My Name is Liberty
TW/CW: This could be triggering for some. Mention of childhood neglect and brief violence. This is a piece of fiction.
My name is Liberty. I was born three weeks after my parents had arrived in the land of the free. Coming from a war-torn country with little access to education, work or health-care, my parents had taken the journey around the globe to start a new life. When they had finally arrived, they were living in the cellar of a Mexican family who helped illegals like them to a safer place. That is where I was born. My mother named me Liberty because she thought that is what we were all going to get in this new country. A life free of oppression and fear. A life filled with opportunities.
I feel his hands on my hips, pulling me closer to him. We are dancing like lovers would. My head is resting on his chest, his chin on my head. He smells like beer, but I don’t mind. The music stopped minutes ago but we are still moving our feet to the silenced notes. I know where this is going to lead and I am looking over to the hotelbed’s soft sheets. The two guys earlier fell asleep before anything could get started. I hope he has more to offer. I need this tonight. “Come, follow me, little girl. Call me Daddy, will you?” the 40-something man says. I nod.
I wish he hadn’t said that. I can’t stand when someone calls me their little girl. I sigh and take a huge blow from the joint in my left hand. I take a step back, look at him and smile. “Sure, Daddy, whatever you want to do. We still have 45 minutes. I am all yours.” He grabs my hand and leads me to the bed. I put down the joint in the ashtray on the bedside table. “That’s the good thing about hotels like this. They still have ashtrays”, I giggle. He laughs.
Life never turns out the way you want it to be. The land of the free wasn’t that free after all. After years in hiding and taking charity from others, my father finally found a job. By that time he was a raging alcoholic and I barely saw my mother because she was almost always staying with her most recent affair.
He didn’t hurt me. She didn’t hurt me. They just didn’t care. I was often on the streets, begging for money and stealing food. Once, just once, I asked him if he loved me. I was 12 and I had just won the spelling bee. I wanted him to be proud of me, I wanted him to love me. “I don’t hate you, you are tolerable” He shrugged and took another sip from the vodka bottle. My mother wasn’t living with us anymore. I didn’t know where she was, and I didn’t need to know.
I move over to him and we are both lying on the bed now. He touches my face and I close my eyes. I love touch. I love the first moment, that initial breathless second when you know that things are about to get hot. His lips meet mine and I jolt back. “No kissing, please. I told you that before we went in here. Remember?” – “Oh shit, yes, I am sorry. I got carried away. We still good, girl?” – “Yes, Daddy.” I smile at him. Stupid fucker.
I’m not really feeling it. The way he addresses me, the way he treats me. I am not his girlfriend or someone who needs his care. I touch his face and gently move my hand down his neck and then onto his chest. I look him in the eyes and open the first button of his shirt. I can see that he is holding his breath. The first touch. I really hope he is better with his cock than he is with creating the right atmosphere.
The spelling bee contest wasn’t the last of my achievements. I didn’t want to be at home so I spent most of my time at school and in libraries, studying. I loved to read, especially about the history of my parents’ homeland. I secretly learnt the language that they had refused to teach me. The language of oppression, they called it.
And then it happened, the only time he ever laid his hands on me. He had seen the books in my room and had been yelling at me for hours. How ungrateful I was. How I was stupid. How no one can love someone this disrespectful. I told him to stop. I told him that he couldn’t deny me to learn about my heritage. I didn’t belong here. And then he slapped me. Right across my face. I stopped breathing for a second. But when I watched him grab the gun from the drawer, I ran out of the door. And I ran. And ran. And never returned.
“What’s your name, girl?” – “Liberty.” – “Oh, that is a beautiful name. And look at you, being all free and liberated from society’s expectations of what a good girl is supposed to be like, eh? You like to be a naughty free girl, don’t you, Liberty?” – “Yes, Daddy.” His lips embrace my hard nipple and I sigh. If only he would stop talking. He is pretty good at everything else. I look down on him and admire his body. Not bad. I like when they have a bit more meat on the bones.
My hands grab onto his hair and I push myself closer to him. He looks up to me. “You look so exotic. I am sure you know how to be wild!” Oh, for fuck’s sake. “I do, Daddy, I do.” I smile at him. Two fingers reach my clit and he starts rubbing. He really seems to know what he is doing. And he doesn’t want me to take care of him. Good. I hate giving blowjobs to drunk guys. I moan. Gosh, yes, he knows what he is doing. He gently pushes me on my back and spreads my legs. The headliner is about to begin. “Now let Daddy show you a good time. Are you ready, girl?” I nod and hand him a condom.
I started college and graduated with honors. I didn’t need him. I needed to be free and be who I wanted to be. I worked at a major university, as an assistant professor. I taught classes on my parents’ homeland’s history and language. No one could take that away from me. My achievements were mine. Until one day, he did just that. He came to one of my classes, drunk. He entered the room and started yelling. He told the world what an ungrateful daughter I was. How I was a hypocrite because my parents had fled the place I now pretended to know everything about. “How can I love someone like this?” He smacked his lips and left the room. I spent four years in a psychiatric hospital after that. He had taken everything away from me.
The first push is always the most uncomfortable. And then pleasure arrives. I know that I won’t come. This is not about me. But I love the feeling of having someone inside me. And he stays there for a while before he starts thrusting in and out of me. I breathe faster, not because I have to, but because I find this exciting. I watch his face as he gets closer and closer to an orgasm. I smile. He looks adorable this way. So focused and aroused. I start rubbing my clit. Maybe I can come after all. There is nothing wrong with mixing business and pleasure sometimes. “Can I please come on you?” he moans. “Yes, Daddy. Yes, come on me.”
Walking the streets is not what I call what I am doing. I don’t get picked, I pick. I see them in bars and clubs and I ask. And they always say yes. Because I am exotic, and seem put together. I know how to use words, and I don’t charge a lot. I don’t need this work. I am a writer now and I make money. But I don’t want to do it for free. I want to have more appreciation than the fact that I can give them relief.
I am covered in his juices. I am on my back, smoking the rest of my joint, his right arm is wrapped around me. He kisses my shoulder. “You are really good at this, Liberty. Good girl.” Reality becomes a blur. “Does that mean you love me, Daddy?” He laughs and gets up. “Love is something different than this, girl.” He puts his clothes on, throws the 100 bucks on the bed and leaves the room without saying another word. I close my eyes and smile. Of course not. Daddies never love their girls.
My name is Liberty. And I will never be free.
Read more of my fiction here.