Little Pink Toenails
She wrote my name on the steamed-up window, and I fell in love.
On my eighteenth birthday, my two best friends decided it would be a good idea to book me a hooker.
A virgin that I was, I remembered being pleasantly surprised, my heart racing before I could think. As the moment came closer, mixed feelings quietly took over — anxiety, curiosity, guilt. Was this really the right thing?
My friends waved me off as they went with their girls, leaving me in the narrow, dank corridor. The flickering orange light of the seedy hotel basked everything in its cheap glow, reminding me what a bad idea this all was. Cockroaches scuttered away in the corner. Somewhere, a dog was barking.
My prostitute was very young. Too young. It didn’t bother me that much, then. Perhaps because in high school we are used to hearing sixteen year-olds doing these increasingly outrageous acts.
What did bother me was the sex. That horrific, awkward nightmare when your first time was with a complete stranger.
I felt like I was stripped naked and forced to perform in some adult feature. I guess when you are used to so much porn at eighteen, you put yourself up to impossible expectations. I kept being so afraid she would find out how incapable I am, how I absolutely had no idea what was going on, what was supposed to go on.
I tried to put on a show, but to me, I kept failing miserably. I never realized how easily your legs get stiff and tired. My flesh against hers felt sweaty and uncomfortable, and the view was always the worst. The smell of our bodies and the taste of her in my mouth was way off. I was struggling to find that supposed enjoyment.
When I finally stopped being so concerned of myself, I noticed the girl was locking herself in. Pulling herself away from the world. Her eyes laid still in a cold, dark place she had built for herself in some dark recess of her heart. Lying naked below my bumbling wretched body, she was building a mile-high wall that would prevent her from feeling a thing.
I gave up. I let go and lied down next to her, watching the cheap ceiling fan spin squeakily, round and round. I wondered vaguely if it would just fall off and kill us both.
She seemed relieved that I was off her. Not long, I noticed she was stealing glances my way from inside her fragile shell, wondering whether this predator was just resting a while before trying to swoop down and crack open that shell for good, like a seagull preying on a baby turtle. She seemed all too used to violence.
I tried to caress her hair, but she wouldn’t budge. After a while I stopped trying. Bored with the cheap, potentially deadly fan, I let my gaze wander down to our feet.
Her toenails were colored bright pink. She had tiny feet — it could not have been larger than a five. I caressed them with my toes, looking so large and ugly next to hers. The tip of her tiny white toes felt cool to the touch. It was a pleasant sensation.
Something warm began to light inside me, like a small candle. I wanted to hug her, then. But she wasn’t my lover. I was supposed to fuck this girl, not love her. Falling in love with a prostitute just seemed so naive, and the whole point of this birthday was to stop being naive.
So I just continued caressing her hair, stroking her hands. She had such small hands. I really did want to embrace her.
But we just talked. I asked her why she painted her toenails pink, but left her fingernails unpainted. It was a silly question, but it did get us rolling into various other life topics.
Slowly, I felt her coming out of that cold, dark recess. The baby turtle realized she was not dealing with a seagull.
Or perhaps it was me who realized that I was not a predator, that I did not have to be.
I no longer cared. We talked.
Later that night, we did manage to make love. It was bland, but at least I managed to rid myself off all the pressure earlier. Perhaps it was just a hopeful illusion, but she seemed less distant this second time around.
While we made love, I embraced her tightly in my arms.
When I awoke the next morning, rain had poured. It was only beginning to let up, and the little windows of our cramped little hotel room was all blurry and steamed up. She had opened the curtains from the night before, and I could see the sun rising over the horizon, giving its first rays over the thatched rooftops of the urban slums she called home. Somewhere, early schoolchildren were shouting playfully.
She was awake and sitting by the window. She smiled when she saw me, and I noticed she had written my name on the steamed-up window, the way you just playfully do on steamed-up windows. I felt a warm glow inside me.
She gave me her private phone number before I left and told me to call. I caressed her hair one last time.
I never did manage to call. A distant relative met an untimely death not so long after, and I was tasked to help with the funeral. A week afterwards, my class had exams, and then one of my two best friends got married. Life passes you by when you least notice it.
Months later, I would find the place already deserted. This time I would dial her number, again and again. Nothing.
Nobody knew what had happened to the place, let alone to the girl.
Sometimes, late at night, I would stare at her name on my phone. I still remember her little pink toenails, and those delicate small fingers that wrote my name on the window.
This has been a short story by Bonni Rambatan. For more stories like this, please follow Pleasure & Pain, our Medium publication that explore the complex intricacies of love, sex, and relationships. To write for us, simply tweet the editor at @bonni07.
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