin anymore. Is underwhelmed a real word? Because if it is then that’s what I am – underwhelmed.

My deflowering lasted all of 25 seconds. Do people even say deflowering any more? It sounds so puritanical. It’s a euphemism, right? I don’t like euphemisms. They seem so underhanded, like the meaning is lurking somewhere other than right in front of you. You are a sanitation engineer. No, you are a janitor. You are having a happy event. No, you are pregnant. You are pushing up daisies. No, you are dead and buried. You have been deflowered. No, you have been fucked. For 25 seconds.

I like Eddie. Or should I say liked. The fact is that since Eddie’s 25 seconds of glory he has been avoiding me. He was frightened I would tell all of his too cool for school friends that he couldn’t even last a minute, so do you know what he did? He has branded me a slut. It is all over the school. The best form of defence is attack, right? Well, that’s what he did.

I am angry because there is no way I would have said anything. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing, either. I didn’t know if I should moan or gasp or move about a bit. It was all virgin territory. Ha ha. Get it? Virgin territory. Sometimes the wit just pours out of me. I am so mad that he had to make stuff up just to counter his embarrassment. I wouldn’t have said a word. I like Eddie. Liked.

Apparently I’ve done it with over 20 guys this term alone. Lil’ ole me – straight A student, Manga fanatic, treehugger. I didn’t know I had it in me. Must’ve been the Vitamin B complex I was taking to build me up after my cold.

I wear an A cup and I am a slut. Sometimes I don’t shave my legs for two weeks. I have never had a brazilian wax. I am still a slut. I don’t smoke in the toilets or drink wine coolers out of sports bottles in History class. I sponsor a child in Africa with the hard-earned cash I earn babysitting. I am still a slut.

Georgia Harding (who I thought was a friend of mine) said it’s because I have red hair. Apparently, redheads are frivolous and unpredictable. They will steal your man when you’re not looking just like in the old movies, smoking French cigarettes out of mother-of-pearl holders and wearing tight dresses with splits up to the thigh to reveal their fishnets and garters.

My hair is red, there’s no denying it. Auburn Flame, my Mum calls it like she works for Revlon or something. I think it’s just a euphemism for carrot top. Eddie said he liked my red hair. He used to roll it between his fingers and marvel at the colour. He compared it to autumn leaves or the glaze on an apricot tart. I felt like a heroine in a Thomas Hardy novel under his admiring glance, but now I just feel like a trollop.

Can you believe someone called me a trollop? Are we living in the age of Moll Flanders with fops and bounders and women’s breasts spilling out of their corsets? What am I supposed to say when someone calls me a trollop? Freshen your drink, guv’nor?

I had always imagined what the first time would be like. I wasn’t expecting a 21 gun salute but I was expecting that the guy would talk to me afterwards. Lou Ann says that sex turns everything to shit. She’s right. I thought I would be a girlfriend now, not a slut. Definitely not a trollop.

Lou Ann says it will all die down when the next victim comes along for the cool kids to pick on. At least I can take comfort in that. But it is going to be pretty hard to top the red-headed trollop and her 25 second lover. Maybe we’ll go down in history.

* Image by lans bejbe at DEviant Art.