A Nymph's Liturgy

Sex.

I was hooked on it,  it was something I couldn't be without for too long. 

It was something my body needed and longed for. 

It frustrated me because I felt powerless to resist. 

Whenever I tried to deny myself this enjoyment, my body only found ways to make me suffer. 

As a kid, my dad always told me to steer clear of things that weren't mine or that I couldn't have. 

But I never listened, if I wanted something, I always made sure to get it. 

As I grew up, people saw me as a spoiled brat because of this, and they were completely mistaken. 

To the world, I was his daughter, also seen as a young temptress who acted without thinking. 

Careless. 

An adjective used for someone or their actions without considering the outcome.

I heard that word a lot when I turned sixteen; it felt like I didn't care about anything at all. 

Today is my nineteenth birthday, and Grandma, being the devoted Christian she is, prayed with me for over twenty minutes, hoping for a long, pure life. 

"Do you really need to show so much skin?" Grandma looked at me disapprovingly as I walked down the long white stairs. 

The room buzzed with chatter, and there was a banner proclaiming 'Happy Birthday Serena. ' 

Men wore suits, and women had dresses that touched their ankles. 

Here I was in a wine-colored dress that was cut short, reaching my mid-thigh with a deep v-neck that highlighted my chest. 

"Isn't there something in your Bible that says, 'Tho shall be comfortable in thy skin'? " 

she shot me a glare while gripping her small brown book tightly. 

"Serena, come here, please," I heard my dad call to me while talking to a man and a woman. 

I walked over to join him, standing with a family; a married woman was looking at me with narrowed eyes and her husband couldn't take his gaze off my bare thighs and the low cut of my dress. 

"Serena, this is Beatrice and her husband. 

You know them, right? " Dad introduced, and I stared at the couple I had never met before; he glared at me, urging me to go along with it. 

"Actually, no, I don't," I said, forcing a brief smile at the woman, who returned a fake one. 

"I was best friends with your mother in college, around the same age as you," she said, linking her arm with her husband's while he licked his lips, eyeing me intensely. 

"Your eyes are just like hers. She'll be greatly missed. " My smile almost faded, but I held on. 

"Mom never mentioned you. Are you certain you were really close? " I replied, tilting my head slightly. 

"That's enough, Serena," Dad warned, and I rolled my eyes. 

I'm shocked at the nerve of these people who act like they knew my mother and her kindness, only to turn around and criticize both her and me for something we never asked for. 

It frustrates me even more that my father let this happen, and I struggle to see him as the dad I was supposed to admire. 

The reality is he felt embarrassed about her. He kept his distance until she reached her limit. 

He only talks about her if others mention her, and everyone, including him, just seems to show fake sadness and speak softly about her to "comfort" us during tough times. 

"I think it might be a good idea to get you a drink; would you like to join me? " his husband said, appearing to be in his late thirties. 

It seemed like the pressure of being married to a fake person weighed on him, as silver strands were starting to show in his once thick black hair. 

I followed the handsome man to a big table hidden from everyone, including his wife and my dad. 

As I started to pour myself a drink, I sensed him close behind me. 

"Is there something you need? " I set the glass down, noticing his hands move to my waist. 

I hated that my body reacted so quickly. 

"The person I need is right here," he said as he pushed my hair back.

 "What I want is beneath this dress. " He leaned his head into my neck while his hand touched the thin fabric. His finger gently traced down my chest. 

"You have a wife," I closed my eyes, trying to convince myself that this was wrong, though my mind was fixated on the idea that it wasn't. 

My body didn't seem to care about any possible consequences he might have. 

"As if you care, you're just like your mother. Another cock starved whore," he said.

 For one few times in my life, my body and my mind agreed, they both chose to ignore that I was soaking wet, but not because of him, rather because of how his touch felt.