Page 13 of Our Elliana

I do one more pushup just because my hands will shake if I don’t, then stand to my full height, even if a giant portion of me wishes the thick carpeting in here would swallow me whole. I picture my folks and little brothers to reinforce my resolve, and it works.

They’re the reason I’m doing this. Not that they’ll ever know. The truth is they’d be horrified to find out that I’ve agreed to sell my body, but sometimes life sticks your loved ones in a really scary corner.

I’m the only one who can get them out.

Trudging up the carpeted stairs like I’m about to face a firing squad, I find myself on a landing with no clue which direction to go. I didn’t take note of where the other two men came from, and as I glance down the corridor to my left, all I see is a number of closed doors.

I recognize a chair railing and wainscoting like my old house in Utah used to have. It’s a welcome sign of familiarity in an otherwise alien landscape. It seems like everything has altered for me over these past few months, but one hasn’t.

I’ve never done this before.

And by “this” I mean any of it. I’ve never been inside a stranger’s house that wasn’t either actively in flames or devoid of someone needing help. I’ve never visited someone’s home where a couple is um... making noise so loud that everyone else can hear them. I’ve never spoken with men who treated making that noise with such casual disregard.

Last but not least, I’ve never actually engaged in any noisemaking myself.

Not even with my fiancée Ruthie.

Being born and raised in a deeply religious community largely separated from the rest of society means being taught that a man laying with a woman is meant to be shared within the limits of holy matrimony, period.

Ruthie and I held hands and shared a few pecks on the cheek. And once, on the day of our engagement, I kissed her on the lips when she said yes to marrying me, but that’s the extent of my experience. Every teenager and young adult knew there was to be no funny business outside of wedlock, and certainly none of that with anyone besides our betrothed.

The concept of engaging in something like this with a woman I’m not wedded to after she’s just been with two other men has never entered my mind. Such a circumstance didn’t exist within the confines of my imagination. Not even in my dirtiest daydreams. Daydreams that since they would be deemed sinful I did my best not to have.

Yet here I am about to embark on this unholy activity of my own free will.

To say that I feel unprepared for this is the most massive of understatements.

When I pivot to my right, I detect a single doorway that’s been wedged open. There’s a faint pink light emanating from inside that’s reflecting out into the hallway along with a fragrance that must be perfume.

What are the chances this isn’t her room?

Not high.

Gulping convulsively, I draw closer to the threshold, knowing that once I cross it there’s no turning back.

As tempting as it is to twist around and relieve my nerves by sprinting up and down those stairs a dozen more times, I amble nearer and nearer, then step inside the room. What I discover there makes me swallow my tongue.

The woman from downstairs is perched at the foot of her bed with one knee over her other. She’s wearing the same orange heels I saw her in earlier and nothing else.

Nothing else.

My manhood springs up in my pants at the exact moment that my conscience shrieks at me to turn away to preserve her privacy. But this is a lady who spread her legs to show me and the others the most sacred part of herself already. Privacy isn’t what she wants, so I can’t turn away.

I have to do this. So, I take a shaky inhale, my neck feeling so heated it probably looks inflamed.

“Um, hi,” I choke out. “What can I do for you?”

The expression on her face is difficult to describe. If forced to choose a term, I’d have to say that it’s incredulous. Even leery. Yet, she goes from lounging casually to sitting up straighter, providing me with a bird’s eye view of her exposed chest.

And oh my gosh, what have I gotten myself into?

“Well, for starters, you can take off all those clothes.”

This morning I donned a short-sleeved shirt, khakis, socks, loafers, an undershirt, and of course, my boxers. Even though we’ve been out of the church for quite a while now, the old dress and grooming standards of “Modesty is your shield. Use it,” still rings in my consciousness.

Taking any or especially all of this off in front of a member of the opposite gender sets my nerves on high alert, but this is what I’ve promised to do. I attempt not to think about what actions I’m taking as I hastily unbutton my shirt.

My hands fumble, though, and it takes longer than usual. Most likely because they’re shaking. Anxious to conceal this, I yank the half-undone shirt over my head, a move that drags my undershirt off with it.

---