Page 67 of Quarantined
“Raising teenagers and going to Columbia full time is no easy task.”
I couldn’t hide from the shame those words brought on. Milo is fucking me, while he is raising me. I can’t comprehend how Milo acts so normal about this. When we are in public, it's like we are nothing. And the moment everyone is out of earshot, it’s the same every night:
Come to my room.
Those are the only words he says to me anymore. I hate those words. They make me feel like his cheap whore. Other than those words and words in public, we never converse. Every time we are alone, Milo grabs me and starts kissing and fucking me till late at night.
He is always on a mission to make me come at least a couple of times a night. By the time the exhaustion from the orgasms takes hold, I am fast asleep. It’s the same every night.
Yesterday, after hours of sex, he finally said something different. Something that annoyed me even more than him not talking. Reid and I planned to go to a party at a friend’s house this weekend. We let Milo know about it days ago. He was fine with it.
Last night, he changed his mind aboutmegoing. Milo told me that he wanted me to stay in with him, and I should tell Reid I have too much homework, which I do not. Reid and I were planning to stay over at our friend’s place. Mia also has a sleepover. Mia is popular and gets invited to quite a few sleepovers. When Milo realized the house would be empty, he changed his mind about me going to the party.
He is boxing me in. And there is nothing I can do. I hate how I don’t hold any power in this situation. I am so frustrated.
As if Milo knew of my rampant thoughts, he cooked dinner for me tonight. He made my favorite --- lasagna, set up a romantic ambiance completed with background music, and ordered all of my favorite desserts.
Does he think doing that makes it all better? It doesn't.
We still have to stay indoors, away from prying eyes. And we still have to live with the shame of what we are doing.
I don’t know how to take any of this. He wants to fuck me all the time, every second of the day, every time we are alone. He fucks me till neither of us can breathe or move from exhaustion. Then he sprinkles romance on top of it. What am I supposed to make of that?
He tells me nothing of what’s going on with us. Milo is the experienced one out of us. He always makes all the decisions in my life. Yet, he has given me no indication of why he is pursuing a sexual relationship with me, of all people.
And he is leaving me no room to breathe. His confident approach about what we are doing consistently makes me doubt my own doubts.
As soon as dinner ended, I told him I had a Skype call scheduled with my dad. He didn’t argue. Thank God for that.
Right now, I need to talk to my parents. I thought Milo and I were friends with benefits, but I don’t know what to make of his romantic gestures. I need advice. I need some direction from an adult. Someone who knows better.
I don’t have to tell them what’s going on with Milo. I can keep it vague, tell them I am having boy problems. We don’t even have to talk about this. I just need to hear their voices.
It’s ten pm right now, which means it’s four am in Paris, and five am in South Africa. Shockingly, both my parents will be up at this ungodly hour. Mom is probably leaving some glamourous party. And dad is waking up to start his shift.
Needing to talk to someone coherent, I try dad’s Skype first. After three missed Skype calls, I try his phone instead, which is still forwarded to his virtual assistant.
“I am so sorry. Mr. Beckett cannot come to the line right now,” she informs me.
“Oh, okay. Can you tell him that I need to talk to him? It’s urgent.” I am falling apart. I hope she can hear the desperation in my voice.
She is quiet for so long, I am almost worried that she disconnected the phone. “Let me try to page him and see what he says. What is the best call back number?”
She would have my number by now, considering how many messages I left. And he should also have his only daughter’s phone number. Regardless, I leave my phone number and hang up.
I wait for a call. Nothing comes.
I try my mom next. I call her on her phone, as I get changed into my sleeping gear. No response.
Finally, I hear a ping go off on my phone. It’s from my mom.
Can’t talk right now, darling. Busy. I will call when I am free.
Busy means getting drunk with celebrities at a fashion show after-party. Not surprisingly, mom doesn’t even ask why I am calling so late and so many times.
I need my parents. Not in a few minutes, not when it’s convenient for them, not when they are ready to face me. I don’t care about their heartbreaks, their dreams, their insecurities. I want to be selfish. I need them to put me first.
Other parents would be mortified if their seventeen-year-old daughter was having sex with a twenty-year-old college student. Someone they live with. And as an added twist, the person also happens to be their guardian.
