Free Trapper and Emmeline by Lindsey Flinch Bedder

was glowing from the heat she generated, her brow damp and hair a little moist. She had a permanent blush that spread appealingly down her neck to her chest, where it disappeared under the light fabric of her smock and seemed to make it glow. Al the blood in her body was coursing just under her skin, waking her nerves to every touch and caress. Her lips were swol en, soft, and hot—I knew because I couldn’t stop kissing her.
    “I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered.
    She reapplied her lipstick with shaking hands.
    “I didn’t know you had so many male friends,” I commented.
    “I thought I was supposed to feel dirty, or slutty,” she said. “But this is so natural. Everybody is so nice. Why haven’t I been kissing people my whole life?”
    “You don’t have to feel dirty unless you want to. And also, Emmy, sometimes the men might be not so nice to you. I just don’t want you to be surprised. Sometimes when you put yourself out there, the feedback from the world won’t be pleasant.”
    She gave me a pitying look. “Trapper, I know that. Don’t worry about me. I have no il usions.”

    Emmeline’s Lesson

    What I said next was a big mistake. But it led me to one of the biggest discoveries of my life.
    “I just feel guilty about corrupting you, sometimes.”
    She laughed out loud, and drew a lot of looks in our direction. “ You? Corrupt me? ”
    “What's so funny?”
    “Trapper, I'm a girl! Men have been hitting on me since I got breasts! And I got them when I was very young! I grew up in Queens and Manhattan. I've received every disgusting solicitation you can imagine. I've strung along every kind of old pervert to get favors. I’ve flirted with whole groups of guys just to stay safe until the train reached the station.”
    I stared at her, groping for words. I knew this was general y true for women, but it happened to Emmeline too? But she was special! What kind of baggage was she carrying? I grabbed her hand, my mind fil ing with apologies for the male race.
    She put a finger on my lips. “But you want to protect me from the world, at least when you’re not slutting me out to strangers? Have you just realized that the world corrupts? You want to apologize to me for that. Tel me I'm wrong.”
    “You’re not wrong,” I said.
    And she wasn't. I couldn’t say when, but at some point during puberty, after I started noticing girls, I started noticing other men noticing girls. It was humiliating to suddenly witness how crass and transparent we are. At that instant, some kind of psychological flywheel switched over in my mind, and I began to feel sorry for the women. They had it tough! Always hit on. Never a moment when someone doesn’t want to look down their shirts. Al that male guilt and empathy was exhausting to young me, especial y when my hormones were driving me to proposition and hard sel every girl I met.
    In high school, a waitressing friend showed me a note she received from one of her regulars, an 80-year-old man who always tried to touch her ass. He wrote: Can we date? I love your titties poking out. I think you will suck my dick just right.
    I can pay. With the money, you can go to the movies or buy a purse.
    Maybe I was projecting, but if I were a young woman, what percentage of me would want to read notes like that? Zero percent, that's how much.
    She saw these thoughts reflected on my face.
    “Trapper, I can’t believe you think I’m innocent. We’ve been dating for three weeks. I string along your roommates. I have a nipple picture on Facebook. I am now kissing every man I see. What else do I have to do?”
    “Okay, okay. I’m just trying to wrap my head around this.” It was a revelation, if you want to know. “I guess I meant to say, I feel a little shitty because, before we started dating, you were sweet and friendly. You stil are. But our rules are going to make you cheap.”
    “I know I’m cheap,” she said. She liked me to say that, in a sexy way, and