My Name Is Sina
My closest friends describe me as a stubborn little bastard who gets obsessed with things and people with this sudden, intense passion, then drops them just as fast when I get bored. That’s probably fair.
There aren’t many things that scare me, but the ones that do are serious. Worst one: the thought that I’ll end up richer than my father. Because in my head, money’s the culprit. That’s why he’s constantly flying around from one city to the next with an army of blonde, anorexic secretaries who aren’t much older than I am, while my actual family gets left behind. My mother doesn’t know he’s fucking at least half of those empty Barbie dolls, and maybe she doesn’t want to know. Either way, I’m terrified that money does that to you—turns you into him.
The other big fear is kids. I don’t know how to be around them, don’t know what you’re supposed to do with them, and I definitely can’t handle the way these eight-year-old little shits either call me a slut or grab my ass at the bus stop. And if you smack them, they start crying and yell for their dad, who then looks at you with this mixture of disgust and creepy fucking arousal while he tears you apart. Great morning.
But mostly—and I mean mostly—I’m terrified of my bikini coming off when I jump in a pool or a lake. That happened to my best friend Paula last summer. Now the whole school knows she’s got the biggest tits and the ugliest nipples on the planet. The precocious little bitches won’t shut up about it. Neither will Johnny, that self-proclaimed idiot and guaranteed future BILD reader of the year.
Though at that exact moment, Johnny was busy doing something else. Riding me, grunting, nearly falling off the bed when he tried to finger me while he was at it. He gave up pretty quick. Better for both of us anyway—all he could do was slap his weight against my stomach like he thought it would accomplish something. At least I didn’t have to look him in the eye, which meant I had a moment to look out the open window at the park and think about things that actually mattered. Like whether Paula remembered that history presentation Dächler gave her. How many other women were on their hands and knees in front of some guy at that exact moment, counting clouds instead of paying attention. Whether I should use my Douglas voucher tonight for that new Calvin Klein perfume—the one that smells like vanilla and raspberry and works perfectly with my natural scent. I needed it.
Turn around, you sow,
Johnny says from somewhere, and before I can even think I’m on my back and his little dick is heading straight for my face in his disgusting bathroom.
After I washed my face with warm water and grabbed a towel, I looked up and caught myself in the mirror. My deep green eyes staring back like they were judging me. I studied myself slowly while Rammstein played in the living room and weed smoke drifted in. And then it just became clear: I wasn’t just a redheaded girl whose pretty face was a cum receptacle. I had something—character, creativity, something real. And yeah, I had great tits. With that locked in me, I walked into the living room, grabbed my clothes, and ran past Johnny yelling Fuck off, asshole!
and stumbled out into the courtyard.
The elderly deaf couple sitting on the green bench across the way seemed to enjoy watching me get dressed outside. I took my time with it, pulled a cigarette from my pocket, and headed for the bus station. And if there’s even one little shit there, I swear to god.