CHAPTER ONE
Carrie
“Can I have ten dollars?” Nicole asks hopefully, her big blue eyes pleading. Nicole is my little sister, and she’s fourteen but acts about two sometimes.
“What for?” I ask sternly, hands on my hips. “Why do you need ten bucks?”
Her lip trembles, jutting a bit.
“I want to get some white-out,” she says slowly. “You know, to fix my homework.”
I blink. White-out? Really? Who still uses that stuff? I thought it was toxic, killing brain cells right and left.
But Nicole nods again.
“It’s for my book report, Carrie,” she pleads. “You know I wanted to borrow your laptop but you were using it all the time. So I had to write it by hand, and now I need white-out to fix my mistakes.”
Inside I feel myself caving. Because it’s true. We only have one computer in the household, and that’s mine. And I have been using it a lot for my creative writing class, so Nicole didn’t get a chance to hop on.
Slowly, I reach into my pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills.
“Here,” I say gently. “Take this.”
Nicole smiles brightly now, gripping the bills.
“Thanks Car!” she chirps. “You’re the best,” are her happy words, before skipping off. I sigh again. Because Nicole’s my little sister, but sometimes she’s more like my child. I know I should tell her the truth but it seems too brutal for someone so young.
Because actually, I don’t have any money to spare, not even a few bucks. Just yesterday, I saw my mom hiding the yellow sheet of paper they nailed to our door. The one with the big red letters in front in all caps. I couldn’t quite see what it said, but it was most likely an eviction notice.
And it’s not like Mom has any way to pay our rent. Rhonda and Jim have been gone for a few days now, which is nothing new. Probably off on another bender, getting lit and doing nothing about our housing situation. So yeah, things are bad, much worse than a few bucks for school supplies.
But I don’t want my little sister to worry. Nicole has dyslexia as well as mild anxiety, and growing up in this household hasn’t been easy. I don’t want her to get worse, she’s frail already. So I take another deep breath before seating myself at the kitchen table. Bills, bills, bills, piling up everywhere. Stacks and stacks, falling off onto the floor, pushed behind the refrigerator even.
But right now isn’t the time. I need to work on my paper right now.
Because I’m a first-year student at our local community college. And I’m lucky to be there. I want to be someone and to make something of myself. I don’t want to be like my parents, constantly flitting from one job to another, living hand to mouth, never knowing when the next paycheck is coming. I want to hold my head up high, and not be afraid to walk into a nice restaurant. I want to be safe and secure, without worrying that I was gonna lose the roof over my head.
Right. The roof. The would-be eviction notice.
But I couldn’t think about it now.
So instead, I stare at the screen blankly, my computer humming. This creative writing class was driving me nuts. They were discussing something about a clef a romans and macrocosm / microcosm. What did those terms mean again?
Because the truth is, I’ve been struggling to get a sentence down on paper all evening. Writing is my thing usually. Words are what makes me happy, but recently, with all the trouble from my family, it’s been tough to concentrate.
But I have to. A degree is important. Investing in myself is important, especially for education.
Despairingly, I stare straight ahead. Nothing comes, my mind like a blank slate. And devilishly, my fingers began to move on their own.
But not to type, oh no.
Instead, I begin to surf the web.
The world wide web has been my downfall for a long time. I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve lost to endlessly reading random sites. Not even educational sites like the news or following the stock market. But really random things like BuzzFeed and Bored Panda, mind candy that sucks you in, only to spit you out three hours later, dazed and confused. I should find some blocking software to prevent my bad habits. That would help my procrastination, for sure.
But my fingers are devilish once more. Because there’s a pop up in the corner that catches my eye, the fluorescent pink lettering impossible to miss.
MAKE CA$H! it screams. EA$Y MONEY!
I snort. Yeah, right. Just another get-rich-quick scheme where they pump you full of hope, only to rob you dry. But would it hurt to look? Would it be so terrible? And before I know it, my fingers click on the ad.
A new site pops up immediately.
There are no pictures. But the lettering sings a tune like a siren calling to drowning sailors. I can’t help but stare, my breath coming fast.
$$$ Cute, Innocent Girls Wanted. Be a $ub Today! $$$
My face flushes.
Is this …?
Could it be …?
It has to be. I’m inexperienced when it comes to dating and relationships, but not dumb. I know what a sub is. Sub is for submissive right? You date a guy for money, and he gets to control you.
But what does “dating” mean?
What kind of control?
And how much money?
It’s the last question that firms my resolve. Because if there’s anything my family needs right now, it’s money. We need cold hard cash to put food on the table so that my little sister doesn’t go hungry. It’s not just about movies and popcorn, white-out and school supplies. It’s about the real deal. The stuff that makes the world turn.
So lips pressed into a line, I click. The screen flashes with a site called Sugar Babiez, a sexy-looking woman smiling while sitting on a couch. Oh god, oh god, is this really happening?
But it is.
This is the only way out right now. I could try and get a job tutoring, or maybe working as a barista somewhere. But what would it pay? Probably somewhere around minimum wage. That’s nowhere near enough, not when our circumstances are so dire.
Maybe I could make more as a sub.
A lot more.
Maybe even four figures.
Hope makes my heart pound. We need it so badly, even a thousand dollars would make a huge difference. I could pay some of the overdue bills, especially the electricity and gas ones marked “final notice.” I could go to the grocery and buy some nuts and real cheese, not the government-issued cheese product we usually eat.
So maybe this is a possibility.
The rush to my head is overwhelming, my vision literally going blurry for an instant. But first things first. If I want to explore, then I have to create a profile.
What should my user name be?
A bunch of things jump into my head.
Honeybunz.
Jewelz.
SweetThing314, for my birthday March 14.
But those sound idiotic, like I’m a teen who spends all her time on the phone. So instead, I enter my real name, Carrie, and the site accepts it alarmingly fast. No “User Name Taken.” No suggestions of “Carrie314” or “Carrie12345.” Just Carrie.
Oh god, oh god.
Maybe I’ve screwed up already.
Am I being dumb?
Am I being hopelessly naïve?
Oh god.
But there’s no way I’ll actually meet someone on here, I tell myself. This is just to see who’s on the site. So taking another deep breath, I fill out the basics on myself. Five five. Curly brown hair. Brown eyes. Average build. Well, that’s not actually true. Because I’m a curvy girl, with a big butt and huge, soft tits, along with hips that swing like a pendulum. So slowly, my finger unclicks “average” and instead presses down on “A little to spare.” “A lot to spare” would be more accurate, but that’s not a choice.
Oh god.
Moving on.
But it gets worse because the next screen prompts me to upload a pic of myself. What? I don’t have anything!
But it makes sense. Pictures tell a thousand words right?
So I surf around my laptop hard drive, trying to find something suitable. Definitely not my school ID, I have huge glasses and my hair’s a mess, it’d been windy that day. Definitely not a shot from my recent trip to Six Flags with Nicole, I look about fifteen years old with a giant ball of cotton candy and a silly smile.
But there’s nothing else. There really isn’t. I don’t have any suitable pictures, not something that I could upload here.
For a moment, I consider using someone else’s pic off the web. It’d be so easy, and no one would ever know. I’m not going to really “join” this site, anyways.
Or am I?
Because what if something okay comes along?
Or more realistically, what if we need the cash so bad that this is the only way?
That’s the real answer for sure.
So trembling, I get up and grab my cell. Making my way to our tiny shared bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Huge, round eyes with masses of curly brown hair. A chin that’s shaking somewhat, but at least they won’t be able to see that in a photo.
And holding my cell towards the mirror, I snap a pic. It’s terrible. Really, really bad. The flash obscures my face, making my head look like an exploding lightbulb. All you can see is my scoopneck tee with big boobies pressing forwards.
So I take another one, turning off the flash this time. This version’s better, at least you can see my face. But the expression is all wrong. I look like a haunted deer, eyes wide and staring, poised and ready to run.
Get with it! scolds the voice in my mind. Guys want someone cute and approachable, if not downright sexy. You think this is sexy? You think you’re gonna attract bees when you don’t put out the honey?
So trying again, I go for it this time. Cocking my hip to the right, I perch one hand on my waist and slap a winning smile on my face. It feels weird for sure. This isn’t me. I’m not a girl who takes sexy selfies, and my t-shirt and cut-off shorts are testament to that. Truly sexy ladies probably wear all sorts of lace and fripperies, making sure key body parts are highlighted.
But I am what I am. So smiling, I snap a photo, and it turns out okay. It’s me for sure. The same big brown eyes that look back each morning. The same voluptuous body, even if I’m wearing casual clothes. The same innocent look that’s always there, day in and day out.
Because hoochiness isn’t my thing. Nothing against the hoochy girls, I love ladies who own it. But me? I’m a big nerd, and it’s impossible to hide. This pic is the best I can do, even if it’s me posing in the bathroom with a big, silly grin on my face.
So sighing, I upload it to the site. That should be enough right? They’ve got my vital stats plus a pic. I’m real, not a robot. But when I click “finish,” the laptop stutters because there’s an essay to write. What in the world? Why would they need an essay?
I decide to scribble just a few sentences.
Submissive girl, looking for a man who knows himself. Contact me now!
There’s a long box that I could fill in with ramblings about this and that, but no way. I’m not writing anymore, and I’m certainly not going to add heart emojis and pictures of kissing lips. I’m eighteen. It’s time to move on. And resolutely clicking submit, the profile disappears, a thank you confirmation popping on screen. It’s done now.
Besides, this was just a joke. My photo won’t get anyone’s attention, that’s foolish thinking. There are so many pretty girls out there, and I’m just plain old me. Carrie with the wild brown curls, the one with a kind smile for everyone. The older sister who takes care of her younger sibling. The one who struggles at school because there aren’t enough hours in a day between managing my studies, my sister and my parents.
And even if you gave me lessons on how to seduce a man, I still wouldn’t know. Because the crazy part is that I’m a virgin. I’m on a site for sugar babies, and yet I’ve never been touched by a man. I’ve never felt a male deep inside, or even really kissed someone for that matter.
So was this insane? Yes.
Was my profile a little misleading? Probably.
Was anyone gonna reply? Definitely not.
Because they can tell, I’m sure. The men can see the innocence, the way that I smiled goofily, beaming with hope. So what am I doing? Why am I doing this? It’s supposed to be for my family, but this bad idea is just getting worse.
It doesn’t matter. No one’s gonna be interested, so there’s no sense in worrying anymore. And with that, I turn back to my paper, banishing the thought of sugar daddies from my head. It was just a whim … and it’s time to get back to work.