Sins of Innocence by Jean Stone

the bathroom. It was done in neo-something-or-other: bold reds, yellows, and oranges. Ginny closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall-length vanity, aware that a trickle of perspiration had formed on her brow. She touched her crotch through the spandex of her dress and felt her swollen bulb. A smile came to her lips. She moved her hands across her hips, then up to her breasts. She threw her head back and laughed.
    The door opened quietly. The bartender stepped inside. He closed the door and reached for the bolt.
    “Don’t lock it,” Ginny said breathlessly. “And don’t talk.”
    He smiled and took his hand from the bolt. He hoisted his pants at the waist. Ginny looked at his fly. Yes, there was a bulge. He walked toward her. She tossed back her hair, puffed her lower lip again, then slowly raised her skirt. He stood in front of her and lifted her to the vanity. In response, Ginny parted her legs.
    He started to undo his zipper. Ginny put a hand over his and pulled it toward her. She lowered it to her panties, and pushed the silk to one side. He knew what to do.
    His fingers were large and firm and quickly moist. He moved them vigorously. Ginny stared into his eyes, watching him watch her. He pinched her. Gently. She muffled a cry. He pulled his finger out and drew it to her mouth. She sucked the wetness. He smiled. He bent his head and put his tongue where his fingers had been. He licked. He prodded. He lapped. Ginny’s hips thrust forward. Backward. Forward. Her breath became short, quick. His teeth camedown on her. Softly. Then hard. Suddenly she felt a surge through her body. Her insides burst.
    “Jesus Christ!” the bartender screamed.
    Ginny looked down. She had pissed all over his face.
    She put a hand to her mouth and started to laugh. His face contorted, yellow liquid streaming down his chin.
    “Fucking cunt!” he yelled and pushed her aside.
    Ginny slid off the vanity. She could not stop laughing. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    He pushed on the red porcelain faucets and scooped water to his face.
    “Fucking bitch,” he mumbled. He grabbed an orange towel and mopped his chin, then threw the towel onto the vanity and stormed out the door. “Asshole,” was his parting word.
    Still laughing, Ginny looked at herself in the mirror. Well, she thought, that was a first. Too bad too. He would’ve been good.
    A hollowness pitted her gut. Ginny squeezed her eyes shut, sighed, and pushed the feeling away.
Fuck it
, she said to herself.
Just forget it
. She opened her eyes, applied lipstick and checked her makeup. Then she raised her chin, slung the chain of the rhinestone frog over her shoulder, and returned to the party.
    She walked through the living room, carefully avoiding the area of the makeshift bar. Jake was still in the corner, talking with Jorgenson and the film editor. Looking around the room, Ginny checked out the plastic smiles on thousand-dollar-makeup faces, the noxious leers of soft old men, the overeager bodies of the young. This is where the deals are made, Ginny thought, at these boring have-to-go-to parties that have nothing to do with what anyone was, but everything to do with whom one knew. A high-pitched laugh came from a Julia Roberts look-alike in the corner, followed by a deep snort from the lecher beside her. Ginny saw the man touch the girl’s chin, then draw a straight line with his finger down to the crack between her tits. His gesturewas followed by more high-pitched laughter. She stared at the scene and came to a familiar conclusion: Life sucks.
    She breezed by the hor d’oeuvres table, piled a plate with cracked crab and avocado wedges, and headed for the sliding glass doors, thinking that for as long as she had lived in L.A., she still couldn’t believe nobody out here ate real food.
    She stepped out onto the deck and nearly bumped into two young lovers with their tongues down each other’s throats. They were both guys—hunks too. It figures, she thought. She