Disgusta

I always knew something was wrong with me. My parents told me that much. Most mothers and fathers teach their daughters to love themselves. Not mine. I don’t blame them—not really. I’ve always been what you can consider odd. I’m always getting too close to people, mainly because they’ve always stayed away. I’ve heard every insult under the sun so many times that I hold these truths to be self-evident. Yes, I fucking said that. 

I always disliked myself, which left me feeling so goddamn empty. That all changed when I met Megan. It was the end of spring, the first really hot day of the year in Miami—not just your typical warm day. I was feeling uncharacteristically confident that day. I found a cute sky-blue one-piece swimsuit that complemented my body just right. I went to the beach alone. I never go to the beach—I’m too insecure—but I would’ve gone by myself anyway. If you ask anyone who knows me, they’d tell you about my scent—if they even knew you were talking about me. Some of the locals have a nickname for me. It’s stuck for a long time, just like my stench. It’s a rather fitting nickname, I guess.

As I walked down the shore, letting the cool waves kiss my ankles, I could almost hear the whispers. I could hear them snickering, joking about how I’m going right back where I belong. I took a deep, habitual breath, taking in my own scent that penetrates my new swimsuit and the salty ocean with ease. It’s not that I don’t shower—I’ve just never had a shave—but I’m not explaining the intricacies of my aromas right now. I’m explaining how my nickname went from being a cruel insult to a badge of honor, something that sealed my empty heart.

I stepped into the ocean, letting the waves take me in without hesitation. I’ve always been a natural-born swimmer. When I tried out for the swim team, I had the quickest time. If it wasn’t for the conversation I overheard afterward, about my... I let all my frustration out into the waves, in more ways than one. It was after I swam through my own warm spot, and climbed back to shore, that I met Megan. She was stunningly beautiful; perfect skin, curves in all the right places, a prominent set of breasts that could crush my fucking skull, and silky brunette locks. It all contrasted to my freckled skin, lithe and boyish figure, and hay-like blonde hair.

Megan’s green eyes went wide as I stepped out of the water. I figured she’d heard the rumors about me, and if it wasn’t for just how gosh darn beautiful she was, I probably would’ve moved on without hesitation. Instead, I stood there, looking into her starry eyes. It only took a couple of seconds before I realized she wasn’t returning the eye contact I was so suddenly learning to crave. Her lips curled defiantly as she tried to stifle a laugh. I followed her gaze down to my own chest, mortified as I realized my one-piece was trying its best to become a no-piece.

“Oh my fucking god,” Megan squealed. “Those are the most pathetic little titties I’ve ever seen.”

I covered my chest as quickly as I could, probably bruising myself from the sheer force of my own reaction. I felt my face grow hotter than it ever had before, and then I felt—a click. For the first time in my life, everything made sense. I was exactly where I was supposed to be—exactly who I was meant to be. I wasn’t just a victim of humiliation, I deserved to be humiliated, I was a conduit for humiliation.

“Come on, Megan. Let’s get away from this freak,” a man said.

When I finally got a grip of myself, Megan and her friends were already clumsily packing their beach gear and glancing back at me with nervousness in their eyes. A whistle blared, and my head snapped towards a lifeguard staring at me with contempt in her eyes. I scurried off quickly, not slowing my pace until I returned to my car, slamming the door behind me. I was breathing heavily, still trying to get a grip on the situation. I’m replaying it all in my head, that cruel gaze from that girl, Megan. I grip the steering wheel—hard. I can’t stop what’s coming. I let out a savage groan as an orgasm tears through me, my scent filling my car instantaneously.

“F-fuck…” I feel my pussy pulse, gushing my liquid arousal through my swimsuit. It isn’t stopping—not while I’m thinking about her. I can’t believe what’s happening. I make sure to satisfy myself no less—no fewer—than three times a day, and now Megan was doing this to me with such ease, and she didn’t even know it.

That’s how it started. It’s what I’m thinking about right now, almost three weeks later. I lean on the gym counter, watching her workout. She doesn’t recognize me—she’s too engrossed with her workout. I’ve been working here since summer began, saving up for a new gaming PC. It’s not a bad job. It’s easy enough. I just stand around at the counter and clean the equipment every thirty minutes. I’m caught in my trance, admiring Megan’s curvaceous body—so superior to my own—when a mechanical groan fills the gym.

“Not again,” I mutter, looking over the few gym-heads that haven’t seemed to notice the air conditioning turn off. “Guess I’m going home early today…”

The last three times the air conditioning malfunctioned, it was only twenty minutes before everyone started complaining and leaving. Marcus, my boss—I don’t know him well—seems like a bit of a cheapass. He inherited the business from his father, and if you ever see Marcus, you’ll instantly be able to tell he has zero passion for exercise. I shoot him a text about the air conditioning, and he texts me back to close up the gym after it empties.

“Uhh, I think your A/C is broken.”

I look up from my phone, right into Megan’s beautiful, cat-like green eyes. “O-oh… I’m working on it.” I can almost see myself growing red, glowing red. “I mean, not working on it, but—it’s broken. It probably won’t work today. Marcus is kind of a cheapass. That’s my boss. Marcus.”

Megan’s face contorts in repulsion as she sniffs the air subtly. “I can’t believe I pay for this shit.” She turns around and returns to the stationary bike, facing away from me.

I’m holding my breath, thinking about how she most certainly smelled me, and trying not to be a total creep about it, but I can already feel the heat and wetness growing between my thighs. It doesn’t get any better when Megan mounts the stationary bike, giving me the perfect view of her plump ass. I clench my fists and bite my lip in frustration. I’m not even a lesbian. I hate women. Well, I hate everyone–Especially snobby queens like Megan are my least favorite kind of person, but there’s something about her specifically that’s driving me mad. Maybe it’s her sheer perfection that tells me it’s okay to be such a pathetic piece of shit, because even if I wasn’t, I’d still never be her.

I flick a thickness of sweat from my brow. The air conditioning has been off for almost forty minutes now, and it’s a hot, hot day—hotter in this insulated box of machines and body heat. I’m cleaning the equipment, getting ready to close the gym as the guests dwindle out one-by-one. Megan is the last one to leave, and I lock the door behind her, ready to clean the rest of the machines and go home. I walk over to the stationary bike, towel in hand, and then I freeze… Unmistakably, where Megan had just completed The Tour de France, the bicycle seat is absolutely soaked with sweat.

“No, no, no…” I’m talking to myself. “Stop it. You’re not some pathetic, weirdo, loser. You’re not disgusting.”

Much like Meursault in Albert Camus’ 1942 novel, The Stranger, I felt disgust birthed by inspiration and realized “that all of it was meaningless and indifferent,” much like I felt myself. In 1912’s Death in Venice, Thomas Mann said “disgust is intertwined with desire and moral conflict,” and something about the tension between decorum and the primal instinct consuming me in that moment. Mary Douglas thought disgust was socially constructed, and Sigmund Freud said—Siggy said a lot of things, but right now I’m remembering that “disgust reflects the repression of instinctual drives.” The goofy ginger guy that sat next to me in psychology–Aaron, I think–said “the second Freud comes up in serious conversation, you’re already in too deep.” Am I in too deep? Does talking to yourself in an empty gym above a splotch of evaporating waste count as serious conversation?

“Stop it. You’re not some pathetic, weirdo, loser. You’re not disgusting.” But I am…

I kneel beside the stationary bicycle seat, making sure I have a view of the front of the gym. The door is locked, but I can’t do anything about the glass wall; an irremovable portal to a world I’m no longer about to be a part of. I hover my face above the drenched seat, taking in the scent. It’s raw, powerful, intimate–but I can’t be sure it’s her. Loads of people have been on this machine. I dab my finger in the sweaty mess, bringing it to my nostrils for a deeper whiff of the aroma, and then…

I cross the threshold, sticking out my tongue and putting my finger to it. The taste is electric despite the minuscule quantity. I let out a soft moan, keeping my eyes locked on the gym’s glass wall. I only need a minute, maybe two. I run my tongue across the seat with speed. Oh my god. The taste is almost indescribable. It’s disgusting, and that makes it all the more better. I deserve this. I should be cleaning this entire gym with my tongue, and Megan is helping me realize that.

I throw a hand into my shorts, pressing against my clit through my never-shaven pubes, letting a violent aroma escape. I’m already sopping wet, the acoustics of my arousal threatening to escape the gym. I lick the seat again, more insistently. I already feel a tinge of impending disappointment when I realize I only have two or three licks of Megan left. I picture the way her thick, swollen ass looked in her leggings as I feverishly lick the seat. I picture her perfect D-Cup breasts, and the way she laughed at my pathetic excuses for tits.

“I’m so fucking sick!” I scream as my legs tremble and my pussy leaks. I honestly think I’m pissing myself, but I’m too caught in the moment. I take one last lick, only one eye open as I fight the orgasm. As my tongue laps up the last satisfying stain of Megan’s workout, the one eye I have open drifts to the gym door. “Megan?”

I jump to my feet, pulling my sticky hand from my shorts, but I can tell by the look of horror on Megan’s face that it’s too late. As soon as I stand up, she goes from a deer in headlights, to a shell-shocked retreat. I’m about to go after her, as if I’d know what to say, when I kick something. A pink metal water bottle skids across the floor, clinking off a couple machines. It must’ve been the reason she came back. When I look back up at the door, Megan is gone. I don’t know if I should feel shame, or relief. The post-nut clarity hasn’t truly kicked in, my pussy aches for more despite my best efforts to focus.

I’m still thinking about what to do about Megan when my phone buzzes on the gym counter. I pace over, ignoring the lubrication between my thighs. It’s a text from Marcus. “What are you still doing there?” I cock an eyebrow at the screen. How does he know I’m still here?

My eyes go wide, and at the same time I feel another orgasm knocking at my door.

I look up, to the corner, to the other—cameras.

Cameras everywhere.

If he watches it—

If anyone sees what I just did—

They’ll know I’m–

Disgusta