For Oriana...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
"For Oriana..." is about a teenage boy who discovers himself through a troubled prostitute he met one night while cruising the streets of DC.

Submitted: February 04, 2007

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Submitted: February 04, 2007

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FOR ORIANA...

"I’m pregnant and I want to keep it," she says quietly. I sit up in my seat and

turn down the radio, fading out the jazzy hip-hop music that—only moments ago—was

causing the car windows to vibrate a little. I don’t know what to think. I mean maybe if

she was my girlfriend or even a girl that went to my school, then the situation would be

a little less awkward. But she’s none of these things. She’s what society would call a

hooker. Uh-huh, a hooker.

I know what you’re thinking about me: that I’m a pervert/loser. And you’d probably be

right on a certain level. But Oriana(That’s her name—Oriana Rife)is much more than a piece of

booty. I first met her the day this girl at my school—Melissa Favor, turned me down when I had

asked her out. It wasn’t because she turned me down(I’m used to rejection)it was just that I

really liked this girl. She was...is such a dime piece. But of course she liked someone else—

some dumb-ass athlete named Ryan Fallow. Oh, you just don’t know. I had gone home extra

mad that day when Melissa told me this news. And I stayed mad for awhile, yo. So to cool

down I decided to tell my parents that I was going out with my friends(which was, now that I

think about it, kind of stupid of them to believe since I have no friends)when really I was simply

planning to drive around for a long, long time. Well, that drive ended up taking me from

Virginia(where I live)to the more gritty part of D.C. where the killers, gangbangers,

and prostitutes roam pleasantly around the streets.

And this is where I met Oriana. She was dressed in a mini skirt and a light

blue tank top, and was wearing a pair of some ridiculously high, high heels. She was

pacing back and forth on the block, glancing down at the ground. And me being the

naive teenager I was(and guess still am in a way)had thought she was lost. So I

pulled over to the curbside where she was pacing, rolled the window down on the

passenger’s side and asked if she needed help.

She ignored me completely and right away wanted to know if I was "looking

for a good time." I was confused at first, but I got the message quickly when she pulled

out one of her tits and told me it would be ten bucks to cop a feel. Well, I don’t

need to tell you what I did, but I will anyway: I told her no and drove off. But after

like five minutes of in-depth teenage thinking I found myself right back at the spot,

inviting her inside my ‘01 black Corolla. At first I didn’t know what to do or say. But

she’d broken everything down for me; all of her prices, rules and regulations about what

she did(which was pretty much everything)and didn’t do(which was pretty much nothing,

except swallow). I ended up paying her fifty bucks for some head—some very, very

good head, which had left a big smile on my face when it was all over. After I left that

night I became a little ashamed at what I had done and so I told myself that I wasn’t going

to do it again.

A week later, however, I found myself back at the spot, looking for Oriana.

She was there of course, wearing the same kind of outfit that gave mad props to her

"slim in the waist, thick in the thighs" bronze body. And when I showed her the money

she did her thing. But this time it was a little different; we talked more. I told her about

my boring suburban life in West Springfield and how I wanted to be a professional

translator(even though the only language I speak pretty well is English). I even told

her about how much I hated the twelfth grade—how everyone at my school was so self-

absorbed and how all the boys wanted to be thugs and the girls just wanted to be straight

up bitches. "It’s really pathetic," I told her. But yo anyway, she ended up telling me about

how "hoeing" wasn’t as bad as everyone made it out to be—how it paid the bills and

yackety, yack, yack.

But after a few more immoral rendezvouses our conversations started getting

more serious, and by the time a month had gone by we had gotten to know each other

on a pretty personal level. For example, I told her about this circular scar on my

face(which completely wrecks my otherwise spotless brown skin)that I had gotten

when I was like ten or something. I had fallen off my bike and slammed face first into

the cement. I told her how funny it was(well, not at the time)that all the other

abrasions on my face had healed quickly— not even leaving a trace of their existence.

But this circular scar, which is actually the imprint of a beer bottle cap, stayed forever.

Her personal stories were far worst than mine. She told me how her mother

was a partially retarded drug addict and would just about neglect her every chance she

got so she could get herself one fix after another. But her father was the bigger problem,

because not only was he a drug addict, but he ended up raping Oriana when she was only

ten, then he left her and her mother the day Oriana turned twelve. Yea, Oriana told me

some real-life drama—normal stuff according to her.

But speaking with her comforted me, and I think she felt the same way about my

presence. So really it shouldn’t be all that much of a surprise when I tell you that she was

the woman I had lost my virginity to—free of charge. And even if I tried—no, no, no.

Even if I were to get a bad case of amnesia from whatever, I’d still remember that

night—The night my thin little brown body jerked with the immaturity of a five year old

as I huffed and puffed my way in and out of her, and how my cheeks ballooned and my

street-black eyes widened as I nutted ever so quickly up inside her....shall I say oasis?

And I guess that was the night I mistakenly got her pregnant.

"Well, ain’tchu gonna say something?" Oriana asks me, while giving me

one of her nervous smiles; the one that shows a tiny gap from where her canine tooth

used to be. She looks so happy yo, sitting here next to me, anticipating my answer. And

even though the question is at the tippy, tip of my tongue, I don’t want to ask her why

she wants to have this baby. (Why ruin this moment for Oriana?) Besides, I already

know the reason why she wants this child: "I like you a lot," she tells me as she leans

over the center console. "I mean I got pregnant before by other guys, but I ain’t never

thought about keeping it." She pauses for a sec, then after taking a deep breath she

continues; "But I want to have your baby, Quinby. I really do. And to prove it I’ll quit

hoeing around . I mean it. I will." Then her voice fades out—fades away like a voice

caught in a gust of wind.

For her sake I want to tell her that I’m happy that she’s having a baby. That

we’re having a baby. But I’m not going to tell her this, I can’t. I mean she’s a

hooker. And while I don’t perceive this as a problem(apart for her screwing other guys

for money), I know people will—my parents will. What will they think of their

eighteen-year-old son who got a hooker pregnant? Besides, it was never my intention to

get her pregnant. When we had sex both of us made sure we used protection—that

was our main concern, in fact. So I don’t even know how this happened. But...it has.

"Quinby, can you please say something...Anything?"

I start to move my mouth, but words just won’t come out of it. So I end up

saying nothing. My only response is the grin that appears on my face. And I can’t

believe it, but this grin—this dumb-ass grin of mine is enough for her. I guess in her

own little head she has constructed my grin into a sentence, which undoubtedly

reads something like: "Of course you can keep our baby." And as I glance into her

violet eyes(they’re brown without her contacts), absorbing the entire image of her

face—the tiny little dents in her cheeks from where her teenage acne once ruled

her now twenty-nine-year old complexion, and the beautiful puffiness of her glossy

lips—I’ve decided that I will let her misconstrue my grin. For now anyway. I mean

this girl has become to me, a best friend that I’ve never had, but always wanted. And

she’s proven that not all girls are bitches. But most of all she’s become that peculiar

fantasy girl whom I always dreamt about, but never thought I’d find. So letting her

have this moment of uncertain happiness is the very least I can do for Oriana...


© Copyright 2018 Duane Lee. All rights reserved.

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