Chapter One

 

I'm an exhibitionist, to a certain extent. I think most girls are, and of course, some take it to extremes. I'm probably worse than some of my girlfriends, but I do, or did still have a certain sense of decorum and modesty and dignity. I mean, I wasn't going to wear something with gaping cleavage, for example.

I wasn't always pleased to have people looking at me. When I was an adolescent, I was terribly shy. Then again, I had ugly glasses, was flat chested, and had acne and bad hair. Of course I didn't want anyone looking at me, much less looking at me naked.

But I dreamed about being beautiful, about being sexy, which, according to the whole wide world, was what every girl was supposed to aspire to and do her best to achieve. When you're neither beautiful nor sexy but instead a gawky girl inside and out, that failing can be painful.

No one had any interest in me as a sex object, though, not even boys my age, so fantasies were all I had. And I had a lot of them! I dreamed about being a beautiful fashion model or actress with everyone gathering around to take my picture and admire me for my perfect face, hair and body.

I dreamed about guys lining up to meet me and try to get me to dance, and of course, of everyone thinking I had a sexy body instead of boy's body without a penis, as one girl in junior high had taunted me.

At thirteen I didn't even need a bra, just a T-shirt. At fourteen, I barely needed one either. At fifteen, my breasts started to rise out of my chest like bread dough in the oven. At sixteen, my cousin Shawn convinced me to have my hair radically restyled. At seventeen my dad paid for laser eye surgery.

By then I had a body that was a close resemblance to many of those I'd jealously looked at on the internet. I started to exercise, do yoga and weights, toning my body, and as I got more and more attention from guys - and girls, in school and in public, I began to feel a strange sense of amazement and gratification.

People wanted me to be around now! Oh, I know, that's so shallow! But we live in a shallow, lookist society. I got invited to parties, and I started changing how I dressed, wearing shorter and shorter skirts and tighter tops.

I admit it. I became quite proud of my looks, becoming quite the showoff, though a careful one. I mean, I didn't want anyone to know I was showing off. But I loved the attention and approval of my looks. And it didn't matter if it came from middle aged women or adolescent boys, or girls in my class, or hot guys.

Well, I liked the approval of the hot guys more, of course!

The truth is I found a lot of the girls to be kind of shallow. I had spent much of my adolescence reading, surfing the internet for information about the world, and being alone a lot. I won't say I was more mature than them, but I think my outlook on life, as pleased as I was by my looks, was considerably more broad than theirs.

And I had an active fantasy life, very active.

Most of it wasn't sexual, but some of it was. I was a teenage girl, after all. Given how painfully shy I had been I hadn't been able to seriously imagine some guy romancing me, finding me beautiful, and then making glorious love to me. Instead, I'd imagined rough guys abusing me and using me, forcing me, tying me up, laughing at me as they did what they wanted.

When I turned eighteen guys were actually romancing me, but those fantasies were still in my mind, though I wasn't doing anything about them, nor planning to.

College was a Disneyland for me. No one knew the old, quiet, meek, shy, ugly duckling. They only knew the confident (on the surface) cocky, beautiful me! Furthermore, it was a big college with a lot of anonymous people. What I did there wasn't immediately going to make the gossip rounds.

I partied, I drank, and I lost my virginity fairly smoothly (given I'd already broken my hymen with a hair brush years earlier). I liked sex. It was wild and exciting and new, and the guys I was with seemed to be so crazy over being able to see and touch me they were practically half mad with desire!

That's a hell of an ego trip for a previous reclusive nobody.

I almost dyed my hair blonde. That seemed appropriate since I wanted to be seen as hot and sexy and sexually sophisticated. The practical, grounded side of me, though, decided not to be based largely on the pain in the ass of keeping it dyed, and the unfriendly chemicals in hair dye.

My hair wasn't bad, anyway, since I'd changed my style. It was a very dark brown, and had once been waist long, and completely straight, parted in the middle. I like long hair, but it gets unmanageable at that length, not to mention heavy. Now it was only a bit past my shoulders, the longest tendrils not quite brushing the top of my breasts.

I parted it on the right, even though I'm right handed, in a way which left my forehead mostly bare, but often left shorter bangs spilling back across. It's not a hair style which is really eye catching, but it frames my face nicely, and I am, even if I say it myself, quite pretty. I hesitate to say more though others have called me beautiful. I find that hard to believe, though.

Since I'm just over five feet eight, I look great in heels and short skirts, and I've always felt less intimidated in showing my legs than in using cleavage to catch people's eyes. It seems less desperate, you know, less like I'm seeking attention, even if a strong part of my ego is pushing me into just that.

I resist that only so far, as I don't want to be seen by others as the kind of egotistical girl I used to see in others. Like, I go to the gym regularly to keep in shape, especially to keep my breasts and butt and belly firm. The three Bs. But I wear sweatpants and a tank top, not those super tight yoga things some of the girls wear.

Even thought I'd like to wear them! I just feel that's so, you know, obviously wanting attention. At least in a normal gym. Maybe if I did yoga I'd feel differently, especially if everyone else was wearing them. Having been a sort of outcast for years I have to fight the anxious desire to fit in, and act and dress like everyone else.

I don't always succeed. I try to establish a sort of compromise between my desire to dress respectably, as befitting an intelligent, capable young woman in college, and as sexy as I possibly can so that everyone admires how hot I am.

To that end, I often wore a blazer at school, usually over something tight across the chest, like a ribbed sweater or tight silk blouse. I was wearing a pale beige ribbed turtleneck sweater in the cafeteria the morning Spring Break was brought up, with a brown jacket over it and a short, but not really short brown skirt.

I was sitting with Jessica, who was very much like me in looks, if not personality. She was four inches shorter, and wearing khaki pants and a black hoodie which didn't quite reach the waistband, and had a pink letter L on the chest. Her hair was currently brown but heavily streaked with pink on the sides.

Jessica was a bit of a tomboy and heavily into sports. Since she was a phys ed student that was probably all to the good. She was also my roommate. I had coffee and a bagel while she was eating bacon and eggs.

Hannah dropped into the seat across from us, interrupting our discussion of what we were doing that night. She had dyed her hair a very dark red, and styled it so it covered half her face, including her left eye, almost all the time. She wore a ring in her lower lip, one in her tongue, and, she said, one between her legs.

She was taking general liberal arts, stress the liberal, and she was too into conspiracy theories and wild reactionary politics for me to respect her intelligence, though she had enough of it. She could be fun to hang around with, though, as long as you didn't get her going on some political topic.

"Panama City, bitches," she said, leaning forward and looking at us intently.

Jessica and I turned and looked at each, then back at her, probably with identical raised eyebrows.

"Spring Break is coming!" she exclaimed, as if that meant everything.

"And?"

"And, you two are both good party bitches, and have hot bodies," she said. "Me and Ashley are going to head south and have some wild times and you two are invited."

Since it was snowing outside the idea of heading off to Florida was attractive. But Hannah was unpredictable, Jessica was a bit wild, and Ashley was kind of slutty, and I wasn't sure.

"How much would that cost?" I asked.

"With four of us in a room? Practically nothing!" she exclaimed.

"What's that in dollars and cents?" Jessica asked, slipping the last piece of bacon into her mouth.

"And how do we get there? Drive?"

"We fly. $150 each, round trip, bitch!" Hannah cried in delight.

"That's all?"

"Yup."

"That's not much."

"That's what I'm saying!"

"Where do we stay?"

"Shit, look at us! We'll have lots of guys offering to let us crash with them!"

"Yeah, I'm sure," I snorted.

"What happens in Panama stays in Panama," Jessica said with a grin.

"We get a motel room with a couple of double beds," Hannah said. "For sure at least a couple of us will be sleeping somewhere else most nights..."

"Well, Ashley will," I said.

"See? So if only one out of three of us gets lucky the other two have their own bed to relax and sleep it off."

She smirked at Jessica. "Or they could share a bed," she said.

Jessica gave her her middle finger, but didn't seem bothered. I wasn't entirely sure, but I suspected these two had done more than the mock kissing I'd seen them engage in in bars to turn guys on. Not that that was a huge deal. I mean, I'd have been willing in high school myself, and the idea was a bit intriguing now, even though I was more fixated on men.

We discussed prices again, and dates, and then Jessie and I agreed to join Hannah and Ashley and go to Florida. Yeah! Me in Florida doing Spring Break!

Yes, I know you can't technically speaking get drunk in Florida until you're twenty one. Big deal. Nobody pays any attention to that stuff, especially during a party.

"So what should I take?" I said, almost to myself, when I was back in our dorm looking at my closet.

"Lots of condoms," Jessie said from behind me.

"Slut," I replied.

"Yeah, you're a virgin," she responded.

"I need a new bathing suit," I said. "I didn't bring one to school and I wouldn't wear the one I have at home anyway."

"You need more than one. I do too. Probably have to spend more on them than on the flight. Isn't that weird?"

So the following week we went out shopping for bikinis. No other kind of bathing suit would do, of course. I was trying on a simple black bikini when Jessie pulled aside the curtain and came into the little change room.

"What do you think?" she demanded.

"Wow!" I said.

She had on a little pink string bikini with a triangle cut top and a very low cut bottom in front. The turned around and it was a thong!

`"Are you really going to wear a thong on the beach?!" I exclaimed.

She grinned. "If I get enough beer! That's nice."

I was wearing a green bikini with a shelf type bra. The bottom was low but not nearly as low as hers, and there was more of it. It was also not a thong. It showed some cleavage, but nothing nasty. I mean, you could sure see I had breasts.

But it was pretty modest compared to what she had on, and I didn't like that. It's not that we were in competition - exactly, but a part of me felt we were.

"I'd love to wear a thong but I don't know if I have the guts," I confessed.

"Get one that has a thong bottom and one that doesn't," she said. "You know you look great in a thong."

"Yeah but I'm not flashing my underwear to anyone but you."

Still, I didn't want to be outdone by her, and Ashley would be worse, and possibly Hannah. If they were all going to wear thongs then I didn't want to be the only prude! I decided to stick with what I knew I looked good in and got a black bikini with a thong bottom much like the ones I liked to wear as underwear, with a very narrow triangular back and a string waist.

The thought of wearing it outside was frankly stressful, but more than slightly exciting, too. I mean, if other girls were doing it I could do it without being thought of as too slutty, and like I said, I loved it when guys looked at me and thought how hot and sexy I was, just so long as I didn't seem slutty.

Of course, the fact these would be guys I'd never seen before and never would again meant for a certain degree of freedom from worrying about what they thought of me or said about me...