Helena Milton

“Item number 467 is up for bid.” Oh yeah, that’s me. I am 467.

I cringe as the auctioneer calls my number again. Even though this was totally my idea, I regret it immensely. I step forward as Bertha, the ancient Madame, instructed me to do. She used to run a brothel in Vegas. No one messes with Bertha. I learned a little about her while she was zipping me into this dress if you can even call it that. The skin-tight red leather with matching boots I have on makes me look like an encased sausage. It creaks and groans as I try to walk in what I hope is a sexy way. I have absolutely no idea what I am doing, but I know that I look nauseating.

At least the look is topped off by a jaunty, festive Santa hat. That's right. This morning after Christmas breakfast and presents with my family, I hopped a plane to Reno, Nevada to participate in an auction. Christmas is my favorite holiday and instead of spending it with my family, I'm surrounded by vapid bitches.

“Item 467 is a recent University of Georgia graduate. She majored in business and works for a Fortune 500 company. She is fluent in French, Spanish, Italian, Russian and Vietnamese. 467 is twenty-one years old, 5’4, 248 pounds. She has brown hair and blue eyes. She’s never been married and has no children. This one is a rare treat in this day and age, gents. She is a certified virgin,” Martin Lancaster of the Lancaster Brothers Auction House says. He’s making me feel like livestock, I guess in a way I kind of am. He is dressed like a ringmaster from the circus. It’s kind of ridiculous. I almost expect him to shout “step right up and feast your eyes on The Fat Lady.” At least I don’t have a beard.

I hear several gasps from both the audience and the girls behind me. I had to see a doctor this afternoon. It was the most humiliating experience of my life. He told me that out of the five hundred girls that have been on the auction block this year, I was the only virgin. Fuck, he was a dick. He began my examination and STD tests by telling me he wasn't sure why I was even here. In the end, he said that my cherry was going to be my saving grace. It will be worth more than my ugly face and fat body combined. Yeah, he was a class act and I am pretty sure he was drunk. I am not sure what I was expecting from an auction that operates out of a seedy hotel in Reno, Nevada. What was I thinking? That’s the very last fucking time I drink two bottles of wine and go cruising the internet for a husband.

After Mr. Lancaster finishes listing my attributes, he calls out, “shall we start the bidding at ten thousand dollars?” God, that is embarrassingly low, but I honestly didn’t expect anything more.

The last girl started at a quarter of a million dollars and sold for two million dollars. She was beyond gorgeous.

I guess I should start with why someone like me would even try to do something like this, besides being drunk. I am not pretty, or fashionable. I’ve been told I have a great personality, which as you know is the kiss of death for any girl bigger than a size twelve. Which I definitely am.

This auction isn’t about the man winning a date with me and all the money going to some charity. This is about me becoming the wife of whoever bids the highest for me. Furthermore, I would have the cushion of whatever money was bid minus twenty percent as long as the marriage lasts at least five years. Now, there are background checks and other things in play to keep me safe, but for the most part, it's me and him till death do us part.

I keep imagining an old man bidding on me because he needs a nurse. How freaking embarrassing would that be?

So back to my reasoning, I'm bored as fuck with my life. Beyond bored. I don't need the money. I am a billionaire in my own right and heiress to the Fortune 500 box store Milton's. I'm currently the Vice-president of marketing and I share joint CEO status with my twin brother, Henry. Henry got all the good looks. His wife, Nya, is a famous lingerie model. Well, she was. When my brother met her, he went into what I like to call an “alpha rage.” Let’s just say she no longer models in her underwear.

My daily routine is old. I get up, go to work, where all of my employees think I’m a bitch so that just makes me want to get up every day. Then I come home, eat food I have no business eating and watch trashy tv. Every single day. There are few deviations. I have no friends outside of my siblings and my sainted mother. I am the queen of the losers and I am done with that. I want to be everything to someone. God, I am pathetic.

I vaguely hear the auctioneer calling out numbers before I start paying attention again.

“Two point six million, yes, three million over there. Do I hear four? Yes, four. Five? I hear five. Do I hear six?”

What the actual fuck is happening right now?

I watch two paddles duke it out. The stage lights are blinding me, so I can't see who is wielding them. The battle ends when the auctioneer reaches ten.

As in ten million dollars. Whoa.

I let that sink in. What the actual fuck? Who in their right mind would pay that much for me?

“Item number 467, sold for ten million dollars, to paddle 1268. I am being told that this is our highest bid ever. 467, Helena, come on down and meet your new husband.” Now he sounds like the announcer on the Price is Right. I’m almost expecting to hear that I’ve won a new car. I start to giggle. When I’m nervous I giggle. It’s the worst kind of coping mechanism that I can think of. I think I might be in shock. Like panic-inducing shock right now. I hear more than one girl behind me shouting. Only a few of those snooty bitches can clearly be heard though. That sobers me right up. I can’t stand bullies. I wish my sister, Erin, was here. She’d kick these bitches asses from here to Vegas. But stupid me, I didn’t tell my family I was doing this. They would have stopped me.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me,” a girl behind me exclaims.

“But she's so fat,” another says.

“Her?”

On and on they chime in when they should be keeping their mouths shut.

“Kiernan O'Toole, come and meet your bride,” the auctioneer says in a sing-song voice.

“Oh, never mind. Good luck, girl,” the loudest girl says as I walk past her. I want to deck her, but I keep my cool. Next, those cunts start laughing. Laughing. I have so many questions.

To begin with who the fucking fuck is Kiernan O'Toole and why would he warrant such a reaction?