Free 9781618859617TheSecretLifeofanInvisibleGirlDeVere by Amie DeVere Page A

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cock pounding into me.
    Nothing about me stands out. I wear Victoria’s Secret size
XS. It’s not the size the models wear in the catalog. I have shoulder length
wavy blonde hair. I don’t know the color of my eyes. They’re like a mood ring, some
days blue, green, hazel, or brown. I usually say they’re gray, and as Emily
Webb’s mother said to her in Our Town, I’m ‘pretty enough for all normal purposes.’
    I’m twenty-four, but people think I’m younger, under
drinking age young, even when I tell the bouncer at the door of the club that it’s
a federal offense to counterfeit a passport. I sound young too. Not in a Minnie
Mouse kind of way, but young enough to have the guy at the other end of the phone
say, “How old are you, babe?” in a voice tinged with fear. The way he said it,
made me wet. The babe was what got me,
protective and liquid and sweet. He didn’t believe I was twenty-four and hung
up.
    I couldn’t blame him. I work as a paralegal at a criminal
defense firm and know you can’t be too careful. We’ve defended some dumb fucks.
Strangest thing I ever read was an IM transcript of a male police sergeant
pretending to be a fifteen-year-old girl and a forty-year-old client pretending
to be a seventeen-year-old girl trying to convince the fifteen-year-old to have
sex with her friend who was, in fact, him. Those cops are good. The client was
too. They could have written a movie script together.
    I do research and writing for the firm. The boss introduces
me to clients as ‘the brains of the operation,’ which they think is a joke, but
it’s not. Smart enough to get the boss’s kid into Harvard and smart enough to
get some of our clients off, although not in the way they originally intended.
    I take the commuter rail to work each day. The conductor who
collects tickets on the inbound train has the most beautiful hands I have ever
seen, with long elegant fingers. I always buy my ticket on the train. I love
watching his hands while he punches the ticket, takes my money, and gives me
change. I imagine his fingers in my cunt, fantasize about his cock, and smile
when he hands me the receipt.
    Outside work I smile a lot. I smile at people on the train.
I say ‘Hi’ to anyone who sits next to me. I don’t hog the train seat to myself
and avoid eye contact like people do to me. I don’t sit and flap my newspaper
or magazine in front of the person’s face. People respond to courtesy. I smile
at my fellow customers in Dunkin Donuts and at the counter people, and I don’t
complain when they get my order wrong unless it’s giving me regular coffee instead
of decaf. Why? Because their job sucks and unless my health is on the line, I’m
not going to make it suck more. I smile and say “Thank you.”
    In the end, I’m invisible. At the office, I put my hair up
and cover my lingerie with efficiency. On the train, no one knows I exist. Most
of the time on the ride home, the conductor will not even ask for a ticket and
walk by me as if I weren’t there. Courtesy and a smile for strangers are no
more than momentary. By the time they fall asleep at night they don’t remember
me.
    It had been three months since my boyfriend left me for a
job across the country. In these times a girl can’t compete with gainful
employment. He said he didn’t expect me to wait, meaning there were girls in
California, and he had heard they were plenty cute. Fine, but there is only so much
a girl can do on her own. It started with masturbation, then cyber-sex and then
phone sex. All great, gosh, sometimes amazing, but I needed something more than
just release. The online sex had some awfully sweet guys typing awfully sweet
things, getting dirty, and going down on me with more enthusiasm than I’d ever
experienced in real life, and the phone sex did have the voice. God, I love a
man’s voice, but in the end, technology and imagination cannot compare with the
weight of a sweaty guy on me with his cock in my cunt.