Untouched Moon

I didn't feel like going out that night, but I knew that if I were to sell my body to pay for the surgery, the first thing I needed was to get rid of a small, quite inconvenient detail that wouldn't allow me to surrender to that man who offered to be my Sugar Daddy. I had to put an end to my virginity once and for all.

I needed to stop being the young amazon who, for these 26 years of life, sublimated the sexual energy that used to overflow with my hip movements, and I used to focus it on mental creation and physical exercise, an exercise that didn't involve intimacy with other men.

The truth is, I have the word "warrior" tattooed under my right breast, and although I have never been naked in front of any man, my skin is white, smooth, and I take care of it and keep it hydrated. When I got the tattoo, the tattoo artist said he loved my skin, that it was one of the most beautiful he had ever seen. I decided that "warrior" would be the right word because I would become the woman I had always wanted to be, a sensual woman who would display the tattoo under her breasts in a devastating, enchanting way. I wanted to be a sexy bombshell, and I would achieve it. But to do so, I needed to feel completely comfortable with my body, so I definitely wanted to get breast augmentation.

Probably my celibate energy was what made me stand out in any intellectual activity or where I had to unleash my artistic creativity. That's why archaeology, and especially the restoration of ancient artifacts and art, seem so fascinating to me. Since I was a little girl, I have always had a great tendency towards efficiency, usefulness, and perfectionism, so even artistic creations usually pursue useful purposes. In my case, they are my work and part of my life.

My intuition and creativity were nourished by my sexual energy, contained within my body, and translated into an intrinsic instinct for procreation. For me, life is completely focused on endowing myself with an artistic and intellectual sense. Any mental, technical, intellectual, philosophical, and artistic work I undertake is marked by a strong inclination for perfectionism. Being perfect even in the way I dedicate myself to being a sensual and attractive image for the opposite sex was my goal. That's why I needed to accept my future Sugar Daddy's offer. Honestly, I find him repulsive, and I've never even thought for a moment that I could give my virginity to a man twice my age, overweight, and who looks at me as if I were a piece of meat or a huge, fresh clitoris. But my Sugar Daddy had a lot of money, and he was crazy about me, so he was all I needed.

I made it clear to him that I would only have sex with him and accept being his girlfriend if he paid for my breast surgery, which he had been asking me for weeks, and he agreed. However, that night, I wanted a quickie, and I still had the situation of my virginity in my hands to solve it. In general, I could say that nature has been very kind to me. My hips are thick and seductive, my waist is that of a wasp, I am tall, and my legs are slender. I train at the gym four times a week, and I also take yoga classes after working at the museum where I restore ancient artifacts, so I consider myself quite sexy, and men always let me know. But to lose my virginity, I didn't know any man in my life who really made me feel filled with ardor and desire, or made my heart beat on the edge of passion. There was Eleazar, so my story begins on the night I decided to fuck with Eleazar to lose my virginity and, in this way, sell my body to the Sugar Daddy for a breast augmentation surgery. The Sugar Daddy, more than arousing morbid thoughts, inspired me a bit of repulsion, however, I was willing to accept it.

That night, I came back from the gym and took a hot shower, rinsing my long hair with purple shampoo and an avocado and vanilla cream that left my hair as soft as silk and kept it shiny like the sun, long and strong. I combed my hair and applied cream to my legs, preparing to read the volume of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte that I have on the bed. My phone vibrates. It's the Sugar Daddy calling me.

• Hi, love - I say with the sweetest and most fake tone of voice I can muster.

• Barbie, where are you? I need to see you.

• Tonight?

• Yes, come to my apartment. Ring the intercom when you're downstairs, apartment 4-3, tower A.

• Are you alone?

• I'm with my daughter.

• There's no way I can visit you with your daughter at home. Another night.

• Then come down to the parking lot. See you in five minutes, and we'll go to a hotel.

• I don't feel like going to a hotel tonight, I prefer to see you at your place - I tell him.

• Then let's go for a ride in the car and grab something to eat.

• Alright.

I hang up the call and sigh. I know I'm sure of what I'm doing, but I can't help feeling sad. I wish I wasn't a virgin at least. I put on a short navy blue dress and blow-dry my hair until the curls reach my waist, forming large waves that end in a kind of shiny, golden tubes at the end of my mane. I line my eyes with a feline makeup and paint my lips pastel pink. My naturally long lashes look abundant like a forest full of trees after curling them.

I leave my apartment and cross the parking lot towards the white Lamborghini, the latest model, parked in front of tower A. The Sugar Daddy is already there, I walk towards him, and he greets me with a kiss on the cheek. He looks at me with bright eyes and refrains from kissing me or touching my face because we're in public and the neighbors always look out from their luxury apartments.

• How are you, my love? - he asks me in a whisper and lightly caresses my chin.

• Wonderful, glad to see you - I reply with a smile.

• Let's go. I'm dying to be alone with you - he says.

He walks towards the car and opens the passenger door for me. A minute later, he gets into the car. I'm not religious, and I don't usually say any special prayer to protect myself, but sometimes, when I'm about to attend a meeting that I'm not very enthusiastic about or when I have to do a very important job, I make the sign of the cross my mom taught me. I remember it vividly, from the first time she taught me to make the sign of the cross. I was nine years old, and that day we were on vacation at the beach. Before going out, my mom stopped right at the entrance to the beach and showed me how to make the sign of the cross. She took my hair, which by then was a darker blonde, behind my shoulders, and she taught me to make the sign of the cross, whispering softly, "May God protect me with his power, the Son with his wisdom, and the Holy Spirit with his light and love."